There’s still plaster dust in Porsche’s hair when they finally stumble back into the penthouse suite, blood smeared over his chin and crusted under his nose. Someone must have gotten a good hit in during the melee.
Kinn thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful than Porsche all banged up and tousled. The circumstances could be better, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of seeing Porsche in action; he’s never as breathtaking as when he is pitting his all in a fight. By now the adrenaline rush must have worn off, yet Kinn still feels on edge.
Well, there’s an easy solution to that.
But maybe that will have to wait, Kinn thinks when his eye catches on the way Porsche keeps shifting from foot to foot and fiddling with the bandages wrapped around his right wrist. He makes several attempts to unravel them before gingerly tucking the ends in again.
Kinn sighs, “Sit down.”
He gestures to the bar and watches in satisfaction as Porsche immediately wanders over with almost none of the reluctance that so characterized their early acquaintanceship. Oh, he may still huff and groan and complain, but Kinn can be assured now that he’ll at least listen. Most of the time. And if he doesn’t, he can trust that Porsche has reasons for his disobedience, even if these are rarely readily apparent.
He’s headstrong, stubborn as a mule, but maybe that’s what Kinn likes about him. Who else is so determined to pit himself against Kinn, yet has no desire to do actual harm? Porsche is a bit of a wild thing, and sometimes Kinn finds himself surprised at how well he’s managed to adapt to the stifling requirements of this life.
He thinks back to the first few weeks. The endless reports on his newest fuck-ups.
It’s almost unbelievable to look back and compare, to think of this young man desperately lashing out and know that the Porsche in front of him is still the same person. He makes it easier to believe, though, when he drapes his whole body over the bar counter like a petulant child. It’s only different from the way he was slumped over another bar earlier, guns in hand, by the mulish pout on his face. Kinn considers him.
Porsche looks tired, exhausted and still smudged with dirt and debris. For some reason he is still wearing his guns holstered in the harness, despite having had to take his shirt off earlier. Why the fuck he felt the need to put the gear back on, after getting the all clear from medical, is a mystery to Kinn. Then again, he doesn’t have to know Porsche’s reasons to in order to appreciate the way the holsters highlight his lithe figure and surprisingly broad shoulders, dark straps over the grey-streaked cotton.
Kinn goes to join him at the bar but thinks better of it, makes a small detour to get the gun kit. For all that they just got back, he still feels like he’s not quite home, as if he left something of himself behind in the chaos, in the split second when Porsche’s gun jammed and he felt his heart stop. Kinn has this itch in his hands – despite by all rights expecting to feel tired and exhausted, he’s somehow still on edge.
The dark mahogany of the kit looks striking against the white marble of the countertop even when it is closed. Inside it’s lined in blue velvet, more showy than it is practical, but his real equipment is too far away to bother with right now, and he’s not in the mood to wait for someone else to bring it. No, right now he’s glad to be alone with Porsche and his thoughts. Porsche, who rolls his head around to look at the side of the box. From that angle he probably can’t look inside, Kinn thinks, right before Porsche reaches out to poke at the wood.
“Whatcha got there?”
Kinn slaps his hand away. “Cleaning kit. Now give me your gun.”
Porsche stares for a second more. Kinn ignores him in lieu of setting out what he needs. He feels Porsche’s eyes on him for a while until Porsche seems to come to some kind of decision and finally push himself up to sit properly. He reaches up to free one of his own guns, checking the safety before offering it for Kinn to take. He winces with the movement.
For someone who gets hurt as often as he does, Porsche is surprisingly bad at just letting himself heal, and Kinn is sure, were he anyone else, it would have been much harder to talk Porsche into having his injuries checked out. Not that he was all that injured, mostly scrapes and bruises. A sprained wrist from when his hand got caught under an overturned loudspeaker, as well as a few cuts from falling onto glass shards.
The smell of gun oil is heavy in the air as Kinn focuses on removing the magazine. It’s full; Porsche must have been to the armory while Kinn was getting checked for signs of concussion. There’s only the soft sound of Porsche moving close by, as he starts systematically disarming himself. It’s strangely peaceful. As are the repetitive motions of disassembling a weapon, of cleaning slide and barrel.
On some instinctive level Porsche must understand that Kinn requires nothing else from him for the moment – that he’s not allowed to clean any of his weapons himself – because Porsche only lays out the disassembled parts and then waits for Kinn. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take him long to start fiddling with his bandages again.
Kinn suppresses a sigh. “Sit still, you’re distracting.”
“You know, I’m sure I could help you with the guns.”
“And I’m sure I didn’t ask you to.”
“I mean, these are mine. Someone told me I should take responsibility for my own stuff more often.”
Kinn huffs and tries not to roll his eyes. “Technically they’re family property.”
“Technically so am I, so it should absolutely cancel out.” When this makes Kinn look up at him, Porsche winks, peeks his tongue out to wet his lips.
Absentmindedly Kinn licks at his thumb in turn – only to realize his mistakes once it’s too late. The taste of gun oil is acrid and thick in his mouth. When Kinn inevitably screws up his face in distaste, Porsche starts cracking up. He waves a hand in the air while he slaps with the other at the countertop.
“Aww, was I that distracting?” Porsche grins wide. His eyes are wet with mirth.
Kinn scoffs. “I’m tempted to make you sit still if you can’t listen without help.”
He roots around under the bar for glasses and tries not to swallow in the meantime. His face must be doing something interesting, because Porsche immediately goes back to giggling as he collapses against the counter. Kinn rolls his eyes and gets out some brandy, the good kind, to wash away the taste. When he turns back again Porsche is still wiping at his eyes but seems otherwise composed.
Because he’s not actually mad, he offers a glass to Porsche as well. To Kinn’s surprise, he actually looks tempted for a second before huffing and turning away to admire the disassembled guns between them.
“I’m technically still working,” he says, wry.
“That never stopped you before.”
Sometimes Porsche can really drive him crazy. And not in a good way, Kinn thinks, as he watches him start to absentmindedly pick at the thick bandage swaddling his palm.
“Yeah well, I’m doing better now. Don’t want my boss to get his panties in a twist.”
“Maybe your boss is into that.”
At this Porsche looks up and lifts a brow. “The panty twisting?”
Kinn halfheartedly swipes at him, but Porsche dodges away and retreats clear across the room, where he settles on the couch instead.
It’s quiet for a little while then. Just Kinn and the guns, while Porsche occupies himself with the History of Metallography he’d forgotten on the table.
However, it doesn’t take long until Porsche starts shifting around on the couch. The quiet rasp of cloth over cloth wouldn’t usually bother Kinn, but it grates on his already strained nerves. It’s amazing how much presence Porsche has even when he’s not doing much more than sitting and reading, and Kinn is always hyper aware of where he is, what he’s doing at any given moment. It’s both a blessing and a curse when they’re outside and Porsche is quietly shadowing him. To know without any doubt that he’s close by, yet unattainable for the moment. It’s usually not a problem, when they’re completely alone like this, but Porsche is injured now. Even though he’s likely had worse, looking at him feels like pressing into fresh bruises. The sound of the gun misfiring is stuck in Kinn’s head.
Porsche’s quiet hiss of pain snaps him back to awareness. Unsurprisingly he’s grown bored of reading and is now prodding at a scab high up on his biceps. He has his whole torso twisted around, chin pressed into his shoulder, to be able to see what he’s doing.
“Porsche,” Kinn warns.
At his tone Porsche glances up and rolls his eyes, then holds up both hands in surrender before pointedly shoving them under his legs. Cheeky fucker. Porsche grins.
Of course it doesn’t take long before Porsche starts fidgeting again. This time he’s obviously putting in effort to restrain himself, yet the way his biceps flex and the minute tightening around his eyes gives him away.
Kinn puts down his glass.
He slowly gets up and lifts a judgmental brow, snapping his finger to make Porsche look at him.
Instead, Porsche relaxes further back into the cushions and spreads out like a king before his subject. He even puts his feet up on the coffee table, as Kinn walks past and stalks into the bedroom.
“Make me.” He shouts from the other room, audibly smirking. Nothing is ever easy with him, huh.
Originally Kinn thought of trying to hold back in consideration of his injuries, but this makes him reconsider. So he just throws off his suit jacket, bypasses hanging it up properly to select a thick necktie. Technically a waste of good fabric but there’s just something about the way Porsche will look, bound with silk that’s usually only Kinn’s.
Of course there’s also the small cupboard under the watch display in his bedroom. A fine collection of cuffs that he never got to try on Porsche, but ultimately it’s not worth the risk of chafing his wrists as well. So he keeps to the burgundy Ferragamo; red will be a good color on Porsche in any case.
It is with pleasant surprise that he finds Porsche standing after all, though he is now using his injured hand to gingerly pat down the loose band-aid over his brows. He startles at being caught but then rolls his eyes at Kinn’s raised brow.
Kinn’s voice is dry when he says, “If you’re having trouble with not touching what you’re not supposed to touch, I can always lend a hand.”
“Ohh, I wouldn’t mind an extra hand, Khun Kinn. I do have this itch I need scratched as soon as possible…”
“I don’t think you’d want the kind of help I’m thinking of,” Kinn lies, as if both of them don’t know better. Now it’s Porsche’s turn to raise a brow.
Nonetheless he shows his empty hands again, palms out, and puts them behind his back. Porsche’s eyes scrunch up into little crescents when he smiles and sticks out his tongue. He rocks back and forth on his heels like a little kid, the very picture of feigned innocence.
His smile drops pretty fast however when Kinn comes closer. Kinn watches his Adam’s apple bob with interest, and Porsche averts his eyes then, flicks his gaze down to Kinn’s lips before catching himself and looking away again. As if it isn’t painfully obvious what he’s thinking.
Still, Porsche lifts his chin in challenge as soon as Kinn is close enough to cage him in. The precious few inches Porsche has on him won’t help him though, not when Kinn shoves at him, hard, a move Porsche wasn’t expecting. It makes him stumble back, enough for Kinn to grab at his hip with one hand, while he uses the other to catch one of his flailing hands. Has to step in even closer, chest to chest, to pin it behind Porsche’s back. Porsche uses his free hand to press against Kinn’s torso in an attempt to gain back some space.
It’s only a token effort, obviously just enough to test the waters. So Kinn keeps eye contact as he brings this hand behind Porsche’s back as well, and thus can tell the exact moment Porsche takes note of the silk now caught between them. He sucks in a surprised breath. The sound of it is loud in the scant space between their faces, and this close it’s obvious how affected Porsche already is, pupils blown wide and a slight flush rising under his skin.
Kinn closes the distance, presses his lips to Porsche’s and, in a move he’s spent far more time perfecting than Porsche ever needs to know, winds the trail of the necktie around Porsche’s forearms. He has to snake the other hand behind Porsche’s back as well to tug on the end of it. It’s not perfect, likely won’t hold someone like Porsche for long, but it’s enough for the moment.
Porsche stifles a muffled noise of complaint against Kinn’s lips, tries to draw back to free himself. Instead Kinn follows so that the back of Porsche’s head almost bumps against the wall, and he doesn’t give him the space to start complaining again. He slides one hand up to cradle the back of Porsche’s head, to bury his fingers in Porsche’s short hair. It allows him to get a good grip and tilt his head to the side for a better angle.
Finally, Porsche lets his mouth fall open. The wet warmth of it is addicting enough to almost make Kinn forget himself, were it not for Porsche flexing his arms against his bonds as if testing the give. In retaliation Kinn bites his bottom lip as he withdraws.
Porsche already looks disheveled and Kinn hasn’t even really done anything yet. Sometimes he’s in awe of him, how easily Porsche goes soft and open for Kinn, how he lets himself go completely, under the right circumstances. He’s not that gone, yet, but still lets himself be dragged along as Kinn uses the gun harness to move him into the bedroom. Porsche stumbles a bit when he has to walk backwards, but doesn’t try to free himself. Instead, his dark eyes are fixed on Kinn’s, waiting. He wets his lips, and Kinn has to stop for a moment to lean in, lick into Porsche’s mouth when he obediently opens up for him. The kiss tastes of something uniquely Porsche, and violence. At least it reminds him of his momentary goal again.
Kinn steers them both around the side of the bed, so that they’re closer to the en suite bathroom and Porsche’s back is to the door. It must grate, to have his back so exposed, especially still carrying the fresh wounds of the day. But this allows Kinn to keep an eye on the door himself. Anyone trying to enter, he’ll see. He’s in control now, Porsche just along for the ride. In here Kinn can take care of him instead, wash away the blood on his skin and the images in his head with only his touch.
It’s more about what they both need than what they want, though as is so often the case, there’s not much of a difference for the both of them in the moment.
“Sit.” Porsche goes lax in his grip and lets himself drop down to sit on the bed. “Good. Now stay still.”
It’s amazing how well Porsche answers to this sometimes, the way his whole frame goes soft when Kinn tells him what to do. It’s either this or blatant disobedience until Kinn makes him listen. To this day he’s not sure whether Porsche just likes the fight sometimes, whether he wants Kinn to force him to submit, or whether he’s pushing to see how far Kinn will let him go. Truth is, much farther than Porsche probably expects.
Before Kinn can get any more distracted he gets a clean rag from the en suite, uses it to clean the blood from Porsche’s chin when he comes back. He has to kneel halfway over Porsche’s lap then; it’s easier than having to bend down all the time. This way he can also feel Porsche shiver when the deliberately cold water starts running down the side of his throat. A single rivulet chasing down his neck. Still, Porsche allows Kinn to tend to him with minimal grumbling, especially when Kinn sticks a thumb in his open mouth to press down on Porsche’s tongue and forestall any backtalk.
Porsche scrunches up his brows, but the stern disapproval he is presumably going for is undercut by the way the rest of him goes slack, his face turned up in supplication. His mouth is wet and hot around Kinn’s thumb, and Kinn can feel Porsche’s tongue push up reflexively against it.
The wet rag makes a satisfying thump when Kinn lets it drop to the floor, frees up his other hand to cradle Porsche’s jaw, the side of his face. Kinn leans down to press a kiss to Porsche’s forehead and feels him swallow around his thumb. He’s being so good for him right now, has been good for the whole day. A brat, sure, but Porsche does his job well, listens when it’s needed. There’s no one else who gets to see him like this, and that knowledge is heady.
Kinn ducks down to mouth at Porsche’s jaw, lower to his throat and finds that spot at the side of his neck that always makes Porsche shiver. He has to push at the collar of the shirt to free up enough space, feels the pulse pressed against his lips start to pick up. Each heavy breath is playing over the back of Kinn’s hand where he still has his thumb over Porsche’s tongue. He brings his other hand down, pushes up underneath the hem of the shirt to feel the warm skin beneath. As soon as he finally lets his hand drop to cup Porsche through the fabric of his trousers, Porsche’s mouth falls open again. It allows Kinn enough space to change his grip and exchange the thumb pressing down on Porsche’s tongue for pointer and middle finger.
Porsche immediately catches on, getting Kinn’s fingers nice and wet while Kinn pops Porsche’s jeans open one handed. When he deems them slick enough Kinn draws his hand away, watches as Porsche moans and tries to follow the movement before he catches himself. His face goes shocked and open though, as soon as Kinn gets his damp hand on his dick. The angle is awkward, with Kinn’s hand practically shoved into the scant space between their bodies, and he’s sure to cramp up if he takes too long. It’s worth it, though, for the breathless smile Porsche directs up at him and the soft way he whispers Kinn’s name.
Kinn takes his time at first, stroking Porsche long and slow and patient. He watches Porsche drop his eyes down to follow the line of his arm, down to where Kinn is moving his hand. When he absentmindedly licks his lips and lets his mouth drop open, Kinn leans in to kiss him. He’s lazy about it, just slow swipes of his tongue, companion to the leisurely way he handles Porsche’s cock.
Kinn gets lost in the moment, the slow build of the heat, and the feeling of Porsche under his thighs. Porsche’s dick is a firm weight in his hand. Porsche is always so bratty and loud, and here’s Kinn, able to control him completely, to make him submit so thoroughly. He literally has his hand where Porsche is most vulnerable.
For a moment it’s almost overwhelming, Porsche’s tongue against his own, the velvety heat, the smooth glide of hand on dick. All he can hear are his own panted breaths, their wet mouths against each other and the slick sound of him jerking Porsche off. It’s as if Porsche is the focal point of his desire, lust refracted and multiplied upon return.
Kinn draws back to better see the way a flush is starting to rise on Porsche’s golden skin. He thumbs under Porsche’s cockhead and watches his eyelids flutter with it.
Porsche lets out a tentative moan and drops his head onto Kinn’s shoulder, so that every breath plays along the junction of where shoulder meets neck. It’s weirdly grounding, a tangible weight of responsibility. Moments like these seem to stretch endlessly, just the two of them in their own world.
But Kinn has plans, and as much as he may enjoy this right now, he can feel his shoulder start to cramp up. He hooks his own head over Porsche’s shoulder to be able to see the expanse of his back, his folded arms, and uses his free hand to tighten the loose knot of where his necktie is keeping Porsche’s arms restrained. Then he leans away.
Kinn takes his hand off of Porsche’s dick and forestalls any complaints by gently pressing it against the skin under his navel instead, says: “Down,” and watches with satisfaction as Porsche gingerly edges himself backwards so that he’s half reclined on his elbows. The position looks precarious without the use of his forearms, but Porsche seems to manage.
His eyes are dark slits in his face, squinted up in lazy pleasure, and his mouth is wet with kisses. Kinn looks down at him, so trusting and open, and feels like he could tell Porsche to do anything right now. The feeling is a warm amber in his throat. When Kinn leans in to feel Porsche’s pulse against his tongue, it spreads into his torso – like swallowing a piece of summer sun.
This angle is easier on Kinn’s wrist as well when he reaches down again. He starts working Porsche over, wants to see him come undone while Kinn himself is still warm and lazy, his own arousal like banked coals. Porsche sighs, spreads his legs as far as he’s able, and closes his eyes. He looks relaxed, completely in the moment. Gradually his breathing picks up, and soon enough he’s panting his pleasure as Kinn’s strokes grow slick with his precome.
Porsche gives a full-body shudder. He whines, long and deep, and his whole face scrunches up in pleasure.
Kinn takes his hand away and watches Porsche snap his eyes back open.
“No, nononononoo, Kinn– Kinn– c’mon.” Porsche stretches as far as he can, helplessly works his hips even while there’s nothing to fuck into anymore. Kinn lays his damp hand on Porsche’s heaving flank and feels the shudders running through him. Having him under Kinn like this, his thighs warm against Kinn’s own, even through several layers of fabric, is making Kinn’s head spin. Porsche looks wrecked already, and Kinn hasn’t even started.
It’s mesmerizing to watch Porsche slowly come down again, chest heaving and face flushed. He seems to wrestle with himself as he glares at Kinn, but when Kinn slides the hand on Porsche’s hip lower again he stiffens and grits his teeth. He moves his head, barely lifts his chin at all, but it’s inconceivable that Kinn would miss it.
Kinn stops and fights a smirk, then thinks better of it and lets Porsche see. Porsche can be so contrary, always saying one thing and meaning another. Suave only when he isn’t stumbling off balance, and it’s fascinating to push his buttons and see how he’ll react, how much he’ll tolerate before drawing a line. Even though he’s had so many opportunities already there’s still something thrilling about it, about seeing how far he’s willing to go for Kinn, knowing that Porsche would be fully capable of turning the tables. Kinn doesn’t permit him, and thus Porsche doesn’t. But having power over someone like Porsche is dangerous. He’s a two-edged sword, and yet Kinn knows he’s no danger to him, that in fact Kinn is the only one that Porsche lets himself be wielded by.
“I think I hate you,” Porsche laments and lets himself fall backwards. If he had his hands free he’d surely throw an arm across his face for dramatic effect. Like this, however, he just seems all the more vulnerable. His chest is pushed up from where he’s bent over his own arms. Kinn can’t help himself then, has no choice but to duck down and kiss him again. When Porsche doesn’t immediately open up, he drags his tongue along the seam of his lips and slides his hand along his torso. The gun harness is too snug to fit his hand underneath, but that doesn’t stop Kinn from rolling his thumb across Porsche’s nipple even over the fabric of the shirt.
It’s not as satisfying as getting his mouth on his skin, but it does the job; Porsche parts his lips on a gasp. When Kinn actually licks inside, he gives up the illusion of a fight and eagerly pushes closer, chases after Kinn’s mouth when Kinn retreats to catch his breath. Kinn will never get tired of Porsche, can’t fathom ever being himself again if he doesn’t have Porsche by his side.
He works his hand into the gun harness, gets a good grip and experimentally hefts Porsche up a bit. He’s a bit of a mismatched weight like this, with his arms tucked so close to his own body, so Kinn regretfully has to lean away and sit up to better distribute the strain. When Kinn drags Porsche further up the bed then, has to awkwardly shuffle forwards as well, Porsche helps as best he can. His throat is bared in one attractive curve, shoulders up high enough that the crown of his head is just barely touching the mattress.
Fuck, he looks good like this, held up awkwardly in Kinn’s grip, abs strained taut with the effort of holding himself up the only way he can. It must be painful by now; even Kinn’s arm is slowly setting into a pleasant burn, and Porsche can’t even use his elbows to catch his weight.
Kinn uses his other hand to hold himself up as he leans in to trace his mouth over Porsche’s clavicle, up to the vulnerable underside of his chin. This close he can hear Porsche quietly panting, feel his pulse against his lips, the vibration of the throaty groan when Kinn brushes his teeth over Porsche’s Adam’s apple.
Kinn is just nosing along the side of Porsche’s jaw when the jarring chime of the doorbell makes both of them flinch.
He’s reluctant to interrupt this, but it’s likely to be important. After all they haven’t yet had time for a proper debrief and, depending on what the others want, it wouldn’t be smart to let them wait too long.
Still, it’s a shame to have to postpone this... though maybe he can use the interruption. Kinn considers Porsche spread out under him.
“Stay still and don’t make a mess,” he says, and lets go. Porsche drops back onto the mattress with a surprised grunt, bounces a little before settling. Kinn watches with interest as Porsche blinks up at the ceiling a few times, looking stunned, before his eyes finally focus.
“While I’m gone, I want you to stay here and be quiet. Kneel properly and don’t touch yourself.”
Porsche huffs, but obediently rolls himself over, obviously not as inconvenienced as he could be by the position. Though it really does wonders for his ass. The jeans are still caught around his hips, slung low enough to frame his buttcheeks. Kinn is tempted to give him a little slap just to see the flesh jiggle. But watching as the muscles play under the skin, while Porsche tries to heave himself upright, is mesmerizing enough already.
Eventually however, the door rings again and forces Kinn to finally tear his eyes away and make an effort to get up. He half-heartedly finger-combs his hair and fixes his cuffs, checks his reflection in the mirror. He’s still mostly presentable.
On the bed Porsche is still struggling to get upright. The mattress is obviously much too soft, so that Porsche sinks in with every attempt to get leverage – doubly so without the use of his arms. The way he’s screwing up his face in pleasure also suggests that he’s having trouble not humping the mattress. It’d almost be funny, or even cute, if the view didn’t simultaneously make Kinn’s mouth go dry.
Maybe he can be generous this once; after all, Porsche had been a perfect bodyguard today, had reacted so much faster than anyone else. Besides, as much fun as it is to see Porsche struggle, it’d be a waste if Kinn isn’t actually there to witness it. So he lends Porsche a helping hand, grabs onto the holsters again, and drags Porsche upright, just enough for him to get his knees underneath himself. In return Porsche just lets himself flop backwards, so that he’s leaning against Kinn’s chest instead. He even turns his face to mouth at the side of Kinn’s face.
Kinn pinches at his waist in reproach. “Behave yourself.”
Porsche’s brows draw down in a weak imitation of a glare, though the effect is further ruined by the way his abs clench in a ripple of movement, as though he has to restrain himself from humping the air. Kinn allows himself one glancing touch where Porsche is hard and wanting, one firm pump, before he shoves Porsche off, wipes his hand on the comforter, and leaves him there.
Kinn waits until he’s sure to be out of sight before readjusting himself to hide how hard he is. He takes the forgotten glass of brandy from the bar and makes himself comfortable on the couch before calling Ken and Big in. It’s gratifying to see them habitually scan the room for threats. Having competent bodyguards isn’t only a status symbol but also a point of pride, not to mention he’s known both for years and saw them grow into their roles. Big takes up position by the door, while Ken stands a bit closer, on the other side of the coffee table.
Porsche, of course, is conspicuously absent, though Kinn made sure to leave the door to his bedroom ajar. This way Porsche will be able to hear everything discussed, assuming he’s aware enough to do much with the information in the first place. As a bonus it’s a pretty obvious hint as to where Kinn must have left him as well, and he always enjoys making it known that Porsche is his.
Big looks distinctly uncomfortable when he realizes this, though that’s not altogether too surprising; his little crush is less subtle than he might like to think.
The debrief goes about how he expects. The current theory is that some minor branch got uppity and presumably managed to buy off the chief of staff, infiltrate the event security, and tried to assassinate Kinn during his congratulatory speech. When that inevitably failed, the scene devolved into an all-out firefight, yet the group didn’t seem to have been aware of Kinn’s penchant for always bringing his own bodyguards.
An assassination attempt at a public venue was bold, Kinn can give them that. The involvement of random civilians however is unfortunate, not to mention a publicity nightmare in the making. Not that Kinn won’t use any resultant media storm for his own benefit; it’s just going to be a hassle.
However, it’s not a complete bust. He remembers Porsche managing to restrain one of the attackers; Porsche’s upturned face as his whole attention was on Kinn, kneeling on the ground with a knee pressed into another man’s throat.
“Any survivors?” Kinn asks.
“Uh...” Ken looks briefly confused. He glances to the side at Big before seeming to get Kinn’s meaning. “Oh, yes, managed to detain one of them. But the guy was bleeding pretty heavily, so he’s with doc Burin right now.”
“Let me guess: not responsive enough for a little information gathering?”
Unfortunate, but to be expected. Porsche wasn’t exactly careful with the man. There’s not much Kinn can do now anyways except wait. Actually, he considers, this might be better. Had the guy been more lucid, it would have been necessary to question him as soon as possible. It’s so much easier to make them talk when they’re still rattled.
This, however, affords Kinn some time.
“Let me know when he’s patched up. We’ll check on him tomorrow evening at the latest. Also see if you can get a hold of Kim. I need him here in the next few days. Tell him to bring Porchay as well. Oh, and Ken?”
Kinn waits until both Ken and Big are looking at him, attentive as always. “Find out who was in charge of weapons’ maintenance this week.”
There’s a brief flash of some emotion across Ken’s face, too fast to make sense of, before he bows again. He hesitates before saying, “Should I check for a specific weapon, histories of malfunctions?”
In his periphery Kinn can see Big shuffle his feet and look at the disassembled guns strewn over the countertop. They don’t have to like Porsche to feel uncomfortable over the gun jamming, not when it could quite literally cost them or someone else their life. It happens, but Kinn feels like there’s more to it this time.
“Yes. It could be nothing, but I want to make sure either way.” Kinn checks his watch. “Have someone bring the full report later; I expect to be busy for a while.”
When Ken and Big finally file out, he takes a minute or two just to let his thoughts wander. For the moment he’s already done all the damage control he can do. Still, sitting around and waiting for intel to trickle in is the worst thing about all the murder attempts, especially the public ones.
Upon returning to the bedroom, Kinn finds Porsche obediently kneeling where he left him, vulnerable – no, trusting – with his back to the door. His head is downturned so that his neck is standing out, the dark bruise forming on the side of it hidden in the shadows like a secret. Kinn feels drawn in, an invisible thrall that makes it impossible to imagine anything else but this.
Deliberately he scuffs his dress shoes against the floor. Porsche doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t react at all apart from a short stutter in his breathing and Kinn expects, if he walks far enough, if he rounds the bed completely, he’ll find Porsche glassy eyed and slack faced. Porsche can get lost in the moment so easily that Kinn is almost jealous. But in the end it’s better like this, heady how easily Kinn can make him go soft and quiet when he’s usually so wild. It’s always tempting to see him with all his defenses down, no resistance left, and it would be so easy to make use of Porsche’s mouth when he’s like this, slide right in. Kinn knows he would open up so perfectly.
But that’s not what he wants right now.
Instead he lays his hand on Porsche’s shoulder, feels the way it barely moves with even breaths. He takes in the way his own possessive hand looks, thumb on Porsche’s nape to feel the bumps of his spine, the contrast of Porsche’s sun kissed skin and white shirt, Kinn’s own pale hand.
Kinn bends down, actually has to put one of his knees on the bed again, to nose at the neck in front of him, and feels the small baby hairs tickle his face. Porsche smells of exertion, a little bit of sweat, but mostly he smells of himself. Kinn used to wonder why he almost never wore cologne, not even on his days off. But come close enough, close enough to touch forehead to forehead, to drag mouth over skin, and Porsche’s own chalky-sweet scent is apparent; more him than any artificial approximation could ever be.
The fabric bunches under Kinn’s fingers when he drags his hands down to map out the contours of Porsche’s spine, warm skin followed by cotton stiff with grit and plaster dust. His nails catch against the synthetic weave of the gun harness, and he briefly tugs at it. Porsche makes a noise that sounds a little bit like a gasp, a little bit like a surprised grunt, and shrugs his shoulders back. Always so responsive.
Kinn drags his hand further down, stops just above Porsche’s ass, and lets it linger on the little bit of skin bared where the shirt has ridden up. Porsche is warm, soft, almost vulnerable here. His muscles flex underneath the skin in a nervous tick.
How good will that feel when Kinn’s inside him, to feel the sinuous flex of his muscles directly, when he’s already sheathed inside?
For a moment all Kinn can do is breathe Porsche in, keep his nose pressed against the side of his throat. His skin is hotter here where he’s vulnerable, slightly sticky with sweat, and Kinn can’t help but get a taste. So he licks at the salt at Porsche’s pulse and gets a deep sigh in return.
For all that Porsche comes across as uncomfortably carefree more often than not, Kinn knows he’s usually more tense than he lets on. His big gestures and outgoing personally hide it well and yet in moments like these, when he finally lets down his defenses when his shoulders sag and he lets the tension unspool, it’s almost painfully obvious.
That said, it’s still a surprise this time. Porsche must have been more affected by the ploy than Kinn expected, to still have carried the tension for so long.
Or maybe Kinn has been neglectful, he considers, as he slides his hand under Porsche’s shirt and maps out a way back to his shoulders. Kinn doesn’t think Porsche would have been happy to have missed the debrief, though perhaps it would have been better if he did. Not that it matters now.
He draws back to really look at Porsche, at his arms, still caught behind his back, Porsche’s hands clenched over his elbows; at his shirt, now pushed up almost to his armpits where the gun holster is stopping Kinn’s hand. Porsche turns his head. Kinn can just see part of his profile like this, but it’s more than enough. Porsche’s eyes are closed, mouth slack.
And then, driven by impulse, Kinn shoves.
There’s no resistance at all. Porsche simply topples forward, though his arms jerk against his bonds as if trying to catch his fall on instinct. He goes down with a surprised grunt, merely keeps his head sideways and doesn’t even try to get up again – as if he knows Kinn would just make sure he stays down. His dark eyes are open now, glassy under his furrowed brows.
“Ah, Porsche, you should see yourself right now; you’re beautiful,” Kinn whispers, “ruined me for anyone else.”
Then Porsche’s breathing audibly hitches when Kinn takes his waist in hand and pulls him closer. It’s no work at all to drag his trousers farther down to the bend of his knees, effectively trapping Porsche’s legs as well. Kinn grabs a firm handful of Porsche’s ass and squeezes, feels his own breath catch when Porsche first jolts and then squirms with his whole body, tries to push back into Kinn and in the process rucks up the bedsheets so that he looks like a fish caught in a net. Briefly, Kinn entertains the thought of doing this with Porsche clad in that dumb fish costume.
To distract himself from that idea, Kinn digs his fingers into the flesh, watches the skin go pale and then flush red. He’s almost tempted, is the thing, but it’d be more hassle than it’s worth.
It takes a monumental effort of willpower to tear himself free, to get up and move away. Porsche makes a bereft kind of noise. “Kinn?”
He turns his face to try to keep Kinn in his sights, tries to push himself upright before Kinn glances at him and lifts a brow.
Kinn rolls up his sleeves and sends off a quick request for food to be brought up later, before depositing phone and keys on the side table. While he bends down to rummage through the drawers for some lube, he can feel Porsche’s eyes on him. The side of his face is pressed into the bedding, harsh pants moving his whole torso up and down, while only his eyes track Kinn’s progress across the room. It’s heady to see such a competent fighter brought low like this, seemingly helpless on the bed, arms still bound to show off his biceps and shoulders. His shirt is still caught under the gun harness, making the bared skin of his lower back so much more interesting in comparison. His bared ass looks almost obscene.
And then it hits him again, like a punch to the gut, how Porsche could have gotten up at any time, how he has proven more than capable of freeing himself from bonds more serious than these. That he stayed here of his own free will, sweetly obedient. Not that he would admit to that, but it is nonetheless flattering to have earned this trust. In moments like these Kinn wonders how much of Porsche’s arrogant bluster is real. How often is it just a front to protect the softer parts of himself, the very same parts that he opens up so naturally to those he cares about?
Kinn is drawn out of his thoughts when Porsche starts fidgeting again, gripping his elbows and working his jaw. The curve of his spine is accented wonderfully by the way he has to awkwardly bow over his own legs, still curled under him from when he was kneeling earlier; while his arms are crossed over his back, muscles tense. His fingers flex where he is holding onto his elbows.
He settles a bit when Kinn finally kneels back on the bed and spreads Porsche’s cheeks, then hisses as Kinn blows over the place where his skin is darker and tapering to his furled rim. It’s too tempting not to, so Kinn leans in, spits, and watches the glob of it slowly run down the valley of Porsche’s taint, mesmerized.
Kinn laughs, feels Porsche jolt with it. Then, he ducks down and laves his tongue over Porsche’s opening. The meaty taste of him, salty with sweat, makes Kinn hum with satisfaction.
“Wait– wait– I’m not clean. Let me–” Porsche breaks off to try and catch his breath, sounds undeniably breathy when he continues on anyways, “Lemme take a shower first– Kinn, please–”
As loathe as Kinn is to stop, eating Porsche out wasn’t what he had planned. He gives the furled skin one hard suck, hears Porsche let out a shocked gasp before Kinn straightens up again.
The lube is cold on his fingers then, and while Kinn waits for it to warm up he sets his free thumb under Porsche’s wet rim, rubs at the skin and tests the give. He can almost work the tip of it in just like that. Porsche squirms again when Kinn withdraws his thumb to make space.
But Kinn’s middle finger sinks in with barely any resistance after that, though it nonetheless makes Porsche suck in a deep breath. He tries to twist his whole torso around, and Kinn has to use his other hand to grab Porsche’s neck and hold him still. It’s impossible to see Porsche right now, feel his wet heat around Kinn’s finger, and not want to lock him away, keep him like this forever. Half of Porsche’s face is pressed into the bedding; what is visible only an open mouth, closed eyes under brows drawn high up with pleasure. His lips barely move. When Kinn leans in closer to hear, he can just make out breathy sighs that turn into a whispered litany of “Yes” as he changes the angle.
Kinn takes his time working Porsche open, revels in the way his wet knuckles brush the furled skin of Porsche’s opening each time he pushes deep. Porsche at times tries to move back against Kinn or away when Kinn’s knuckles catch at his rim. The need to be closer builds in Kinn, until he lays the side of his own head between Porsche’s shoulder blades, folding himself protectively over his back. It’s harder to reach this way, an awkward angle for his wrist, but that seems far away and inconsequential as long as Kinn can be as close as possible, curled over in the approximation of a hug. Both Porsche’s breathing, as well as his quiet moans, are so close and immediate, even tempered by the rustle of cloth against Kinn’s ear. He drags his other hand along his waist.
Caging Porsche in like this, with his whole body, it’s as if he can feel the heat of him even through their clothes.
There’s a desperate sort of intensity building up in him, dragged out by the way Porsche is threatening to come undone around him. Seeing him so helpless, completely at Kinn’s whims, satisfies something deep inside. He both feels like he could do this for hours – balance Porsche on the knife’s edge just because he can – and at the same time like he can never be close enough. It will never be enough because Kinn has always been a ravenous beast deep down, never satisfied with what he has, but Porsche is just the same. Kinn can own him completely, be owned in turn.
Suddenly he’s desperate as well. He groans.
Porsche doesn’t seem to hear, just keeps panting into the bedding and clenching around Kinn’s fingers as if needing him closer just as much. He whines when Kinn withdraws his fingers, presses a muffled noise of confusion against his teeth.
Kinn fumbles his slacks open one-handed so he can keep his other thumb pressed against Porsche’s rim, hold him open and watch the obscene gape of him. It’s heaven every time, the first moment of wet tight heat, of watching as he disappears into Porsche so excruciatingly slowly. There’s a thick dollop of lube slipping out around his cock that he can’t help but catch with his thumb and massage back into the skin.
In reaction Porsche’s chest lifts off the bed. It’s a shocking display of his upper body strength, even without getting lost in the way his whole spine curves attractively.
“Oh god, stop teasing.” Porsche’s voice sounds as strained as Kinn’s starting to feel.
Amusing as it is, Kinn isn’t feeling very gracious yet. So he snakes a hand down a firm thigh, pushes the jeans down farther in the process to grab a firm hold of Porsche’s cock. It’s heavy, hot in his hand, and Kinn wonders how long he’s stayed hard now. Did he flag while he was waiting all alone? Or did the anticipation not let him rest at all?
Instead of giving Porsche any stimulation, Kinn just grips him at the base, where the coarse hair is just tickling the side of his hand, and gives Porsche just enough pressure that he can’t help but be unmistakably aware of it. Yet the way Porsche is still bowed over his own legs, immobile, doesn’t allow him to do anything about it.
Kinn just stays like that for a while, sunk down into Porsche until he can’t go any deeper and relishes in the heat all around his dick, in owning Porsche so completely. Kinn thinks he could stay like this all day, and maybe he should, some other time. Just keep himself warm, fitted snug and perfect in Porsche’s body for hours.
“Next time.” Porsche makes a confused noise, so Kinn elaborates. “Next time I’m gonna make you sit on my dick all day long, just keeping me warm while I work. But you’re going to have to earn that privilege.”
“Oh god.” He sounds so breathlessly dismayed. “I’ve been good Kinn; I swear I’ve been so good today.”
Kinn hums and presses lazy lines into an ass cheek with the edge of his nail. “Hmm, I don’t think so. I remember you being a disrespectful little brat just two hours ago.”
“I – I...”
“Porsche, you know better than to damage what’s mine.” He emphasises his point by sliding his hand over Porsche’s left underarm. He gives the wrist a careful squeeze – just enough to be felt – and rubs his thumb softly over the edge of the bandages. The action elicits an audible hiss as Porsche sucks in a surprised breath.
It’s something they’ve been working on, the both of them, for Porsche to take more care with his body. To see it as more than a tool.
When Porsche just shudders all over, no reply forthcoming, Kinn continues.
“I can be lenient this once. You did well enough before that, the only one paying any attention at all.” He lets his voice go low and soothing, feels Porsche go limp again. “So many bodyguards and none as perfect as you.”
Predictably this makes Porsche moan, a thin reedy sound, overwhelmed. He goes completely lax now, abruptly relaxes around Kinn still sheathed in him.
Kinn’s can’t stop himself from grinding in then, but the way his own slacks drag against his dick chafes – it’s ultimately too distracting. He also won’t be able to fuck Porsche as he likes, with his legs still bound by his own jeans.
He has to lean away and push Porsche’s hips down then, to be able to tug at the jeans. The position presses Porsche flush to the bed, groin right against the mattress. Porsche groans, deep and helpless and low enough that Kinn swears he can feel it in his bones while trying to drag them off his legs. Porsche wiggles in what is either encouragement or an attempt to get some friction. In case it’s the latter, Kinn can’t stop himself from giving a reprimanding little slap on Porsche’s ass. He gives a little jerk and hisses.
Kinn haphazardly kicks off his own slacks as well, before he lines himself up again.
Usually Porsche likes to be the one to guide Kinn in, to hold him still and feel him sink into where Porsche is wet and open, keeping his thumb pressed to the underside of Kinn’s dick until there’s no space for it anymore. This time Kinn does it himself, bottoms out in one rough stroke while holding Porsche’s ass open.
It’s heaven to fuck him like this, shallow and lazy-like.
Kinn lays his whole body on Porsche, front to back, feels every breath Porsche takes move through him as well. Porsche has his face pressed into the bedding again, and when Kinn starts nuzzling at the baby hairs at his nape, he has a good view of Porsche’s ears moving slightly as he grits his jaw, maybe even chews on the bedding.
“Stop that,” he whispers into the skin, and it comes out much softer than intended. Still, it’s not hard to drag Porsche with him when Kinn draws back to sit on his haunches. He holds him up by his grip on his biceps, and Porsche lets out a satisfying grunt at the change of position. He feels heavenly around Kinn, but it’s not about stuffing his dick in just any random hole. It’s knowing that it’s Porsche, that despite his contrary attitude he turns so pliant and willing just for Kinn.
When he stays still for too long, Porsche starts trying to move by himself.
This is perfect. The position gives Kinn a perfect view of Porsche’s shoulders, of his tattoo bunching up and following the contours of his shoulder blade, his clavicle when he lets his head fall back just enough. He is visibly struggling as well, fast frustrated huffs of breath, too little actual leverage to properly fuck himself back on Kinn’s lap.
Just to see what he’ll do, Kinn spreads his knees further apart, and by extension opens up Porsche’s legs just enough that he can’t even really carry his own weight anymore.
“You... fucking asshole!” He eventually manages to gasp out.
“Mmh, I thought you’d appreciate being in control for once.” To punctuate this statement Kinn ghosts a touch over Porsche’s shoulder, up to his throat before moving on. Revels in the way that Porsche clenches down around him. “Did you grow bored already?”
Kinn leans forwards again so he can whisper right into Porsche’s ear, dragging his hands down his sides to lay on Porsche’s thighs “...and now you even want me to do the work for you?” He squeezes. Porsche makes an outraged little sound and arches his back.
That jostles him on Kinn enough that, before he can really stop himself, he lifts his hips to grind deeper. A slow leisurely grind that requires him to lift his own ass to get as much leverage as he can. Fuck, Porsche is so hot and perfect around him.
Before he quite knows what he’s doing, before he regains enough control of himself, Kinn starts trying to fuck deeper, slides an arm around Porsche’s torso to hold him still. Behind the pleasure-bright sparks of friction is the distant flash of satisfaction at finally rendering Porsche mute, before that too is chased away by the building tension in his gut.
He’s been on the edge for almost as long as Porsche, and it doesn’t take long before he gasps through his orgasm, can’t keep himself from chanting Porsche’s name throughout.
Kinn is barely aware enough to give Porsche a reach-around, while he chases the aftershocks. It’s almost too much when Porsche comes as well, clenches down hard and deep to milk Kinn completely.
They both topple forward together, and for a second there’s only the blood rushing in Kinn’s ears, his own heavy breaths.
Kinn pulls out slowly, still half hard but going soft now, to savor the feeling. Watches Porsche’s dark hole clench down on thin air, before a thick glob of his own spend starts trickling out. It’s absolutely mesmerizing. Porsche is marked inside and out, undeniably Kinn’s. He resists the temptation to swipe his thumb through it, to press it back inside where it belongs.
Instead, even while still struggling to catch his breath, Kinn works loose the tie still binding Porsche’s arms, has to bodily help Porsche roll to his back then. He’s dead weight, no tension in his limbs at all. It becomes clear why, once Porsche’s head lolls around enough to reveal his face.
His eyes are closed, skin flushed an attractive red and wet with tears, his mouth still open. He might even be drooling just a bit. Kinn carefully tugs Porsche’s arms out from under his body and nudges his hipbone so he looks more comfortable.
Porsche’s eyes briefly flutter open. Kinn leans in to properly look at him but Porsche just huffs a soft sigh and closes them again. Kinn would be more worried if he hadn’t already seen him like this before. As it is right now, it’s nothing but adorable, proof that Kinn properly tired him out. Experience dictates that Porsche is going to be cognizant again in a few minutes in any case.
But for now Kinn can enjoy how unguarded he is, how easy it is to manipulate his body. Clipping the gun holster open is also easy, less so the way Kinn has to work Porsche free of his shirt. Porsche’s slack arms are more of an obstruction to any kind of attempt to work it carefully up over his head, than actually helpful.
Porsche smacks his lips and grumbles, and Kinn has to stop him from turning onto his side with a hand at his torso. This man.
He almost has to laugh when he crawls off the bed and realizes Porsche is still wearing socks – red ones that seem vaguely familiar.
Kinn returns with a fresh rag and towel to find Porsche blearily blinking open his eyes. He levers himself up on one elbow and then hisses at the motion before he catches sight of Kinn and grins dopily up at him.
It’s easier to get Porsche cleaned up after, with him at least awake enough to help. By the time Kinn is helping Porsche into a new shirt, soft and worn out – it’s slightly too big on him, he’s awake enough to manage by himself, so that Kinn can quickly throw on a bathrobe as well and check whether the food is there already.
Indeed, just inside the apartment door stands a small metal trolley, loaded with a big tray and several covered plates. Kinn chooses two at random before he makes his way back into the bedroom.
Usually Kinn dislikes any kind of food close to his bed, but he can make an exception this time. Really, no one should complain that he can’t be generous now and again.
It’s Pat Ka Phrao, kept warm under the metal cover.
“Remind me to thank cook Pim for this later.”
Porsche looks away from the food to laugh in Kinn’s face. “What, do I look like your secretary?”
Kinn needs a moment to just take him in, still disheveled and banged up, but aglow with happiness. He knows he’s grinning like a lovestruck fool when he says, “Hmm, no. I don’t think you’re pretty enough to fit the stereotype.”
At this Porsche makes an outraged sound and makes a grab for one of the pillows.