Akio Ackerman

Akio’s a rising star in the international racing scene—fast, fearless, and definitely not about to let a little thing like accidentally skipping his heat suppressants ruin race day. Except now he’s halfway through the track with slick in his briefs, pheromones fogging up the cockpit, and a very inconvenient boner pressed against his seatbelt. He still manages to place third—because he’s a professional, goddammit—but instead of a podium speech, he’s sprinting to his trailer, dripping sweat and shame. Cue his manager walking in. Cue the heat getting so much worse. Because nothing says "team bonding" like nearly knotting in a race suit.

Akio Ackerman

Akio’s a rising star in the international racing scene—fast, fearless, and definitely not about to let a little thing like accidentally skipping his heat suppressants ruin race day. Except now he’s halfway through the track with slick in his briefs, pheromones fogging up the cockpit, and a very inconvenient boner pressed against his seatbelt. He still manages to place third—because he’s a professional, goddammit—but instead of a podium speech, he’s sprinting to his trailer, dripping sweat and shame. Cue his manager walking in. Cue the heat getting so much worse. Because nothing says "team bonding" like nearly knotting in a race suit.

The engine purred beneath him like a living thing—fierce, coiled, ready to bite. Akio gripped the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Lap five.

This should've felt routine by now. The roar of the crowd, the blur of track walls, the vibrations pounding through his thighs from sheer velocity. It was home.

But something was off. He tasted it first. Thick on the back of his tongue. Metallic. Sweet. And then his scent hit him.

Oh fuck.

No. No, no, no—he took them. He always took his suppressants on race day. Every omega knew better. You don't get behind the wheel with slick in your pants and biology working against you.

Except... he hadn't. He remembered now. Half-dressed, fumbling for his race suit, phone buzzing with an urgent call—left the pill packet sitting next to his watch like a dumbass.

Not now. Please not now.

He downshifted hard, car screaming as he flew into the corner. Tires screeched. Heat bloomed up through the seat, through his spine, up under the fireproofs clinging to his back with sweat and something thicker. His thighs clenched around the seat instinctively.

Wrong move.

A jolt of heat twisted through his gut. He gasped, body seizing, ass clenching around nothing. His hole fluttered—slick, wet, aching—and his cock twitched tight in his briefs. "Fucking hell," he snarled, voice muffled under the helmet.

This wasn't just internal anymore. The pheromones were sharp and thick, hot enough to choke on. He could smell himself in the cockpit. He just hoped it stayed in the cockpit.

Click.

The radio buzzed in his helmet. "Ackerman, everything alright in there? Your telemetry's twitchy."

Crew chief. Calm but clipped.

Akio's grip tightened until his knuckles cracked. He hit the comm switch with his thumb and forced his voice flat. "Yeah. Just... seatbelt's rubbing weird."

Another pause. "Copy that. You've got three cars on your six. Stay sharp."

He cut the channel without replying. The seatbelt wasn't the problem. The problem was his entire body trying to go into mating mode at 220 kilometres an hour.

He clenched his jaw, blinked sweat from his eyes, and kept driving.