cupid

Porsche groans, holding onto Kinn tighter, skin slipping with how much they’re both sweating, and his inner thighs burn with the strain. 

“Porsche -” A gasp cuts him off, followed by a choked groan when Porsche writhes underneath him. 

He can’t think, let alone speak, and he definitely can’t answer whatever Kinn is asking. Each word sounds like a prayer pressed into his skin, worshipping and grateful, praising and resolute. Kinn’s face buries deeper into the crook of Porsche’s neck, his lips and teeth grazing along the delicate skin there. Porsche feels his pulse skitter with the threat of his lover biting down right over that area, bruising it up more - leaving even more marks on his body that won’t disappear for a long time. But when they do, Porsche knows he’ll be right back here: on their bed or the couch, up against the wall or splayed out across a table, maybe even taken apart right on the floor, the carpet burns searing into him. 

It’s a dangerous game, but Kinn knows how to play it in a way that gets them both what they want.

“Please, Porsche,” Kinn’s voice is now by his ear, his hot breath leaving condensation on his already heated skin. It’s filthy, debauched and depraved to have a man full of such power holding onto him and pleading, begging and wanting.

“I’ll get you whatever you want,” A kiss against his temple, “Dress you up all nice and pretty for me,” Fingers thread through his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp. “Cover you in gold and jewels until you’re shining.”

Porsche trembles, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his spine arches upwards, pushing their chests even closer together. Kinn hasn’t skipped a beat, his cock still thrusting into him, filling him right up to the brim before pulling out again, only to knock the wind out of his lungs when he fucks back in. 

“Kinn, ah - please -”

“Please what, baby?” Kinn asks, deceivingly gentle, his cradling turning into a clawed grip, using the leverage to yank Porsche’s head back so they’re eye-to-eye. 

His eyelashes are already thick and damp with sweat, and the pull on his scalp hurts, so much so that tears begin pricking at the corner of his eyes. Porsche sniffles pathetically, his gut twisting and the tugging behind his navel becomes as dangerous as the glint in Kinn’s eyes while he awaits an answer.

It’s not one Kinn could ever get out of him in any other circumstance. Yet, as he lays there, consumed and filled by Kinn, so entwined it’s impossible to know where one of them starts and the other ends, Porsche feels himself wavering. 

“Sh- shut up,” Porsche spits out with no bite behind the words. It’s a pathetic attempt at defiance.

His whole body is overheating, melting into the sheets and sore from overuse. If he gives in now, then that’ll be the end of their little game of cat and mouse. If he says yes, allow Kinn to dress him up - for him, a tiny voice in the back of his mind reminds him, and the pleasure dancing down his spine flares, his muscles jerking and contracting in response. 

Kinn curses, his grip loosening as his lips part in awe down at Porsche, eyelids fluttering with pleasure at the way Porsche reacted. 

“You’ll let me,” Kinn murmurs, neither a question nor a statement. 

Kinn gathers him up in his arms, forcing him to sit on his lap. The change in position makes him dizzy, his head spinning as he adjusts. Kinn’s cock feels even bigger like this, the phantom press of it making his throat spasm in warning as it almost seems it’s reaching that high. Porsche feels like a puppet with his strings cut as he leans heavily onto Kinn for support, wrapping his arms around his neck to cling to. 

“Why -” Porsche begins, the rest of his words lost when he drops down further, his thighs unable to keep him up. 

He almost falls back, loose-limbed and exhausted, but Kinn catches him. Hands encompass around his waist, strong and sure, fingertips digging into his skin that will leave bruises from the sheer strength behind them. 

Kinn is looming, large and daunting in front of him as Porsche is held up by him. The glint in his eyes is still there, only now it’s in the firm set of his brows and the upward curl of his lips - a man who is about to get his way.

“Because you deserve it,” Kinn says, hauling him closer until their lips clash.

The kiss is biting, all teeth and tongue. Kinn licks into Porsche’s mouth with ease, nothing stopping him from doing so. He tastes so good, of whiskey and tobacco, rich and sweet. Every brush of their lips and flick of their tongues, the way Kinn’s cock stretches him out, seated on his lap like a doll meant to be looked at - to be admired, praised and doted upon, Kinn revelling in each moment as he devours him - is all too much.

Porsche doesn’t remember when he comes, only that when he wakes up again, he’s cleaned and pleasantly sore, and the look on Kinn’s face as he pecks him on the lips is all too content with himself.

-------

“You’re way too happy for it not even being 7 am yet.”

Kinn laughs, sitting on the edge of the bed so he can lean over to kiss Porsche’s cheek. “I’m taking you out shopping later once I’m done with my meetings, how could I not be happy?”

Porsche glares at him despite leaning into the chaste peck before he buries under the covers, pulling them up so only his head is showing. “You’re a real pervert, old man.”

Kinn grins at him, winking. It makes Porsche clutch at the sheets tighter, his toes curling from how hopelessly charmed he is by such a simple action. Kinn’s wearing a maroon cashmere jumper tucked into his slacks, along with a dark-rimmed pair of glasses that perch low on his nose. It makes him look even more refined than normal, extenuating the way his perfectly styled hair is going grey and the fine lines that are deepening around his smile lines and the corner of his eyes. 

“I’ll see you later, darling. Okay?”

Porsche sniffs haughtily, eyes lingering on Kinn as he gets up and moves towards the bedroom door. “What time should I be ready for?”

“2 pm. I’ll have Kit come up to get you since he’s driving us today,” Kinn pauses before he opens the door, glancing over his shoulder. “Make sure you wear something easy to take off.”

“Kinn!” Porsche exclaims, shooting upright so he can fling a pillow at him. He winces as his muscles scream in protest, the bruises and bite marks from last night aching.

The older man dodges it easily, side-stepping and peering down at the floor where it landed. “If your shot was as poor as that, you would’ve been out of a job years ago.”

Porsche sticks his tongue out petulantly, “Don’t lie, you would’ve missed me too much.”

Kinn smirks, eyes narrowing with mischief. “That’s right, so I’m making sure I cherish you as much as I can now.”

“Go to work!” Porsche shouts, fake gagging as Kinn finally leaves, his laughter echoing around the apartment even once he’s left.

-------

“I can’t believe I let you bully me into this,” Porsche grumbles as Kinn guides him with a hand on his lower back through the mall.

“Don’t pout, Porsche,” Kinn replies, holding the door to one of the stores open for him. “You enjoyed every second of it, remember?”

Porsche glowers, but goes in without a fuss. He can’t deny the fact that there’s excitement bubbling away in the pit of his stomach at this whole thing. It’s been an ongoing discussion in their relationship since the beginning: Kinn wants to spoil and lavish Porsche with the finest things money could buy, but after living most of his life in poverty, the thought of it had sat wrong with him somehow. No matter how many times Kinn told him he deserved it - for taking care of Chay, working endlessly to bring them both up, always putting everyone before himself, Porsche still couldn’t quite grasp the need or appeal. He’s already happy with everything he owns, and he now lives with Kinn in his massive, state of the art high-rise apartment, so he’s not really sure what else there is for him out there.

The store they enter is much more simple than he was expecting - the cosy, warm tones of the interior don’t make him feel on edge while he’s wearing a simple tee and jeans. Porsche’s eyes widen as he takes in everything from the floor to the ceiling. Detailed wood-carved panels line the walls, and a rich forest green paints the lower half. The carpet is plush and even with shoes on, he can feel the way his soles sink right in, making it feel as though he’s walking on a cloud. Everything is laid out to an uncanny degree of precision; and from the suit jackets on the rack to the watches laid out on display it gives off the aura of a museum rather than things you’re supposed to pick up and try on.

“You want to get me another suit?” Porsche asks quietly, too afraid to disturb the peace in the room if he talked any louder.

Of course, Kinn has no qualms about doing such a thing and speaks in a normal tone: “I only want you to get whatever you want, sweetheart. It’s up to you what you pick.” Kinn walks them further in, hooking his hand around his hip so he can weave them in and around the units.

It’s hard not to look at everything, too afraid that he’ll catch a glimpse of the diabolical cost of each item. It takes him a few sneaky glances to realise that there are no prices here, just labels to dictate the brand and whatever carat of gold something is. 

“Do you like it?” Kinn asks as Porsche slows to a stop, staring down at a watch beneath a glass case.

“It’s pretty fancy,” Porsche nods towards the one next to it, which comes with a matching pair of cufflinks in the shape of dice. “That one’s cool.”

“Then it’s yours,” Kinn says quietly, just loud enough for the two of them to hear as Kit hangs back a few paces behind them.

“Just like that?” Porsche scoffs, unconvinced.

“Just like that,” Kinn repeats. Then, he continues louder: “Kit, make a note. If they have the watch face in red, make sure to get that one, too.”

“Yes, Khun Kinn.” 

“Kinn!” Porsche exclaims, elbowing him. “I already have so many watches.”

“Then what’s wrong with a few more?” Kinn retorts smugly, urging him to keep moving. “You know how much I love red on you.”

Porsche keeps his eyes down after that, not wanting to look at anything too long in case Kinn clocks onto him and orders it in 50 different colours or sizes, or however this whole thing works. 

Regret begins seeping in once they get to the back of the store where it opens out into a larger space that looks like a waiting area. There’s a huge sofa in the centre with a low circular table in front of it. To the left, there’s a corner curtained off, and to the right, there’s a desk with a single employee behind it. 

As soon as they step into the area, the woman flocks to them like a starving bird, her eyes wide and hands clasped in front of her politely as she greets them. 

“Welcome, Khun Kinn!” The woman says, clearly familiar with him. The badge pinned to her lapel states her name is Lamai. She seems to be around the same age as Kinn, her gaze is soft and almost motherly as she gives Porsche a once-over. “You must be Khun Porsche, correct?”

“Correct,” Kinn assures, urging Porsche to step forward. Lamai’s eyes zero in on him, putting him on the spot. “Porsche has finally agreed to tag along.”

Lamai lets out a tiny giggle, her eyes crinkling in amusement. “I’ll make sure to take care of him, Khun Kinn. Is there any in particular you’d like me to show him?”

Kinn tilts his head to the side, his bottom lip jutting out slightly in thought as if he hadn’t been dwelling on this for the past few months. Porsche bites down on the inside of his cheek to withhold the smile threatening to take over his face at the sight. 

“Just make sure he enjoys himself,” Kinn concludes after a few moments of pondering.

“Wait, you’re not going to come with me?” Porsche asks, glancing between the two of them. Doing this whole thing with Kinn is one thing, but having a stranger assist him is another thing entirely. 

Kinn raises a single eyebrow above his glasses, “You don’t want to surprise me first?”

“Why would I wanna do that?”

Kinn leans down, bringing their faces far close enough that he feels his breath fanning across his lips. “To be good for me, darling.”

Porsche gulps, mind reeling as Kinn steps away, gesturing to Lamai to take him away. He goes easily, not wanting to put up a fight while he’s flushed up to his ears as they go behind the curtain. It’s not a tiny fitting room like he first thought, but another large space with clothes hanging up in all shades of colours and tones. He goes towards them unthinkingly, reaching his hand out to touch the material. He runs his fingertips across them, the soft silks tickling his skin.

“Oh,” Lamai says quietly from behind him, making him jump and turn around. “These would look beautiful on you, Khun Porsche.”

Porsche looks back at what he’s touching, eyes widening and mouth falling open as he sees the rack is full of silk dresses.

“They… would?”

She smiles up at him, taking out one of the dresses. It moves like ripples in the ocean, the deep aquamarine colour of it shining under the lighting. “Why don’t you try it on?”

“But -” Porsche hesitates, not accepting the dress just yet. “How much is it?”

“There’s a reason we don’t put prices on our items, Khun Porsche,” Lamai replies simply, as if she’s keeping a secret.

“Then it costs more than my house,” Porsche sighs. Worry eats away at him, wondering if anything is possibly worth such an amount. 

“Ah, but it doesn’t cost more than Khun Kinn’s house. Which even if it did, is still well within his budget.”

The blatant regard for Kinn’s wealth startles him, grounding him back down to earth. Despite his best intentions and personal morals, the thought of how true that statement is about Kinn’s budget makes the pit of his stomach begin to coil.

“Don’t you want to wow Khun Kinn?” Lamai’s questions continue, her voice light with humour. She chortles, “The poor boy has finally gotten his way, but still, you’d like some revenge, right?”

“This counts as revenge?” Porsche asks incredulously, finally taking the dress and holding it up. The straps are thin, leading down to a low neckline that would barely cover his chest considering he didn’t quite have the equipment to fill it out. He spins it around, and the back is even more daunting than the front. There’s a large cut out, scooping to where he assumes would be just above his ass. Despite the long length of the dress, the slit up the skirt is enough to make it feel even more risqué than if he was to wear one of those mini dresses.

“You’ll see,” Lamai replies, shooing him into the changing room.

Before he goes, he asks: “Do you have this dress in red?”

-------

“Khun Kinn, Khun Porsche is ready for you now,” Lamai’s voice rings out, muffled by the thick wooden door separating them.

Porsche stares at himself in the mirror, eyes following the contours and curves of his body. He never knew he could look like this - so… 

Pretty, delicate, beautiful - all the words that Kinn uses to describe him. He always accepted them with a bashfulness or a self-assured grin, however he’d never quite believed it until today - until he watched himself spin around, the red silk twirling and catching around his legs so softly it felt like butterfly wings brushing past him. The neckline isn’t as bad as he originally thought, either, as with a quick adjustment from Lamai, it frames his chest rather than hanging limply across it. His decolletage has been dusted with a light shimmer, the golden glitter sparkling as he does another turn. Porsche’s entire back is bare, his shoulder blades and muscles on show as he shifts his arms u[ to bring them to his chest so he can look over in the mirror more easily. 

Porsche snaps out of it when he hears Kinn’s voice and the sound of him settling into the sofa opposite the changing room.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” He hears Lamai say, and then she’s gone, with only him and Kinn in the room.

The partition between them doesn’t feel enough now that they’re alone, curiosity and waning patience coming off of Kinn in waves through the wooden door.

“Porsche?”

“Y-yeah, hang on,” Porsche stutters, his voice cracking. He winces, giving himself one last look in the mirror and quick pep talk before he unlocks the door and flings it open.

Kinn perks up from his chair, moving his leg back down from where it was folded over his knee so both his feet are on the floor.

“What did you -” Kinn stops mid-sentence, his whole body freezing. His eyes are comically wide as he takes Porsche in, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

“Do you like it?” Porsche asks, spinning around again like he’d practised in the mirror. He lowers his lashes, watching Kinn through hooded lids as he waits for a reaction.

“Porsche,” Kinn chokes out, and within a blink of an eye, he’s crowding him up against the wall.

“You…” Kinn looks down at his chest, right where the material gathers. The movement has tugged it further down, the tops of his pert nipples on show. “Fuck.”

Porsche shivers, the cool air sending goosebumps rippling across his whole body, his heart rate doubling from their sudden close proximity. 

Kinn barely looks human. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown so wide they’re endless pits of black, his skin pink and flushed. He looks worn around the edges, frayed and volatile, as if one wrong move and he’ll explode. A leg is pushed between his own, Kinn’s thigh pressing against his soft cock, forcing him still and unable to escape.

“Did you want to go home that badly, hm?” Kinn leans in, mouthing hotly at the side of Porsche’s neck, nipping at the skin before laving his tongue over in apology. 

“Home?” Porsche whimpers, fingers desperately clawing at Kinn, unable to agree upon whether to push him away or bring him closer. His brain lags, still trying to catch up to his current position. 

“You'd like some revenge, right?” Lamai’s question echoes in his head, everything finally coming together.

“Oh,” Porsche gasps, the sound turning into a guttural moan when Kinn sinks his teeth into his collarbone, right where he knows his tanned skin glowed the most under the light.

“Take me home, Kinn,” Porsche begs, hooking his thigh around Kinn’s hip, shuddering when the silk falls over his skin with the movement. It stokes the fire in his gut even more, the soft shift of the material making him feel sexy, daring.

Mile throws a cold glare over his shoulder but doesn’t respond. It’s fine - Apo is more than used to this by now, having spent almost the entire school year worming his way under Mile’s skin enough to just get him to look at him. And so what if he had to pull out the ‘I’m the president of the student council’ card one too many times? It barely worked anyway, considering Mile’s general lack of respect and interest in such a hierarchy, only made worse by the fact that Apo is a few years younger than him. 

“P'Mai, you -” Apo jogs so they can walk side by side, although the view of Mile’s broad back was nice while it lasted. He likes looking directly at the other boy, eyes tracing over the contours of his build - wide shoulders, only made more obvious with the bulk of their school blazer, then the gradual taper down into his slim waist. It makes Apo sweat a little under his collar, his tie suddenly feeling too tight around his throat.

“Slow down for a second!” Apo finishes, grabbing a hold of Mile’s bicep.

He finally stops, those narrowed eyes zeroing in on Apo again. “You were telling me off for being late, but now you want me to be even later?”

“Well,” Apo shuffles, his white trainers squeaking against the linoleum flooring. He doesn’t let go of Mile’s bicep and uses his other hand to push his glasses back up his nose in a nervous gesture. “It’s been a while since we last spoke, so I just wanted to check-in. How’s your music class going?”

Mile sighs, the fight leaving him. He always turns up to school like this: pent up, his muscles wound up tightly like he’s gearing for a fight. Usually, he is, but not because of his own doing - the neighbourhood kids and other nearby schools all seemed to revere him as some type of prize to beat. You take down Mile Phakphum, and you’re the king of the area, earning the respect and fear of hundreds of others. Apo finds it completely pathetic and unnecessary, especially considering that they were all nearing their 20s.

“You could’ve texted me and asked this,” Mile replies flatly, his eyes straying to where Apo is still gripping him.

Apo jolts, hurriedly letting go. He tries to ignore the flush blooming across his cheeks. “I would’ve done, but you take forever to reply.”

Mile raises an eyebrow, looking down the straight slope of his nose. Apo clears his throat, heart hammering away behind his chest. He always feels so small when he’s in front of Mile, despite their height difference barely being even a few inches.

Taking over the student council had been easy. Rallying everyone into some form of subordination to show his authority had been easy, too. It had taken plenty of work, endless days of continuously proving himself, but it’d worked out. The worst thing about it was that Apo looked like a walking target for bullies. He’s not ignorant of his outward appearance and the way he carries himself - for him, it’s a matter of his personal pride. He likes looking smart, with his small circular frames and neat hair, pristine uniform and spotless track record, along with straight A’s in all his classes. Trying to get people to take him seriously and look at him as anything other than an object to ridicule was something he didn’t think would be possible, but he still did it.

Being faced with Mile’s handsomeness, on the other hand? That’s still something Apo is trying to manage. He’s seen the same face, the same features, heard the same voice and admired the same silhouette now for months, but it never gets easier. His pulse still speeds up, his stomach explodes with butterflies, and his cheeks go pink without any proper reason apart from just being within the general vicinity of Mile. Apo’s gone through worse and conquered a whole lot more, yet this one seems like the only mountain he can’t reach the top of.

He’s not sure when it started. It was as if he woke up one day - normal, no Mile centric thoughts - and then the next, he was head over heels for him and it was all he could think about. After that, his brain was completely infested with thoughts of Mile’s sharp jawline, his piercing deep brown eyes, his thick eyebrows, and the soft scent of smoke sweetened by a vanilla cologne. His strong arms, even stronger calves that he only saw when he peeked outside the classroom window during the other’s P.E class to watch, and - 

Apo hears a sigh, and then there’s a hand on top of his head, ruffling his hair.

“Stop worrying about me and get back to class yourself, prez,” Mile says gently.

Apo startles out of his thoughts, but not quite. 

Maybe it was the time that Mile finally responded to him with more than a glare. Or maybe it was the time that Apo managed to break up a fight that was brewing outside the school gates, and Mile gave him a curt nod of thanks before walking off. Or, maybe, more recently, it was when Mile started to truly pay attention to him, letting him stay with him in the music room during lunch, listening to Apo’s complaints and ramblings, even chuckling at some of his jokes. Then, if it was around that time, it could’ve been when Mile smiled properly at him for the first time. Not just a small upward quirk of his lips, but a real, genuine smile that completely transformed his whole face. It lit him up like a golden halo, making his eyes crescent into delicate moons, his lips pulling across his teeth as he beamed, his cheeks bunching up sweetly, two sets of dimples appearing with the action. It stole the breath right out of his lungs, looking like a fish out of water as he gaped, and even now at the mere thought of it, he fears he may do anything to try and see it again.

Apo swats his hand away, delayed in trying to smooth down the wild strands of hair that Mile had messed up, caught up in his daydreaming about Mile’s smile. “I’m allowed to be a little late, you’re not!” 

Mile rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his blazer pockets. His tie is barely done up, loose underneath his shirt collar, and his shirt is half-untucked into the waistband of his trousers. It’s enough to have him written up for a dress code violation. Apo should write him up. Yet, if he does that, it’d mean losing sight of the effortless dishevelled look that Mile pulls off. He supposes he finds it… somewhat charming, after all. Even if it means he’s showing bias amongst the pupils, he can’t find it in him to care. 

Apo never said he wasn’t perfect, and he definitely never said he wasn’t selfish.

Especially when it means that he can reach out, trying to steady his shaking hands, to redo Mile’s tie for him. 

“You’re always so messy,” Apo mutters, the toes of their trainers pressing against each other, the warmth of their bodies radiating between them from their close proximity.

Mile’s breath hitches. He’s seen Mile’s football teammates initiate physical contact with him easily, and Mile accepts it just as quickly, only batting them away from his hair but nothing else. Apo wants - he wishes - he had the courage to do that. To reach out without a second thought, without being bogged down with all these fluttering nerves and the sound of blood rushing in his ears from a simple interaction between them. Apo wonders if he tried to brush down the stray strands of hair from Mile’s bedhead, would he be pushed away too? Maybe Mile would let him get away with it, just like a lot of other things the student allows him to do without more than a mumbling complaint. 

Apo glances up at him through his eyelashes above the tops of his lenses, curious, but Mile isn’t looking at him. He’s staring past them with a scary amount of concentration, the muscles in his jaw twitching from being clenched so tightly, his cheekbones pinkened. Apo’s stomach sinks. It’s clear from that alone that Mile is fine with everyone else touching him, just not Apo. He supposes that’s fine - if anything, considering Mile is somewhat of a delinquent, and Apo is the equivalent of a thorn in his side, he guesses that it wouldn’t be the most ideal situation for Mile to feel comfortable in. It doesn’t take long for him to sort it out, the sting of rejection fuelling him to go quicker as he’s used to doing it with practised ease on himself. Within a few twists and tugs, Apo pushes the tight knot up to the base of Mile’s throat, making sure it settles nicely in the middle of his collar.

“There,” Apo declares, patting Mile on the chest. 

Mile jolts beneath his palms, his pectoral muscles tensing and then relaxing. He peers down, running a hand over the newly tied tie.

His expression gives nothing away, not even when their gazes meet. “Not gonna nag me about my shirt as well?”

“Unless you want me to shove my hands down your pants, you can do that bit yourself,” Apo scoffs, crossing his arms petulantly. 

The air thickens around them, Mile’s neutral expression falling into something else. Something dark, dangerous, a twinkle in his eye forming. Apo feels cornered, a piece of fresh meat in front of a starving lion. He adjusts his frames on the bridge of his nose again, wishing that the lenses were tinted so he had some form of physical barrier between him and the way Mile is watching him.

“Shame,” Mile says vaguely, tucking the hem of his shirt lazily into his waistband. It looks even worse than before, sticking out at odd angles, and Apo’s hands itch to get a hold of it and sort it out for him. 

Instead, Apo wrinkles his nose at it in distaste, his ears burning with the insinuation of Mile’s response. “Just… be on time tomorrow, okay? Then I won’t have to nag you so much.” His voice comes out more venomous than he intended, biting and exposing the fact that it hurt his feelings a little.

“But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to see your pretty face first thing in the morning,” Mile replies, smirking when Apo looks at him in pure shock.

“P'Mai!”

Mile leans in, his breath hot over Apo’s lips, sending puffs of condensation across his skin. His skin ripples with goosebumps, tiny spikes and shivers working their way down his whole body. Mile’s hair tickles across his forehead, catching behind his glasses. 

“I’ll see you later, prez,” Mile whispers.

He pulls back as quickly as he comes, walking away down the hallway to his next class. Apo remains still from shock, enduring roils of embarrassment and something else he’d really rather not put a name to stirring in his gut until Mile is almost too far away to see.

“I knew it,” Apo unfreezes, delirium powering him as he spins around on the balls of his feet to face the same way Mile went. 

Kinn looks at him through hooded lids, his deep brown eyes shining in the flickering candlelight. Despite their closeness, their bodies pressed together as close as possible while sitting next to each other, the gaping maw of emptiness bares its fangs at them. Porsche feels as if he’s viewing himself through a tunnel, everything still in sight but so far away. A few steps away, and yet, still out of reach. Every part of him aches to reach out, to lean into Kinn’s embrace the way he’s done so many times before, and allow his heart to openly yearn and want, but he can’t.

“We shouldn’t,” Kinn corrects, his voice petal soft as the gentle breeze carries the words away into the night sky. “But I want to.”

The gardens are the only safe place they can meet now, hidden amongst the maze of perfectly groomed bushes, surrounded by the blossoming roses in flower beds as their only witnesses. They sway in the wind, their stems bowing and bending but never breaking, always returning to their original stance before the unruly wiles of the air reshape them again. 

“Me, too,” Porsche whispers. The two words come out thick, his throat clicking with a swallow, his chest heavy with remorse. 

It feels like a secret. A treacherous, dangerous one. One that can only be spoken here, in the dead of night, between the two of them. Kinn’s fingers become bolder, his whole palm sliding across his cheek to cup his face, cradling it gently with a reverence he only feels in these moments. Porsche’s eyelids flutter closed, but he forces them open again, not wanting to waste a second not looking at Kinn. 

Their time together is sparse, their schedules and different duties keep them apart. Porsche, the servant to the Theerapanyakul Throne, and Kinn… The Crown Prince, only months away from becoming King. Porsche would do anything to keep them together like this. He’d raze the whole kingdom, sparing only a few that he cared for, abolish what parts of the monarchy he could, and dispose of everything and everyone that came between them, but the fact is that Kinn would not do the same. He hasn’t done it, allowing them to only exist together in a fraction of space and time, nestled away in secrecy, tucked away safely in a corner of their hearts that rarely gets a chance to take control. 

Held by Kinn’s palm, Porsche’s stomach flips, the blood in his veins being replaced with lava, burning and destructive, searing and making his skin feel like it’s boiling. Each touch, each breath, each minute that ticks leaves a permanent mark on him. It may not be visible, but deep down, inside and cloaked amongst his duty, his standing in society, the laws and the ruin this could bring upon them, they’re there.

Porsche shuffles closer to Kinn to press their thighs together, wanting to hook their ankles together. He can’t because it’s too risky. If they’re caught, they need to move apart quickly, and any form of entanglement would make that impossible in a rush. Instead, he places his hand over Kinn’s knee, squeezing it until he feels the joints in his fingers creak with the force. 

“Please, Kinn,” Porsche says desperately. “Touch me.” 

He hears Kinn’s breath hitch, a tiny, forbidden little thing that is lost as quickly as it is found. Kinn’s eyes search his face, his thumb dragging across his cheek, dipping into the corner of his mouth. Porsche opens up quickly, almost too fast, dampening Kinn’s fingertip with his saliva and hot panting. His heart kicks up a notch, pounding against his chest, feeling too big to keep inside of him and to himself. Porsche wants Kinn to feel it, experience how much he makes him want, so much so that it’s like he’s drowning in it. 

“How -” Kinn’s voice breaks, “Tell me how, Porsche.”

Oh, how Porsche’s heart stumbles in his chest, his blood singing, his stomach tugging and swooping, an unstoppable magnetic force between them as he looks at Kinn. His expression is so open, his lips parted like Porsche’s are, a direct mirror of each other, his head tilted as if he’s ready to dive in and capture him in one fell swoop. Kinn seems so innocent, young and guileless, wanting to appease Porsche in every way he can.

They’ve done this all before. Touching is nothing new - not when they’ve spent countless nights together, wrapped up in each other, so tightly intertwined that there was no telling where one of them began and the other ended. Porsche has felt Kinn everywhere - inside him, on him, surrounded by him and completely taken over by him, his scent and taste sending him into a daze. Yet here, there’s none of that debauched need. It’s innocent, precious and delicate, as they know their time is almost up.

Porsche wants to savour this like the finest of wines, or the most delightful smell of the earth after it’s finished raining. Or even the smell of Kinn’s chambers after they’re finished, sweating and panting, raw and real, addictive and electric. 

“Here,” Porsche grabs Kinn’s other hand, guiding it to his waist. Kinn goes easily, their torsos twisting to accommodate each other, spiralling around in a dance. It’s juvenile, a position that even children hold when dancing together in a ballroom, but between them, it’s something entirely different. 

Kinn is so much all at once. He can dominate, command an army, possess and take, selfishly and selflessly. Kinn can also do this: allow Porsche to take control, allow him to encourage and talk, leading him, taking the impending weight of the crown away from him. All he has to do here is listen, thriving off of their mutual attraction, the tension between them and the spark that lights them up. 

Porsche huffs a laugh, feeling his breath ghost across his face from their close proximity, bouncing right off Kinn and back to him. “Aren’t you going to ask me what’s next?”

Kinn’s eyes brighten, going from fervent to amused, “I’m sure I can guess,” he replies, fondly, his voice and face oozing with it. 

A rush of heat spreads across Porsche’s cheeks with it, tinting them pink even in the dark. He’s not sure why he feels so shy at the prospect of being kissed - it must just be because Kinn is the one about to kiss him. He squirms in place, his whole body flushing with nerves, goosebumps skittering down his spine as Kinn holds him still. Porsche wants to throw himself forward, force Kinn’s arms to wrap around him, line up their chests, thighs and hips so everything is touching, all so he can bury himself into the crook of Kinn’s neck and breathe him in.

“Prince Kinn?” A voice shouts, startling them out of their embrace, the magnetic pull becoming a push, forcing them to spring apart and repelling them away from each other.

Footsteps approach, the wind picking up with it. Even the bushes begin to rustle ominously, the roses bowling over with the forceful gust, a few petals breaking off and being swept away into the distance. The peace in the garden shatters, even the elements seemingly angry at the disturbance, seething and screaming with the unjustness of it all. 

It physically hurts being ripped apart like this, not even having gotten a chance for a simple kiss. A sob lodges itself deep within Porsche, vines and thorns surging within him to constrict around his organs, forcing a pained wheeze straight from his lungs. Terror fills Kinn’s once warm gaze now, his features shuttering closed and his whole form morphing into an iron-clad structure right before his eyes. A blink and the soft, tenderness he knows Kinn is capable of is gone, now replaced with a cold ruthlessness that is expected of him.

As Kinn leaves, walking towards the guard with nothing but a longing glance, Porsche understands. Despite all his wants and hopes and dreams and desires, he gets it. They may exist at the same time, in the same place - together - and share all the same feelings and their deepest, darkest secrets…

The ocean always reminds him of his mother, who would clumsily walk across the uneven sand in her sandals until she reached the shore, the skirt of her sundress rippling in the wind as she gazed out into the distance. She always felt so far away in those moments, trapped inside her own mind as she watched the waves and felt the cold salt water wash up over her feet. Kinn would be left to stand beside her in silence, having learned that until she snapped out of it, there was no getting through to her.

There were many times Kinn thought this would be their last beach trip where they’d travel all the way from Bangkok in his mother’s car, racing away under the anonymity of night with the sunrise pulling back the veil to welcome them when they reached their destination. Kinn knew his father knew, and his mother knew, too, but it didn’t stop them. Each time, when his mother shook him awake, whispering conspiratorially and shushing him with a finger over her lips and a glint in her eyes, he expected it to be the time they finally left.

It never was time to leave. Not even when Kinn’s mother died, or when Tankhun was too sick to take over as the head of the family, and not even when Kinn went through the worst betrayal of his life. It just never seemed like the right time, or enough to warrant such a decision. And so Kinn stayed, living the life that his father had crafted for him, forcing him to be everything he wasn’t - all for the sake of the family. 

He felt the scorned gazes of a thousand people, all watching and waiting for him to fuck up, to crumble under the weight of their debts and his misdeeds. Everyone relied on him, one way or another, for good or bad reasons, but he had no one to turn to. He was responsible for their lives, their wages, and their futures, and he had the power to end it all or get into a position where it was done for him. Their loyalty knew no bounds, and he saw it, he felt it: the way they’d bow and reverently refer to him as Khun Kinn no matter how nasty he became, or how warped time and stress made him. He’d hear their whispers, reminiscing about the ‘old Khun Kinn’, acting as if he was once their saving grace.

This wasn’t his burden to bear. He knew that. His father knew that. His brothers knew that. But they didn’t hold out a hand, or offer him a lifeline.

As the sun rises on the horizon, the sky and the ocean becoming one, warm hues of reds and yellows changing into cool blues and greens, he understands why his mother would get lost in her thoughts here. 

The ocean air is salty and makes him cringe as he adjusts, but once he’s settled it’s the freshest thing he’s ever smelled. He breathes it in, feeling his lungs expand around the oxygen, the toxins expelling as he breathes it all out again. Kinn allows the wind to carry it away for him, his eyes following a random route as he imagines his worries being taken away and becoming the universe’s problem rather than his. 

There’s nothing sensible in his attire, kitted out in his specially tailor-made suit, his dress shoes hanging on the tips of his fingers by their heels with his socks stuffed inside them. But there’s no one here - no one watching him, or waiting, or relying on him to do anything at all. It’s the most relaxed he’s felt in months, maybe even years.

It’s been so long since he allowed himself to come back to the beach his mother used to take him to and to relish in the sights he’d only ever seen with her by his side. There’s an innate thing inside him that has been tugging him forward, beckoning him towards the beach, a voice in his head telling him that something is there, waiting for him. As the days passed by, the urge got stronger and more powerful until it took over his whole being until this morning, where he couldn’t sleep and finally snuck away to escape and to answer the ocean’s call.

Somehow, it’d been easier than he thought it would.

Where his mother’s ghost follows him with every step, feeling the warm brush of her arm against his, or the gust of wind that blows by sounding like her voice calling out his name, it doesn’t hurt as much as it once would’ve done. His heart pangs, his stomach in knots, but it feels right being here. 

“Mae,” Kinn whispers, just to feel the way it feels on his lips again. It feels foreign, and clunky in his mouth, but it eases the pain in his chest for a moment. A waft of her soft, floral perfume permeates the air, and as soon as he smells it, it’s gone again.

Kinn’s eyes fall closed. He scrunches them up, massaging his temple as bursts of colour and shapes form on the back of his eyelids from the pressure. He’s almost thirty, and here he is, acting like the timid, soft-hearted boy he can never become again. He should go home, turn around and dust off the sand sticking to his feet and in between his toes. He should forget about this for good and move on, just like his father always tells him to.

You’re so stuck in the past that you can’t see what’s right in front of you, Kinn. His father would say, giving him a cold, pitying look as he then would say: Checkmate, leaving Kinn with nothing left on the chessboard to move with.

Kinn ruffles his hair, and then slicks it back again, hoping that the wax he put in it this morning before he left does its job and puts it back into place. Where the cool, salty tang of the morning breeze and the ocean lapping at his ankles was soothing, it’s now too much. Goosebumps ripple across his arms and make him shiver, the shifting granules of sand washing back and forth across his skin are like tiny knives slicing their way through, so he steps back, out of the water’s reach, sinking into the sodden ground as it gives beneath his weight.

One step back, two more, then three, and the sand becomes dry again, warming in the sun that’s drifted higher in the sky. 

He should leave. There’s nothing here for him anymore, nothing but a ghost and an unfulfillable dream. There’s so much more he should do - he should be a filial son, a cold-hearted businessman, and a strong leader.

Kinn sighs, glancing around the area one last time, making peace with as much as he can right now. It’s a small, private area that’s set apart from the main beach by the rocky terrain that surrounds it, cocooning him in with small coves and uneven surfaces. There’s technically no entrance to it, you just have to be brave and curious enough to scale up the dunes and down the rocks. He’s not sure how his mother found this place and the realisation that he’ll never be able to ask her hurts. Because he wants to know. He wants to know how she got here, why she always brought him along and allowed him to share her space when she so clearly wanted to run away from it all. She didn’t have to do any of that, and yet she did. 

But she always took him back. She never would've known that her death would lead to a cold, lifeless house with a traumatised Khun, an angry Kim, a husband and father who lost any form of warmth along with her passing. And Kinn - her dear son, who was lonely and barely keeping his head above water regardless of how much he tried. 

Maybe coming here was a bad idea, after all. 

Kinn turns to leave, the sun warming his back, but then there’s a splash and a chirping noise coming from behind him. 

He glances over his shoulder, expecting a seagull, but instead, he’s faced with a pair of light brown eyes watching him from a few metres away in the ocean. Kinn gasps, twisting and stumbling back as he eventually loses his balance, falling right on his ass. 

The eyes watch him, eyebrows raising in question. Kinn can’t fully see the person they belong to, his head mostly submerged in the water, but he can make out loose, dark curls that stick to his wet skin, some strands floating on the water’s surface. 

“What the fuck?” Kinn exclaims, panic seizing his whole body. He curls his fingers into the sand, taking fistfuls of it to try and steady himself.

The person in the water responds with another sound that suspiciously sounds like a laugh, and begins swimming towards him until the water goes lower and lower, slowly exposing his features and body. The man’s skin is rich and tanned, glowing and reflecting the sunlight. It emits an unearthly glow around him, like a halo, but it only brightens him instead of casting shadows. His features are delicate, pretty, almost feline with the soft curve of his eyes, his nose and the full pout of his lips. They’re so pink, even from this far away, Kinn can still see. He can see how beautiful the man is, how otherworldly he seems, moving through the water like it’s a part of him, the waves gently encouraging him forward as the ocean obeys his every command. 

The curls fall around him as they leave the water, clinging to his skin and droplets cascading down his bare chest. Kinn can’t help but watch the path of one, following it all the way from the point of his chin and down the slope of his neck, down, past the curve of his pecs and the flatness of his stomach, all the way to his - 

Kinn’s breath catches in his throat. 

“You have a tail.”

A beautiful, prismatic blue one. Each scale shifts in colour, an iridescent sheen glossing over them, but they remain varying shades of blue. They go lighter, darker, pastel and deep, royal and fantastical. The man - merman? Kinn’s brain corrects, and comes to a stop, lying on his front with his tail kicked up behind him. The large fin at the end sways back and forth, almost like a cat’s when it’s curious. 

The merman’s head tilts to the side, now propped up on his palm. Kinn’s eyes catch more blue scales winding their way up and around his neck and face, patches of them marking his skin. 

“You don’t remember me?” The merman questions, his voice light and melodic. 

Kinn wants to crawl forward, to lean into it, make the stranger keep talking to him like he’s singing a song that will lull him to sleep. He craves it, his stomach bottoming out, his arms shaking and knees becoming jelly.

“Should I?” Kinn asks in place of that, shoving the urge down. He’s acting on autopilot, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can even think twice about it.

He’s dead. Or hallucinating, or maybe both. 

“Yes,” The merman pouts and Kinn’s heart stumbles, his pulse quickening. “You’re Kinn.”

The way his name is spoken sounds like a poem, a well of feeling and emotions that Kinn could never possibly hope to define, the slight twang of an accent to it, the harshness of the k into the soft, breathy n sound at the end tells a whole story he’s not privy to. But he wants to know. 

“Who are you?” Kinn asks, his voice breaking on the second word.

“Porsche,” he replies, along with an eye roll, as if Kinn was stupid to ask.

“Porsche?” Kinn repeats incredulously, not expecting the name. It sounds too modern, too human, and nothing like what he would’ve guessed a creature he once believed fictional to have attached to him.

Something in Porsche’s eyes changes. His tail stops moving, his posture tensing.

“You really don’t remember,” Porsche says quietly, looking down at his reflection in the low tide.

“I don’t even know what’s going on!” Kinn replies sharply, the dampness of the sand seeping through his trousers and making this whole ordeal even more uncomfortable. “Why - how am I supposed to know you?”

Porsche glances up at him, his expression neutral. But then he smiles. It’s wide, making his eyes crinkle and his flushed cheeks bunch up. His eyes glitter, and the beautiful browns in his irises crescendo around Kinn like harsh waves crashing against the rocks. It completely and utterly disarms him, all the barriers and uncertainty and grief that possess him are lifted away, and the next breath he takes feels like he’s finally above water.

“It doesn’t matter,” Porsche replies, the smile never once dimming despite the anguish in his tone. 

Kinn feels as if all the lights in the world have been shut off, leaving him in pitch-black darkness.

“It does,” Kinn says quickly, finally able to make his limbs move. He crawls forward, not caring that he’s ruining his suit and that seashells and rocks are cutting into his palms as he approaches Porsche. “What if I want to get to know you? Again?”

Kinn stops when the water is up to his wrists and soaking his shins and calves, when he’s within reaching distance of Porsche. He’s even more stunning up close, a feat that Kinn didn’t think could be possible. Porsche looks up at him through his eyelashes, beads of water clinging to the tips of them, cobwebs of dew connecting them all.

He can tell Porsche is assessing him, and he lets him. He allows this stranger, this mythical creature, this Porsche to look at him as much as he wants. He doesn’t care what Porsche sees - if he sees a weak man, a lost man, a lonely man or a desperate man trying to cling to the first thing that sparks something deep inside him. This could all be a trap, a dangerous siren coming to shore in hopes of luring Kinn into the depths with him, but it’s not a shock to him when he realises that he wouldn’t mind that. 

Porsche sighs, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The tip of Kinn’s cock presses harder against Porsche’s hole, making him scrunch his face up in pain. They have no condom, no lube, only his spit-slick hole and whatever was left on Kinn after he briefly sucked him off. He was desperate to feel Kinn inside him right now, regardless of anything else. 

Porsche didn’t care if it hurt because he knows how good it’ll feel once Kinn is inside him, filling him up, fucking in and out, driving him harder and harder until all he can see is stars from the pleasure threatening to take over him. 

Even with those thoughts alone, Porsche moans, shuddering as he feels his cock jerk and weep with more precum. He’s so wet, his briefs ruined and caught somewhere around his knees after being shoved down, trapping his legs. His heart thunders in his chest, pulse racing, and he arches his back, whining when Kinn’s cock only barely catches on his tight hole, sliding down his taint and leaving a damp trail behind. 

“Porsche, you need to calm down,” Kinn pants, his hands like iron clamps on his hips, fingertips leaving deep bruises on his skin. 

“Need you now,” Porsche replies, dizzy. His words slur together, barely making sense to him as he speaks, the only thing he can remember to do is beg.

The air in the bathroom is so hot it’s sweltering, sweat dripping down his temples and forming above his top lip, framing how swollen they are from the way Kinn shoved him against the wall not minutes before and kissed him like it was their last day on earth. He doesn’t want to think about when they’re finished. How ruined he’ll look, how he’ll limp back to their table and carry on as if nothing happened, relishing in the phantom feeling of Kinn’s hands and cum on his skin.

They’d lost their suit jackets along the way, and the top buttons of their shirts, and then their belts and zips had been torn open, leaving them to palm at each other until Porsche dropped to his knees, not caring if the tiled floor was disgusting or not. All Porsche cared about was getting his mouth on Kinn’s cock, licking him clean, tasting the musk and feeling the weight of it on his tongue, testing to see how much he could force into his mouth until he needed to pull back for air. 

Kinn has been training him so well recently, keeping Porsche’s mouth on his cock for hours while he worked, letting him adjust and get used to the feeling of it until it was second nature to have it all the way in, the hinges of his jaw aching and sore, his mind floaty and caught in a dreamlike state.

It’d taken Kinn pulling at his hair once - gently - twice - harshly - and then a third time, hard enough to pull him straight off. It left Porsche’s mouth gaping, drool spilling over, sliding down his chin and neck, whining and sobbing to go back to what he was doing. He wasn’t done yet, hadn’t properly felt his throat contract and tighten around Kinn’s length, nowhere near long enough for Kinn to tell him how good he was doing, how perfect he was for him, but then he was being hauled him up again and bullied against the wall, shutting him up. 

“You need to calm down,” Kinn repeats, this time more firmly. The tone sends sparks skittering down Porsche’s back, his eyelashes fluttering with the authority and dominance coating the words. 

He relents then, relaxing his posture, unclenching each muscle and letting himself go lax the best he can. All for Kinn, all so he can finally work his cock in, so he can fuck Porsche against the wall when they’re supposed to be eating their dinner and talking business, so he can help satiate this never-ending need that burns between them.

“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.