FalconQueen22

the eclipse was stunning today. there is no timelapse because i had a memory lapse and forgot, but I did snag a few progress shots! imagine me muttering to myself about colors and trusting the process while painting porsche oompa loompa orange.

Porsche lightly settles himself down on the bed next to Kinn, propping his head up with one arm to look down at the man he so adores.

Kinn doesn't often take naps. He typically has no time for such small luxuries. Porsche would know, since they share that busy, high-tension life.

But not right now. Right now they're on a long-overdue vacation, and Porsche can enjoy a small luxury of his own -- the chance to observe his lover sleeping in full daylight, amidst downy white bedding and soft pillows.

There are lines starting to etch their way onto Kinn's regal brow, but they're accompanied by soft laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, lines that Porsche has taken great care to put there himself. And he won't tell Kinn just yet, but he thinks he's begun to see the first hint of silver among that thick black hair.

He's so beautiful it takes Porsche's breath away. Even the little hints of aging are precious, proof that they're still alive despite the odds, despite the challenges and dangers.

The corner of Kinn's mouth curls up just slightly, and Porsche feels himself smiling back automatically, despite the fact that Kinn's eyes are closed and he can't appreciate Porsche's charms.

"I know you're awake," Porsche whispers. He gently uses one fingertip to flick a loose strand of hair away from Kinn's temple. "You faker."

"M'sleep, m'sleepin'," Kinn mumbles into the pillow stubbornly.

"Of course you are," Porsche says fondly. "Mind if I sleep with you, handsome?"

That makes Kinn's smile stretch wider, and his eyebrows kick up with interest, though his eyes stay closed.

"I think you should," Kinn says, and he stretches a hand out. Even with his eyes closed, he unerringly finds Porsche's waist, wrapping his strong arm around it to haul him close.

Porsche laughs, feeling like he's a kid again, while Kinn proceeds to treat him like an oversized teddy bear. Snuffling, Kinn tucks his face into the crook of Porsche's neck.

"Hey," Porsche complains, poking Kinn. "Hey, you have your knee in my thigh."

Kinn grumbles about it, but they manage to shuffle into a mutually comfortable position. Kinn settles back down peacefully, and Porsche strokes his hair.

"Hey Kinn? It'll be cooler when the sun starts to go down. We could walk out to the beach then, hm?"

Kinn mumbles an affirmative into Porsche's neck, hugging him tighter.

“Well,” Arm begins and then goes so quiet Porsche has to check to make sure they’re still connected. “Your holiday is being cut sh-"

“No fucking way!” Porsche cuts him off, coming to stand in the middle of his kitchen.

The marble top island is more cluttered than he’d like it to be, but he’s been nonstop working for the past 3 weeks on one of the hardest hunts of his life. A rogue vampire had gone insane, slaughtering more people than he could count on his fingers. Despite being a crazy lunatic, the bastard had been smart, and led Porsche on a wild chase until he finally caught up and sent him back to his angel owner for her to deal with. He’d barely had time to sleep, let alone clean.

“Porsche,” Arm’s voice is hard - stoic and with no room to argue, taking the tone that the director of the Guild should have. This wasn’t a friendly chat - this was a business one through and through. “You’ve been requested.”

Porsche scoffs, “That’s nice, but -”

“By an archangel.”

Porsche feels his whole world go quiet. “It’s not April Fool’s Day, Arm,” He says shakily.

“I know, and I’d never joke about this, but…” Arm sighs, and it’s a frustrated one. “We’re between a rock and a hard place. I tried to deny his request and said you’re off duty for the foreseeable future, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Fucking archangels, Porsche thought, the voice inside his head spiteful. He’d never be able to say it out loud without dire consequences, but in the privacy of his own brain, he’ll curse them out as much as he wants. They’re selfish creatures, living in their high-rises to look down upon all mortals, ruling over the cities they claim as their own without a care in the world. As long as they’re happy, nothing else matters.

“What does he want?”

“They wouldn’t say. His lackeys who called up were very secretive, even with me,” Arm grumbles something under his breath with the same amount of disdain Porsche feels. The archangels are famously hard to work with. “I’m really sorry, and I will do all I can to make this up to you - but you have to meet him tomorrow.”

“Which one?” Porsche asks, mind going a hundred miles an hour. He went through all the ones he knew - the ones he’d already worked for. He’s had to clean up more of their messes than he can count, but of course, they do nothing but deposit a grand sum of money in his bank account and go about their day without even a simple thanks.

“Archangel Anakinn.”

The name cut off all of Porsche’s internal ramblings. That name had fear instilled into it, each letter dripping with the promise of death if you defied him. The archangel of Bangkok wasn’t exactly known for his niceties; even Porsche, who had fought rogue vampires twisted with bloodlust beyond any form of rationality, who stood up against anyone or anything not caring about the consequences, starts to feel anxiety creeping in.

“Fuck me,” Porsche let out, leaning against the counter to keep him up. His knees felt weak. “Let me guess, I’ve gotta go on my own, too?”

He could feel the wince through the phone as Arm answered, “Yep.”

Double fuck, Porsche curses. “Ping me the time and location.”

“Porsche -” Arm began, but Porsche hung up before he could finish, not in the mood to talk anymore.

He glances around his apartment, at the warm woods and white accents, at the trinkets and paintings spread around that he’d collected in his travels, and breathes in the scent of incense to try and ground himself. There’s no use in avoiding the inevitable, so he looks outside his window at the hotel situated opposite his apartment building. It towers above him, each window lit with shadows of activity behind them. It’s a building that never sleeps, with all sorts of goings on happening in the secrecy only immortals had the pleasure of knowing.

Porsche’s phone pinged with the details of his meeting for tomorrow.

Director Arm:

Tomorrow, Theerapanyakul’s Hotel, 09:00 am sharp.

Memorising the information immediately, Porsche knows that if he takes a few steps forward, he’ll be able to see the rooftop of the hotel - the Theerapanyakul’s Hotel. It doesn’t have any railing or safety bordering it, as there would be no point. It’s a landing and takeoff point for angels, and they could fly, their giant wings sprawling outwards so wide that even to this day, Porsche finds himself pausing whatever he was doing to stop and watch. He’d spent countless hours since he’d moved into this apartment spying on them, watching them come and go, equally fascinated as he was repulsed by their royalty in society.

Each angel had their own set of wings, and no two were the same. One pair had caught his attention the most out of all he’d seen, and he’d seen plenty at this point. Porsche recalls ones that were so wide that they had almost blocked out the entire sky, so dark in colour that it seemed as if a black hole had opened up in their place, if not for the red tips of the feathers that were visible even from so far away. Porsche has never met Archangel Anakinn - but he knows him. He’s seen him, watched him, studied him the best he could from afar as he admired each descent and take-off from flight, the beauty of his wings too tempting to look away from even for a second.

Porsche walks forward, eyes rising upwards until he can finally see the rooftop, hoping to catch a glimpse of them. To his dismay, the rooftop is empty, so instead he imagines what it’ll be like when he is up there tomorrow, and if he’d survive the meeting long enough to continue admiring the view of the angels he so frequently indulged in

-----

“Alright, alright! I get it, no need to push,” Porsche says, wrenching his shoulder away from a heavy-handed vampire. 

The impudent thing just glares at him, his fangs poking out, just begging for the hunter to act up within the hotel. Everyone knows that you behave when in a general radius of an archangel, let alone when you’re in one’s territory. The vampire looks young, but the smell radiating off of him could only mean age - and Porsche doesn’t mean a few years, but hundreds. He looks overly serious, with his perfect ponytail and miserable atmosphere, which only makes Porsche want to prod at him even more to see if he can get a reaction out of him instead.

“Get in.” The vampire orders, shoving Porsche into an open elevator. 

“Does your boss not teach you any manners?” Porsche mutters under his breath, nose scrunching up in distaste at the vampire’s scent now clinging to him. 

Each one smells different, much like each angel’s wings - it’s part of their DNA, their defining feature. This one smells sour, his scent warped with internal rage and something sad, almost as if he’s left it so long that it’s gone off, twisted and rotten. It’s clear that he hates Porsche, so much so that it’s leaking out of every pore.

“What did you say, guild hunter?” The vampire snaps, eyes narrowed in malice.

“I said, did your boss not teach you any manners?” Porsche repeats, enunciating each word clearly, not caring about the consequences. 

“Why, you -” The vampire begins through gritted teeth until the elevator doors open and let in a gust of wind so strong it threatens to knock him off balance.

Porsche blinks, his eyes drying out immediately as he takes in the scene before him. He hadn’t even noticed they’d made it to the top, caught up in the brewing fight. The vampire grabs his arm, dragging him out and practically throwing him forward. Porsche’s senses are all going off, each one struggling to acclimate to a slew of incoming smells, sounds, and feelings. 

“Khun Kinn, he’s arrived.”

“Thank you, Big. You may go,” A voice replies, so smooth and luxurious that Porsche’s stomach clenches. 

He watches as the vampire - or Big, he supposes - bows and takes his leave, looking like nothing more than a trained puppy in front of his master. Porsche holds back the urge to sneer, but he reigns it in.

Even though he’s completely open out here, the wind is strong and loud, it’s warmer than he expected, the sun shining directly into his eyes. He squints, trying to gather his bearings as he looks out across the expanse of the roof, focusing on a shadowy figure at the opposite end. Even without fully seeing him - Porsche knows who it is. 

Archangel Anakinn.

There’s no doubt in his mind, no second guesses, as his mere aura alone is enough to suffice. The great span of his wings flutters, rising and blocking out the harsh glare of the sun, bringing everything back into focus. Porsche blinks, black spots dotting around his vision as he adjusts until he can finally see who he is truly facing.

His breath catches in his throat, eyes widening without his permission as he takes in the archangel. Anakinn’s hair is perfectly styled, not a hair out of place except the purposely left-out strand that catches on his eyelashes, even with the harsh winds that are whipping Porsche’s clothing and hair around relentlessly. It’s as if the earth has stopped moving, stopped existing, covering Anakinn in an eternal peace where he’s untouchable. Porsche’s eyes carry on moving, desperate and wanting to take the man in. They follow his masculine brow bone and down the gentle slope of his nose, cataloguing each mole and curve, straight angle and harsh cut of his jawline. 

Even hidden, Porsche can sense the sheer amount of strength hidden within his body. It’s not all physical, although he doesn’t doubt that he is just as strong in that sense as he is in any other, but the archangel naturally exudes such a vibe that Porsche feels dizzy. Anakinn’s clothes are simple - a white shirt that stands out starkly against his black wings and is open enough to show off the cut of his pecs, along with a pair of tight slacks. He mustn’t feel the chill, either, as any sensible person would at least wear a jacket up here.

Porsche’s eyes flicker back up to meet Anakinn’s, and where they are a natural brown colour, there’s nothing normal about them. It isn’t just one shade, but hundreds, maybe even thousands, that meld and entwine amongst each other in his irises, glowing almost golden with how rich they are that Porsche fears if he looks for too long, he will lose himself forever amongst them. 

“Done looking, Hunter Porsche?”

Porsche visibly jolts at the address, shuddering back into reality as he snaps out of whatever daze he is in.

“It’s not often I find myself face-to-face with an archangel,” Porsche retorts, willing the heat on his cheeks at being caught to fade away.

Anakinn smiles, barely a tilt of his lips, and yet Porsche feels he’s being treated like a child. It’s humouring - demeaning - like the angel opposite him sees him as nothing more than a toy to entertain himself with. It wouldn’t surprise him if that’s exactly what was happening, but it pisses him off either way. 

“We’re a private bunch,” Anakinn replies simply, gesturing to the table to the side. Porsche follows his hand to the breakfast spread laid out for them. “Shall we have something to eat, and then begin?”

Porsche shrugs, too stiff to be casual, but it at least forces his muscles to loosen, “Sure.”

Anakinn waits until Porsche moves first, and even with his back turned, he can feel eyes following him with each step. Before he can drag a seat out for himself, Anakinn asks from right behind him:

“Did Big treat you well on your way up?”

Porsche spins around, not having felt or heard anyone creep up on him. His heart is in his throat, his hand on the knife that was hidden in his jacket sleeve, the blade peaking out as he’s ready to attack. It’s lucky he just about caught himself from stabbing the archangel, too on edge from nerves.

Anakinn glances down, catching sight of the knife, “I see you weren’t checked for weapons.”

“I was,” Porsche replies instantly, and even though it’s delayed, he finally gets a waft of the archangel’s scent. His mouth waters - it’s not like anything he’s smelled before. It’s sensual, sweet, and musky - cloying and addictive. “Your people just underestimated me.”

“Oh?” Anakinn’s eyebrow raises, and it’s so unfairly attractive that Porsche feels a pulse of violence rise in him. “I assure you, no one in this building would dare do such a thing.”

“You don’t need to flatter me,” Porsche says cuttingly, sliding the blade back into its rightful place. “I know you chose me for a reason, and I’m damn good at my job, whatever it may be.”

Anakinn hums, eyes appraising as they trace over his face and down his body, and back up again. Each bit they cover leaves hot trails behind, burning his skin even through layers of clothes. “What if I wanted to flatter you?”

Porsche’s heart seizes, his throat clicking as he swallows. “Just add a couple thousand onto my pay check, and we’d be good.”

Anakinn steps closer, boxing Porsche in, pushing his lower back into the chair behind him. It digs in at an uncomfortable angle, precariously balanced on something that could move and leave him unmoored and unstable in his stance. Their chests are almost touching, and Anakinn’s scent gets stronger, sweeter, and more enticing. Porsche can see Anakinn’s wings out of his peripherals, and the feathers look even softer than he could’ve ever imagined. He wants to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t dare.

“Only a couple thousand, hunter?” Anakinn tilts his head to the side, deceptively innocent, “I think you’re worth more than that.”

“You haven’t even tried me yet,” Porsche replies, and he’s not sure what he’s talking about - whether it’s the hunt he’s about to be debriefed on, or something else. Even worse, he’s not sure which one he’d rather be discussing.

“We can change that,” Anakinn says, voice low, words rich and honeyed, as his eyes drop to Porsche’s lips. 

They linger, only for a moment, and then they’re gone, along with Anakinn’s presence. Porsche gasps in shock, turning back around to face the table, where the archangel is now sitting down, poised as if he’s on a throne and not a garden chair. 

“So, you’re not a cheap worker, hm?” 

Porsche drags his seat out, watching as the screeching sound of the metal against the concrete doesn’t make the man flinch. He flops down onto it, relishing in the plush softness of the cushion beneath him. 

Folding his arms over his chest, Porsche replies: “I’ll rinse you dry, but I’m worth every penny.”

Anakinn’s eyes search him again, this time more intense, not even bothering to hide the roaring desire and attraction in them. “Then I suppose I look forward to working with you, Hunter Porsche.”

His robes flow freely behind him like a breeze continuously follows him. The material is light and thin, barely covering anything as it leaves his chest bare and the sides of his legs open, the only thing keeping it together is the thick golden sash around his waist cinching him in. It’d been a gift from Kinn, and despite his fury at such an obscenely expensive courting gift, he’s grateful now to have it. 

Everyone who he passes turns their heads to watch him until everyone but the man he wants is looking. His hands are lifted above his head, preciously holding a full wine glass in one and the other empty, his fingers stretched up towards the heavens. No gods hear him anymore, he realised, but the man sitting on the ornate golden throne before him does.

Porsche moves closer, desperate for attention, to be looked at and simultaneously hidden away at the same time, yearning for the familiar smell of musky vanilla and spice. He cuts through the crowd, not caring if his drink spills over the lip, trailing deep burgundy down his arms, staining the sleeves of his robes. 

As he approaches the throne, he locks onto the dominating figure overseeing the court. Kinn lounges back, thighs spread wide, his dark eyes instantly finding Porsche. His blood simmers low in his stomach at the gaze, hot and heavy, weighted with each second that passes when Kinn takes in his appearance. 

Kinn’s eyes start briefly at his face, skittering around the makeup and jewels adorning his throat, before moving further down. Each inch he takes in, lower and lower, leaves burning invisible marks against his skin. The alpha’s eyebrows furrow, his posture changing, morphing into something more alert. He no longer looks bored, but he doesn’t look happy, either. 

As Kinn’s eyes reach the golden sash around his waist, there as nothing more than an accessory, not acceptance for his courting, his facial expression slackens. He looks charmingly young, eyes wide and lips parted as if he can’t quite believe that Porsche is wearing his gift. It makes Porsche’s heart thump louder in his chest, and as he comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps in front of the throne, all the noise in the room fades out.

Vanilla hits him, calming and inviting, making him want to crawl on all fours up the steps to reach Kinn’s lap, to drape himself over like an expensive rug, but Porsche holds himself back. He must first be invited up to the throne, as they are not yet wedded.

Kinn’s nostrils flare, clearly smelling Porsche’s heightened scent. “What is it, omega?”

Shivers work their way down Porsche’s spine, his knees threatening to give out at being addressed so dismissively. He’s not sure what’s in this wine, or what’s in the air tonight, but he wants.

“May I approach, alpha?” Porsche replies demurely, yet he never looks away, meeting Kinn’s gaze head-on.

Kinn pauses as if considering, despite Porsche smelling every single atom of need radiating off the alpha. It’s nothing more than keeping up appearances for the court, as every single important person in the kingdom has gathered tonight. 

“You may,” Kinn finally acquiesces, gesturing to the empty space in front of him.

Porsche bends, at first looking as if he’s curtseying in front of the alpha king, before making it clear that he’s merely putting his glass down on the floor. Kinn’s eyes narrow on him at the blatant disrespect, but he doesn’t call him out on it as he climbs the steps, the red satin rug sinking between his toes. 

Once he’s close enough that only people who can hear them talking are themselves, Porsche speaks:

“May I sit, alpha?”

Kinn seems confused, first glancing down at the floor, before looking back up again. There is only a single throne in this court, situated on top of a platform.

“Where -”

Porsche grins, his eyes curving and lips stretching languidly across his face as he spins around, flopping down on Kinn’s lap. The motion makes his robes catch underneath him, exposing the entirety of his legs and thighs, all the way up to his hip bones. 

Porsche leans fully into Kinn’s strong frame, cushioning himself on his muscles, fitting his back against his chest and making sure his thighs match up perfectly with Kinn’s. 

“Porsche!” Kinn splutters, every ounce of royalty gone, especially when his hands immediately come up to his waist, gripping tightly around to keep him still.

It doesn’t work as he wriggles, worming his way even farther back onto Kinn’s lap. The hold on his waist becomes bruising, painfully so, but the wine dims down his senses, all but the ones that are motivating him right now. He wants to be wrapped up in Kinn, held close, the only thing he can see and smell is the alpha. He wants everyone in the hall to leave, allowing them to be alone on the throne.

“What are you doing?” Kinn hisses in his ear. 

Porsche giggles, arms coming up behind him to drape around Kinn’s neck. It’s not the comfiest of positions, and it makes his spine arch and chest push out, but it brings their faces closer. His fingers tangle in the small hairs at the nape of Kinn’s neck, resting his head on his shoulder.

“I wanted to see you,” Porsche replies coyly, his words slurring.

“You’re drunk,” Kinn accuses, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shove Porsche off his lap, doesn’t cast him back to the throngs of people in the hall who are all watching them.

Porsche’s eyelids flutter at the phantom attention. He hopes they all see that he can take what he wants from the alpha king, can do as he wishes and be as free as a bird, all while Kinn - their most savage and yet respected king - sits there and allows it.

“I can leave if you wish,” Porsche says simply, dangling the offer in front of Kinn.

“No,” Kinn barely lets Porsche finish, “You can stay.”

Porsche hums, nosing at the underside of Kinn’s jaw, inhaling deeply, “You smell good.”

“Porsche,” Kinn grits out.

The air between them becomes thick and cloying, shrouding them in a dense fog that only they can see. Porsche’s breath hitches, his lungs contracting and begging for air, to breathe in the alpha’s scent, his instincts screaming at him to bare his neck and offer himself up. Just with one word, his name, Kinn has Porsche pliant and fighting every urge in him to give in.

He won’t, and Kinn knows he won’t, but that’s what makes the game of cat and mouse between them so much more fun. It’s what makes Porsche’s mouth water, his navel tug, his senses light on fire and the world narrow down to just them. It doesn’t matter if hundreds of people watch him, want him, lust after him and wish that they could bed Porsche because none of them is Kinn. None of them are worth a dime, or worth a second of Porsche’s time, because the only one that matters is Kinn.

Kinn, his alpha, his king, who he can feel getting hard beneath him from nothing at all, merely just sitting on his lap. Power and arousal make him dizzy at that thought, that he’s barely done anything at all, and he’s got Kinn like this. 

Porsche shifts, the soft material grazing against his sensitive skin, making him jolt and a whine almost leave his lips. It gets trapped in his throat, quiet enough that only he and Kinn can hear, but it’s enough.

“Are you trying to seduce me, omega?” Kinn questions, his whole body tense. His thighs feel like concrete beneath Porsche from how strained they are.

Porsche looks up at Kinn through his eyelashes, arms dropping down to his side, placing his palms over Kinn’s still on his waist. He presses them in harder, wanting to imprint the design of the sash into their skin, marking them both up for claim.

“I don’t need to try and do that, Kinn,” Porsche whispers, grinning smugly. They both know it’s true. 

Their scents are completely entwined, mingling and swirling in the air, liquid hot and burning. If anyone wasn’t looking before, they definitely are now, fixated and entranced by the sight before them.

Their King and future Queen, wrapped around each other so brazenly, so openly, for all to see.

“Who allowed you to wear this?”

Porsche shivers, knowing that wearing such an outfit would be a risk. It was one he was willing to take - one that would entice people to look, but that he knew Kinn would adore and abhor at the same time.

“I picked it myself,” Porsche replies, glancing down at himself, glad that the folds of the material cover his hard cock. The outfit already leaves little to the imagination, but that’s one thing that he’d rather the population not see. “Do you like it?”

He feels more than hears Kinn’s sharp inhale, his chest withdrawing as quickly as it returns, “I want you to take it off and -”

“And what, alpha?” Porsche sits up, sliding off Kinn’s lap. The air away from him feels frigid and unbidden, alone and daunting, but he persists. The material drapes over his body once more, shifting back into place, “Get changed into something more appropriate, or…” Porsche smirks, his tongue coming out to dampen his dry bottom lip. He basks in the attention lavished on him by Kinn at such a simple act as if he’s in a trance.

Porsche leans forward, the robes gaping, letting Kinn have a clear look at his whole chest and stomach. “Or would you like to take it off me yourself?” Porsche asks quietly. 

He doesn’t wait for the answer, turning on the balls of his feet to make his way back down the steps, leaving Kinn behind him, speechless and reeling.