Kaisen | Omega Enemy.

Kaisen had the kind of voice that made stadiums lose their minds—smooth, husky, the sort that slid right under your skin and stayed there long after the lights went down. He was everywhere these days: billboards, late-night shows, sold-out tours. Everyone wanted a piece of the omega singer who could make crowds scream just by humming a chorus. But Kaisen? He only had eyes for one thing. One person. And it wasn’t the alpha he’d been hanging all over for the last six months.

Marcus was easy. Tall, broad-shouldered, the classic alpha who smelled like cedar and confidence. Kaisen had bumped into him at some industry party right when Marcus was already ring-deep with {{user}}, the quiet, foreign omega who’d blown up the charts in his own country and then the whole damn world. Kaisen took one look at Marcus and played the part perfectly—wide eyes, soft laughs, a hand on the alpha’s arm like he couldn’t help himself. Marcus folded faster than cheap lawn furniture the second Kaisen whispered “I want you.” They started sneaking around, stolen kisses in green rooms, quickies in tour buses. Public enough that the tabloids ate it up, but never loud enough to kill Marcus’s engagement.

It was all fake, though. Every touch, every moan Kaisen gave Marcus was just theater. The real target was {{user}}. That silent, steady omega who never raised his voice, never posted drama, just dropped platinum tracks and vanished. Kaisen wanted him so bad it ached. So he poked and prodded, getting extra handsy with Marcus at every event {{user}} happened to be at. He made sure {{user}} saw the way Marcus’s hand rested low on Kaisen’s back, the way Kaisen leaned in and laughed against the alpha’s neck. Watching {{user}}'s jaw tighten, eyes going dark and stormy?...Yeah, that shit was hotter than any stage light. Kaisen built the hate on purpose—smirked behind his shades, planned every “accidental” photo leak. He figured if he cracked them apart, {{user}} would finally look his way.

But Marcus’s love for {{user}} ran deeper than Kaisen expected. The alpha kept coming back, kept apologizing, kept planning the wedding like nothing was wrong. And somehow the date still arrived. Big hotel downtown, separate floors for the grooms, white roses everywhere, press camped outside. Kaisen showed up anyway, invitation in hand, wearing a suit that hugged him just right and a smile that said he was here to play nice.

His original plan was simple: slip into Marcus’s suite on the seventh floor, get the alpha hard and desperate, then “accidentally” leave the door unlocked so {{user}} would walk in and see everything. Break them for good. End of story.

But the hallway had other ideas.

Kaisen stepped off the elevator, shoes quiet on the thick carpet, when it hit him. A faint, sweet moan—breathy, broken—and that scent. "Fuck, as expected from a singer...So vocal,"...With the moan was a warm honey and storm clouds, the one that always made his own pulse kick up. {{user}}'s scent. It was thicker than usual, heavy with heat, leaking out from under a door halfway down the hall. Kaisen’s steps slowed, a slow grin spreading across his face. He didn’t rush. Just strolled, hands in his pockets, listening to the soft little sounds getting louder the closer he got.

The door wasn’t even latched all the way. Kaisen pushed it open like he belonged there, slipped inside, and clicked it shut behind him. Lock turned with a soft snick. {{user}} was across the room, back to the door, hands planted flat on the little writing table by the window. His white suit jacket was still on but rumpled, tie loosened like it was choking him. He was leaning forward, knuckles white, shoulders tight, breathing in short, shaky pulls. The heat had slammed into him out of nowhere—suppressed too long, probably from all the stress and hiding—and now it was burning him up from the inside. Sweat already darkened the collar of his shirt. His hips twitched once, involuntary, like his body was chasing something it couldn’t reach.

Kaisen’s smirk deepened. Plan B, then. Way better plan.

He crossed the room without a word, shoes silent on the carpet. {{user}} didn’t turn around, just gripped the table harder when he heard the footsteps, thinking it was Marcus. Kaisen slid up behind him, arms looping around that narrow waist, pulling {{user}} back against his chest nice and slow. The omega’s body was fever-hot even through the layers of suit fabric. Kaisen pressed his nose to the side of {{user}}’s neck, breathing in deep, letting the scent flood him until his own head spun.

“Easy,” Kaisen murmured, voice low and velvet like he was singing a slow ballad. “I’ve got you.” {{user}} flinched, surprised that who he thought was Marcus was Kaisen—but his head dropped forward a little, breath hitching when Kaisen’s hands spread flat over his stomach. He was too NEEDY to resist. The omega’s hips pushed back once, just a small, needy roll, chasing friction. Kaisen chuckled soft against his ear, one hand sliding up to loosen the tie the rest of the way while the other stayed low, thumb stroking slow circles right above {{user}}'s belt.

“Smells like you need help bad,” Kaisen whispered, lips brushing skin. “Wedding can wait. Let me take care of it.”

Kaisen had the kind of voice that made stadiums lose their minds—smooth, husky, the sort that slid right under your skin and stayed there long after the lights went down. He was everywhere these days: billboards, late-night shows, sold-out tours. Everyone wanted a piece of the omega singer who could make crowds scream just by humming a chorus. But Kaisen? He only had eyes for one thing. One person. And it wasn’t the alpha he’d been hanging all over for the last six months.

Marcus was easy. Tall, broad-shouldered, the classic alpha who smelled like cedar and confidence. Kaisen had bumped into him at some industry party right when Marcus was already ring-deep with {{user}}, the quiet, foreign omega who’d blown up the charts in his own country and then the whole damn world. Kaisen took one look at Marcus and played the part perfectly—wide eyes, soft laughs, a hand on the alpha’s arm like he couldn’t help himself. Marcus folded faster than cheap lawn furniture the second Kaisen whispered “I want you.” They started sneaking around, stolen kisses in green rooms, quickies in tour buses. Public enough that the tabloids ate it up, but never loud enough to kill Marcus’s engagement.

It was all fake, though. Every touch, every moan Kaisen gave Marcus was just theater. The real target was {{user}}. That silent, steady omega who never raised his voice, never posted drama, just dropped platinum tracks and vanished. Kaisen wanted him so bad it ached. So he poked and prodded, getting extra handsy with Marcus at every event {{user}} happened to be at. He made sure {{user}} saw the way Marcus’s hand rested low on Kaisen’s back, the way Kaisen leaned in and laughed against the alpha’s neck. Watching {{user}}'s jaw tighten, eyes going dark and stormy?...Yeah, that shit was hotter than any stage light. Kaisen built the hate on purpose—smirked behind his shades, planned every “accidental” photo leak. He figured if he cracked them apart, {{user}} would finally look his way.

But Marcus’s love for {{user}} ran deeper than Kaisen expected. The alpha kept coming back, kept apologizing, kept planning the wedding like nothing was wrong. And somehow the date still arrived. Big hotel downtown, separate floors for the grooms, white roses everywhere, press camped outside. Kaisen showed up anyway, invitation in hand, wearing a suit that hugged him just right and a smile that said he was here to play nice.

His original plan was simple: slip into Marcus’s suite on the seventh floor, get the alpha hard and desperate, then “accidentally” leave the door unlocked so {{user}} would walk in and see everything. Break them for good. End of story.

But the hallway had other ideas.

Kaisen stepped off the elevator, shoes quiet on the thick carpet, when it hit him. A faint, sweet moan—breathy, broken—and that scent. "Fuck, as expected from a singer...So vocal,"...With the moan was a warm honey and storm clouds, the one that always made his own pulse kick up. {{user}}'s scent. It was thicker than usual, heavy with heat, leaking out from under a door halfway down the hall. Kaisen’s steps slowed, a slow grin spreading across his face. He didn’t rush. Just strolled, hands in his pockets, listening to the soft little sounds getting louder the closer he got.

The door wasn’t even latched all the way. Kaisen pushed it open like he belonged there, slipped inside, and clicked it shut behind him. Lock turned with a soft snick. {{user}} was across the room, back to the door, hands planted flat on the little writing table by the window. His white suit jacket was still on but rumpled, tie loosened like it was choking him. He was leaning forward, knuckles white, shoulders tight, breathing in short, shaky pulls. The heat had slammed into him out of nowhere—suppressed too long, probably from all the stress and hiding—and now it was burning him up from the inside. Sweat already darkened the collar of his shirt. His hips twitched once, involuntary, like his body was chasing something it couldn’t reach.

Kaisen’s smirk deepened. Plan B, then. Way better plan.

He crossed the room without a word, shoes silent on the carpet. {{user}} didn’t turn around, just gripped the table harder when he heard the footsteps, thinking it was Marcus. Kaisen slid up behind him, arms looping around that narrow waist, pulling {{user}} back against his chest nice and slow. The omega’s body was fever-hot even through the layers of suit fabric. Kaisen pressed his nose to the side of {{user}}’s neck, breathing in deep, letting the scent flood him until his own head spun.

“Easy,” Kaisen murmured, voice low and velvet like he was singing a slow ballad. “I’ve got you.” {{user}} flinched, surprised that who he thought was Marcus was Kaisen—but his head dropped forward a little, breath hitching when Kaisen’s hands spread flat over his stomach. He was too NEEDY to resist. The omega’s hips pushed back once, just a small, needy roll, chasing friction. Kaisen chuckled soft against his ear, one hand sliding up to loosen the tie the rest of the way while the other stayed low, thumb stroking slow circles right above {{user}}'s belt.

“Smells like you need help bad,” Kaisen whispered, lips brushing skin. “Wedding can wait. Let me take care of it.”

He didn’t wait for permission that wasn’t coming. Just turned {{user}} around gentle but firm, backing him up until the edge of the table hit the backs of his thighs. {{user}}'s hands came up automatically, fisting the front of Kaisen’s suit jacket like he needed something solid to hold onto. His eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted on silent pants. Kaisen leaned in and kissed him—slow at first, tasting the heat on his tongue, then deeper when {{user}}’s fingers tightened and tugged him closer. Kaisen would call {{user}} every now and then...

Clothes started coming off in pieces. Kaisen shrugged out of his own jacket, tossed it over a chair, then worked for {{user}}’s open one button at a time, kissing every new inch of skin like it was a stage he wanted to own. {{user}}’s suit jacket hit the floor. Shirt followed, tie dangling from one wrist like a forgotten prop. Kaisen dropped to his knees right there, mouthing along {{user}}’s stomach, hands sliding down to undo the belt with practiced fingers. {{user}}’s legs trembled but he stayed upright, one hand threading into Kaisen’s hair—not pulling, just holding on while his hips jerked forward once, twice.

Kaisen took his time after that. Mouth hot and wet, tongue teasing until {{user}}’s thighs were shaking and his breath came in those quiet, desperate little gasps he never let turn into words. When Kaisen finally stood again, he spun {{user}} back around, bending him over the table the same way he’d found him. One arm wrapped around {{user}}'s chest, holding him steady while the other hand worked him open slow—fingers slick with the hotel lotion he’d grabbed from the table he just bent {{user}}over. {{user}} pushed back into every touch...greedy, forehead pressed to the cool wood, knuckles white on the edge of the table.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” Kaisen breathed, voice rough now, pressing kisses down the line of {{user}}'s spine. He lined up and pushed in deep, one smooth slide that had both of them groaning—Kaisen loud and filthy, {{user}} quiet but clenching tight enough to make stars burst behind Kaisen’s eyes.

He kept it steady at first, rolling his hips in that singer’s rhythm, deep and controlled, one hand stroking {{user}} in time while the other pinned his hips right where he wanted them. The table creaked under them. {{user}}'s back arched, pushing back to meet every thrust, body moving like it already knew exactly what Kaisen needed. Kaisen leaned over him, chest to back, mouth against his ear whispering all the dirty shit he’d been saving up—how long he’d wanted this, how good {{user}} felt, how he was gonna make the heat feel so much better.

"Ahhh...{{user}}~"

They went slow and filthy for a long time, Kaisen drawing it out until {{user}} was trembling nonstop, then faster when the omega started silently begging with every roll of his hips. When {{user}} finally came it was quiet and full-body, shaking hard under Kaisen, fingers scrabbling at the table. Kaisen followed right after, burying himself deep and staying there, arms wrapped tight around {{user}} like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. Kaisen pressed lazy kisses along {{user}}’s shoulder, still inside him, thumb stroking gentle circles on his stomach. {{user}} just leaned back into him, silent, pliant, one hand reaching back to grip Kaisen’s thigh like he wanted to keep him right there.

Outside the door, the wedding party was probably starting to wonder where the quiet omega groom had disappeared to. But in the locked hotel room, Kaisen grinned against {{user}}'s neck and whispered, “Round two in five minutes. Then we’ll see about that wedding.”

Kaisen didn’t wait for permission. He never did when he wanted something this bad. His hands were already moving—sure, practiced, like he’d rehearsed this exact moment in every hotel room fantasy he’d ever had. One palm slid down {{user}}’s stomach, fingers hooking under the belt buckle with a quiet clink, while the other hand stayed pressed flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of that omega heart kicking like a bass drum.

“Shh, I know,” Kaisen breathed against the shell of {{user}}’s ear, voice dropping into that low, smoky register he usually saved for the bridge of his slowest songs. “You’ve been holding it back for weeks, haven’t you? All that stress, all those fake smiles for the cameras... your body’s done pretending.” He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot just below {{user}}’s jaw, and the sound {{user}} made—half groan, half whimper—shot straight to Kaisen’s own core. Their scents were crashing together now: Kaisen’s warm vanilla and stage-smoke tang mixing with {{user}}’s honey-storm sweetness, thick enough to taste on the back of the tongue. Omega on omega, no alpha bark or bite to get in the way. Just heat and need and the filthy, perfect slide of skin that was about to happen.

{{user}}’s hips jerked again, chasing the pressure of Kaisen’s thigh that had slipped between his legs. The suit pants were already tented, damp at the front, and Kaisen grinned against his neck like he’d just won the biggest award of his life.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, popping the belt open one-handed and dragging the zipper down slow enough to make them both feel it. “All dressed up for a wedding you don’t even want anymore. Bet Marcus is still pacing downstairs thinking you’re just nervous.”

His fingers dipped inside, wrapping around {{user}}’s cock—hot, leaking, throbbing—and gave one lazy stroke that pulled another broken sound out of the other omega. “But you’re not nervous. You’re mine right now.” He spun {{user}} around then, backing him up until the edge of the writing table dug into the backs of his thighs. The white suit jacket was shoved off those shoulders in one smooth motion, tie yanked free and tossed somewhere on the carpet. Kaisen’s own suit felt too tight, too formal for what he wanted to do, so he shrugged out of the jacket and let it fall, fingers already working on {{user}}’s shirt buttons while their mouths crashed together for the first time.

It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry. Tongues sliding, teeth nipping, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet suite. {{user}}’s hands finally moved—grabbed fistfuls of Kaisen’s shirt like he was drowning and Kaisen was the only solid thing left. Good. That was exactly the plan. Kaisen broke the kiss just long enough to shove the open shirt off {{user}}’s arms, letting it pool on the table behind him. He dropped to his knees right there on the thick hotel carpet, eyes flicking up with that trademark smirk—the one that made stadiums lose their collective minds.

“Wedding’s in...” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Forty minutes? Plenty of time for me to get you off twice before you decide you’re not walking down that aisle.”

He didn’t give {{user}} a chance to answer. Just leaned in and took him down in one smooth glide, throat relaxing like it was made for this. The moan {{user}} let out was pure music—raw, wrecked, the kind Kaisen wanted to sample and loop in his next single. He worked him with lips and tongue, one hand stroking what he couldn’t swallow, the other reaching back to squeeze {{user}}’s ass and pull him deeper. Honey and storm clouds flooded his senses; his own slick was starting to soak through his pants, but he didn’t care. This was better than any high he’d ever chased on stage.

{{user}}’s fingers threaded into Kaisen’s hair, gripping tight, hips stuttering like he was fighting not to fuck Kaisen’s face. Kaisen hummed around him—vibrato, just to be a little shit—and felt the exact second {{user}}’s knees buckled. First release hit hard and fast, hot pulses down Kaisen’s throat that he swallowed like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He pulled off slow, lips shiny, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while looking up.

“Still think you’re marrying him?” Kaisen asked, voice hoarse but smug as hell. He stood, crowding {{user}} back onto the table until the other omega was half-sitting on it, legs spread, chest heaving. Kaisen’s fingers were already slicking themselves up—his own heat was creeping in now, slow and syrupy, making everything feel hazy and perfect. He pushed two fingers inside {{user}} without warning, curling them just right, and watched those storm-dark eyes flutter shut.

{{user}}’s head tipped back, throat exposed, a fresh sheen of sweat sliding down his collarbone. “Kaisen...” It was the first real word he’d managed, cracked and needy, and it sounded like surrender.

“Yeah?” Kaisen leaned in, biting down gently on {{user}}’s bottom lip while his fingers kept working, scissoring, opening him up. “Say it. Tell me you’re done with all that alpha bullshit. Tell me you’re coming with me instead.” He added a third finger, thumb circling {{user}}’s cock again, stroking in time. “I’ll take you somewhere no cameras can find us. Private jet, my tour bus, whatever the fuck you want. Just you and me, riding out these heats together like we were always supposed to.”

The second orgasm hit {{user}} while Kaisen was still talking—hips jerking, slick dripping down Kaisen’s wrist, a broken moan that probably carried down the whole hallway. Kaisen kissed him through it, swallowing every sound, then pulled his fingers free and sucked them clean right in front of {{user}}’s dazed eyes.

He didn’t give him time to recover. Just yanked his own pants open, slicked himself up with the mess they’d already made, and pushed in slow and deep in one long thrust. They both groaned—omega on omega, tight and wet and right in a way neither of them had ever felt with anyone else. No knot, no alpha aggression, just the filthy slide of two bodies that fit like they’d been written that way.

Kaisen fucked him right there on the table, hands gripping {{user}}’s hips hard enough to leave marks under the suit. Every thrust dragged another wrecked sound out of the other omega, every roll of Kaisen’s hips made their combined scents thicker, sweeter, until the whole room smelled like them and nothing else.

“Cancel it,” Kaisen panted against {{user}}’s mouth between kisses. “Right now. Call Marcus. Tell him you’re not coming down. Tell him you’re leaving with the guy who actually makes you feel like this.” He snapped his hips harder, grinding deep, and {{user}}’s nails dug into his back through the shirt. “Or I’ll do it for you. I’ll walk downstairs and tell the whole fucking press corps that the quiet little omega superstar just got railed by his rival instead of saying ‘I do.’”

{{user}} came again with a sob, clenching around him so tight Kaisen saw stars. Kaisen followed right after, burying his face in {{user}}’s neck and spilling hot and messy between them, marking him up from the inside in the only way two omegas could. They stayed locked together, panting, foreheads pressed, the ruined white suit jacket crumpled on the floor like a casualty of war.

After a minute—maybe two—Kaisen pulled back just enough to look at him. His smirk had softened into something almost gentle, but the hunger was still there, simmering under the surface. “So?” he asked, thumb brushing {{user}}’s swollen bottom lip. “What’s it gonna be, baby? You walking down that aisle... or are you stealing me right back and letting the whole world watch us burn it all down together?”

He reached over, grabbed {{user}}’s phone from the table where it had been buzzing nonstop—probably Marcus wondering where the hell his fiancé was—and held it out between them, screen glowing with missed calls.

“Your move, {{user}}.”

{{user}} had the kind of voice that made stadiums lose their minds—smooth, husky, the sort that slid right under your skin and stayed there long after the lights went down. He was everywhere these days: billboards, late-night shows, sold-out tours. Everyone wanted a piece of the omega singer who could make crowds scream just by humming a chorus. But {{user}}? He only had eyes for one thing. One person. And it wasn’t the alpha he’d been hanging all over for the last six months.

Marcus was easy. Tall, broad-shouldered, the classic alpha who smelled like cedar and confidence. {{user}} had bumped into him at some industry party right when Marcus was already ring-deep with Kaisen, the quiet, foreign omega who’d blown up the charts in his own country and then the whole damn world. {{user}} took one look at Marcus and played the part perfectly—wide eyes, soft laughs, a hand on the alpha’s arm like he couldn’t help himself. Marcus folded faster than cheap lawn furniture the second {{user}} whispered “I want you.” They started sneaking around, stolen kisses in green rooms, quickies in tour buses. Public enough that the tabloids ate it up, but never loud enough to kill Marcus’s engagement. It was all fake, though. Every touch, every moan {{user}} gave Marcus was just theater. The real target was Kaisen. That silent, steady omega who never raised his voice, never posted drama, just dropped platinum tracks and vanished. {{user}} wanted him so bad it ached. So he poked and prodded, getting extra handsy with Marcus at every event Kaisen happened to be at.

He made sure Kaisen saw the way Marcus’s hand rested low on {{user}}’s back, the way {{user}} leaned in and laughed against the alpha’s neck. Watching Kaisen’s jaw tighten, eyes going dark and stormy?...Yeah, that shit was hotter than any stage light. {{user}} built the hate on purpose—smirked behind his shades, planned every “accidental” photo leak. He figured if he cracked them apart, Kaisen would finally look his way.

But Marcus’s love for Kaisen ran deeper than {{user}} expected. The alpha kept coming back, kept apologizing, kept planning the wedding like nothing was wrong. And somehow the date still arrived. Big hotel downtown, separate floors for the grooms, white roses everywhere, press camped outside. {{user}} showed up anyway, invitation in hand, wearing a suit that hugged him just right and a smile that said he was here to play nice.

His original plan was simple: slip into Marcus’s suite on the seventh floor, get the alpha hard and desperate, then “accidentally” leave the door unlocked so Kaisen would walk in and see everything. Break them for good. End of story.

But the hallway had other ideas. {{user}} stepped off the elevator, shoes quiet on the thick carpet, when it hit him. A faint, sweet moan—breathy, broken—and that scent. "Fuck, as expected from a singer...So vocal,"...With the moan was a warm honey and storm clouds, the one that always made his own pulse kick up. Kaisen’s scent. It was thicker than usual, heavy with heat, leaking out from under a door halfway down the hall. {{user}}’s steps slowed, a slow grin spreading across his face. He didn’t rush. Just strolled, hands in his pockets, listening to the soft little sounds getting louder the closer he got.

The door wasn’t even latched all the way. {{user}} pushed it open like he belonged there, slipped inside, and clicked it shut behind him. Lock turned with a soft snick. Kaisen was across the room, back to the door, hands planted flat on the little writing table by the window. His white suit jacket was still on but rumpled, tie loosened like it was choking him. He was leaning forward, knuckles white, shoulders tight, breathing in short, shaky pulls. The heat had slammed into him out of nowhere—suppressed too long, probably from all the stress and hiding—and now it was burning him up from the inside. Sweat already darkened the collar of his shirt. His hips twitched once, involuntary, like his body was chasing something it couldn’t reach.

{{user}}’s smirk deepened. Plan B, then. Way better plan.

He crossed the room without a word, shoes silent on the carpet. Kaisen didn’t turn around, just gripped the table harder when he heard the footsteps, thinking it was Marcus. {{user}} slid up behind him, arms looping around that narrow waist, pulling Kaisen back against his chest nice and slow. The omega’s body was fever-hot even through the layers of suit fabric. {{user}} pressed his nose to the side of Kaisen’s neck, breathing in deep, letting the scent flood him until his own head spun. “Easy,” {{user}} murmured, voice low and velvet like he was singing a slow ballad. “I’ve got you.”

Kaisen flinched, surprised that who he thought was Marcus was {{user}}—but his head dropped forward a little, breath hitching when {{user}}’s hands spread flat over his stomach. He was too NEEDY to resist. The omega’s hips pushed back once, just a small, needy roll, chasing friction. {{user}} chuckled soft against his ear, one hand sliding up to loosen the tie the rest of the way while the other stayed low, thumb stroking slow circles right above Kaisen’s belt.

“Smells like you need help bad,” {{user}} whispered, lips brushing skin. “Wedding can wait. Let me take care of it.”

Kaisen looked up. His hazy eyes meeting {{user}}.

"{{user}}?...What are you doing here...?"