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Empty, empty, empty— Porsche opens and closes yet another hotel room door in this corridor, restlessly flipping the master key card that Arm gave him between his fingers. Technically, he has men who are supposed to secure locations for him, but he’s the boss now, he can choose fieldwork over paperwork if he wants to. Empty, empty—
There’s a muffled yelp from one of the rooms ahead, and Porsche freezes. No one else is supposed to be here, unless— Have one of the Yakuza already—
Another sound from the room up ahead; this one a soft but unmistakable moan. Porsche relaxes, grinning in relief. If it’s some of the Yakuza getting into position to ambush them, at least they’re having fun while they wait. More likely, though, it’s some of the hotel staff skiving off together during work hours. Shame they didn’t pick another floor, heh.
He rubs fondly at the hickey Kinn left on his neck just this morning as he approaches the door that has been left slightly ajar, sex noises becoming more obvious. Still. Better safe than sorry. As quietly as he can, he pushes the door open a bit more, fingers inching towards his sidearm.
"Hello, Porsche," says Vegas from the bed, his back to the door. Next to him, Pete shudders. Pete, who is lying on the bed, blindfolded and tied up and naked, his wrists bound to the headboard, his ankles bound to his knees and pushed up against his chest; a position that bares his whole ass to Porsche’s unprepared eyes, including the place where Vegas is currently four fucking fingers deep in his hole.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Porsche demands.
Vegas raises an eyebrow. His arm shifts, and Pete moans. "Surely I don’t need to explain fisting to you."
"Uh," Porsche says. He…would like an explanation, actually. What the hell is fisting? Surely it can’t be…what it sounds like? But sure enough, Vegas then casually presses the tip of his thumb into Pete, who flings his head to one side and shudders at the new intrusion.
Vegas pulls out his thumb again. Pete’s breath escapes in a noisy exhale.
"Don’t just stand there. Anyone could come in, anyone could see Pete like this," Vegas says pointedly, and Pete moans softly again. "Or is that what you want, Porsche?"
"What, no! I—"
And then somehow he’s inside, the door clicking shut behind him. How does he keep ending up in the same room as Vegas and Pete when they’re fucking? A vivid memory of the last time this happened flashes across his mind, and his cock gives a traitorous twitch. At least this time, he knows Pete doesn’t mind (his exact words after last time had been sorry about Vegas, he gets ideas, but it’s all cool, right? To which Porsche had naturally shrugged and smiled in response, and then Pete had started talking about work. Porsche hasn’t tried to talk about it with him since).
There's a wet noise from the bed. Porsche takes a step forward before he can think better of it, trying to see what exactly Vegas' fingers are doing.
"You'll get a better view from up here," Vegas says, patting a spot next to him on the bed. Porsche makes a face. But then Pete makes a tiny pained noise, and Porsche is kicking off his shoes and walking over; Vegas talked about 'fisting' like it’s a thing people do, so presumably Pete's not in danger, but maybe he should make sure.
Up close, Porsche can see that Pete is all flushed across his neck and chest, sweating like he does after a long workout. Which is surprising, considering he’s all tied up and just, like, lying there. But as he heaves one harsh breath after another, Porsche can’t help remembering some of the marathon sessions he’s had, with Kinn pushing relentlessly into him for hours as Porsche lay beneath him, unable to do anything except try to remember to breathe. So yeah, he gets it. And that was all just from Kinn's cock—Pete’s hole is stretched tight around the knuckles of Vegas’ left hand, and while Vegas' hands have never seemed all that big to Porsche before, he's rapidly starting to reconsider.
"Are you really going to get your whole hand into there?" Porsche asks despite himself.
"If Pete can take it," Vegas says. "If he wants to be good," he adds, clearly not directed at Porsche.
Vegas starts to work in his thumb alongside his palm again. Pete makes a little noise and Vegas shushes him, petting his thigh.
"Porsche, can you hand me the lube?" Vegas asks.
"Uh, sure," Porsche says, looking around before spotting it on the bedside table behind him.
"Here." Vegas gestures at the spot where his hand is halfway inside Pete. "Just pour some here."
Porsche is a fucking idiot. Of course getting the lube was a trap. But if he refuses, Vegas will probably say something like I guess Pete will have to do without more lube, which would surely be worse, so he shifts reluctantly closer and pours the fucking lube onto Vegas’ hand and Pete’s hole. Pete gasps a little, probably at the cold but also probably at how smoothly Vegas pushes his fingers inside him this time, and Porsche's cock stirs uncomfortably in his pants.
And it gets worse, because Vegas is twisting his hand to spread the lube further and push in deeper— wet sounds fill the air, accompanied by Pete's increasingly frantic noises. Vegas murmurs praise and encouragement, his other hand rubbing circles over Pete’s stomach, and then all of a sudden, Pete inhales sharply, and Vegas’ knuckles slip past his stretched opening.
"Woah," Porsche says. Vegas is wrist deep inside Pete, what the fuck. Porsche wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t staring with his own eyes.
"Good job, pet," Vegas says, and Pete gives an almost kittenish whine in response that goes straight to Porsche’s dick.
Thankfully, Vegas seems to be ignoring him entirely now. He’s doing something with his hand, Porsche isn’t sure what exactly, twisting his wrist or stretching out his fingers inside Pete, which is a lot to think about. Whatever it is, it seems to be really doing it for Pete, who is panting for air and licking his dry lips. He’s starting to tremble in his binds, sweat pooling around his naval and his collar bones. The color rises even brighter across his cheeks, and his arms and abs flex as he starts to squirm around Vegas’ hand, muscles standing out in such stark relief that Porsche could reach out and trace each one—
"Go ahead, you can touch him," Vegas says, and Porsche jumps. What the fuck, Porsche wasn’t about to touch Pete! Why would he go about touching Pete for!
Except now he can’t stop thinking about touching Pete. So when Vegas says, "Go on," Porsche finds himself reaching out for Pete’s side and tentatively brushing his fingers against his stomach. His skin is so warm. And surprisingly soft. Porsche’s fingers keep going and soon his whole hand is sliding up to Pete’s ribs, thumb rubbing the side of his body as he goes—
Vegas makes a sudden motion in the corner of Porsche’s eye, and Pete goes rigid, then spasms and groans, bucking in place.
"Oh, there he goes," Vegas says, sounding mostly unaffected. His arm shifts, and Pete groans again. "Good job, Porsche."
Porsche pulls his hand back in shock. "I didn’t do that!"
Vegas smiles at him.
"Fuck you," Porsche says. Fine, whatever, fuck, at least it’s over now. Maybe he can just slink away and jerk off in a bathroom somewhere in peace and then come back and yell at them for fucking in a hotel that's supposed to be secure for an event tonight.
"Where are you going?" Vegas asks when Porsche starts getting up.
"Uh," Porsche says, hesitating. "You’re done, right, Pete came so—"
"Oh, no, we’re not done," Vegas says, turning back to Pete. "That wasn't enough, was it, pet? You need more."
Porsche can’t imagine how much more there can possibly be, given Vegas already has a whole fist in Pete’s hole, but Pete doesn’t protest, just whimpers high in his throat when Vegas starts moving his hand again. Fuck, it must be…it must hurt. Pete’s just come, surely he’s sensitive as hell. Porsche is always sensitive as hell after he’s come, and those rare few times when Kinn doesn’t notice that Porsche has already come and just keeps fucking him, it always feels like Porsche is being taken apart, every thrust pummeling through his guts and cracking him open until he’s just a mess of nerves and muffled screams.
Vegas must do something more, because Pete abruptly sinks his teeth hard into his upper arm to muffle a scream. Vegas makes a bright, interested noise, but Porsche knows better than to look back at him, it’s clearly another trap. But that just makes it worse, because now Porsche can’t help but stare at Pete’s face, at the tear tracks sliding down his cheeks from under the blindfold, his bitten-red lips falling open on a long, desperate moan.
And Porsche knows this feeling too, when the oversensitivity wraps around again and suddenly it's not unpleasant and squirmy anymore but good, and Porsche can come again— he has to come again to scratch this feverish new itch, and if Kinn stops…
Porsche doesn't realize he's put his hand back on Pete's side until he feels Pete's muscles clench under his fingers, shifting as Pete tries to chase after Vegas' hand with his body as Vegas pulls it out.
Porsche turns to Vegas, his mouth already open on a demand for Vegas to get back in there, but Vegas lifts both hands up in a performative shrug.
"I dunno, pet," Vegas says, ostensibly to Pete, "have you earned it?"
"He's earned it!" Porsche immediately argues. The skin under Porsche's palm shifts again, slick with sweat and desperation. Porsche's hand moves in soothing circles automatically, and next to him Pete makes a pitiful noise.
"Hmm, if you say so." Vegas reaches out again, but he doesn't put his hand in Pete, he's just casually touching Pete's hole, running a thumb along the rim that's grown red with use, an almost mesmerizing motion. "Give it to him, then."
"Give what?" Porsche squawks.
Vegas raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Your cock?" he says, as if that's a thing you can just say aloud like that, what the fuck. When Porsche balks and pulls away, Pete lets out a whimper, so Porsche has to scramble forward again to pat him apologetically on the side—it’s not Pete’s fault Vegas is an asshole who leaves people hanging. Said asshole only gives him a bored, critical look. "Unless you don't think you can make it good for Pete. Doubt you even know how to use your cock properly." Vegas' gaze drops unmistakably and shamelessly to Porsche's crotch. "Does Kinn even let you fuck him?"
"He does," Porsche replies, maybe a touch too vehemently, "and I do!"
"Oh, my apologies," Vegas says, not sounding apologetic at all. "Of course you do."
Pete makes another desperate noise, and Vegas flicks him in the balls without looking. Porsche flinches, but Pete only makes another noise that is... definitely not the noise that Porsche would make if someone flicked him in the balls. Vegas only glances at Pete’s face for a moment before half-turning away, reaching for a towel to clean his hands off. Pete shifts restlessly against the sheets, the ropes holding him place going taut as he tries instinctively to wriggle closer to Vegas and fails. Porsche's eyes can’t help drifting down to Pete’s clenching hole, to the sheen of lube and sweat that has spread absolutely everywhere across his ass and taint and is pooling onto the sheets. How can Vegas just leave Pete hanging like this? If it were Kinn, Porsche would have been pinned to the bed and fucked until there was only cum dripping out of him instead of just lube. Even the thought of it sends a shudder through Porsche all the way down to his groin—fuck, he’s so hard, he could pin Pete to the bed and fuck him until it was all Porsche’s cum dripping out of him instead of—
No, fuck. Porsche balls up his fists and drags his eyes away from Pete’s ass. Unfortunately, his gaze falls on Vegas’ knowing face, his lips caught in a smirk before they tilt into something approaching sympathetic as he turns to pat Pete on the thigh.
"Sorry, pet, guess we’re done here," he says, still not sounding the least bit sorry.
Pete’s mouth falls open on a wordless protest as he gives a tiny, fretful shake of his head. Vegas pats his thigh again briskly before pulling away, and Pete’s head lifts off the bed for just a moment, arching up towards Vegas, before dropping back again.
"What’s that?" Vegas asks.
Pete’s head lolls to the side, away from Vegas, almost as if he’s turning towards Porsche for help. He licks his lips and swallows hard. Then, in a small voice, he says, "Please."
Vegas gives a considering hum. "Well, if Porsche doesn’t want—"
"Fuck you," Porsche hisses. He starts to pull his shirt off. "Fuck you and your stupid fucking mind games." He scrambles for his belt. "I'll fucking fuck him, you fucking asshole, get out of the way."
Vegas obliges, a picture of gracious equanimity on a face that Porsche is very glad to have punched twice. He shucks off his jeans and kicks them to the floor, crawling in between Pete's thighs, which fall open further as if to welcome him. Anticipation winds low and tight in his gut as Porsche kneels into place because he’s going to fuck Pete so well, and Pete’s going to feel so good, and he’ll fucking show Vegas, they’ll fucking show Vegas alright, won’t they, show him just how good—
Vegas' hand appears in front of him with a condom, and Porsche jerks to a halt. "What?"
"You're not fucking him raw," Vegas says.
Porsche groans and takes the condom. It’s been a damn long time since he’s used one, but he still automatically double-checks its size before ripping it open; yes, this one’s big enough. A faint voice pipes up in the back of his mind about how exactly Vegas knew to get the extra large, but his hands have already slipped the condom on and are reaching for Pete’s thighs again, lining his cock up with Pete’s gaping hole, and all suspicious thoughts slide right out of his mind as his cock slides in with barely any resistance.
"Fuck," Porsche moans, his voice mingling with Pete’s as he bottoms out with a single firm thrust of his hips—he’s never had anyone take his cock so easy before, he’s too big for some women to even take all of him. But Pete doesn’t do more than cry out and give in, take him balls deep when Porsche pulls back and thrusts in again, hard and sharp.
"Good, Porsche," Vegas says. That's right, shithead, Porsche thinks, but feels a little flush of gratification regardless. He builds up speed, adjusting his grip on Pete's thighs so he can find Pete’s sweet spot, and when he hits it, Pete starts making little punched out noises in time with his thrusts, cum dripping from his cock onto his belly.
Porsche tilts his head back and sinks into the rhythm, eyes still on Pete's flushed, sweat-slick chest, the way he rocks helplessly as Porsche pounds into him. With the blindfold on, Pete's just a body, and so is Porsche, one that knows exactly what he needs and how to give it to him. Just the two of them, alone in this moment, giving and taking pleasure from each other, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh with increasing desperation like a drumbeat that they’re both dancing to, that Porsche can feel deep in his gut, desire ratcheting tighter and tighter until he can almost taste—
"Look at you," Vegas murmurs in his ear, and Porsche falters briefly as his warm little bubble is popped. "You were made for this. Here, look."
Porsche feels the lightest touch on his head, guiding him to look down, at where his cock is stretching Pete’s already fucked out hole, and oh fuck his cock looks huge like this, with Vegas’ thumb so much smaller right next to it, rubbing at Pete’s rim.
"Look how good you’re giving it to him," Vegas continues, and Porsche can’t help the whine that escapes his lips as he thrusts into Pete again. "He’s going to feel you for weeks. He’s going to remember how good it was, how good he’s getting fucked on your cock—keep going, don’t stop now, don’t you want to feel Pete come on your cock?"
Oh fuck. Porsche squeezes his eyes shut, clenching the muscles of his thighs as he fights himself to slow down, to stop himself from finishing way too soon, but it doesn’t help that even with his eyes shut, he can feel Pete shuddering under his hands and whimpering, helpless and needy, with every slow grind of his hips. Vegas moves away and says something indistinct, but Porsche doesn’t have any attention to spare, trying to shove back against the rising tide of orgasm, sparks flashing behind his eyelids.
Then Vegas orders, "Look at Pete, Porsche," and Porsche obeys instinctively, opening his eyes to see the moment Vegas rips the blindfold off Pete’s face.
"Porsche," Pete gasps.
Their eyes lock, and Pete comes seconds later. He clenches hard around Porsche's cock, tremors coursing through his body like he’s breaking apart, mouth still stretched around Porsche’s name, and Porsche hears it ringing in his ears as he follows along right after, breath punched out of his lungs by the force of his climax.
Porsche manages to tip himself backwards onto his heels rather than collapse forward onto Pete, some ancient muscle memory from when he was fucking people smaller than him. He's shoved further out of the way without warning, and Porsche goes boneless down on his side at the foot of the bed while Vegas pulls Pete into his arms and holds him while he shakes and shakes.
They look nice like this, Porsche thinks dreamily, Vegas murmuring to Pete and stroking his face and hair. There’s something raw and reverent in the way Vegas is looking at Pete and holding him, and it makes Porsche miss Kinn all of a sudden. Maybe he wants Kinn to hold him too, to be here to see how good he was with Pete; Kinn would pat his hair and tell him he did a good job and press kisses against his still pounding heart.
Vegas gets up eventually to untie Pete and get a wet cloth to wipe him down with. He's so gentle and so thorough, and Pete stretches out under his attention like a satisfied cat, languid and relaxed. There’s a hint of a smile tilting at the corners of Pete’s lips, something soft and secret, and it occurs to Porsche that he’s never seen Pete quite like this before—maybe he’s not supposed to be seeing this? Uncertainty trickles into his consciousness as the high of orgasm starts to recede. Are they going to make him leave? Would Pete want him to leave? Vegas seems like he's forgotten Porsche is there entirely, wandering off to the bathroom for something. Should Porsche leave now, before Vegas comes back, before Pete can—
Pete turns his head towards Porsche. Their eyes lock again.
Pete grins at him, big and goofy, and Porsche’s breath escapes him all at once in relief.
"What?" Pete asks.
"Nah, nothing," Porsche returns, grinning back. "You good?"
"Yeah," Pete says. He stretches out his legs again. "You?"
"Oh, hell yeah," Porsche says. Pete raises up a lazy fist, wrist still ringed with the faint imprint of ropes, and Porsche raises a fist of his own so that they can do their three-part fist bump.
"What the fuck was that," Vegas says from the bathroom door, boggling at them as if they’d just done something crazy like put on mermaid costumes or whatever.
“Surely I don’t have to explain a fist bump to you,” Porsche says, mimicking Vegas’ superior tones, and Pete sniggers. Porsche raises both fists, and despite his giggles, Pete smoothly executes their triumphant double-over-under fist bump variation.
“Seriously, what the fuck. Who fist bumps in bed.”
“We do,” Porsche and Pete chorus, bursting into laughter at the affronted look on Vegas’ face.
"We’re good, that’s all," Pete adds, still chuckling, after about five minutes of Vegas’ incredulous stare.
"Yeah," Porsche echoes, feeling the warmth of it down to his toes, "we’re good."