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Porsche has felt shaped and defined by his anger for nearly as long as he can remember. Losing his parents and inheriting a parental role for his younger brother at such a young age had set him up for a life bracketed by sorrow and difficulty.
But even with all the world crashing down around him, Porsche had always managed to stay just above water; to maintain a certain semblance of happiness. Working for Yok had been the extra push he’d needed and, for a little while at least, things had been good.
His uncle had ruined that pipe dream and then Kinn had come in to destroy the pieces left behind.
“Stop thinking about him when I’m inside of you,” Vegas growls against Porsche’s ass, two fingers spearing Porsche open with nothing but Vegas’s spit to guide the way. Porsche had wanted it to hurt and, as much as Vegas has played the part of benevolent and misunderstood minor family heir, Porsche thinks Vegas was just fine with that as well.
“Fuck me better and maybe I would,” Porsche taunts, and Vegas bites him hard enough he knows it’ll bruise. Good. Let him leave marks. Maybe if he leaves enough they’ll somehow replace all the ways Kinn has marked him inside and out.
Vegas is also a creature shaped by his surroundings, the epitome of nature versus nurture when the nurturing is twisted and warped and wrong. When it’s full of darkness and rot and the promise of damnation. There’s a certain familiarity in Vegas that Porsche felt drawn to when they first met, a light in the darkness, or, more accurately, a darkness in the light.
They both hurt in similar ways, even if the shaping was drastically different, and Porsche spreads his knees further apart.
“He really did fuck you up, didn’t he?” Vegas muses with a laugh as he slides his fingers almost entirely out and holds them there, waits for Porsche to move his hips back and take them again, which Porsche does with a grunt. Vegas promised him pain to soothe the pain, vengeance in the guise of pleasure.
Porsche wants revenge against Kinn. More than he wanted revenge against the nameless, violent men who killed his parents. More than he wanted revenge against Arthee for squandering money and leading even more nameless, violent men to scare Porchay into insomnia as a kid. He wants revenge against Kinn for giving him the closest thing he’s felt to hope in so long he didn’t even realize what it was until Kinn took it back and Porsche realized he was never meant to have hope so long as other men controlled him.
Vegas has never promised him hope. An escape, a getaway, a crooked smile, a kiss that tastes every bit as remorseful as Porsche knows his kisses do. Vegas promised him a sympathetic ear and city highways with stars zipping overhead and this, his long fingers scissoring inside Porsche and his teeth burrowing into Porsche’s skin as though Vegas will swallow his anger and pain and keep it alongside his own.
Porsche moans as Vegas strokes that spot inside him, the one Kinn found and then avoided to chase his own pleasure without thought to Porsche’s.
“Vegas, more. I need more,” Porsche demands, and Vegas just laughs at him as he does something inside Porsche that he swears he can feel in his throat for how intensely sharp the sensation is. It feels like he’s being burned, and Porsche wants the fire to sweep through him and make the last remnants of Kinn nothing more than ash and smoke.
Another finger gets added, and Porsche rocks back against the intrusion, gritting his teeth as Vegas moves his hand again in a way that makes Porsche see stars and his dick throb. Kinn could have done this, could have made it hurt in all the right ways.
That he just offered hurt makes Porsche’s fury tangle with his arousal, and he looks over his shoulder to lock eyes with the man Kinn told him to never do this with.
“Fuck, keep doing that, Vegas.”
Vegas’s mouth is on Porsche again, sharp teeth, soft lips. It’s exquisite, the balance Vegas offers. The way he takes Porsche to one extreme and then the other, makes him pant and want to be cracked open entirely, because Vegas knows how much Porsche needs it.
“Kinn really didn’t know what he had with you, did he? Fucking selfish prick.”
“Now who’s thinking about Kinn?” Porsche taunts breathlessly, which grants him a swift, stinging slap to his ass as Vegas crooks his fingers inside him, making Porsche groan and drip.
“Shut up, Porsche,” Vegas commands, slapping him again, adding another finger to increase the painful stretch, bright and overwhelming and filling Porsche up with something to sit alongside his anger. “Stop thinking about anyone else when I’m here, making you hurt good for once. Think about me only.”
Porsche feels Vegas’s teeth in his skin again and swallows his rage in the hopes it might choke him. Porsche closes his eyes, and does just what Vegas tells him to.