Marie Monday

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.”

Porsche feels winded partially lying on his back, propped up on his elbows and legs splayed wide so Kinn can fit himself in between them as he comes up to the edge of the bed. He feels petty, spiteful, full of humiliation from wearing a damned collar and fluffy cat ears, and before he can stop himself from acting out, he kicks his leg out and Kinn comes to a sudden stop, Porsche’s foot planted squarely on his chest.

Kinn’s eyebrows raise, clearly not expecting Porsche to misbehave, sure of the fact that he’d already broken him down and bullied the fight out of him. Porsche is anything but a quitter, though. He feels ridiculous, dolled up and - he can’t even say it in his head, can’t even fathom the words Kinn has been feeding directly into his ears, the way his fingers have left imprints of their reverence and want in his skin so much that it feels like he’s burning from the inside out with the knowledge.

“Do you think this will stop me?” Kinn asks, grabbing a hold of his ankle. The grip is tight, unforgiving, and cruel.

Porsche wants to bare his teeth in defiance, but he holds back, not wanting to add any more fuel to the fire when it comes to feline characteristics, so he just clenches his jaw instead. It aches, his teeth feeling like they’re shifting in their places with the pressure on them. It stops him from hurling choice words at Kinn for now, at least, or voicing just how much he’s enjoying this despite how much he hates it.

The silence stretches on, Porsche not willing to give up for a second, and Kinn waiting for him to move his foot on his own accord. Porsche knows Kinn would immediately let go if he felt him retreating, but he doesn’t, so the fingers around his ankle get even tighter, digging in until he completes a circle around it. He feels his pulse thump in his foot, his circulation restricted.

They’re at a stalemate, standing off as they stare at each other with calculating eyes, waiting for the other to make the first move. Porsche feels stuck, undecided on if he’s ready to completely give into this new thing they have, or hit the brakes for a bit. He wishes his brain would shut off already, but he can see the ridiculous white frilly socks he’s got on, the colour contrasting with the dark shirt Kinn is wearing from where it’s still planted on his chest, and he feels like he can’t let go just yet. 

He hates how he doesn’t hate it. He hates how all he wants is to sink into the feeling and indulge in the way Kinn wants him, even looking like this. The bell on his collar jingles as he shifts, pressing his foot more into Kinn’s chest, the sound of it breaking the thick tension between them. The pink paw pads printed on the bottom of his socks crinkle with the movement, and that sound alone is almost enough to get his hackles up again. Porsche holds his breath, keeping those roiling emotions at bay, realising that Kinn is waiting patiently for him to decide, giving him the time and space to do so.

Something in his chest finally cracks, his bottom lip trembling with splitting his desire open so clearly, and he breathes out. The tinkling of the bell this time is hypnotising as he moves again, but this time it’s to curl his toes, catching on the fabric of Kinn’s shirt. 

It’s permission, and Porsche sees the second when Kinn realises it. His expression softens, settling into something more relaxed rather than on edge, and Kinn moves his foot for him. But instead of pushing it away like he assumed, he pulls it higher and higher, until the tips of his toes brush against his lips, and then even higher still. Porsche’s heart jackrabbits in his chest, his breaths getting shorter as it feels like the collar around his neck is constricting his airflow until he’s barely breathing at all when Kinn’s tongue flicks out at his heel, the feeling of it over the thin cotton of his socks makes his whole leg jerk and his stomach bottom out.

“Kinn!” Porsche gasps, unable to hold back any longer. He squirms at the tickling sensation - it’s not like anything he’s felt before, like an itch he can’t scratch, and it’s as if it’s connected directly to his cock as it twitches within the confines of his panties while waves of heat wash over him. 

Kinn hums against his skin, the vibrations rippling down his leg and reverbing around his body. Porsche can’t look away, not even to blink, even though his eyes are watering from pleasure. 

He worries that he might kick Kinn in the face, but he’s holding onto his ankle so tightly that it doesn’t budge in the end. Once again, Porsche has no power, forced to just lie down and let Kinn do whatever he wants. Each lick and nip Kinn leaves on the sole of his foot as he works his way up makes his calf muscles jump, the place behind his navel tugs dangerously, and his hips twitch. It’s not just his body he can’t control now, it’s his voice: whimpers and mewls spill from his lips, his eyelashes fluttering with each sound. 

Kinn grazes his bottom teeth across the arch of his foot, the drag of the sock and his hot breath makes his spine curve upwards, his mouth dropping open so wide, a moan caught in his throat. It’s the wrong move - it shifts the butt plug inside him, forcing it to press down harder on his prostate.

His whole body jolts as if shocked by electricity, throwing his head back as his arms finally give out from holding him up as he collapses onto the bed. Porsche’s brain fizzes out, his skin buzzing with static as he loses himself in angling his hips down to nudge the plug inside him as Kinn continues working, clutching at the bedsheets just for something to hold onto. He knows he can’t touch himself, even though he’s desperate to get a hand around his cock or even palm over it just to feel the scratch of the lace over his length. But he also knows that if he did, Kinn would stop – pulling away and leaving him there with nothing but the disappointed set of his mouth. That scares him more than anything, so he hangs onto the sheets like a lifeline and rides each wave and pulse of arousal that shoots through him. 

Porsche can’t help it when his toes begin to curl, hooking over Kinn’s bottom teeth, his mouth open and trying to get enough air in that saliva begins to slide out the sides of his lips, pooling in his hairline and making it feel even stickier than it already was with sweat. He can’t tell if it’s too much - if the way Kinn’s hand around his ankle is too tight, too hot, too heavy, or if it’s the only thing keeping him anchored down to earth. 

Mournful noises begin to filter out, dazed and caught between wanting too many things while not getting enough at the same time, but still, Kinn doesn’t stop; if anything he just doubles down – tongue pushing in between his toes as his lips close around the tops of them to suck. The material of the sock is so thin already, and with the added saliva, it’s practically translucent. Porsche’s panties aren’t any better off, ruined and stained, coated in his own pre-come and copious amounts of lube that soaked through the heart-shaped cut out in the back.

Kinn bites as if sensing that Porsche is hanging on by a thread, and he groans in pain. He should find it gross - he’s worn these socks in the bathroom, and then across the plush carpet of their bedroom, but Kinn’s eyes are hooded and impossibly glassy as they stay zeroed in on his face. Each pass of his tongue and graze of teeth tickles, sending thrills through him. It feels like it’s something dirty, something that feels against the rules to like so much, but he does, and that fills him with even more excitement - the type that floods him with shame, prickles at his cheeks and makes more beads of pre-come gather at the tip of his cock.

The sound of when Kinn pulls away from his mouth away from his foot is filthy, and along with his lips swollen and red, thin threads of spit still join them, keeping them connected even with the distance. Porsche has to bite down on his bottom lip so hard that it feels like it’s bleeding to stop himself from coming on the spot. Kinn’s eyes are blown out, his chest heaving just as much as Porsche’s is, his hair mussed and ruined beyond saving, worn and frayed around the edges as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing as his eyes rake over Porsche still splayed out on the bed.

“You don’t like your paws being touched?” Kinn asks, his voice thick and deep. It sends shivers through Porsche, a warmth settling in the pit of his stomach. Kinn watches him, contemplating, and brings his other hand up to curve around his heel, the one holding his ankle moving to pinch his toe instead. 

Porsche makes a sad, wounded noise, overwrought and sensitive from the teasing.

Kinn hums, “I guess they are quite a sensitive part of cats.”

“‘m not a cat,” Porsche slurs, his tongue too heavy for his mouth.

Kinn raises an eyebrow at him, his eyes drawn down to the tail that’s draping limply over the edge of the mattress, catching on his ruined panties as he moves them back up to the pastel pink collar fitted snugly around his neck, and then to the pair of ears on top of his head before he finally meets Porsche’s gaze again.

Porsche feels a whole new wave of humiliation redden his cheeks and heighten his temperature at Kinn’s stare, knowing exactly how much his words contradict his appearance. He wants to hide, bury under the covers and call off this whole thing, but -

“You’re so pretty, Porsche,” Kinn’s earlier words echo in his head, his ears ringing. He’d seen Kinn look at him with a multitude of emotions, but the one he had on his face when Porsche first stepped out of the bathroom after getting changed was unlike anything before. He feels that rush again just remembering it: that high, the way he can feel himself preening, wanting to show off and let Kinn experience how lucky he is, how good he has it with Porsche, that the endless depth of desperation comes roaring back to life in him.

Kinn takes his silence as continued resilience, his eyes narrowing down at Porsche and pinning him to the bed with that alone. His muscles seize up, joints locking as his breath catches in his throat with the intensity of it. 

“A pity,” Kinn says simply, his voice terrifyingly neutral as he drops Porsche’s leg, letting it fall back down onto the bed as if he’s discarding him, “I was looking forward to you hearing you meow again.”

Porsche has nothing to lose anymore, nothing at all, and if doing that one small thing is what it takes, he’ll do it.

“Meow,” The sound is off-pitch, cracking in the middle, his mouth drier than ever, his head feeling like scribbles on a piece of paper. 

---------

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. 

“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.”