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Porsche wakes to daylight, a headache, and an empty bed.
It takes a moment for the memories of last night to filter through his mind, sluggish as if hungover; there’s a tender spot on his forehead which he knows is from headbutting his attacker, and a steady ache in the rest of his limbs.
He remembers Kinn getting to him just in time, and how he’d relaxed once he heard Kinn’s voice. It was difficult to interpret that reaction with the state he was in, and with his defences lowered, it allowed Porsche’s mind to fixate on this unknown thing he has with Kinn.
He wanted to find out if Kinn liked him, why he’d kissed him at the pier, but this isn’t the way Porsche would have chosen: inhibitions lowered by an unknown drug, baiting the answer out of Kinn, their first time marred completely. Porsche had the scraps of his control forcibly wrenched from his grasp, leaving him reeling.
Porsche’s feelings toward Kinn are a steadily-building ache in his chest, unable and unwilling to put a specific name to it yet, and sleeping together in this way only makes it more confusing.
Porsche knows it could have been worse. If Kinn hadn’t rushed to save him, if he’d been even five minutes later, Porsche can’t bear to think about what could have happened. The thought makes his stomach turn, burying down further in the white sheets.
Last night, Kinn was both his saviour and his damnation, and Porsche is still none the wiser as to what it all means. If last night was nothing but convenient for Kinn, if it truly meant nothing, then Porsche doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it.
The object of his misery and confusion turns towards him, the sheets rustling as he shifts on the edge of the bed.
“Are you okay?”
A ridiculous question, one Kinn should already know the answer to, but the concern in his tone confuses Porsche further, still unable to place just what it is Kinn wants from him. Kinn said himself that Porsche was no different than the other bodyguards, so there’s no reason for him to treat him with care.
He doesn’t want to think about it, he wants Kinn to leave so he can collect himself, giving him time to create and pull down the mask that will get him through the rest of the day.
“Please leave me alone.”
Kinn offers to give him the day off, but Porsche already knows he won’t take it. He refuses to show his soft underbelly more than he already has by cowering away somewhere.
When they get back to the home base, Chan directs him to the medical room for a blood test and overall health check-up, along with some further questions from the doctor which he grits his teeth through. Declaring him fit for duty, Porsche is told to report with the rest of the bodyguards in an hour.
He escapes into one of the rarely-used sitting rooms just to get away from the people staring at him as they pass by, their eyes a mixture of curious, sympathetic, and critical. News travels quickly through the building, he wouldn’t be surprised if everybody already knew that somebody tried to kidnap him last night.
The door opens behind him and Porsche jumps, spinning around.
It takes him a moment to register why the image of Tankhun standing in the doorway looks so wrong: he’s alone, with Arm and Pol nowhere to be found. Porsche has only ever seen Tankhun flanked by at least two bodyguards - they even station two men outside his bedroom on a rotating basis.
Tankhun wanders closer to him, unusually silent. He reaches for Porsche’s wrist and Porsche jerks it back despite himself. Tankhun stares at the bare skin that’s exposed there, as if checking for marks. Porsche tugs the cuff of his shirt further down even though there’s nothing to hide.
Tankhun sits on one of the sofas, eyes on the ornate carpet.
“Zip ties?” He asks flatly.
Porsche has never seen him look so serious. The usual animated expression is gone, leaving something cold and empty behind, his eyes staring but not seeing, like he’s trapped inside his own mind.
Porsche is so thrown by the change that it takes him a while to realise what Tankhun is asking. The rope that they used to bind his wrists was thin but professional, leaving no burn or mark behind, only the ghost of it in Porsche’s mind.
“No,” Porsche says quietly, “it was rope.”
Tankhun nods like that makes complete sense. “Mine used zip ties,” he says casually. “They tied them so tight around my wrists that my circulation was almost completely cut off.” He gives a low humourless chuckle that makes Porsche’s stomach turn. “I almost lost both of my hands.”
Porsche knows that Tankhun was taken in the past, but he doesn’t know the details, only that he was much younger than Porsche is now. He realises that if there’s one person in this building that has even a small idea of how he feels right now, it’s Tankhun.
Porsche asks, “How old were you?” in a rough voice.
“Twelve.”
Porsche suppresses a shudder.
“How long?”
“Ten days,” Tankhun answers. “By the time they found me I was hyperthermic and starving. I don’t remember a lot of it because I was delirious.” Tankhun looks directly into his eyes, his stare pinning Porsche in place. “Kinn was ten years old. When I woke up, our mother told me that Kinn found out where our people were holding the kidnappers. He stole a knife from the kitchen and tried to gut every last one of them.”
Good, Porsche thinks viciously. He knows he should feel horrified, and there is a part of him that hurts for that ten year old boy driven to violence at a young age, but the haunted look on Tankhun’s face makes it difficult to do so. Those people did not deserve to be treated with compassion.
“The men who drugged you are lucky they got away.” Tankhun crosses one leg over the other, leaning back against the sofa to consider him. “For now, anyway. Once Kinn gets his hands on them, there isn’t a soul on this planet who could save them.”
The irrefutable way Tanhun says it makes the twisty feeling of confusion worse. Kinn is treating him differently enough that even Tankhun has noticed, and Porsche feels like he’s being tugged in two different directions: the one where Kinn cares for him more than others, and the one where he doesn’t. If Porsche stretches too thin between both points, he’s worried he’s going to snap like an elastic band.
He doesn’t want to discuss Kinn’s concern with Tankhun, so he changes the topic.
“I’m grateful for the sympathy,” Porsche says, “but why are you telling me this?”
“Because I let it define my entire life,” Tankhun answers. “I let it eat me up and spit me back out into what you see now. Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”
“You were only a child.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Porsche goes silent. Tankhun waits patiently, expectantly.
Porsche asks, “What do you expect me to do?”
“Take back your control,” Tankhun states. “Make sure nobody takes it from you again. Not unless it’s something that you want, or with someone you trust.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” Porsche answers honestly.
Tankhun shrugs, lips pursed. “It’s up to you.”
Porsche thinks about Kinn and his need for control. He’s the heir to the organisation, so it’s only logical that he would want everything around him to be meticulously-planned, but Porsche thinks there’s another reason. Something that hurt him deeply, causing him to put up walls—walls that Porsche foolishly believed he'd been able to pull down.
The image of Kinn smiling gently at him, the lights of the dock illuminating a halo of gold around him, is one he keeps returning to. Porsche is beginning to think he may have dreamed it. There must be a reason Kinn tries to keep his cards so close to his chest.
“Tankhun,” Porsche starts, “when Vegas said somebody hurt Kinn…”
The aura around Tankhun darkens instantly, all traces of the earlier vulnerability vanishing.
“That is not information I’m willing to tell,” Tankhun says, crossing his arms like a brat, “you can’t make me.”
Porsche’s mouth tugs up in a small smile before he can stop it. Tankhun may be traumatised and childlike, but he’s still an older brother with a fiercely protective streak. Porsche can relate more to that than anything else.
“I’m sorry,” Porsche offers, “for letting Vegas eat with us.”
There’s nothing Porsche could have said or done to get Vegas to leave – he gets the feeling that Vegas cannot be made to do anything he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t hurt to apologise to Tankhun.
Tankhun’s face twists, slapping his hands over his ears.
“Stop saying his name!”
“Sorry,” Porsche repeats. The conversation with Kinn from before the auction springs to mind, his tone turning bitter, “Kinn said you were angry enough about it to give me back to him.”
Tankhun stares at him like he’s grown a second head, slowly lowering his hands.
“I didn’t give you back to Kinn.”
Porsche goes still. He searches Tankhun’s face for a lie but finds nothing but mild confusion.
“What?”
“Arm and Pol were at the same meal, too. If I got rid of you, then I’d have to get rid of them, and I don’t want to. They’re mine.”
Tankhun says it with all the petulant possessiveness of a five year old child, but Porsche barely notices. He’d asked Kinn to his face if he’d ever take him back willingly, and that had been faced with outright rejection, along with a statement that Porsche was no different than the rest of Kinn’s staff.
“Whose decision was it?” Porsche asks, fighting to keep his voice even.
Tankhun already looks bored of the conversation, inspecting his nails, which are painted a lurid orange.
“My darling little brother’s, of course.”
Porsche can hear his heart beating in his ears. There’s a sliver of something beginning to bloom in his chest, something that feels an awful lot like hope.
“Kinn,” Porsche says slowly, steadily, “Kinn was the one who reassigned me to him.”
Tankhun hums in assent.
“He put in the request personally. Ordered your schedule to be changed immediately so that you were back in his protection detail.” Tankhun stands up, absently brushing an imaginary piece of lint off his fluorescent yellow trousers. “Though I cannot fathom why, it appears Kinn wanted you by his side.”
With that declaration, Tankhun drifts out of the door, calling for Arm and Pol as he does. Porsche numbly watches the door swing closed, mind racing.
If Kinn truly thought of him as just another one of the staff, why did he want him back? Why did he stop Vegas from offering a position to him?
Porsche stands there in contemplation until his legs start to feel numb.
Any trace of Kinn’s initial concern disappears and the hope alight in Porsche is extinguished like a candle in the rain. He returns from a meeting with his father and doesn’t even look at Porsche before he locks himself into his office, not allowing anyone entry, remaining there for hours.
Later, Porsche is summoned to the training room, faced with Ken, Big, and a cruel punishment of Kinn’s own choosing.
Kinn doesn’t even deem it worth watching, leaving as quickly as he appeared.
Porsche considers that maybe he was just another pretty plaything to Kinn. But those other men, at least, are taken care of after and escorted home, not punished for something out of their control. Porsche somehow fooled himself into believing that he might be special to Kinn.
The friction burns on his chest are nothing compared to the gnawing pain of rejection. It sits heavy on his sternum, making it hard to breathe. He stares at his body in the mirror, remembers the fervent way Kinn had touched him, like he was something holy, and tries not to scream.
Pete invites him to Yok’s at Tankhun’s request.
Porsche doesn’t know where he stands with Kinn, but he asks him for permission anyway, and is immediately rebuffed. Another man drapes himself over Kinn, and Kinn doesn’t even spare Porsche a parting glance. Misery twists bitterly in Porsche’s stomach as he tries, and fails, not to look back.
Porsche doesn’t drink at the club regardless of how much he wants to, the thought of alcohol making him uneasy. He tries to forget about Kinn in the arms of another but her touch is too gentle, there’s no possessive edge to her kiss, her scent too delicate. There is no juxtaposing feeling of safety and danger in the way she cradles his body. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get Kinn and his hands out of his head.
Kinn looks achingly innocent in sleep. He spares a fleeting moment to consider why Kinn waited up for him, then the brutality of this life catches up and Porsche is left staring down the barrel of Kinn’s gun.
He knows he shouldn’t bait Kinn again, but it’s the only way he gets answers. Porsche wants Kinn to touch him, to kiss him, to punch him, to give him anything but the apathy he’s projected for days, a single gesture to indicate that Porsche isn’t just another one of the nameless staff to him.
As Kinn’s face hovers closer, the tender, yearning feeling in Porsche’s chest unfurls, and Porsche finally sees it for what it is: he wants Kinn to want him. He wants to be seen as someone irreplaceable, as someone worth caring for, someone worthy of Kinn’s attention.
“I’m replacing you.”
Porsche fights the sting in his eyes as Kinn walks away. Something behind Porsche’s breastbone cracks, his misery leaking out between the spaces of his ribs.
Porsche makes it to his room on autopilot, showering the grime of the club and the scent of motor oil off him, standing under the spray long enough that the water starts to run cold. He’s too keyed up to sleep, and Pete is still not back from putting Tankhun to bed. The room begins to feel claustrophobic with the thoughts reverberating around his skull, so he swipes up his cigarettes and heads to one of the hidden spots outside where the staff sometimes sneak away to smoke.
Almost there, he freezes when he hears two familiar voices. Peering around the corner, Porsche spots the man who was all over Kinn earlier accepting a cigarette from one of Korn’s regular bodyguards, who he thinks is named Mod.
“Praew,” Mod greets, “are you Khun Kinn’s flavour of the week?”
Praew takes the lighter from him. “I thought I was, but it seems Kinn isn’t in the mood.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“It’s strange,” Praew says. “I haven’t seen him this distracted since that mess with his ex. Worse, in fact. He couldn’t get me out of the room quick enough.”
Blood rushes through Porsche’s ears. Kinn had made a show of summoning Praew in front of him, of making sure Porsche knew he had someone else, only to send him away.
Mod shrugs, blowing out a lungful of smoke. “Knowing Kinn, he’s on his knees for someone else as we speak.”
Praew leans back against the wall. “I doubt that,” he says, “Kinn doesn’t go down on his knees for anyone.”
Porsche’s memories from that night are slightly murky, like looking through a mirage, but they are by no means lost to him entirely. He vividly remembers Kinn—Kinn on his knees in front of him, kissing and biting down the line of his torso, like he wanted to crack Porsche open and consume him.
Kinn had sucked a deep bruise into his hip while he was down there, as if he wanted to sear it into his skin, branding him permanently. Porsche can feel the phantom throb of it even now.
Everything from the last few days swirls together into a tornado of confusion, hurt, and anger. The gnawing pain in his chest expands, spreading through his limbs, and Porsche can feel his control unravelling. There’s only one person who he can take it back from—the only person with any answers.
By the time Porsche has made up his mind, he’s already standing outside Kinn’s bedroom door. He gives a precursory knock but doesn’t wait for a response before letting himself in, making a point to lock the door behind him, the mechanism clicking into place with a noise of finality. He leaves his shoes at the door, the plush carpet soft on his bare feet.
Porsche pads further into the room and spots Kinn, still dressed in the deep burgundy silk trousers and robe, his back to the door, staring out at the nightscape, seemingly lost in thought. He doesn’t seem to react to the noise behind him, which is unusual given how vigilance is key to survival in his line of work. Perhaps it’s proof that Kinn isn’t as unaffected as he makes out to be.
“Kinn.”
Kinn tenses, making a show of turning around deliberately slowly. Porsche practically sees the blank mask slide into place across Kinn’s features.
“I didn’t give you permission to be here.”
“I don’t need to ask for your permission,” Porsche replies, “you told me that yourself.”
Kinn lets out a frustrated breath.
“Porsche, get—”
“Tankhun didn’t give me back to you,” Porsche interrupts. He notes with satisfaction how a sliver of shock bleeds into Kinn’s expression before he’s able to smother it. “The order came directly from you. Tankhun told me himself.”
“He’s lying.”
Porsche ignores the spike of irritation at the denial. Kinn has retreated so far into himself, away from anything resembling an emotion, that he can’t even admit to something as simple as this. Porsche came here for answers, maybe something more, and he doesn’t plan on leaving until he gets them.
Porsche says, “No, he wasn’t. I’d be able to tell. He isn’t exactly the type to hide his feelings.”
If Kinn notices the jab, he very carefully doesn’t react.
“Do you always gossip about me to my brother?” Kinn asks, an obvious deflection.
“We bonded, actually,” Porsche replies, moving further into the room, towards Kinn, who very visibly fights to stay where he is, “over our shared kidnapping experiences.”
Kinn goes eerily silent, the corner of his eyes haunted. The reminder of it, of what could have happened to Porsche, of what did happen, affects Kinn more than he is willing to show. The small fracture in his demeanour gives Porsche the reassurance he needs to keep going.
“If you were a few minutes earlier—if you’d have caught who slipped me the drug, what would you have done?”
Kinn’s fist clenches then relaxes in reflex, an aborted movement towards where his weapon would be, if he were carrying one. He’s silent for so long that Porsche thinks he’ll never answer, until:
“I would have torn them limb from limb,” Kinn’s tone is dark, a mere hint of the storm that rages inside him. “They would regret the day they were even born.”
Porsche believes him. Kinn would react the same as he did when Tankhun was taken, even though Porsche isn’t family, even though Kinn should have no reason to, if Porsche really is just another one of his staff.
“Why?” he asks simply.
Kinn frowns, “What?”
“Why go to the trouble for just one bodyguard?”
Kinn’s face does something funny, “Because you’re—” he cuts off abruptly. Swallows, fist clenched at his side, the white of his knuckles stark against his skin.
Mine, Porsche’s brain supplies, Because you’re mine.
“Because you’re one of us,” Kinn manages. His tone is almost enough to be convincing. “We protect our own.”
“Is that what you call it,” Porsche says flatly, standing in front of him now. “Having me punished for being drugged against my will. Replacing me as if I don’t matter.”
The skin around Kinn’s eyes goes tight with anguish before he can stop it. Kinn is a Pandora’s box of emotion, the lid open only enough to allow a glimpse of what lies inside, but Porsche plans on digging his fingers into the seam and prying it open, no matter what he unleashes. Porsche has faced violence, assisted in a murder, been drugged and almost kidnapped. He isn’t scared of what Kinn has to hide.
“Do you regret that night?”
Kinn closes his eyes against whatever memory flashes through his mind. Maybe it’s the memory of him covering Porsche completely, chest pressed to his back, their hands intertwined in a wild tangle against the window. Maybe it’s the way he’d held Porsche as he trembled afterward, the last tendrils of the drug leaving his system.
“I regret that I lost control,” Kinn says, pained yet sincere. That doesn’t answer Porsche’s question.
“You kissed me,” Porsche says. Not an accusation, just a simple statement. Kinn’s gaze drops down to his lips then back up again, fleeting. His eyes are brimming with a conflicted mixture of guilt and something else Porsche can’t place. “Marsh said you never let him kiss you. I heard him that day behind the curtain.”
Apparently reaching his limit for this conversation, Kinn turns to face the window, his back to Porsche. Every word fraught with tension, he asks, “What do you want from me, Porsche?”
Kinn isn’t kicking him out. The realisation spreads hope through Porsche’s chest, pools golden like honey in his veins, giving him the confidence he needs to move closer to Kinn. Porsche can see his own reflection over Kinn’s shoulder, a reversal of two nights ago.
Porsche reaches out and fits a hand to the curve of Kinn’s waist, covered only by the thin silk of the robe, marvels at the way Kinn’s breath hitches. He’s tense beneath Porsche’s palm, every muscle in his body coiled. Porsche leans closer just to feel the warmth he emits, breathes in where his scent is strongest. Porsche’s lips brush, petal soft, against Kinn’s neck. He catches Kinn’s eye in the reflection, gaze dark.
“Tell me you only fucked me because it was convenient, and I’ll leave.”
The muscle in Kinn’s jaw tightens. He holds eye contact for only a couple more seconds before his eyes dart away, out towards the city skyline. The distant city lights look like stars, illuminating Kinn’s face in the same way they did at the pier.
“Tell me you don’t actually want me.”
Kinn remains silent. Kinn has lied to him before but apparently he will not lie now, not about this.
Porsche grabs his shoulder and spins him until Kinn’s back is against the window, boxing him in with a hand either side of his head. To his surprise, Kinn lets himself be manhandled.
“Tell me you didn’t enjoy that night.”
Kinn’s face twists as if in agony.
“Porsche,” he says, ragged.
“I remember,” Porsche tells him, “I remember all of it.”
Kinn is beginning to look like a cornered animal, as if he may bolt if Porsche continues to press. That is not the goal of tonight.
“I baited you,” Porsche offers. Kinn looks pained, like the words are a physical blow. “I grabbed you.”
“That’s not an excuse,” Kinn bites out.
“You’re right,” Porsche says, sliding his hand to cup Kinn’s throat. Kinn freezes in place, pupils dilated, brown completely swallowed up by black. His body thrums with tension, Porsche can sense it beneath his skin, like he’s fighting the urge to push Porsche away or pull him closer. “It’s not an excuse.”
Porsche’s thumb strokes the hollow of Kinn’s throat. Kinn reacts like Porsche’s touch is electricity, like a thunderstorm that he cannot resist chasing for the thrill of it. Porsche feels the ripple of his throat beneath his palm as he swallows.
“Porsche,” Kinn says, dangerously soft, “what are you doing?”
“Taking back control.”
Kinn doesn’t ask why, just silently searches his face, and whatever wild look he sees there is enough to convince him to surrender. Porsche needs this; Kinn may try to cut himself off from his emotions, but even he can sense that. He needs it to be just them, no alcohol or drugs in their system, just them at their most bare.
“You said my life is yours and you can do whatever you want,” Porsche says. “Not in this room, not right now. It’s my turn to give the orders.”
Porsche sees the exact moment Kinn yields, the corners of his mouth turned down but his eyes accepting. Control isn’t something that Kinn gives away easily, and the significance of that fact isn’t lost on Porsche.
Porsche slips his hand off his throat and steps back so they’re no longer touching. Kinn’s eyelashes flutter, mouth slightly parted, like he misses the touch already.
“Take off your clothes,” Porsche says, a hint of a tremble in it, “and come here.”
Kinn’s body uncoils from the window like the drawing of a knife, effortless and smooth. There’s a soft swish as two pieces of red silk fall to the floor, leaving him bare except his black boxer briefs. Porsche keeps their eyes locked and his breathing controlled as Kinn moves closer. Just when their bodies are about to touch, just when Porsche can feel Kinn’s exhales on his face, Kinn stops.
“I’m here,” Kinn’s voice is a hoarse rumble, “now what?”
Porsche feels his eyes half-lid, letting them flick to watch Kinn’s mouth. Kinn inhales sharply.
“Put your hands on me,” Porsche murmurs, “guide me back.”
He goes easily, the backs of his thighs eventually brushing against Kinn’s desk before he moves up to sit on the edge. Kinn’s hands are hot through the cotton of his tank top as he spreads his knees to allow Kinn between them.
“Hold my wrists behind me,” Porsche says.
Kinn’s eyes go bottomless. He runs his hands down Porsche’s arms, wide palms and long fingers, encircling his wrists and forcing them behind him. Kinn’s hands are big enough to hold him one-handed, back arched, their chests almost touching. It’s a stretch and a little bit painful and it makes desire burn through Porsche’s veins, makes him want to immolate himself beneath Kinn’s mouth.
He tugs a little, just to feel the strength of Kinn’s grip. Kinn grits his teeth and clenches his hand hard enough for there to be fingerprint marks dotted on his skin tomorrow.
“Fuck,” Porsche hisses, and does it again. Kinn’s eyes blaze, flicking down to Porsche’s mouth, “kiss me.”
Kinn obeys, tenderly at first, until Porsche parts his mouth to lick his bottom lip and then Kinn surges into it, licking into Porsche’s mouth like he’s thirsty and Porsche is an oasis, sucking on Porsche’s tongue and scraping his teeth over his lip. Porsche didn't give Kinn permission to use teeth, so he bites down on Kinn’s lower lip in warning, almost hard enough to draw blood. Kinn makes a wounded noise and separates only far enough to breathe.
“My shirt,” Porsche says as Kinn’s eyes fixate on Porsche’s pink swollen mouth, “take it off.”
Kinn rips the tank top over Porsche’s head using one hand, ending up in a tangle around his wrists where Kinn has them pinned at the bottom of his spine.
Kinn stares at the miles of golden skin that’s exposed and says, “Tell me where you want my mouth,” in a voice so deep it goes straight to Porsche’s cock.
“On my shoulder, down my neck.”
Kinn leans down. The slow kiss he presses to Porsche’s shoulder is worshipful, his mouth as hot as Porsche remembers, chaste for a moment before he opens and licks, tonguing at skin, sucking a bruise that Porsche will have to hide tomorrow. Kinn drags his mouth down the sensitive skin of Porsche’s neck, making Porsche groan softly. Porsche hooks an ankle around the back of his knee, pulling Kinn’s hips in with his leg, caging him in close.
“Collarbone,” he says, stifling a whine at the wet sound of Kinn’s mouth as he obeys, scraping teeth first at the delicate bone beneath thin skin. Porsche lets his head fall back, his chest push forward further into Kinn’s touch.
“Lower, my chest—” Kinn fastens his teeth on the muscle of his pectoral, lightly, just enough to pinch. “Harder.”
Porsche makes a breathless sound as Kinn obeys, sharp pain lighting up his nerves. Kinn follows his direction with eager intent, sucking on the flesh between his teeth and leaving the skin wet and sensitive as he moves on to his nipple, pebbled beneath Kinn’s tongue. Kinn lathes over it in maddening little flicks that make Porsche’s stomach twist, his cock pulsing beneath his sweatpants.
“Stop,” he says and Kinn jerks back as if shocked, breathing hard. Porsche doesn’t let him go far, keeps him close with the clench of his thighs around his hips.
A flush has risen on Kinn’s cheeks and down his chest, his eyes dazed. The thick line of his cock presses into Porsche’s pelvis, the wet patch obvious beneath his underwear.
“Let go of my wrists.”
Kinn makes a frustrated sound as he releases his grip, hands curling into fists on top of Porsche’s thighs to stop him from reaching out again. This must be torture for Kinn, who is so used to having things his own way; Porsche can’t help but be pleased that he’s listening, the acquiescence sending a heady rush to Porsche’s head.
Porsche squeezes his legs and Kinn hisses and grinds in, all automatic reflex and want. Porsche slides his hand up to Kinn’s bare shoulder.
Porsche barely has to exert any pressure on his shoulder before Kinn is dropping to his knees in a desperate, ungraceful movement, like he’s been wanting to do it since Porsche first walked in. Kinn looks up at Porsche with absolute reverence in his eyes, twin pools of desire and longing, like he wants to prostrate at Porsche’s feet and worship every inch of him.
Kinn is one of the most dangerous men in the country, yet he kneels easily at Porsche’s feet, yielding and pliant and oddly obedient. All the strength and power of an apex predator, domesticated beneath Porsche’s hand, a panther half-tamed.
“Take them off.”
Kinn drags Porsche’s sweatpants and briefs down and off in one movement, tossing them to the side. Porsche’s cock is flushed and wet at the tip. Kinn’s mouth parts slightly, staring at the length of him, his fingers kneading reflexively in the flesh of Porsche’s thighs.
Kinn’s cheekbones are really something from this perspective. Porsche reaches out to trace one with the pad of his thumb. Kinn leans into the touch, dark eyes fixed on Porsche, and Porsche can’t resist the urge to press down on the centre of his bottom lip. Kinn’s mouth parts, his breath hot against Porsche’s thumb.
“You look good like this,” Porsche says, “do I need to tell you what to do next?”
Kinn rasps, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” and between one breath and the next, his mouth is on Porsche’s cock.
Porsche’s hips jerk as he gasps, but Kinn just grabs his hip, pressing him into the desk as he takes Porsche deeper. His mouth is impossibly hot, and his tongue keeps moving, tracing up and down, swirling around the head with slow soft strokes, making heat twist in Porsche’s abdomen.
Porsche drapes his leg over Kinn’s shoulder, heel digging into his back, pulling him closer between the cradle of Porsche’s hips. Kinn grabs his other leg and throws it over his shoulder, pulling Porsche to the edge of the desk, so that his ass almost hangs off it, most of his weight supported by Kinn’s broad back.
Porsche leans back on one elbow and tangles his other hand in Kinn’s hair just for an anchor, tugging it harshly, but Kinn just makes a muffled groan and keeps going. Without hesitation, he sucks Porsche down all the way to the back of his throat, eyes shut, cheeks hollowing, and he just stays down there, the tight wet heat of his throat working around Porsche’s cock.
Porsche makes a shattered-sounding noise in response. Kinn’s hands come up to hold onto him where the join of his leg meets his body, his thumb sweeping up to press behind his balls. Porsche fails to smother a whine, his body trembling with it, as Kinn’s thumb drags down, rubbing his thumb over his hole.
“Kinn, Kinn,” Porsche chants, “pull off, I’m gonna come.”
Kinn pulls off and sits back on his heels, breathing heavily, the look in his eyes molten.
Porsche may not know Kinn’s true feelings, whether or not he’s just another notch in his bed post, but that doesn’t matter right now. He came here because he wanted to know if Kinn wanted him—really, truly wanted him, not because he thought he was doing Porsche a favour, not because Porsche was intoxicated and someone easy. Porsche can clearly see that this carnal, animalistic desire for one another is real, not something induced by any substance, or born of convenience.
Porsche is overcome with the need to kiss him, tugging Kinn to his feet and latching onto his mouth, Kinn’s hands roaming every inch of him.
“Bed,” Porsche murmurs between fervent kisses.
Without breaking the kiss, Kinn’s hands slide beneath his thighs, hoisting him easily into the air. Porsche is just as tall as Kinn, but the effortless show of strength has him making a noise into Kinn’s mouth, instinctively wrapping his legs around his waist.
Kinn drops him down onto soft sheets, pausing only to strip off his boxers, then leans down and covers him completely, the heavy weight of his erection pressed into the crease of Porsche’s thigh.
“Wait,” Porsche says.
Kinn immediately pulls back, lifting his weight off Porsche. Kinn is staring down at him like he wants to ruin him, chest heaving, only holding himself in check because Porsche told him to, and sheer want scorches through Porsche’s body.
Porsche turns over onto his stomach, spreading his thighs to accommodate Kinn, and when he looks back, Kinn’s gaze is hungry and waiting.
“Lube,” Porsche prompts.
Kinn slams open the bedside drawer and retrieves it, shuffling closer between Porsche’s legs. He flips the cap open with one hand, running the dry pad of his other thumb down the cleft of Porsche’s ass to press against his hole.
Porsche smothers a whine, “Hurry up.”
There’s the slick sound of the bottle and then wet fingers probe over his entrance, the first one sliding in all the way to the hilt, making Porsche inhale sharply. Kinn opens him up slowly, finger by finger, until he’s stretched wide on three of them, his cock leaking where it’s pressed to the sheets, hips rocking back into the feel of it, greedy.
“Porsche,” Kinn says roughly, the first time he’s spoken in a while.
“Choose how you want me,” Porsche says shakily, offering that piece of control back to Kinn.
Kinn takes it. He tugs Porsche upright until he’s resting on his knees, fits a hand to the dip of his waist to encourage him to lean backwards, Kinn’s chest pressed to Porsche’s back, which is arched in a sinful curve. Porsche’s head tilts back to bare his throat, which Kinn presses a sweet kiss to the side of.
The first press of Kinn’s cock pulls a breathy moan from Porsche’s throat, the stretch of him so fucking good that he clenches down around him like a vice. Kinn makes a ravaged sound and pushes in further, until he’s as deep as he can go, the front of his thighs flush to Porsche’s. Kinn is big, Porsche is so full like this he can’t think straight, all his senses overwhelmed as he’s filled to the brim. It’s intoxicating, every nerve ending alight, feeling the pleasure of it all the way up his spine.
Kinn is tense with the effort of holding still, to allow time for Porsche to adjust, not giving in to the urge to bury himself inside over and over, because Porsche hasn’t told him he can move. Porsche’s knee shifts against the bed, widening his stance, and the change in angle makes them both moan.
“Porsche, you—” Kinn cuts off with a harsh noise, burying his face in Porsche’s nape to smother his next words, biting down at the skin there so it doesn’t come spilling out of him.
Porsche gasps and presses back, tired of the secrets, of Kinn not speaking his mind, of not knowing what it is Kinn wants.
“Tell me,” Porsche pants, demanding, “Kinn, tell me.”
“You’re so tight,” Kinn’s voice is wrecked, the tone of it sending blazing heat to Porsche’s gut, “so wet and hot, you’re perfect, I couldn’t stop thinking about—” he makes another low, broken noise, “you have no idea what you’ve done, Porsche, I—you’ve ruined me.”
“You were going to fuck him,” Porsche says, voice hoarse. “The pretty boy that was draped all over you.”
Kinn freezes. Porsche knows he didn’t go through with it, but Kinn isn’t aware of that. He suddenly wants nothing more than to hear it directly from Kinn’s mouth.
“Did you have him against the window, too? Did you go down on your knees and suck his cock, like you did for me?”
Kinn’s breathing is ragged. His hands tighten dangerously on Porsche’s skin, fingers digging in so hard he’s likely to leave bruises.
“No,” the confession is torn from Kinn’s throat, hips shifting in a small aborted movement, wanting to drive into Porsche but not being given permission, “I couldn’t do it. I sent him away, I couldn’t—Porsche.”
Porsche fists a hand in the back of Kinn’s hair and tugs harshly, turning his head until they’re panting into each other’s mouths.
“Fuck me,” Porsche commands softly, “show me.”
Kinn pulls out slowly. Porsche moans at the drag against his rim, then cries out when Kinn pushes back inside, sheathing his cock all the way, without breaking eye contact. Kinn fucks into him with slow, rocking motions, almost reverent, and it’s good, but it’s not what Porsche wants. He’s treating Porsche unbearably gently, like he’s something that can be broken easily, and Porsche hates it, being handled like glass that can shatter at a moment's notice.
He wants to feel Kinn find himself in Porsche, he wants to choose to let Kinn lose control, to unleash that unbridled passion he tries to keep on a low simmer.
Porsche’s head tips backwards, lolling onto Kinn’s shoulder, nosing beneath his jaw. This close, Porsche can feel the drum of Kinn’s heartbeat at his back, can sense the way he’s resisting his base urges by the tension in his posture.
“That night at the club, I took someone to the backroom,” Porsche murmurs. Kinn’s breath seems to strangle in him, hips going still, the rest of him trembling with the effort of holding back. “I wanted to forget about you—about how you made me feel. She was perfect, beautiful, everything that I usually go for.”
Kinn says, “You fucked her,” in a raw tone simmering with jealousy.
Porsche shudders, “I tried,” he says quietly, “all I could think about was you.”
Kinn’s breath leaves him in a rush.
“Kinn,” Porsche says, “make me feel it.”
Porsche can sense the moment Kinn’s resolve snaps. He snakes a hand up Porsche’s back to grab his shoulder, places the other on Porsche’s hip, uses the position to pull Porsche into his thrusts as he begins to fuck him mercilessly, hips hammering fast and hard against the backs of Porsche’s thighs.
Porsche can’t speak, or think, unable to do anything but make wrecked whining sounds as Kinn snaps his hips into him. Bruises bloom under Kinn’s fingers as he yanks on Porsche’s hips, his narrow waist, bringing them together over and over again in a way that makes Porsche’s thighs redden.
Kinn is reaching so deep it feels like he wants to seat himself there permanently, to make a home for himself inside Porsche, keeping him full and fucking him so hard Porsche can feel it in his throat.
“I want to see you,” Kinn says between harsh, bitten-off sounds, waiting for Porsche to nod before he’s pulling out and flipping Porsche onto his back, only keeping him empty for a few seconds before he slams back in, tilting Porsche’s hips up with both hands on his waist to get the angle that steals the breath from his lungs.
Face to face is different, it’s way more intimate, and Porsche shivers with it, he can’t stop shaking, toes curling at Kinn’s back as Kinn digs his nails into his hips, his cock leaking onto his stomach with every thrust. He’s so close, the pleasure coiling tight in his stomach.
Kinn’s hand drags down to press against Porsche’s lower abdomen, as if he’s trying to feel the bulge of himself there, map out the space he’s carving. The possessiveness of the gesture makes Porsche burn hotter, the sounds pulled from his throat high and broken, as Kinn slams into that spot inside him on every other thrust.
“Fuck, Porsche, so fucking good,” Kinn wraps a hand around Porsche’s wet cock and Porsche whines, “you’re perfect, look at you.”
It makes Porsche shivery with pleasure, being held so firmly and fucked so precisely. He knows he’s being loud, high gasping moans from the back of his throat, but he can’t help it when Kinn drives into him at just the right angle. The mass of heat in his abdomen builds to a breaking point as Kinn jerks him roughly, clinging tightly to Kinn’s cock every time he slides inside, and all it takes is Kinn’s hand squeezing the head of his cock for him to come in wave after wave, the force of it tearing through him.
Kinn leans down and kisses him desperately, his thrusts turning erratic as Porsche makes small, oversensitive noises into his mouth.
“Porsche,” Kinn murmurs, broken-sounding in a way he only gets when he’s very close to coming.
Porsche is suddenly overcome with the need to feel the evidence of Kinn’s pleasure, to have him leave something of himself behind when it’s over.
“On me, on me,” Porsche pleads, “Kinn, please—”
Kinn wrenches himself out, hand a blur over his cock as he buries his face in Porsche’s neck and comes in long spurts over Porsche’s chest, his abdomen, his own fist, letting out one long low groan. The startling hotness that stripes his skin makes Porsche whimper through the aftershocks.
After a few moments, Kinn rolls off him and onto his back, unnervingly silent as he stares at the ceiling. The buzzing in Porsche’s brain slowly subsides as their breathing calms. Porsche stifles the urge to fold himself into Kinn’s arms, knowing he would never be allowed.
Now they’re no longer caught up in their desire, the weight of reality looms down on them both. Porsche may have confirmed that Kinn is attracted to him, but he still doesn’t know how he feels. The aura of misery currently radiating off Kinn tells Porsche he probably never will. He can sense Kinn withdrawing back into himself, lying stiffly beside him.
Dread curling in his stomach, Porsche gets out of bed and heads to the ensuite, rinses himself down as best he can. When he gets back, Kinn is sitting up and has pulled the sheet across himself, staring unseeingly down at his lap.
Porsche crosses the room, finding his underwear and tugging it on along with his sweatpants. Kinn watches him do it, numb.
“You’re not going to reinstate me as your bodyguard, are you?” Porsche asks.
Kinn’s face twists, “I can’t. You might not believe me, but it’s for the best.”
Porsche’s heart aches. He already knew the answer, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Kinn doesn’t care enough to actually want Porsche by his side.
Porsche bends to pick up his shirt, heading towards the door, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t look back when he closes the door behind him.
Later the next day, Porsche gets summoned to a conversation with Boss Korn. Kinn’s father exudes an air of friendliness, but Porsche gets the feeling there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye.
He accepts the offer to go back to his home for a few weeks. On the way there, Porsche briefly wonders if Kinn will even notice he’s gone.