Work Text:
“Hey, Pete.” Porsche throws open the door to Vegas’ hospital room. “Why aren’t you answering your phone, I’ve been calling and call—”
He freezes three steps into the room. Pete freezes too, eyes wide and horrified, while kneeling next to Vegas on his bed and butt fucking naked, one hand wrapped around his cock.
“Oh, hello Porsche,” Vegas says calmly into the deafening silence. He’s sitting up against the headboard, fully dressed in his hospital gown and giving Porsche his usual smile of solicitous interest, as though Pete weren’t naked and getting off right next to him, what the fuck. “Were you looking for Pete for something?”
“You’re— Pete is— It’s the middle of the day and— I just—”
“Mm, it does sound important,” Vegas says agreeably. “But excuse me for a moment.”
Then Vegas turns to Pete, and slaps him.
In an entirely different voice, Vegas says, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”
Under Porsche’s disbelieving gaze, Pete’s hand slowly starts moving on his cock again. His face is blotchy with colour, one cheek redder than the other, and Porsche can feel his own cheeks growing hot with mortification too, as though he’s the one who was slapped—Kinn’s slapped him like that before, the kind of slap that’s more demeaning than painful, and the shock and reflexive shame of it had burned low in his gut, something awful and arresting he hadn’t dared to think of afterwards.
“Sorry, Porsche,” Vegas says, all solicitousness again, “what were you saying?”
Porsche doesn't think he was saying anything at all, but who even fucking knows what's happening right now. It’s like he’s in a dream—no, actually it’s like the exact opposite of being in a dream, because he’s vividly aware of his own body (his blood rushing south, pulsing just underneath feverish skin), and of the fact that whatever’s happening is totally unreal, something right out of his dumb, animal imagination. He tries to remember how he got here, recalls wanting to ask Pete something about rosters for…something…some kind of training…thing? Fuck, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that Pete, his buddy Pete, whom he has never thought of naked before (not properly, not for longer than like a minute, by accident, which doesn’t count), is tossing himself off right in front of Porsche’s eyes just because Vegas didn’t tell him to stop, and—
“ —how can we help you? Porsche?”
Porsche jumps at the sound of his name, eyes snapping guiltily to Vegas’ face. But Vegas has the same expression he always has, calm and friendly. Unlike Pete, whose eyes are darting frantically from Vegas to Porsche and back again, shoulders curved inwards like he wishes he could just curl up and disappear, except it’s evidently not making his cock any less hard, and it’s—
“Porsche,” Vegas says sharply.
Porsche jumps again. Vegas is still smiling mildly, at odds with the note of command in his voice, which Porsche’s dick has taken definite notice of, fuck. And Vegas has definitely noticed Porsche’s dick noticing; the weight of his gaze drags down Porsche’s body and pauses pointedly at his groin, before dragging up again. Vegas’ lips twitch. Shit, Porsche should say something, he can’t just stand here and let Vegas look at him, not with Pete right there. “Um,” Porsche says, and is horrified to hear his voice crack. “What?”
“Is there something Kinn can’t help you with?” Vegas asks, as if they’re having a perfectly normal conversation. “You know I’m always happy to lend you a helping hand, as it were.”
“H…help, yeah,” Porsche agrees, keeping his gaze locked onto Vegas’ face like it’s life or death. He tries to think unsexy thoughts. Think about work. No, fuck, he works with his boyfriend, he doesn’t have any unsexy work thoughts. “Yeah. Um. That.”
“Or did you come here for Pete? I’m glad you guys are, mn, keeping in touch, despite everything.”
Porsche’s eyes stray over to Pete when Vegas mentions his name. It’s a mistake. Pete is clearly nearing the edge, breath coming fast, back beginning to arch but almost despite himself, lips twisted in a pained grimace, muscles tensed in stark relief. His hand is working his cock just as fast as before, but his grip is strangely loose, as if he doesn’t want to get off, the way Porsche teases Kinn sometimes to drive him mad, and oh fuck, he really shouldn’t have thought about Kinn, it’s hardwired in him now to think about sex whenever he thinks about Kinn, and he’s already thinking about sex way too much for being in a room with Vegas and Pete.
As if hearing his thoughts, Pete’s eyes glance over to him again, looking equally wretched and desperate, and—
Vegas slaps Pete again.
Pete’s head snaps to the side. He makes a high, cut-off whine that echoes in Porsche’s skull. Vegas bites out in English, “Eyes on me.”
Pete’s gaze snaps back to Vegas and stays fixed on him, eyes falling half-lidded and dazed. Porsche…can’t help but do the same. There’s a vicious, hungry cast to Vegas’ face that looks almost familiar, that Porsche has caught flashes of before, but the hint of raw tenderness in Vegas’ eyes is entirely alien. Or maybe it’s the way he’s touching Pete, now, running his hand up Pete’s neck like he’s about to choke him, except his touch looks worshipful, like he can’t quite believe Pete is real and has to check with his own hands; Kinn touches Porsche like that sometimes, and it always makes him feel like he’s about to shake out of his skin. Pete looks like he’s about to shake out of his skin too, breath coming faster and harder as Vegas’ fingers begin to tighten across his throat, and he’s letting out a punched-out, high-pitched noise with every exhale now, soft and devastating. Porsche can feel his own breath quickening as well, as if Vegas was cutting off his air with invisible fingers pressed against his own throat.
“He's beautiful, isn’t he,” Vegas murmurs, “my pet. And so obedient.”
Pete makes a wet, animal whine. A single tear slips out the corner of his eye. “Vegas,” Pete slurs out, almost incomprehensible, “Vegas…”
“Going to come already?” Vegas abruptly lets go of Pete’s throat.
Pete inhales urgently and lets out a noise of dismay. He sways forward, as if chasing Vegas’ touch. His hand is still moving over his cock, fingers barely grazing his own skin, tracing a line of wetness from the tip of his cock down the shaft and back up again.
“But we have a guest,” Vegas continues silkily. “He took the trouble to come here to see us personally, and I think we haven't sufficiently entertained him, have we?” Vegas turns to Porsche, eyes hooded and gleaming. Then, without looking, he reaches over to take Pete’s balls in a brutal grip and pulls.
Pete shouts, agonised. He spasms like he’s being electrocuted, and Porsche’s body jolts with him, the muscles in his groin pulling tight with reflexive horror and heat.
“I don’t think Pete should get to come before you do, right, Porsche?” The way Vegas says his name slides over Porsche like sandpaper over sensitive skin, leaving him raw and flinching and entirely unable not to jump to attention. “It’s not polite.”
Next to Vegas, Pete is quivering, panting shallow and harsh. His trembling hand is still moving over his cock, fucking hell fuck, because Vegas still hasn’t told him to stop, and Pete’s apparently a very obedient pet. Which is a thought that makes Porsche want to throw himself out a window and never have any thoughts ever again. Except Porsche finds that he can’t stop thinking it, because Pete obviously wants to come and isn’t letting himself, isn’t allowed, even though his eyes are glazed and barely held open and he’s desperate and aching and clearly trying not to squirm away from his own touch.
“Well, Porsche? How long are you going to make Pete wait for it?” Pete shudders, his back starting to arch again—Vegas glances at him out of the corner of his eye and gives his cock a sharp, lazy flick. Pete wails and flinches so hard he would have fallen over, if not for Vegas’ hand swiftly reaching out to fist in his hair, keeping him upright.
Porsche flinches with him, and pretends he doesn't let out a soft, helpless whine of his own.
Unfortunately, Vegas chooses now to stop pretending. He smirks, dangerous and inviting. “You can touch yourself, go on.” Then, sounding exactly like Kinn giving an order, he adds, “Don’t keep Pete waiting.”
Porsche’s hand moves before he can think better of it. The first press of his palm against his clothed cock has him groaning in shocked pleasure, the coiled need he has been trying—and mostly failing—to not pay attention to unspooling all at once. He thrusts helplessly into his own rough, fumbling touch, thrusts again before he can stop himself, and then that's it, he’s tripping over the edge, coming in his pants to the sound of Vegas’ murmurs and Pete’s moans of ecstatic relief.
Eventually, Porsche resurfaces.
He feels like he's been punched in the groin with pleasure. There's a boatload of feel-good chemicals sloshing through him, leaving him dazed and grinning. He pushes himself away from the wall he’s somehow ended up leaning against, and notices the faintly unpleasant but not unfamiliar sensation of sticky underwear. Ah, he should change. Or steal Kinn's underwear, heh.
Then his eyes focus, and he registers where he is.
Vegas’ room. In front of Vegas’ bed. Upon which Pete’s apparently unconscious body is now lying, curled up next to Vegas. There are suspicious stains on the sheets. There are suspicious stains on the wall next to Vegas’ head.
All the nice chemicals drain away.
Vegas smiles at him. His hand is scratching Pete’s scalp slowly and rhythmically, the tenderness of it entirely at odds with the look of intense, glittering satisfaction on his face.
“I…” Porsche squeaks out, “I’m just…” He takes a step back towards the door and stumbles.
Vegas somehow manages to exude even more glittering satisfaction without his smile even twitching. “Oh, leaving already? Did you get what you were looking for?”
“No, yes, right, okay bye,” Porsche says, and flees.
He doesn’t, unfortunately, leave fast enough to miss Vegas calling out behind him, “Send my regards to Kinn,” and the frankly sinister chuckle that follows.
Like hell, Porsche thinks as he runs away. Like hell I’m telling Kinn anything. This is never gonna happen again.