Archive of Our Own ^beta

Oscar wakes up feeling like he’s been steamrolled by a freight train, then set on fire for good measure.

His head is pounding, his throat dry enough to sandpaper a table, and every muscle in his body is staging a mutiny.  

The hotel room is mercifully dark, thanks to the blackout curtains, but he can tell it’s late. 

He groans, kicking off the blankets with more effort than it should take, and stumbles toward the bathroom, eyes half-shut.  

He doesn’t even glance at the mirror. Priorities: drink water, maybe vomit, crawl back to bed and never move again.  

But something catches his eye as he drags himself past the sink.  

Oscar freezes mid-step. Squints at the mirror.  

There, perched on his head, are two floppy ears.  

“What the fuck,” he croaks, voice cracking like a haunted door hinge.  

He stares at his reflection, dumbstruck. The ears are big, soft-looking, and undeniably real—too real. 

His first thought is that someone stuck a headband on him as a joke. Probably Lando. It’s always Lando.  

He reaches up, intending to yank it off, but the second his fingers brush the fur, a jolt shoots through him, sharp and weirdly electric. He yelps, stumbling back a step, his eyes wide.  

“What the fuck?” he says again, louder, panic creeping in.  

He grabs one of the ears more firmly this time, pulling at the base. It doesn’t budge. Not even a little. And the tug comes with a dull, sharp ache in his skull that makes him wince.  

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Maybe he’s still drunk. Or dreaming. Yeah, dreaming. Any second now, he’ll wake up.  

Then something twitches.  

Not on his head. Lower.  

Oscar freezes, heart thundering as a new wave of dread washes over him. Slowly, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find, he shoves his hand down his shorts.  

He stops breathing when his fingers brush against something soft. Round. Fluffy.  

No.  

Yanking his shorts down just enough, Oscar twists awkwardly to check the mirror.  

And there it is. A tiny, fluffy cotton ball of a tail, twitching at the base of his spine like it owns the place.  

He stares, slack-jawed, for a long, horrified moment.  

“What the fuck,” he whispers, because what else can you say when you wake up with bunny ears and a tail?  

The tail twitches again, like it’s mocking him, and Oscar nearly collapses on the spot. 

Oscar stands frozen, staring at his reflection, willing it to change, willing the ears and tail to disappear. But they don’t.

He slaps his face—not gently—because maybe this is just some stress-induced nightmare. Maybe he’s still in bed, drooling on his pillow. But no, the sting of his palm is all too real.

The ears twitch in the mirror. His tail flicks behind him like it’s impatient.

“No,” Oscar mutters. “No, no, no, no—”

He grabs at the tail this time, wrapping his fingers around the soft ball of fluff, and immediately regrets it. 

A jolt of sensation shoots through him, strange and overwhelming, and he lets out a strangled sound, pulling his hand back like he’s been burned.

“Jesus Christ.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. His heart is racing, and his knees feel weak. 

He’s spiraling now, staring at himself like he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.

He turns away from the mirror, pacing the small bathroom, his bare feet slapping against the tile. 

His hands are in his hair—or at least, what’s left of his hair between the ears—tugging at the roots as he mutters under his breath.

“Okay,” he says, trying to calm himself, but his voice is too high-pitched, too shaky. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s probably some—some weird side effect. Like… a reaction to something. Stress. Or the champagne. Yeah, it’s the champagne. I’m allergic now. Or something. That’s a thing, right?”

He stops pacing, glancing back at the mirror. The ears twitch again, like they’re mocking him.

“Nope,” he says, spinning on his heel and marching out of the bathroom. “Nope. Not dealing with this. Someone else can deal with this.”

He grabs his phone off the nightstand and hesitates, scrolling through his contacts. He could call his trainer. Maybe a doctor. Or the team. They’ve probably got some super-secret FIA health hotline for this kind of thing. Right?

But instead, his thumb hovers over one name.

Lando.

It’s the stupidest option, really. Lando will never let him live this down. 

But Lando is also annoyingly reliable. The kind of person who would absolutely show up and help—even if he laughed the entire time.

Oscar groans, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. The weight of his ears makes it feel weird.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, hitting the call button before he can talk himself out of it.

It rings twice before Lando picks up.

“Hey, mate,” Lando says, sounding way too awake for someone who was definitely just as drunk as Oscar last night. “What’s up? You alive?”

Oscar closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need your help,” he says.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then Lando chuckles. “What kind of help? You sound—wait. Are you hungover? Do you need me to bring you food?”

“No,” Oscar snaps, already regretting this. “Just—can you come to my room? It’s… important.”

Lando hums. “Important? Did you get yourself into trouble, Piastri?”

“Lando,” Oscar says, his patience fraying.

“Alright, alright,” Lando says, laughing now. “Give me ten minutes.”

Oscar hangs up without replying, tossing the phone onto the bed before flopping down face-first into the pillows. 

His ears press awkwardly against his head, and his tail feels weird, like it’s in the way no matter how he shifts.

He groans into the pillow.

This is a disaster.

Ten minutes later, there’s a sharp knock at the door.  

Oscar doesn’t move right away. He’s still face-down on the bed, ears twitching in miserable resignation. 

Another knock follows, louder this time, paired with a muffled, “Oi, Osc! Open up!”  

With a sigh that feels like it comes from his soul, Oscar drags himself upright, trudging toward the door. 

His tail flicks irritably, and the sensation of it brushing against his shorts makes him shudder.  

He cracks the door open just enough to peek out, trying to shield his head from view.  

Lando, dressed in sweats and a hoodie that’s two sizes too big, squints at him suspiciously. “What’s with the secrecy? Are you hiding from someone?” He pushes at the door, trying to peek around Oscar.  

“Lando,” Oscar says, blocking the doorway with his body. “This is serious.”  

Lando’s expression shifts. “Okay. What’s going on?”  

Oscar hesitates, his face scrunching up like he’s physically pained. Then, with the air of someone walking to their doom, he steps back and opens the door fully.  

Lando steps inside—and freezes.  

For a long, horrible moment, the room is silent except for the soft, unconscious twitch of Oscar’s ears.  

“What the—” Lando starts. “Oh my God.”  

Oscar’s face burns. “Don’t.”  

“No, no,” Lando says, grinning now. “No way. This is—are you kidding me? This is real? This is you?”  

Oscar groans, covering his face with both hands. “I told you not to laugh.”  

“I’m not laughing,” Lando says, clearly laughing. 

He steps closer, circling around Oscar like he’s inspecting a rare museum artifact. 

“Mate, what the hell did you do? Is this some, like, weird Aussie curse? Did you anger a witch? Eat radioactive carrots?”  

“Lando!” Oscar snaps, glaring at him.  

Lando holds up his hands in surrender, though the smirk never leaves his face. “Alright, alright. Sorry. But seriously, how—why—what?”  

“I don’t know!” Oscar bursts out, pacing in a tight circle. “I woke up like this! Do you think I’d choose to have ears and a tail?”  

Lando snorts, clearly trying to hold back more laughter. “I mean, it’s kind of cute.”  

Oscar glares daggers at him. “You’re not helping.”  

“Right,” Lando says, clearing his throat and schooling his expression into something that’s probably supposed to look serious. “Okay. So. We’ve got… bunny ears. And a bunny tail. And no idea how or why this happened. Cool. What’s the plan?”  

Oscar stops pacing, turning to stare at him. “You’re asking me? You’re supposed to be the one helping!”  

“Yeah, but this is, like…” Lando gestures vaguely at Oscar. “Next-level. Like, superhero origin story stuff. Should we call a scientist? Or a wizard?”  

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t deal with you right now.”  

“Hey, I’m taking this seriously!” Lando insists. “Alright, first things first. Let’s try… tugging on them?”  

Oscar’s ears flatten instantly. “No.”  

“Come on,” Lando says, already reaching out. “Just a little pull—”  

“Lando, I swear to God—”  

But it’s too late. Lando’s hand brushes one of Oscar’s ears, and Oscar practically yelps, jerking back like he’s been shocked.  

“Oh my God,” Lando says, wide-eyed. “They’re sensitive.”  

Oscar glares at him, his face a brilliant shade of red. “Do not touch me.”  

“This is amazing,” Lando says, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “We should test the tail next—”  

“Get out!” Oscar snaps, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at Lando’s head.  

Lando dodges it easily, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall. 

“Alright, alright! I’ll stop! Jesus. But seriously, what are we gonna do? You can’t exactly show up to the testing like this.”  

Oscar slumps onto the bed, burying his face in his hands again. “I don’t know,” he mutters, miserable.  

Lando flops down next to him, propping his chin on his hand. 

“Don’t worry, mate,” he says cheerfully. “We’ll figure it out. Worst case, you just lean into it. Maybe start a bunny-themed OnlyFans.”  

Oscar grabs another pillow and smacks him with it.

Lando is sprawled across the bed, scrolling on his phone, acting like this is the most casual problem in the world. 

Oscar, on the other hand, is pacing again, tugging at his hair—carefully avoiding his new ears—with a look of pure desperation on his face.

“It’s useless,” Oscar mutters, glaring at the screen of his own phone, which is filled with results like ‘bunny transformation curse myth’ and ‘weird allergic reactions that cause animal features.’

“Nothing?” Lando asks, not looking up.

“Nothing helpful,” Oscar snaps, scrolling aggressively. “It’s all either fairy tales or complete nonsense. One of these blogs is trying to sell me crystals, Lando. Crystals.”

Lando snorts, holding up his phone. “Well, according to Reddit, you’re either the chosen one destined to save the world, or you’ve been cursed for stealing a witch’s parking spot.”

Oscar glares at him. “You’re useless.”

“Hey,” Lando says, grinning. “I’m providing moral support. That’s gotta count for something.”

Oscar flops onto the edge of the bed, dragging a hand down his face. “This can’t be happening. There has to be an explanation. There has to be.”

Before Lando can make another smart remark, Oscar’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. He glances at it half-heartedly, expecting another spam notification, but then his eyes widen.

“Charles?” he says aloud, staring at the caller ID.

Lando perks up instantly. “Charles? What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Oscar mutters, hesitating before picking up. “Hello?”

“Oscar?” Charles’ voice is immediately concerned. “Are you alright?”

Oscar is not alright. His head is pounding, his body aches, and oh yeah—there are bunny ears sticking out of his skull.

“Yeah,” he lies, his voice stiff.

“Are you sure?” Charles presses, his tone insistent.

“I’m fine,” Oscar says, more cautious now, his gaze flickering to Lando, who’s watching him like a hawk. “Why?”

“Oh, I was worried,” Charles says vaguely, the kind of vague that instantly makes Oscar suspicious.

“About what?”

“Well… um, Max told me about this curse—”

“Curse?” Oscar blurts, sitting up straighter, his ears twitching involuntarily at the word.

“Yeah,” Charles continues, completely serious. “The curse that hits drivers who complete 100% of the laps in a season. It’s rare, y’know?”

Oscar blinks. That’s… that’s the answer, isn’t it? He did it. He completed all the laps. And now he’s cursed.

Lando leans closer, visibly brimming with questions, his eyes darting between Oscar and the phone.

“Charles,” Oscar says, exhaling hard as he shifts the phone away from his ear and fumbles to switch to video call.

It takes a second, but when Charles’ face appears on the screen, Oscar instantly regrets it.

Charles’ wide eyes land on the floppy ears perched on Oscar’s head, and he squeaks. Actually squeaks. “Oh my god.”

Oscar flushes, heat rising up his neck as he glances at Lando, who’s gaping now, half in confusion and half in delight.

“Tell me what you know about it, Charles,” Oscar says, his cheeks burning as Charles continues to stare at him like he’s a zoo exhibit.

Charles’ mouth falls open, forming a perfect “O,” but he manages to stammer out, “I—I think it’s better if Max explains it to you.”

Before Oscar can protest, the screen shifts, and suddenly Max Verstappen is there—very shirtless, very smug, and very much lounging in bed beside Charles like this is just another Tuesday.

“Were you two fucking?” Lando blurts out before Oscar can say anything.

“Lando, not the point,” Max says. His gaze shifts to Oscar, and a grin tugs at his lips. “You look very cute like this, Oscar.”

Oscar goes even pinker, ducking his head slightly as his ears twitch against his will. Lando, of course, bursts out laughing.

“I liked your cat ears better,” Charles says, leaning into the frame to pout up at Max, clearly not amused by the compliment Max thrown Oscar’s way. “But the bunny ears are cute on you, Oscar! They suit you.”

“Alright,” Oscar mutters, voice strained as he fights the urge to hang up. “This—this happened to you, Max? Can you explain it? How do I make it stop?”

Max stretches lazily, before tilting his head in mock sympathy. 

“Yeah, it happened to me once. The curse is real. But don’t worry—there’s a way to make it go away.”

Oscar leans forward, ears twitching with anticipation despite himself. “What way?” he asks.

“Sex,” Max says, deadpan.

Oscar stares at him, dumbfounded, the word hanging in the air like it might combust. 

“…Sex?” he repeats, like he’s hoping he misheard.

Max nods, completely unfazed. “Yeah. It worked for me.”

Charles pipes up instantly, far too cheerful. “Can confirm.”

Oscar’s jaw drops, his ears folding back in mortification as the mental image slams into his brain uninvited. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters, horrified. “I really didn’t need to know that you—”

“With the cat ears, yes,” Charles adds helpfully, nodding along like this is a perfectly normal thing to say. “It was very cute.”

Oscar buries his face in his hands, his ears drooping even further. “I’m going to throw up.”

“You’ll be fine,” Max says, waving him off with all the casual arrogance of someone who’s been there and lived to tell the tale. “Just find someone you trust, get it over with, and poof—ears gone.”

Lando, who’s been suspiciously quiet until now, finally chokes out a laugh. “So you’re saying Oscar has to fuck the bunny ears off?”

Max shrugs. “Basically.”

Oscar groans, slumping back into the bed as Lando dissolves into another fit of laughter. “This cannot be my life,” he mutters, voice muffled.

Charles grins from the phone, all bright eyes and dimples. “For what it’s worth, you make a very handsome bunny.”

“Good luck, mate,” Max adds. “And, uh, maybe don’t wait too long. The tail gets… complicated.”

Oscar doesn’t even ask. He refuses. He’s already living in a nightmare—he doesn’t need more details.

“Alright,” Lando says, cracking open a drink from the minibar. “Here’s the plan. We’ve got to find someone for you to fuck.”

Oscar chokes on air, ears twitching violently. “Lando,” he hisses, already fighting a losing battle against the blush creeping up his neck.

“What?” Lando shrugs, entirely unbothered. “You heard Max. It’s the solution. Do you know someone? Maybe a hookup from last night?”

Oscar glares, which isn’t nearly as effective when his ears are twitching like they’re trying to signal for help. 

“I didn’t hook up with anyone last night.” And he didn’t—his mind had been too preoccupied, spiraling over a certain someone to even think about flirting with anyone else.

Lando hums, unimpressed. “Okay, so that’s a no. But honestly, random hookups wouldn’t be ideal anyway. Better to pick someone closer, y’know? Someone from the team, maybe?”

“No,” Oscar says immediately. “I don’t want anyone from the team to know about this.”

Lando snorts, gesturing to himself. “I’m from the team, and I know.”

“You’re different,” Oscar says, glaring again. “You’re my friend.”

That earns him a softer look than expected—fond, even. Lando grins, raising his drink in a mock toast. “Lucky me.”

Oscar groans, rubbing at his temples, already exhausted.

“Alright, alright,” Lando says, plopping down on the bed beside him. “But seriously, you’re kind of out of options here, Osc. If not someone from the team, maybe someone from the grid?”

Oscar’s stomach flips. Instantly, against his better judgment, his brain supplies a name. Carlos.

“I don’t know…” Oscar mutters, staring fixedly at his lap, as if that might make the heat on his face disappear.

“For the record, I’d do it,” Lando says casually, swirling the drink in his hand. “But I’ve got this fun thing going on with Franco right now, and I wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

“It’s fine,” Oscar says quickly, waving him off.

Lando leans back, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“What about Carlos? He’s still here. For testing with Williams.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that makes Oscar’s skin crawl. “You two could finally work out all that crazy sexual tension.”

“There is no sexual tension,” Oscar says, which only makes Lando grin wider.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Osc,” Lando giggles.

Oscar groans again, slumping forward, his head in his hands, ears twitching pathetically. “This is a disaster.”  

“Think about it,” Lando chirps, taking another leisurely sip of his drink like this is the most entertaining thing to ever happen to him. “I could message him for you, see if he’s free. James rented him that stupidly fancy apartment for the week. He’s probably just lazing around.”  

Oscar lifts his head, shooting Lando a wary look.

He shouldn’t even be considering this. It’s a terrible idea. The worst. 

But he’s also out of options, and the thought of dragging this out any longer—of being stuck with these ears and this tail—makes his stomach churn.  

“Fine,” he mutters, face flushed. “Text him. But don’t tell him the truth. Just—just ask if he’s free.”  

Lando’s grin spreads like wildfire, and that makes Oscar immediately regret his decision.

“Oh, you want to make it a surprise?” Lando giggles, already pulling his phone out.  

Oscar groans again. “Lando, I swear to God—”  

“Relax, Osc,” Lando says, his thumbs flying across his screen. “I’ll play it cool. Super casual. You can trust me.”  

Oscar doesn’t trust him. Not even a little. But the text is sent before he can protest, and Lando sits back with a satisfied smirk, waggling his eyebrows.  

“Now we wait,” Lando says.

Oscar stands in front of Carlos's apartment door, sweat already dripping down his neck.

He tugs at the brim of his beanie, the fabric sticking to his forehead in the relentless Abu Dhabi heat. 

The sun feels like it’s trying to fry him alive, and the ridiculousness of this whole situation is really starting to hit.

He shouldn’t be doing this. No, scratch that—Lando shouldn’t have texted Carlos at all.

But here he is, a grown man in a beanie in the desert, about to ask Carlos for… God, he doesn’t even know how to phrase it.

The door swings open suddenly, and there’s Carlos, wearing a white shirt and joggers that hang just right. 

He looks annoyingly good.

Oscar, meanwhile, feels like a complete disaster.

“Oscar?” Carlos says, his brow furrowing as he takes in Oscar’s flushed face and the absolutely baffling choice of headwear. “Are you okay? What are you doing here? And why are you wearing a beanie? It’s, like, 40 degrees.”

Oscar clears his throat, trying not to let the heat—or Carlos’s very distracting forearms—get to him. 

“Uh, yeah. Hi. Sorry for showing up like this. Lando said you were free, and I—I need your help.”

Carlos’s concern deepens, and he steps aside, gesturing for Oscar to come in. “Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Oscar steps inside, his movements stiff, and immediately regrets the beanie as the cool air conditioning hits him. He tugs it down further, praying the damn thing stays put.

Oscar sinks onto the couch, back ramrod straight and hands fidgeting nervously in his lap.

“It’s… complicated,” he says, avoiding Carlos’s gaze.

Carlos sits beside him and watches him for a moment, arms crossed, the picture of calm curiosity. “Complicated how?”

Oscar hesitates, his mouth dry. How does he even explain this? “Okay,” he starts, voice cracking slightly. “This is going to sound insane, but just… promise you won’t laugh.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow but nods. “I won’t laugh,” he says.

Oscar sighs, bracing himself. Then, with a quick motion, he pulls off the beanie, revealing the floppy bunny ears that have been the bane of his existence for the past hours.

Carlos stares at him. Oscar, for all his efforts to ignore it, feels the weight of every single second.

“Uh,” Carlos starts, slow and unsure, like he needs to double-check his own eyes. “Is that…?” He tilts his head, zeroing in on the floppy ears twitching atop Oscar’s head.

Oscar freezes, his nose twitching humiliatingly involuntarily. “Don’t,” he says, flat and clipped, before Carlos can finish.

Carlos steps closer anyway.

“So you’re a rabbit now? A bunny?”

“It’s temporary,” Oscar mutters, his posture betraying him as his ears dip slightly. “Don’t make it a thing.”

Carlos doesn’t even pretend to consider that. His gaze drops, narrowing in on the ears, and before he can stop himself, he blurts, “Can I touch them?”

Oscar gapes, his whole body stiffening like he’s been struck. “No.”

“Please?” Carlos presses. “I’ll be careful. I swear.”

Oscar sighs, long and suffering, like this moment is taking years off his life. “Fine. Just—be quick.”

Carlos doesn’t even try to hide his glee as he steps closer, reaching out with too much focus for someone who shouldn’t be making it a thing. His fingers brush along the edge of one ear, and his eyes light up.

“They’re softer than I thought,” Carlos says. “Really soft.”

Oscar’s ears twitch under his touch, and before he can stop it, a noise escapes him—low, embarrassed, something between a sigh and a whimper.

Carlos freezes. His eyes widen, his hand pausing mid-pet. “Did you just—”

“Shut up,” Oscar snaps, voice uneven as his ears fold flat against his head, his face practically glowing with heat.

Carlos blinks, startled into silence, but only for a moment. His lips twitch upward, mischief sparking in his eyes.

Carlos rubs at the base with his thumbs, applying just the right amount of pressure to make Oscar pliant.

Oscar exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut as he leans into the touch without meaning to.

“You like it,” Carlos says, more amazed than smug.

“Carlos, stop talking.”

And Carlos does. Stops talking, that is. But his hands don’t stop moving, fingers stroking over Oscar’s stupid floppy ears like they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever encountered.

“Um…” Oscar says, but he doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t even try to move away. Just sits there with his face burning the brightest shade of pink imaginable, ears twitching uselessly under Carlos’ palms.

Then, suddenly, Carlos stops petting too.

Oscar’s eyes snap open with a sharp, almost pathetic whine, only to find Carlos grinning down at him.

Oscar swallows hard. He is officially the most pink ever. He clears his throat, but Carlos cuts him off before he can speak.

“You said it’s temporary,” Carlos says, tipping his head to the side. “Do you know how to make it go away?”

Oscar freezes. “Um…” He shifts awkwardly, fidgeting under Carlos’ gaze. “I… I know.”

Carlos crosses his arms over his chest, the movement making the sleeves of his t-shirt pull tight around his biceps.

It’s entirely unfair, and Oscar does not look, but the stupid twitch of his tail betrays him anyway.

“Then why are you here?” Carlos presses, trying to piece it all together.

Oscar opens his mouth, closes it again. 

How the fuck does he say this? 

How does he tell Carlos that he’s here because the only way to get rid of the ears is to—well, fuck them away?

It’s humiliating. Ludicrous.

But it’s also true.

Carlos raises an eyebrow, waiting. “I can help you?”

Oscar nods stiffly, throat dry. He doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t know how to ask Carlos to just… do it. Doesn’t even know if he’ll agree.

But Carlos’ voice is gentler now, coaxing. “Oscar,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “Tell me.”

Oscar swallows again.

“I… it only goes away with… with sex.”

Carlos blinks. Just blinks. Then his lips twitch, just barely, like he’s fighting a smile. “So you’re telling me—”

“Carlos,” Oscar snaps, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched, but his face is so hot it might actually combust, and he can’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence.

Carlos does smile then, his hands itching forward to pet those floppy ears again like he can’t help himself.

“I see,” Carlos murmurs, entirely too calm. His thumb brushes along the edge of Oscar’s ear, and Oscar lets out an involuntary shiver, his body going completely pliant again.

“Stop touching them,” Oscar tries, but his voice is weak, and Carlos isn’t listening.

“You didn’t stop me before,” Carlos points out. His hands stay exactly where they are. “Do you want my help or not?”

Oscar looks away. He can’t meet Carlos’ eyes, but the answer is obvious.

Because, humiliating as it is, he really, really wants Carlos’ help.

“…Yes,” he finally mutters.

Carlos hums, low and pleased. “Come here then,” he says, patting his lap like it’s no big deal. Like it’s normal.

Oscar’s face is so pink it’s a miracle he doesn’t just keel over on the spot. 

This entire thing is mortifying, definitely shaving off at least ten years of his life, but—well. He doesn’t hesitate. Not really.

He shuffles forward and, after a long second of internal screaming, sinks onto Carlos’ lap.

Carlos’ hands settle on his waist immediately, like they belong there. Oscar swallows hard. He can feel the heat of them even through the thin fabric of his shirt, spreading up his spine, and it’s making him stupid, so stupid.

He doesn’t know what to do with his own hands—just leaves them resting awkwardly on his own thighs because what else is he supposed to do? Touch Carlos?

Carlos, on the other hand, is maddeningly relaxed. 

His thighs are solid under Oscar— strong, warm—and the pressure of his fingers against Oscar’s waist is doing things to him. Dangerous, mind-melting, why-is-this-happening-to-me things.

Oscar doesn’t know how he got here. Doesn’t know how he hasn’t burst into flames yet.

But honestly? He’s glad Carlos isn’t asking too many questions, because there’s no way—absolutely no way—he could explain that the real reason he’s here is because Carlos is the only person on the grid he wants anywhere near his ass.

“Okay,” Carlos starts, like they’re discussing tyre strategy instead of this. “Talk to me, lindo. What do I have to do, exactly? Just make you cum?” 

His thumbs press lightly into Oscar’s waist, a lazy caress that has Oscar gripping his own knees to keep steady. 

Oscar’s stomach flips violently. He wants to crawl into the floor and evaporate. 

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I mean, uh. Max said it fixes with sex. Didn’t really specify how. But I, um. I suppose we should—y’know—go all the way. To make sure.” He clears his throat, then scrunches his nose in this cute, reflexive way he’d probably punch himself for if he knew how it looked.

Carlos hums, thoughtful, and his hand shifts—slides from Oscar’s waist to his ass, grabbing a handful and squeezing like he owns it. Oscar squeaks. Actually squeaks.

“So I’ll have the pleasure of fucking your cute little ass?” Carlos says it so casually.

Oscar whimpers. His tail, which he’s been desperately ignoring, shudders violently inside his pants like it’s as desperate as the rest of him. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely audible, cheeks burning hotter than the sun. He nods stiffly, hands tightening into fists on his lap.

Carlos grins—big and bright and infuriatingly pleased with himself. “Good,” he says.

Oscar wants to die. Or combust. Or—possibly, just possibly—let Carlos keep touching him forever, no questions asked.

Carlos shifts, tugging Oscar closer, sliding him further into his lap until their hips press together. Bulges aligned.

They both groan.

It’s a deep, messy sound—Carlos’ low and rumbly, while Oscar’s comes out sharp, breathy, and way too desperate. 

Oscar can tell Carlos isn’t fully hard yet—it’s noticeable in the way the weight presses against him, firm but not enough. 

Somehow, that makes it even worse, because his cock is fully hard. Embarrassingly so. So hard and wet in the sticky confines of his underwear, he feels like he’s losing his mind.

It’s the bunny thing. It has to be. He’s leaking more pre-cum than normal, so much it’s soaked through his briefs, tacky against the fabric and making him squirm. 

He wants it gone—wants to be naked already, to feel some kind of relief—but he bites his tongue. He knows Carlos will get him there.

Eventually.

For now, Oscar sits there, trembling in Carlos’ lap as Carlos’ hands roam.

“You can touch me, lindo,” Carlos says after a moment. He takes Oscar’s hands and places them on his shoulders. “I don’t bite.”

Oscar huffs a little laugh, his cheeks flushed pink. “You don’t?”

Carlos grins, impossibly charming. “Only if you ask.” He winks, and it’s so shameless that Oscar can’t help but giggle, despite the heat coiling low in his stomach.

The sound feels strange in the charged air—light, soft, as if it doesn’t belong in a moment this overwhelming. But Carlos looks pleased.

Oscar doesn’t know why he feels so brave, but he leans forward, looping his arms around Carlos’ shoulders and pressing his face into the curve of his neck, breathing in the over-masculine cologne that’s so distinctly him. 

Carlos hums, pleased, his hands slipping past the hem of Oscar’s shirt, palms warm against the bare skin of his back. 

The touch is slow and warm, and Oscar shivers under it, his nose still buried in Carlos’ neck, breathing him in like he’s a lifeline.

And then Carlos shifts his hips, just enough to press their cocks together, still trapped in their clothes but enough to make Oscar gasp. 

Carlos repeats the motion, and the friction is dizzying, sending sparks racing down Oscar’s spine.

Oscar clings tighter, fingers fisting in Carlos’ shirt as he lets out another soft, needy whine, his breath hitching against Carlos’ neck. 

It’s embarrassing how desperate he sounds, how obvious it is that he’s falling apart just from Carlos’ hands on him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when it feels this good.

“You make such pretty sounds, Oscar,” Carlos murmurs, tilting his head to kiss his flushed cheek. It’s infuriatingly sweet, almost too much, but Oscar doesn’t push him away. He likes it. Likes the way Carlos’ voice dips lower when he adds, “Can’t wait to hear those cute bunny whimpers right in my ear while I’m fucking you.”

Carlos nips at the spot he just kissed, a playful sting that has Oscar’s hips stuttering forward, his cock grinding against Carlos’ through too many layers of fabric. 

It’s not enough, but it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through him, enough to make him gasp, enough to make him move.

Oscar takes over, rubbing their cocks together with a desperation that has Carlos groaning low in his throat. 

It’s filthy, the way he’s chasing friction, so close to the edge that it’s almost painful. He needs to cum. Now.

“Ay,” Carlos tugs at his hair, firm enough to make Oscar freeze, his eyes fluttering open. 

Carlos’ grin is predatory, and he tilts Oscar’s head back just enough to look him in the eye.

“Come here,” Carlos says, his voice soft but commanding. “Wanna kiss you.”

Oscar goes willingly, eager and pliant, his cheeks burning as he leans in to meet Carlos’ lips. 

The kiss starts soft, teasing—Carlos cups his face, tilting it just right as he presses gentle pecks against Oscar’s lips. 

It’s sweet, frustratingly so, until Carlos deepens it, coaxing Oscar’s mouth open with a slow lick against his front teeth.

Then he pulls back, just enough to shove his thumb past Oscar’s parted lips, pressing it against his front teeth. 

Oscar shudders, moaning softly around the intrusion, his eyes half-lidded and hazy.

“Pretty little bunny,” Carlos croons, smiling like he’s won something.

His thumb slides out of Oscar’s mouth, leaving a trail of spit on Oscar’s lips that Carlos doesn’t wipe away.

Oscar can only moan, his hips shifting involuntarily. If they keep this up, he’s going to cum right here, in his pants.

Carlos doesn’t let up. He kisses Oscar again, but this time it’s messy, filthy—all tongue and teeth and spit, his hand cradling Oscar’s jaw to keep him close. 

The sound of it is obscene, and Oscar’s not sure if it’s the kiss or the way Carlos is grinding up against him that pushes him closer to the brink.

“Carlos,” Oscar gasps, voice cracking as he pulls back just enough to gulp in air. 

His lips are shiny, red, and swollen, and he’s trembling in Carlos’ lap, his body so tightly wound it feels like he might snap apart.

Carlos doesn’t give him much time to recover, his hands already teasing at the waistband of Oscar’s pants, fingers brushing just enough to send sparks racing through him. 

Oscar freezes, anticipation crackling like electricity under his skin—until he remembers.

The twitchy, fluffy thing inside his pants.

“Wait,” Oscar blurts, voice hoarse and shaky, barely holding together.

Carlos pauses instantly, hands going still. His brows lift in mild curiosity, but his thumbs stay resting just beneath the fabric, waiting.

Oscar doesn’t look at him, eyes darting everywhere but Carlos’ face as he stumbles through his next words.

“I, um,” he stammers, mortified. “I… have a tail. There.”

“Oh,” Carlos says. “Right. Makes sense. Bunny ears, bunny tail.” His eyes are sparkling, too curious.

Oscar narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t laugh about it.”

Carlos’ grin softens, turning fond. “I wouldn’t, lindo,” he says trying to reassure him.

But then Carlos’ hand dips further, slipping past the waistband. 

His fingers brush over the soft ball of fur, testing, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his skin, a sharp whimper escaping before he can swallow it down.

Carlos stills for a moment, his expression shifting into something wide-eyed, like he’s just discovered the eighth wonder of the world.

“Fuck, Oscar,” Carlos mutters. “Is it sensitive? Like your ears?”

Oscar can only nod, biting his lip as heat blooms across his face once again, painting his cheeks the prettiest shade of pink. 

His tail twitches under Carlos’ touch, and he feels like he’s about to combust.

Carlos grins then, his fingers brushing over the base of the tail again, just to feel the way Oscar shudders against him.

“I’m going to have so much fun with you,” Carlos murmurs. 

He doesn’t even give Oscar time to brace himself before he’s shoving his pants and underwear down, baring Oscar’s ass to the cool air.

Oscar whines softly, torn between relief and frustration. 

Relief because his ass is free and Carlos is finally getting on with it. Frustration because his cock is still trapped in the front of his pants, sticky and aching, begging for attention.

“Come here,” Carlos says, coaxing Oscar forward, his hand gentle as he guides Oscar’s head to rest against his shoulder. “Let me see it.”

Oscar buries his face there, too embarrassed to meet Carlos’ eyes, but he goes pliant, letting Carlos shift him into place. 

He hears Carlos hum, feels the warm puff of his breath against his hair as Carlos takes in the round, fluffy ball of fur.

“Cute,” Carlos says, and the hand that had been steadying Oscar suddenly dips lower, fingers curling around the round tail to squeeze it experimentally.

Oscar moans, the sound muffled into Carlos’ shoulder but no less desperate. His hips jerk forward instinctively, seeking friction.

Carlos chuckles. “Get up,” he says, his palm coming down in a light smack on Oscar’s ass. The sound is sharp in the quiet, and the sting leaves Oscar trembling. “Take your clothes off.”

Oscar stumbles to his feet, his legs barely holding him upright as he fumbles with the sticky mess of his pants and underwear. 

His cock springs free, flushed and glistening. He yanks his shirt over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought.

Carlos leans back on the couch, watching Oscar with the kind of heat that makes him want to squirm. 

He’s too dazed, too caught up in how ridiculously hot Carlos looks, sprawled out with his legs spread wide, his sweats tented over the hard length of his cock.

Carlos pulls his shirt off too, and Oscar’s brain short-circuits. Carlos is all golden skin and sculpted muscle, and it’s unfair, it’s so unfair, how good he looks—like he was built to ruin someone like Oscar.

“Come here,” Carlos murmurs, leaning forward to grab Oscar by the waist, pulling him close. 

His lips press a kiss to Oscar’s lower belly, soft and warm, before he dips lower, brushing his mouth against the glistening tip of Oscar’s cock. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Carlos says, his tongue flicking out to taste the mess of pre-cum there. “Such a messy boy.”

Oscar whines, the sound high and breathless.

Carlos hums, his lips curling into a grin. “Do you want me to suck you off?”

Oscar’s head spins at the question. 

God, he wants it—wants it so bad—but if Carlos gets his mouth on him now, he’s not going to last. He knows it. He’s barely holding on as it is, and Carlos hasn’t even started yet. 

But he wants it anyway. Wants Carlos’ warm mouth, wants the heat of him, wants everything.

Carlos seems to sense the conflict. 

“Don’t think too much about it,” he says, his hand wrapping around Oscar’s cock, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. The sensation is electric, and Oscar’s knees nearly buckle. “I promise I’ll make you come many times tonight.”

Then Carlos leans in again, licking over the head of Oscar’s cock.

“I— I want it,” Oscar whispers, his body trembling in Carlos’ grip.

“Good,” Carlos says, tugging Oscar toward the bedroom. “Let’s get to bed, lindo.”

Once they’re in Carlos’ room, Oscar collapses onto the edge of the bed, his legs too wobbly to keep him standing any longer. 

He watches with wide, glassy eyes as Carlos tugs his sweatpants off in one smooth motion, leaving himself in just his underwear. 

The bulge there is impossible to ignore, straining against the fabric, but Carlos doesn’t take them off—not yet.

Oscar wants to rip them off with his teeth, but he keeps quiet, biting the inside of his cheek instead.

Carlos approaches him, one hand cupping Oscar’s flushed cheek, the other moving to stroke his soft, floppy ears.

Oscar leans into it instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut as a quiet whimper escapes him.

“Can you lay down on your back, lindo?” Carlos murmurs, his thumb brushing along the edge of Oscar’s cheekbone before dipping lower to tap at the base of his throat. Then, his gaze flickers to the twitching tail behind Oscar. “Or will it hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Oscar says, voice soft and a little shaky. 

He shifts further up the bed, moving on autopilot, until he’s lying on his back just like Carlos asked.

Carlos stands at the edge of the bed, taking him in. 

“So hot,” Carlos says, the words thick with want, and Oscar shivers under the weight of it.

Without thinking, Oscar bends his legs, planting his feet on the bed as he spreads them wide, offering himself up without a single word. 

The display is obscene, shameless—his cock flushed a dark, glistening red, leaking messily onto his stomach, his hole soft, pink, and fluttering slightly, framed by the fluffy fur of his tail, now smashed against the sheets. 

It’s too much, too lewd, but Oscar doesn’t care how desperate it looks. He just wants Carlos to take what’s being offered, to claim every inch of him until there’s nothing left.

Carlos’ gaze darkens as it drags over him and he lets out a sharp breath, like the sight of Oscar has knocked the wind right out of him.

“Fuck,” Carlos mutters, his hand trailing down to adjust himself through his underwear. “You’re perfect, lindo. So fucking perfect.”

The words hit Oscar like a spark, setting him alight, and when Carlos moves forward—settling between his legs and leaning down to kiss him—it feels inevitable, like magnets snapping together, an unshakable pull that neither of them could resist even if they wanted to.

The kiss is hot and filthy, all spit and heat, but Carlos doesn’t linger long, trailing his mouth down Oscar’s neck, his lips dragging slow and possessive over the skin. 

He bites, leaves marks that bloom purple and red, like little claims written into Oscar’s flesh, and Oscar whines, arching under him.

Carlos doesn’t stop.

He travels lower, tracing over Oscar’s collarbone, his sharp teeth scraping lightly before his tongue drags over one of Oscar’s nipples. 

He sucks, bites, tugs, and the pain makes Oscar’s head spin, makes him squirm and tug at Carlos’ hair, his soft gasps turning breathless.

“Carlos,” he whimpers, high and needy, his voice breaking. “Please.”

Carlos hums, pleased, but doesn’t rush. He kisses his way down Oscar’s stomach, leaving a trail of spit and teeth and heat, until his lips brush over the base of Oscar’s cock.

Oscar’s hips jerk, but Carlos doesn’t pull away—he just grins against the sensitive skin before licking a stripe up the shaft, gathering the mess already there. 

Then he wraps his hand around Oscar’s cock, holding it, and sinks down without hesitation, taking him in all the way to the base, his nose brushing against Oscar’s stomach.

Oscar cries out, loud and broken, his hands flying to Carlos’ head. 

There’s no teasing, no hesitation, just the wet heat of Carlos’ mouth.

Carlos doesn’t hold back, not even a little. He works Oscar’s cock like he’s trying to ruin him—wet, filthy. 

Oscar’s back arches off the bed, his thighs trembling as Carlos bobs his head, taking him in deep, gagging just slightly before pulling back with a slick, wet pop. 

The sound alone makes Oscar whine, his hands clutching at carlos hair as his mind blanks.

“Carlos—fuck, I’m—” His voice breaks, his body shaking with the effort of holding back. 

He knows he won’t last, not with the way Carlos’ tongue flicks over the head, tasting the drip of precome like it’s candy, his hand pumping whatever his mouth doesn’t reach.

Carlos hums, the vibrations shooting through Oscar like a live wire. He looks up, eyes locking on Oscar’s face as he takes him even deeper, his throat flexing around him in a way that makes Oscar cry out, his hips bucking involuntarily.

“Carlos—fuck, I—” Oscar’s voice cuts off, breaking into a choked gasp, his toes curling tight as Carlos doesn’t let up.

If anything, he goes harder, sucking like it’s his mission, nails biting into Oscar’s hips to keep him from squirming away.

Oscar’s entire body locks up, heat coiling low and tight in his belly until it’s unbearable, and then he’s gone, unraveling with a wrecked moan that sounds too loud in the quiet of the room.

His head thuds back against the pillows, vision flashing white, his body trembling as the release rips through him.

His little tail twitches furiously against the sheets, the fluff shaking like it’s short-circuiting, out of sync with the rest of him. His floppy ears stiffen for a second, one last effort, before collapsing back, limp and useless, flattened against the pillow.

Carlos doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.

He just stays there, swallowing everything Oscar gives him, the wet sounds echoing like a filthy rhythm.

When Oscar finally comes down, panting and trembling, Carlos pulls off with a satisfied hum, licking his lips as he sits back. 

His grin is wicked, his chin glistening, and Oscar swears he’s never seen anything hotter in his life.

“You taste so good,” Carlos murmurs, and Oscar just groans, throwing an arm over his face to hide the flush spreading down his neck.

Carlos doesn’t let him. He leans up, tugging Oscar’s arm away and kissing him softly. 

It’s tender, almost too tender, and Oscar feels like he might actually melt into the sheets, though he’s already a puddle beneath Carlos.

“You good?” Carlos asks, his thumb brushing over Oscar’s cheek. “Do you still want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, please,” Oscar whispers, voice shaky but sure, and he wraps his arms around Carlos, tugging him close, burying his face in the man’s neck.

Carlos chuckles, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s temple. “Alright,” he says, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Let me get the lube and the condom.”

He pulls back, untangling himself from Oscar’s clingy limbs, and reaches for the bedside table.

And Oscar is lying there, wrecked, still trembling, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, waiting.

Carlos grabs the lube first, and Oscar’s heart jumps. But then he reaches for the condom, and something sharp and insistent flares in Oscar’s chest.

“Wait,” Oscar rasps, his voice muffled by the pillow. He lifts his head just enough to look back at Carlos, his wide, glassy eyes meeting his. “I don’t want—don’t use it.”

Carlos freezes, the foil packet in his hand. “Oscar,” he says slowly, carefully. “You sure?”

Oscar nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I want to feel you. All of you. Please.”

Carlos stares at him for a moment, his lips parting like he wants to say something else. But then he tosses the condom to the floor with a flick of his wrist.

“Alright, bun,” Carlos says. “If that’s what you want.”

Carlos doesn’t waste time. He grabs Oscar and flips him onto his stomach like it’s nothing, like Oscar weighs nothing at all.

And Oscar can’t even think about protesting because it’s hot—being manhandled like this, especially when he’s all fucked out and brainless, soft in Carlos’ hands.

Carlos pats his ass, and Oscar’s already shifting before he can even register the silent command, lifting his hips so Carlos can shove a pillow beneath him, propping him up just the way he wants.

The position makes Oscar’s soft, sensitive cock drag against the pillow, and it stings just enough to make him gasp, but he doesn’t complain. 

He’s already chubbing up again, the anticipation of Carlos finally fucking him sending sparks down his spine.

Carlos’ fingers trail lightly over the round, fluffy ball of Oscar’s tail, barely brushing it, teasing him.

“Tickles,” Oscar mumbles into the sheets, wriggling his hips.

Carlos just giggles—actually giggles—and leans down to sink his teeth into one of Oscar’s ass cheeks, the bite more playful than rough.

Oscar squeaks, half laughing and half whining, and Carlos hums, his hands already spreading Oscar open.

He leans down and licks a long, deliberate stripe over Oscar’s hole, tasting him, and Oscar moans, his hips twitching against the pillow.

“Fuck,” Carlos mutters. “I wish I had time to eat you out properly, bunny.” His fingers dig into Oscar’s hips like he’s holding himself back by sheer will. “But if I don’t get my dick inside this pretty hole right now, I’m going insane.”

He pulls back, just enough to coat his fingers with lube, and then he’s back on him.

One finger slides in first, and Oscar’s breath hitches. Then two, the stretch deeper, Carlos working him open with slow, careful strokes. By the time the third finger slides in, Oscar is a mess. 

His cock is fully hard again, flushed dark and leaking precome onto the pillow.

Carlos doesn’t stop, his free hand wandering up to brush over the soft, fluffy ball of Oscar’s tail. It's so good Oscar can barely think, can barely do anything but feel.

“I’m ready,” Oscar finally manages to say, muffled into the sheets as he presses his hips back into Carlos’ hand, desperate.

Carlos pauses, his fingers buried deep inside Oscar, the stretch still pulling at his nerves. 

He leans down, to press a kiss to the small of Oscar’s back, his nose brushing against the soft fur of the tiny, trembling tail.

“So fluffy,” Carlos murmurs.

Oscar shivers, whining softly when Carlos finally pulls his fingers out slowly, savoring the way Oscar’s body clenches around him like it doesn’t want to let go.

He reaches for the lube, slicking himself up with quick, practiced strokes.

The bed shifts under Carlos’ weight as he settles between Oscar’s legs. 

Oscar turns his head, just enough to glance back over his shoulder, his gaze catching on the sight of Carlos—hair mussed, eyes blown dark, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, and his cock, flushed and thick in his slick hand, twitching with every sharp inhale.

It’s too much, the tension thrumming through the air between them like a live wire, and not enough all at once. 

Oscar’s hips twitch instinctively, his legs spreading wider, offering himself up in shameless invitation.

Carlos notices, of course, grinning like the smug bastard he is. “Eager, huh?” he says, voice all low heat and gravel as he guides the head of his cock to Oscar’s entrance.

He teases it there, circling the flushed, wet rim, dragging the slick tip over and over but never pushing in. 

Everything feels sopping wet and slippery with lube, the sounds of it dirty and loud. Oscar moans, his thighs trembling.

“Please…” Oscar whispers, needy and raw.

Carlos hums, low in his throat, and finally presses forward, just the blunt head sliding in, stretching Oscar open before pulling out again just as quickly.

Oscar makes a strangled sound, his fingers clawing at the sheets, his body twitching in frustration.

“Calm down, bunny,” Carlos drawls, his hand spreading Oscar open, his thumb pressing gently on the edge of his fluttering, gaping hole. “So greedy. Look how pretty you are.”

And then Carlos does it again—slides in just the tip, just enough to make Oscar’s toes curl, before pulling out.

Oscar doesn’t understand it. Why Carlos is still teasing when he’s clearly just as wrecked as Oscar is, his breathing shallow and sharp, his hands trembling slightly. 

Maybe Carlos is just mean. Or worse, maybe he gets off on torturing them both, dragging this out like it’s some kind of game. Whatever it is, it’s making Oscar lose his mind.

“Carlos,” Oscar whines as he shifts his hips back, his tail wagging in these nervous little jerks, all frantic energy and want. 

He’s chasing the stretch, the fullness, the relief Carlos keeps teasing out of reach, and it’s unbearable.

Carlos chuckles, a sound that wraps itself around Oscar’s frayed nerves and pulls them tighter. His hands tighten on Oscar’s hips, holding him in place. 

“Patience, lindo,” Carlos murmurs, voice laced with amusement. “I’ll give you what you need.”

But Oscar’s never been good at patience—not with Carlos. 

He gasps, his back arching sharply when Carlos cups his soft tail, fingers stroking over the fur with infuriating gentleness. His hole clenches around nothing, his body betraying him, crying out for something to fill it.

When Carlos finally lines up again, pressing the head of his cock to Oscar’s entrance, Oscar snaps. 

He shoves his ass back with one smooth motion, forcing Carlos inside, taking him to the hilt all at once.

They both groan—Oscar’s loud and wrecked, Carlos’ low and guttural, caught somewhere between pleasure and surprise.

Carlos digs his nails into Oscar’s ass cheeks. 

“Told you to be patient,” he growls, words meant to chastise but coming out more like a plea.

Oscar doesn’t answer, doesn’t care. He’s too far gone, his body moving on instinct as he starts to fuck himself on Carlos’ cock, rolling his hips, seeking more, needing everything.

Carlos swears, his fingers tightening as he lets Oscar take control, lets him set the pace, and watches, mesmerized, as Oscar works himself open around him.

“Fuck, Oscar,” Carlos groans, thick with disbelief. “That’s so fucking hot.”

He tells himself he’ll keep watching, let Oscar have this, let him work for it—but he can’t. He’s too far gone, his restraint shredded to nothing, the heat coiling tight and demanding inside him.

Carlos grips Oscar’s hips hard enough to leave marks, stilling his movements, and thrusts in, hard and fast. 

The sound Oscar makes is obscene—a high, desperate whimper muffled by the sheets, his whole body shuddering under Carlos’ hands.

Carlos doesn’t slow down, doesn’t falter, fucking into him like he’s got no control left, each thrust harder and deeper, every snap of his hips dragging Oscar closer to the edge. And then he pulls out.

Oscar makes a broken sound. “What the fuck?” His voice cracks, desperate. “Carlos—”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look sorry. Instead, he flips Oscar onto his back.

Oscar blinks up at him, dazed, utterly ruined—his face flushed, chest rising and falling in sharp pants, hair sticking to his forehead in sweaty clumps. His cock is still painfully hard, red and leaking against his stomach, so wet it’s obscene.

Carlos smirks, as he grabs Oscar’s legs and pushes it up, bending him open, knees pressed to his chest. 

The new position leaves nothing hidden, Oscar’s hole stretched wide and glistening, twitching with need. 

Carlos lines up and sinks back in slowly, dragging a long, needy moan out of Oscar.

“You sure we’re doing this right, bun?” Carlos murmurs. 

His free hand trails down to grip Oscar’s cock, pumping it slow and tight, thumb swiping over the wet, slick head. 

“Look at you, so hard and messy. Maybe you should be the one doing the fucking. I wouldn’t even need prep with all that slick you’re dripping.”

Oscar’s head falls back against the pillows, crushing his floppy ears, his breath catching on a broken whine.

The words spill over him, short-circuiting his already ruined brain, leaving him useless but for the way his hips jerk into Carlos’ hand, chasing the friction.

“Or no?” Carlos says. He thrusts slowly, just enough to make Oscar’s legs shake. “I think you like it better like this, huh? Your needy little hole stuffed full of my cock?”

Oscar doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. He just keens, so high-pitched and desperate that Carlos chuckles. He starts to move again, hips snapping forward with a punishing rhythm. 

His hand on Oscar’s cock doesn’t falter, stroking in time with each thrust, the slide of it making Oscar’s thighs tremble where they’re spread wide.

“God,” Carlos mutters, and Oscar feels the words more than he hears them. “You’re so fucking tight, so good for me.”

Oscar’s hands scrabble for purchase against the sheets, his back arching off the bed as every nerve in his body lights up. 

Carlos is everywhere—all over him, inside him, the sound of skin slapping against skin drowning out the broken moans spilling from Oscar’s mouth.

Carlos adjusts his angle slightly, his cock brushing against something that has Oscar’s eyes snapping open, wide and glassy, his lips forming a silent “O” as he clenches hard around Carlos.

“There,” Carlos pants, his grip on Oscar’s hip tightening like he’s holding on for dear life. 

He fucks into that spot again and again, his hand speeding up on Oscar’s cock, twisting just enough at the head to make him sob.

“I—Carlos, I’m—” Oscar’s voice cracks, his whole body tensing like a bowstring, his ears flat against his head, his tiny tail twitching furiously against the sheets.

“Go on,” Carlos growls, fucking him harder, deeper, his own breath coming in ragged gasps now. “Come for me, bun. Let me feel it.”

It’s too much. 

Oscar’s head tips back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry as he spills over Carlos’ fist, hot and sticky, his whole body shaking apart as his muscles lock tight around Carlos’ cock.

Carlos swears loud, his rhythm stuttering as he chases his own release. 

He thrusts once, twice more, and then he’s gone, spilling deep inside Oscar with a rough, guttural groan, his hand still working Oscar through the aftershocks as they both fall apart together.

The only sounds left are their ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed as Carlos slumps forward, bracing himself over Oscar, his forehead pressed to Oscar’s damp shoulder.

“Fuck,” Carlos finally mutters, voice hoarse, his lips brushing against Oscar’s flushed skin. “You’re… Jesus, Oscar.”

Oscar just hums, a soft, hazy sound, his fingers threading lazily through Carlos’ damp hair. 

He’s too wrecked to form words, his body boneless, pliant, but the way his legs stay hooked around Carlos’ waist, like he can’t bear to let go, says it all.

Carlos doesn’t move at first, doesn’t even think about it, his weight braced over Oscar as he catches his breath, his lips brushing idly over the curve of Oscar’s shoulder. 

Eventually, though, he shifts, easing back carefully and muttering, “Gotta pull out, bunny.”

Oscar winces when Carlos’ softening cock slides free, his body twitching with oversensitivity, and Carlos strokes soothing circles into his thighs, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry.” His tone is so soft, so genuine, that Oscar blushes, his cheeks burning pink.

“You okay?” Carlos asks, his hands not leaving Oscar’s skin.

Oscar nods. “Yeah. Just—” He pauses, his body still buzzing, his limbs feeling strangely numb but in the best way. “Just good. Really good.”

Carlos leans down and presses a quick kiss to Oscar’s lips, before moving to climb out of the bed.

“I’ll grab something to clean you up,” he says, already halfway off the mattress when Oscar’s hand shoots out, wrapping around his wrist.

“Can I shower?” Oscar asks quietly, hesitant. “Before I go? I prefer.”

Carlos freezes mid-step, his brows knitting together as he turns to face Oscar fully. “Go where?”

Oscar blinks, almost confused by the question. “Back to my hotel,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“You’ll go back?” Carlos repeats, and there’s something in his voice—disappointment, maybe frustration, or both—that makes Oscar falter.

“Unless…” Oscar hesitates, voice trailing off, unsure. “Unless you want me to stay?” He watches Carlos carefully, ears twitching nervously, despite being flattened against his hair.

Carlos stares at him like he’s said something ridiculous. 

“Of course I want you to stay,” he says, already climbing back into bed and curling around Oscar. He presses his face into the crook of Oscar’s neck. “Stay.”

Oscar relaxes against him, feeling the warmth of Carlos’ body, the way his arm tightens possessively around his waist.

“When we wake up tomorrow,” he starts, hesitant, “I won’t have the ears. Or the tail.”

Carlos lets out a scoff, leaning back just enough to look Oscar in the eye. “Do you think I care about that?”

Oscar shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You seemed to like the tail.”

“I do like the tail,” Carlos admits, his hand trailing down to play with the ball of fur. “It’s fluffy. I like fluffy things.” There’s a faint blush creeping up his neck now, and Oscar swears he’s never seen anything more endearing. “But I like you more.”

The words settle between them, so warm and soft, and Oscar leans up to kiss him, just a soft press of lips. 

“I like you too,” he whispers, like it’s some kind of secret. “Why do you think I came to you to fix it?”

Carlos freezes for a beat, then huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. 

He tilts Oscar’s chin up with two fingers, his thumb brushing over the soft pink flush warming Oscar’s cheek.

“Because you knew I’d take care of you,” Carlos murmurs, leaning in to kiss him again.

Oscar just lets him, his fingers curling lazily into Carlos’ damp hair, his lips parting with a soft exhale as Carlos deepens the kiss. 

“Come on,” Carlos says after a moment, pulling back just enough to press his forehead to Oscar’s. “Let’s hop in the shower, huh?”

Oscar hums, dazed and pliant, letting Carlos guide him up from the bed with hands on his waist. 

His legs wobble a little when he stands, and Carlos chuckles, holding him with an arm around his middle.

“Let me wash you, lindo,” Carlos murmurs, kissing Oscar’s temple before steering him toward the bathroom.

Oscar glances over his shoulder, ears twitching faintly, his tail flicking nervously. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Carlos interrupts. “Let me.”

And Oscar lets him, lets Carlos lead him into the bathroom and tug him under the spray of warm water. 

It feels too intimate at first, the way Carlos lathers up his hands and smooths them over Oscar’s shoulders, down his back, fingers trailing with care over the spot where his tail meets his skin.

But Carlos doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease—just hums softly under his breath and works out the tension in Oscar’s muscles with his palms.

“See?” Carlos says after a while, his lips curving into a grin as he tips Oscar’s chin up under the spray. “Not so bad, huh?”

Oscar blinks at him, water dripping down his face, and huffs a soft laugh. “It’s fine, I guess,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it.

Carlos just laughs, leaning in to kiss him again, the water still running as it soaks them both. 

When they finally step out of the shower, Carlos grabs a big fluffy towel and wraps it around Oscar first, pulling him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“You’re staying,” Carlos says, not even phrasing it as a question this time.

Oscar looks up at him, blushing to the tips of his ears. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m staying.”