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“I’m bored,” Porsche says and shoves Kinn’s iPad up so he can crawl into his lap, in his underwear probably to help make the point of what Kinn could be doing instead of work; that is, him.

Unfortunately for Kinn, this isn’t news to him. Sometimes it’s great that Porsche has responded to his uncertainty about going from bodyguard to live-in boyfriend in the space of three minutes by leaning in to the point of ridiculousness to the love slave joke, and sometimes it’s not. Kinn has been deeply aware of Porsche’s panting availability for every fucking minute of every fucking record he’s combed through this evening of the work the minor family has done for them since Vegas came of age.

“I’m nearly finished,” Kinn lies. He pinches Porsche’s nipple, a little more meanly than he’d meant to, and can’t help his gaze pinning Porsche like a butterfly on velvet when Porsche jerks and wriggles, stifling a dreamy sigh. Kinn can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times his ever-so-skilled boys genuinely went under: Porsche is so much more than they ever were, and a man of Porsche’s strength and sweetness giving it up for him puts Kinn on his knees every time, one of the only things that can.

Porsche’s eyes drift open, blinking gorgeously, and then crinkle at the corners in the way that means Porsche is thinking that Kinn’s smile is cute, that Kinn should smile more. Kinn’s cheeks ache sometimes with how much he smiles, with Porsche in his life, in his bed. He still hasn’t decided whether that’s a good thing. Porsche is finally still in his lap, all that strength and muscle poised and Kinn’s to do whatever he wants with, and Kinn rubs his thumb along the corner of Porsche’s mouth, feeling the fullness of his lips, the wetness of his tongue when Porsche flicks it out to taste him.

“Wait a bit longer,” he says.

Porsche turns his head and bites at Kinn’s stomach through his loose shirt. “So cruel! The magic is gone already. My charms have faded in your eyes. My ass doesn’t tempt you anymore.”

Kinn raises his eyebrow and reaches down, down, Porsche’s legs spreading for him so nicely and prettily, into his tight white briefs and between his cheeks, pressing the tip of the thumb he’d had in Porsche’s mouth into where he’s tender from being fucked once before breakfast and again after lunch.

“Do you think?” he says, low, dangerous, and Porsche moans, so easy, so beautifully easy for Kinn and nobody else. “Because I think you’re greedy for someone who’s had his hole filled twice today already.” Porsche whines at that, thready and already frantic, turning his face into Kinn’s stomach again to hide this time rather than bite, and Kinn hears the savage sound that comes out of his own mouth as he sinks his thumb in further, feeling Porsche flutter and open around him. Feeling his come inside Porsche makes him want to riot, makes him furious with need to put even more in him, again, mark him and claim him and get so deep inside Porsche will never get him out, never wash away what they’ve been to one another, what they are.

The work he’s doing is important - necessary. Piecing together evidence of the minor family’s treachery is difficult. A hundred thousand baht off an inventory here, a lapsed bribe leading to arrests there, a shooting accident that takes out a trusted agent over there: painstaking work to look at every detail of both every legitimate and less-than-legitimate business from the point of view of somebody with power who had the motive, means and opportunity to betray. It’s slow and it’s tedious and it’s necessary if Kinn wants to protect his household, his brothers, his lover.

But here’s Porsche.

Kinn is more aware than most that pleasure is fleeting; love even more so. And Porsche is strong and beautiful and loves him back, and Kinn can refuse him nothing.

“Here,” he says, takes his hands off Porsche and reaches for the bowtie he’d discarded over the back of the sofa after getting home from the opera. (Champagne on offer more expensive than the politicians also on offer; excellent music, played slightly too loud; Porsche fidgeting in the seat next to him, visibly hankering to be the bodyguard leaning against the wall behind him whom nobody would ask for an opinion over interval drinks, until Kinn had reached over and taken his hand and held it on the front of their box where anyone could see.)

He thinks Porsche might say no, is almost expecting it. It’s still only days since Porsche was last tied, and not at Kinn’s hands but their enemies’, on his back with Big’s blood soaking into the fabric around his wrists. He’s already turning other options over in his mind, other ways to keep Porsche absorbed and wanting while Kinn gets his work to a stopping point he can justify to his father, and then Porsche wriggles off his lap, further up the sofa, and puts his hands trustingly over his head, his back already arching.

It’s pure instinct from there, almost automatic. Porsche takes his weight so well, like he does when they’re fucking, his thighs spread and cradling Kinn between them, and Kinn lets himself take one open-mouthed hungry kiss, Porsche’s tongue sliding slick and whisky-sour against his for a slow hot moment before Kinn kneels up between his legs.

Porsche’s whole body is a yes, curving and inviting, but Kinn gives him a last chance anyway, sliding the bowtie between his fingers to make his intention clear, the moment stretching out hazily between them like a long sticky summer, and Porsche just looks at him drowsy-eyed and wanting and presents his wrists to be tied. The length of the bowtie makes it difficult in any case to do much more than a symbolic tie, a couple of wraps around his slender wrists and a quick-release knot.

He fumbles the knot at first, his hands slower than his racing mind, and then Porsche is tied up and shuddering back into the pillows, into a lithe sprawl that takes up most of the length of the couch; Kinn isn’t religious, but he could be for the long sleek lines of Porsche’s thighs.

Kinn passes his hand over Porsche’s eyes and he closes them readily enough. “Good,” Kinn says softly, because it’s unthinkable to leave Porsche like this even for the few seconds it would take to go into the bedroom and find something suitable to use for a blindfold; Porsche needs contact and attention to sustain this state, isn’t one to enjoy being dismissed or ignored. Porsche lets out a tiny, perfect sound when Kinn kisses him again, and Kinn lets him loop his arms over his head, his tied hands clumsy in Kinn’s hair rather than in Porsche’s preferred resting place around his neck, lets him turn the kiss into something lingering and sweet.

Porsche tries to follow his mouth when he pulls back, his eyes still closed, his lashes long and dark against his smooth flushed cheeks and Kinn has to take another slow kiss before he sits back properly, his back to the curved half arm of the couch. He kicks Porsche’s ankle lightly and Porsche drapes his leg off the sofa, obedient enough but Kinn knows he hasn’t figured out why, not until Kinn presses his bare foot up against the hot bulge of Porsche’s cock under his briefs.

Porsche says, “Kinn,” in a shocked voice, dirty-raw like he’s already sucked cock for hours tonight, and Kinn nudges his foot up a little more before he releases the pressure, feeling Porsche twitch under him.

“Not so funny when it’s you?” he asks, meaning it, and Porsche makes a rough noise of understanding and need. It wasn’t funny when it was Porsche making him hot and hungry for it in a meeting, in front of all his bodyguards; it’s not funny now that it’s Porsche and a vision of all that gleaming skin and hard muscle and Kinn’s bowtie wrapped around his wrists. Kinn feels full of it, a curl of heat in his stomach and something sharper and uneasier in his chest, just the wrongness of having to make Porsche wait. Porsche is already starting to fuck up into his foot, horny little movements like he thinks he’s getting away with something, like his body doesn’t have every bit of Kinn’s attention any time they’re in the same room.

Another half an hour and Kinn can justify stopping for the night. He grits his teeth, squeezes his own aching dick in the rustling silk of his pajamas, and picks up his iPad.


He doesn’t make anywhere near half an hour. Porsche is too good for him for that, too needy, a sweating writhing moaning thing humping Kinn’s foot with no effort to hide, shameless in pursuing the sheer animal feeling of firm heat against his dick. He’d talked at first, the boring but endearing version of dirty talk he’d learned from porn and presumably practiced on all those girls in the back of his bar; the wisps of thoughts he tends to spout in bed once he’s got over that, soaked in raw sensation; then Kinn’s name. Kinn is dizzy with it, seeing all that strength bound and waiting, the black tie against Porsche’s wrists, his helplessness clear.

Now he’s past verbal, just making high desperate noises, down to the easiest most perfect version of himself, and Kinn sets his iPad to the side with intent. Porsche cries out when he moves, opening bleary eyes to look for him. Kinn reaches up to push the damp strands of hair from his forehead, before kneeling back up and pushing at his pajama pants with one hand while he fishes down the side of the couch cushions for the lube he keeps there with the other, and he’s -

leaning over a mumbling Porsche, limp and clammy with drugs, his hands tied over his head and helpless in a crumpled uniform on a strange bed -

He kisses Porsche gentler than he’d have thought himself capable of after being hard for so long already, teasing both himself and Porsche to a point where the whole minor family and all their men could burst into the room and Kinn would still be focusing on this, on the way Porsche pants into his mouth, the way he begs so nicely with his whole body, the way his tight little hole opens up for Kinn’s slicked fingers. The briefs are in the way and Kinn skims them impatiently down Porsche’s long legs and away. He’ll get Porsche in his own underwear one of these days, another mine on Porsche’s skin. He wants to give Porsche everything, wants everything Porsche has to be Kinn’s.

It’s difficult to breathe Kinn wants him so much, his chest tight, and he nuzzles his face into Porsche’s neck, taking in the salt-sweat taste of his skin, biting down just low enough for t-shirts to hide.

One day, hopefully soon, he’ll take Porsche away from all this, get him laughing and lazy by a pool, nothing to do but enjoy each other. Cocktails and sex in the sun by day and at night he’ll put Porsche back in those loose unbuttoned shirts he’d worn when they first met, before Kinn had put his hands on him, before anyone had ever tried to kill him, take him out marked up by Kinn’s teeth and flaunting it, let people see.

Having plans for somebody, with somebody - thinking of a future with them… it’s been a very long time since Kinn was here. He kisses Porsche’s neck, over the steady quick thump of Porsche’s beating heart, gasping. His own is racing, almost painful. He wants Porsche so desperately and it’s so hard to let himself trust that he has him.

“Kinn?” Porsche slurs. He puts his arms around Kinn’s neck, his fingers finding the nape of Kinn’s neck clumsily. The tie around his wrists rubs against the back of Kinn’s neck and he pulls up, gets a hand in Porsche’s hair and drags his head back, wanting to see his beautiful eyes open and hungry. Porsche gives it to him and more, blinking up at him with his eyes glassy and tearful, and it fills Kinn with something as fragile and delicate as the heirloom silk of his mother’s wedding clothes. He leans down and brushes their noses, kisses along Porsche’s forehead and down to his cheek, blinks their eyelashes together, his against Porsche’s spiky wet ones.

Porsche sighs under him, finally still and ready to wait and accept what Kinn decides to give him, and Kinn finds his mouth again as he dicks in deep, as deep as he can, Porsche opening and welcoming for him, hotter and tighter inside than anybody’s ever been, the best Kinn has ever had. He’d considered himself a connoisseur, thought he knew everything there was to know with his roster of boys and his liaisons with the cream of gay Bangkok society, dismissed sex as a necessary but fundamentally unserious pleasure.

And then Porsche, king of the quick and dirty screw in the back rooms of most of the insalubrious bars of the city, a virgin to men, who didn’t even know his own nature - didn’t understand that he was made to be held down and kissed and fucked - and Kinn is undone with him, better every time than the last time which was already better than he’d even imagined it could be.

He keeps close, their bodies pressed together, kissing and kissing as he fucks Porsche slowly and comprehensively. Porsche whimpers every time he bottoms out and Kinn loves the sound of it, the slip of their skin together and the slap of his balls against Porsche’s taut ass and the wrung out sound Porsche makes -

high and frantic, the noises of somebody confused and sick and lost -

For having teased them both for so long Kinn isn’t as hard as he’d expect, but it means he can settle in for longer, fuck Porsche properly. They haven’t had time together, not really, his father’s graciousness accepting Porsche as his boyfriend not extending to a honeymoon of days and nights spent in bed long enough to really test Porsche’s limits; Kinn would desperately love to hear and see him fucked beyond what he thought he could handle, his own come covering his belly and Kinn’s dripping from his hole. He’d be so pretty, so obedient, and Kinn breaks off their kiss to bite at Porsche’s chin and that perfect jaw, picturing it, his hips pacing faster than before, Porsche’s tender ass fluttering around him.

“Kinn,” Porsche moans, “God, fuck, Kinn,” and Kinn knows what’s coming before it does, has enough time to fuck deep into Porsche and grind as Porsche sighs out, “Please.” It’s a victory, every time, getting Porsche to the point where he’s not pushing Kinn anymore, not trying to bait or fight, just surrendering himself, and Kinn kisses him again, hard and fast, and kneels up, pulling Porsche’s hips into his lap, onto his cock, getting ready to fuck him hard enough to break the sofa. He’s going to get rid of it anyway. It was good enough before, sleek and classic and more for show than being actually goddamn comfortable to sit on, and he wants something plush and cozy now, something he can curl up on with Porsche and listen to the rains. Porsche deserves softness, he deserves to be played with and held after he’s had his back blown out, he deserves -

Porsche moans and wraps his legs around Kinn’s waist, as gorgeously greedy for it as Kinn had called him earlier. He throws his hands above his head, trying to get leverage to fuck back onto Kinn, and from a distance rushing up onto Kinn like the ground when he tries to make a jump and falls instead, Kinn sees that his wrists are red under the bowtie, the fabric twisted into coarse rope and the knot tightened as Porsche moved and writhed, scarlet red and raw, like he’d been tied up by someone who doesn’t care about him -

“Kinn. Kinn. Stop. Kinn, stop, Kinn -“

Porsche’s voice feels like it’s coming from far away, but responding is automatic. Kinn never wants Porsche to sound like that when they’re in bed together, when Kinn’s inside him; he sounds afraid, he sounds like Kinn has made him afraid. He pulls out quick instead of gentle, falling ungainly back on his ass on the couch, and Porsche hisses around the knot of the tie in his teeth but he’s scrambling to follow Kinn, the tie falling away from around his wrists as he reaches out, cupping Kinn’s face. Kinn’s cheeks are wet. His hands feel numb when he puts them up to cover Porsche’s fingers on his face.

“Are you okay?” he manages. He should be saying more - you’re safe, what’s wrong, why did you call it, is it all right for me to touch you - but he can’t. He can just cling to Porsche and stare at him, the hair falling over his forehead and his devastated expression.

“Am I okay?” Porsche says. He sounds loud, in their silent room, after he could barely speak just moments ago. “Kinn - Kinn. You’re shaking, you stopped, you were so quiet. Are you okay? You’re not okay. Fuck. I don’t know what to do.”

It doesn’t feel right. It can’t be right; Kinn doesn’t lose control like that, never has, is an immaculately careful partner. He’s not Vegas, chewing through pretty boys with nobody to stop him or care about them, Kinn uses an expensive and well-connected agency that demands it. But Porsche is looking at him with melting love in his eyes, his handsome face crumpled with worry. Don’t, Tankhun would order him, them, you’ll get wrinkles, Kinn’s older brother who was taken away and tied up and ruined once, and Kinn shudders and says, “Kiss me,” and Porsche does, and Kinn’s head goes blessedly quiet.

Not quiet like before, blank as waking up from anaesthetic when he doesn’t even remember falling unconscious from shock and blood loss, just peaceful, nothing to think about but the plush tremble of Porsche’s lips against his as they kiss easy and soft.

Kinn leans back, bringing Porsche with him, settling Porsche on his chest to rest comfortably the way they both like; it’s awkward on the slim couch, so much nicer in bed, but Kinn isn’t completely sure he can walk yet and he’s frightened Porsche enough for tonight. Porsche is breathing unsteadily against him, dragged too harshly back down to earth from where he was floating, and Kinn closes his eyes and strokes his hair.

“You’re warmer,” Porsche says. “You went so cold, I thought you’d pass out. I should cover you up.” His voice wavers, and although a blanket sounds nice Kinn doesn’t want them to part enough for one of them to grab something. It makes him wistful again for what he’d thought of before, a cosy room full of texture and warmth instead of the clean mafia-heir austereness of the tower. His tuxedo jacket is still slung over the back of the couch and he grabs that and pulls it over Porsche’s back and hips, tries to cover them up as best he can. Porsche snuggles into his chest and reaches up to pull it a little more securely around his chest and Kinn glimpses the redness at his wrists again, circles his fingers around them gently and feels the unusual heat of them, stroking like he can make better what he did.

“Oh,” Porsche says softly, and when Kinn is finished with the abraded skin of his wrists, guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, Porsche has his chin on Kinn’s chest and is looking up at him, his eyes bright. “It’s that. Tying me up like that? I thought you liked it.”

“I do,” Kinn says automatically. Porsche gets his wrists free, Kinn automatically noting no stiffness or difficulty with his range of movement, and rubs his thumb against Kinn’s cheek. Kinn sighs and nestles into the touch. “I did. You don’t - mind it? It doesn’t remind you?”

Oh,” Porsche says again and looks at his own wrists like he’s never seen them before. “No. It’s you. It’s nothing like being tied up when I didn’t want it.”

Kinn has tied Porsche up when he didn’t want it, or at least cuffed him; handcuffed him and put him in a cell and left him for fucking Vegas to be the one to rescue. He’s hurt Porsche worse not meaning to than others who were trying.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He kisses Porsche’s forehead and Porsche leans up into it with such willingness, such readiness to take the offered comfort, it makes Kinn ache.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Porsche says. “We don’t have to do that. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” He turns into Kinn’s chest with a yawn, licks him sloppily on the skin under his open mouth and giggles when Kinn wriggles under him. It’s a fond noise, happy, and Kinn reaches down under the jacket for two good handfuls of Porsche’s excellent pert ass and squeezes in gratitude. Being given an opt-out is - interesting. Not that any of his boys have ever been in a position to have Kinn do anything he didn’t want to do, but the simple caretaking, the explicit permission to say no to doing things that hurt him, affects him more than he’d ever have expected.

Porsche is starting to shiver against him and Kinn remembers that he was thrown out of the scene abruptly as well, curses himself quietly for not looking after Porsche as sweetly and simply as Porsche is looking after him. He shifts Porsche around to dig for his phone in his jacket pockets and calls down for food.

It comes quickly, left outside the door to their suite, and Kinn does find a blanket when he goes to fetch it, drapes Porsche back over himself and the blanket over Porsche. He can feel himself calming, his brain coming fully back online with a heavy slug of guilt and embarrassment. He wants to take it out of his head, scrub it clean, and put it back in, but instead he swallows down a large whisky to drown it, like usual.

Porsche is mild and submissive, carefully so, cuddling up under Kinn’s arm. They feed each other cubes of mango and guava with Porsche licking both their fingers clean after each bite, and he goes eagerly when Kinn pulls him up after the snack and into the shower.

Porsche’s wrists aren’t bleeding or bruised, are barely even red anymore, but Kinn washes them carefully anyway, Porsche letting him with a soft look in his eyes, maybe even a little hazy from the attention Kinn is lavishing on him. It’s easy to transition from kissing his wrists to Kinn’s favourite home of his mouth on Porsche’s toned stomach, his taut chest, his bared throat. He doesn’t leave marks, unsure whether he’ll be able to bear to see them even knowing exactly who put them there and why.

Porsche opens his mouth for him seconds before Kinn goes to kiss him, normal, perfect. It’s a deep kiss, open-mouthed and needy, and when Kinn murmurs, “I want you again,” into it Porsche brings their joined hands to where he’d never quite gone soft.

“Please,” Porsche says, half-audible into Kinn’s mouth and Kinn slides his tongue into Porsche’s mouth to taste him sweet with fruit juice and anticipation, sinking them down to the floor of the shower. Turning Porsche to the wall would have been easier, even nostalgic, but he needs to be able to see Porsche right now, look into his eyes, kiss his smiling mouth; he needs to know it’s Porsche he’s with, needs to be able to see Porsche knows it’s him.

They fuck on their knees on the floor with the rainfall shower running on hot, steam all around them making it fuzzy. Kinn concentrates on the sensation of it, Porsche moving languidly on his lap and kissing the whole time, Kinn’s fingers slipping on his skin until he finally pushes them through Porsche’s wet hair and holds their mouths together, warmth on his thighs from Porsche’s legs splayed around his hips as he rides Kinn’s cock like it’s devotion, the heavy spray of water on his back a counterpoint to Porsche’s nails as he digs in.

“Are you okay?” Porsche says again later, when they’re dry and warm in bed together. Porsche is curled protectively around Kinn, his chest to Kinn’s back, not their usual way around but Kinn had allowed himself to be put into bed and wrapped around, still feeling as fragile as a cracked mirror. It’s nice: Porsche is broad and lean and strong, tall enough to twine their ankles together and still hook his chin over Kinn’s shoulder, pressed together from tip to toe.

It’s late, or early; Kinn’s expensive blinds make it hard to tell, but it’s that quiet hour when it seems like nothing outside will be real again in the morning, the faintest tinge of a lightening sky showing at the edges of the windows. Kinn has turned off his alarm, and ordered the kitchen to cancel his breakfast. He’s going to have that lazy day with Porsche, one day to themselves to linger in bed and talk and have sex and talk while they have sex. Tonight he’d made Porsche scared and tomorrow he’s going to make him scream.

But now, in the dark, facing away, it’s easier to murmur, “When I saw you tied up, Big’s blood on you… I can’t lose you. It should scare you, what I’d do to keep you with me.”

“It doesn’t,” Porsche says. He sounds sleepy, honest, and he kisses the back of Kinn’s head, gets Kinn’s damp hair between his teeth and shakes him like a scruffy puppy. “You don’t think I’d do anything to stay? Nobody’s worried about me like you. Nobody’s ever tried to keep me before.”

He gropes at Porsche’s arm slung around his waist, brings Porsche’s wrist to his mouth and kisses him there again, sucks at the knob of bone, bites down gently and precisely over his pulse. It’s on the tip of his tongue, I love you; he’s told everyone else but he still hasn’t said it straight to Porsche, hasn’t given that to him just between them.

“Go to sleep,” Porsche mumbles. He strokes over Kinn’s mouth with his thumb, fits his hand over Kinn’s collarbone with his elegant long fingers brushing Kinn’s neck.

“Okay,” Kinn whispers, closes his eyes. The pillow is cool against his cheek, a little damp; from his hair, maybe. “I’m okay.”