Chapter Text
Porsche wakes up the most well-rested he’s ever been. He tries to recall a time he felt more refreshed, but the memory eludes him. Instead he sighs, content, and sinks into the broad chest at his back, the owner simultaneously weaving strong arms tighter around his waist.
His eyes snap open.
“What the fuck?” he mutters out, confusion bleeding into disdain.
“Mmm. Quiet down. It’s early,” a voice seemingly replies, words muffled as the man–fuck, that's definitely a man, isn’t it–behind him nuzzles into the nape of his neck, deeply breathing in Porsche’s scent.
A shiver runs down his spine at the intimacy of it. None of this is right. He doesn’t go home with his quickies. He doesn’t stay the night. And he definitely doesn’t fuck guys. Porsche shifts to dislodge the man’s grip and grimaces as a sharp pain shoots up his back. Ok. He definitely doesn’t let guys fuck him.
And yet signs point to him doing all those things–what the fuck happened last night?
A little more struggling and the man (god, he can’t even think of a name) seems to take the hint. He sluggishly releases his hold on Porsche and allows him enough freedom to shuffle away from him on the ridiculously large bed. For the first time, Porsche gets a good look at his early morning company, and his breath catches in his throat.
He was definitely right about calling him broad; the man looks like he could ravage Porsche against the wall in some dark alley and anyone passing by would be none the wiser. And given the very nude state of this man, Porsche can’t help but wonder if this may have happened before they moved their encounter somewhere more private. His black hair is disheveled from sleep with loose strands framing his face, and his thick brows are scrunched in a silent question. He’s seemingly just as perplexed by this turn of events as Porsche is, yet nothing about him screams vulnerable to him. There’s an edge of danger there that he can’t quite place and Porsche finds himself frozen as the man looks him up and down, as if assessing him. It makes Porsche anxious in a way he can’t articulate and doesn’t want to reflect on.
“Who the fuck are you?” Porsche is snapped out of his thoughts by the kurtness of the gruff voice. He lays there, silently gaping as he tries to grasp the words to answer before a tilt of the man’s head and raising of eyebrows finally coaxes a response from him.
“I’m Porsche.” He winces at that. He hadn’t meant to give his name. It’s one thing if they met at the bar, but Porsche didn’t have a shift last night, which means wherever he met this mystery man, it had to be one of Porsche’s seedier haunts. The man continues to silently consider him, his expression giving away nothing, but the intensity of his dark eyes stripping him down, somehow making him feel more exposed than being naked in this stranger’s bed. Just as Porsche is about to snap at him to alleviate this crushing vulnerability, the man finally responds.
“Hm.” He lets out a little hum and starts adjusting himself, rolling to the side of the bed and getting up, letting the covers slide off of him with no pretenses of maintaining dignity. Porsche’s eyes instinctively roam, hard lines and light scars adorning his skin. Porsche is bombarded with snippets of recollection: calloused hands roving his body and firmly encircling his waist. Devilish fingers pinching and teasing his nipples to hardness. Warm breath tickling his throat while a skilled tongue laps at his pulse. A muscled thigh nudging his legs apart and teasing his cock. And also…his eyes finally make their way to where Porsche was subconsciously avoiding, eyes widening upon being met with a long, thick helping of morning wood. How had he not felt that pressed against him this morning? How had he taken that last night? Before the man can catch him staring in awe, Porsche composes himself enough to process the man’s reaction to his introduction.
He looks up into those eyes, still just as intense but not as intimidating now that Porsche expectantly awaits further clarification. It grates him that he gets none.
“Ok. So are you going to give me your name?” Porsche gestures toward him, obviously exasperated at even having to ask–put off over having to insist on simple etiquette from this man who looks to at least be his age, if not slightly older. His gaze falters a bit, confusion gracing his features before hardening again to that infuriating aloofness.
He lets out a huff of air through his nose, condescension dripping from the small gesture. “Are you telling me the agency sent you and didn’t even bother to tell you my name? I don’t know if they got their clientele files mixed up, but it would definitely explain your sturdier build. You’re not the type I request, and I’m almost pressed to file a complaint over the safeguarding of my privacy if their record keeping is this shoddy.” The words flow from his mouth with an easiness that belies how they cut into Porsche. Even before he can start comprehending what’s being said, the tone is enough to tell him that this man doesn’t consider him worthy of further complications. Mulling on that for a bit longer, the pieces of information then slowly start falling into place, giving Porsche a clearer picture.
“Agency. Do you think I’m some fucking whore?” Porsche snarls the words out, the last of his grogginess overtaken by a fierce savagery he can’t place. He never thought he had problems with the escort industry before–he knows everyone’s gotta make a living–but something about this man specifically viewing him as nothing more than a transaction has Porsche bristling at the insinuation. Porsche chalks it up to the implicit insult in his phrasing and decides not to think on it more as he glares daggers, silently demanding answers.
“I don’t presume to know what you each call yourselves, I just expect a discreet and professional relationship with any business I choose to engage with.” The man raises an eyebrow, bemusement evident in the quirk of his lips, like Porsche’s outburst were an adorable tantrum to be quelled with empty platitudes. He leans down, towering over Porsche–invading his space–before gently tilting his chin up to better gaze into his eyes, the action dousing some of Porsche’s flames from the sheer gall and absurdity of it all. “And honestly, I’m not really feeling you’re up to par.”
The words shatter the hold the man’s attention had on Porsche’s fury, and it comes roaring back as Porsche slaps the hand away and gives himself some distance, teeth gritted like it took everything in him not to simply bite the man like some cornered beast. The other's hand stays in the air for a second before he slowly lowers it as he straightens up again, the calmness of his movements betrayed by the hardness in his expression. This isn’t a man accustomed to being challenged, and a small part of him feels he shouldn’t push his luck. That he should just chalk this up to some fucked up misunderstanding and the worst one night stand of his life before just quickly getting on with his walk of shame. But Porsche lives off of fighting, so it’s no surprise that he’s ready to die doing it, too.
“Fuck you. Sorry to disappoint your delicate sensibilities, but you’re sturdier than my type, too.” He quickly throws the sheets from himself and makes a show of tearing the room apart looking for his clothes. He’s making more of a mess of things than necessary and reveling in it, pettiness driving every movement and word. He can feel the pain shooting up his spine with each jerky movement, but his frenzy pushes on, shaky legs or not. “I was thinking why I would sleep with such a twat, much less let him fuck me, but I see that was the only way anything was gonna happen–what with that stick already occupying your ass.”
The man just stands there watching him frantically dress–his silence infuriating Porsche all the more–driving him to try and goad him into a fight. When none of Porsche’s ranting gets the desired reaction, he imposes on the man’s space, catching how his body stiffens, suddenly on guard. At least that’s something.
“I don’t know what happened last night and I don’t know how I ended up in your bed, but I think we can both agree: this was a major screwup for both of us. You’re obviously used to throwing around money for a quick fuck, but I’m feeling charitable and will give this one to you free of charge. In exchange, I never fucking wanna see your smug ass again.” Porsche emphasizes his last point with a sharp jab to his chest using his finger. The man instinctively grabs his wrist, and they remain frozen like that, both trying to exert dominance over the other and refusing to yield. They spend a few more moments like that, harsh breaths intermingling in the small space between them. The other man finally seems fed up with whatever this is and lets go of Porsche’s hand, still refusing to speak, simply sighing and shaking his head like he were dealing with a minor spat and not Porsche’s world being completely upended.
For whatever reason, his indifference guts Porsche. His only solace is that the man averts his gaze at just the right moment to miss how Porsche’s face falters, silently begging for refutation that he knows won’t come and that he doesn’t understand why he craves. With a click of his tongue, Porsche roughly turns away from him and snatches the last of his things before making his way to the door. He rips it open and gives a last quick turn back to his biggest mistake, who makes no show of sparing him a single glance as he firmly stares out a window on the far wall to his left. There’s a hitch in Porsche’s breath that he refuses to acknowledge, finally slamming the door shut and leaving the man alone with nothing but the echo of his departure.