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The afterparty of the premiere of the first episode of Thomas and Kong’s latest series is a blur of glittering lights, champagne flutes, and laughter ringing out a little too loud. Music thrums low in the background, the kind that makes the floor vibrate faintly beneath expensive shoes.
The air smells of perfume, liquor, and everything else that is a classy after-party that Thomas liked to hold after each of his series. The hosts themselves are missing, but that doesn’t change anything in the atmosphere.
Teetee stands at the center of it all like he was born to be there—maybe he does, rightfully being the second lead actor in the series. He is in a sleek suit—his appearance shines brighter than the gems attached to his suit, wearing an easy smile, eyes crinkling whenever someone leans in to talk to him.
He laughs when he needs to, listens intently when someone is speaking, and looks every bit the star people can’t help but gravitate toward. Hands brush his arm when people pass by, strangers linger too long in conversations, and eyes follow him across the room.
And Por sees it all.
From where he sits, a glass of liquor sweating against his palm, unused. His jaw ticks every time someone leans a little too close. Every time a laugh rings out that isn’t his.
Every time Teetee’s hand rests politely on someone’s elbow to guide them through the crowd.
Teetee’s gaze flicks to him now and then—subtle, fleeting, as if to remind him that he sees him, that he knows he’s here. But it’s not enough. Not when the rest of the room is feasting on him like he’s theirs to touch, to want, to take.
Fuck P’Thomas, he mentally curses his brother for not taking the center of the room, knowing well he is somewhere in the corner, busy with Kong.
Though he knows, no matter who is in the room, everyone’s eyes will wander to Teetee. He’s charismatic like that. Magnetic.
He huffs, sipping the drink that feels too bitter on his tongue. He groans in irritation.
When he looks back at Teetee, he sees some younger actress talking to him, sweet smiles and small giggles. Ugh.
The smile Por forces when someone tries to strike up a conversation doesn’t reach his eyes. His grip tightens on the glass. All he can think about is how badly he wants to cross the room, tug Teetee away, and remind everyone that he’s not theirs.
He never was.
But under the lights, the cameras and whispers lurking everywhere, all Por can do is sit and simmer.
Because in the end, to everyone, he’s only a friend. Only a fellow member of Teetee’s boy band.
The city outside blurs past in streaks of gold and neon, the hum of traffic softened by the tinted windows of the van. It’s quieter than usual, just the faint rumble of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal.
Their manager is probably taking a nap on the passenger seat; he can only guess, considering there’s a division between the back seats and the driver’s seat—the group usually uses it to have a faster change of clothes between schedules sometimes. But usually she strikes up conversations, but today she’s silent.
Good.
Teetee is beside Por, head resting against the seat, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t notice how Por hasn’t touched his own, how his hands are perfectly still on his lap, fingers curled too tight against the fabric of his pants.
Por’s silence is steady, practiced. He’s good at hiding it—the way his chest tightens when he remembers every lingering look Teetee had drawn tonight, the way it burned to watch strangers lean too close, too bold. The way he wanted to peel those stares off Teetee’s skin and keep him to himself.
But now, in the car’s dim interior, he keeps his face smooth, gaze fixed on the passing lights outside. To Teetee, it probably looks like fatigue. To anyone else, maybe he just seems thoughtful. But inside, Por is a storm barely leashed.
They’re heading to their dance studio, and the older members, after their schedules, are waiting for them there.
“P’Por,” Por flinches slightly at the sudden call, and Teetee laughs, joking about how he’s like a cat. Then he starts talking about something James sent in their group in the morning, choreography, recordings, and everything Por is not in the right mood to think about.
But Teetee’s voice is quiet, warm, and steady, like it always is.
“…so for the dance break, I think we’ll need to adjust the formation a little. Manager said the cameras didn’t catch the sync properly last time, so we’ll practice until it’s sharp. Oh—also, the concept photos for the new album are scheduled next week. They want us in full styling, so we’ll have to start fittings tomorrow…”
He talks, easy and calm, his words threaded with the usual concentration that sometimes makes him wonder whether Teetee is the actual leader. He doesn’t notice how his profile glows faintly under the passing streetlights, how every movement of his mouth pulls Por’s attention tighter, tighter.
Por doesn’t say a word.
He stares.
And stares.
And stares.
Teetee, with his long lashes lowered, eyes on his phone screen as he scrolls through the practice notes he’s prepared. Teetee, with that soft crease of focus between his brows, completely unaware of the fire he’s stoking just by existing.
Inside Por, something restless claws at him. The demon voice, low and insistent, whispering the things he wants but can’t do.
Touch him.
Mark him.
Show them he’s yours.
Only yours.
It burns—the memory of hands brushing against Teetee at the party, the way strangers looked at him like they had any right. Por’s throat feels dry, tight, the ache sitting heavy in his chest. He wants to drag Teetee to him, kiss him until he can’t breathe, press his mouth against his throat until the world sees the mark of who he belongs to.
But he just stares, fist curling on his lap, his pulse thrumming louder in his ears than Teetee’s voice.
“...and the filming of the live showcase is a week before the release, so we’ll have to—”
Teetee pauses mid-sentence, as if he feels his gaze. Finally tearing his eyes from the notes on his phone, he looks at Por, really looks this time—and Por sees the way he’s scanning him, his silence the whole ride, the way his gaze hadn’t drifted once.
He tilts his head, like a curious puppy, as if to figure out what is wrong.
And then it happens. Just a flicker.
His eyes dip down, lingering at Por’s lips for the briefest heartbeat before darting back to his eyes. So quick it could almost be nothing. Almost.
But to Por, it’s everything.
It’s the last fragile thread holding him together, snapping.
His hands move before he can think, fisting Teetee’s collar, dragging him forward across the small space between them. Their mouths crash together, all sharp heat and pent-up want, nothing gentle about it.
It’s messy, desperate, the kind that leaves no room for doubt. No room for air.
Por feels the phone from Teetee’s hand slip and fall onto the soft carpet of the car. His soft gasp is swallowed immediately, drowned beneath Por’s demand.
The taste of champagne lingers on Teetee’s tongue, sweetness chased by the little growl in Por’s chest as if he’s finally claiming what was denied to him under those watchful eyes.
The first second, Teetee is stunned—Por feels it, the wide eyes, the caught breath, frozen body in the grip of Por’s desperation, need. But then, like a dam cracking open, he moves.
His hand fists Por’s shirt, tugging him closer, and he kisses back with just as much vigor—lips parting, teeth clashing, a low, muffled sound escaping his throat.
What started rough only grows rougher.
Por groans into his mouth, the sound raw, his hand sliding up to cup Teetee’s jaw, thumb pressing hard enough to leave his skin burning. Their mouths lock and unlock in frantic rhythm, tongues tangling, every kiss deeper than the last, until it’s less about air and more about taking, about claiming.
Teetee gasps against him when Por bites his lower lip, and he swallows the sound hungrily, chasing it with another searing kiss. Teetee’s head tips back against the seat, chest heaving, but he doesn’t stop pulling at Por, doesn’t stop kissing like he wants to erase the entire night and remake it here, in this moment.
The space feels too small, too hot—but at the same time too big. He wants no distance between them, no fabric, no boundaries.
Por drags his lips down, just for a moment, catching the edge of Teetee’s jaw, teeth grazing the skin before he crashes back up to his mouth. He feels the younger shudder beneath the touch, answering with a kiss so deep it nearly pulls a growl from Por’s chest.
There’s almost no space, no air, no restraint. Just the heat of lips and tongue and teeth, and the sharp sound of breathless moans slipping through—sounds he hopes are masked by the music that’s played in the background.
By the time they finally break apart, their foreheads pressed together, lips swollen and slick, the air thick with the taste of everything they’ve been holding back.
Por’s thumb traces the corner of Teetee’s mouth, eyes dark, voice hoarse when he murmurs, “Don’t you ever look at anyone else like that again.”
Teetee’s lips brush against the corner of Por’s mouth, soft but charged. His voice—a whisper, cuts through the heavy air between them.
“Who else would I be looking at,” he murmurs, kissing him again, feather light but loaded with intent, “when you’re in the room, P’Por?”
And something snaps inside Por.
A sound rumbles low in his chest, half a growl, half a groan, as he seizes Teetee’s jaw, forcing his head to tilt—though he thinks Teetee lets him with his own will. Por’s mouth is at his throat, hot and demanding, teeth scraping along the skin before biting down just enough to make Teetee gasp.
He smirks when Teetee’s fingers clutch at Por’s shoulders, his back arching against the seat as if the sensation burns through him. He sucks hard on the bite, licks and sucks again, relentless, leaving his mark where no one will miss it.
“Phi–” Teetee’s voice cracks, breathless as Por drags his lips lower, painting bruises along the line of his neck, “They will— fuck— see…”
“Good,” Por replies against his skin, leaving a kiss on the newly formed mark, “Let them see.”
Teetee shudders under him, his grip tightening and nails digging through fabric as Por claims him over and over, branding him every bite, every kiss. Every tremble under his fingers only drives Por wilder—every mark a declaration, every bruise a wordless mine.
His hand slides from Teetee’s jaw down to his chest, pressing hard over his racing heartbeat before gripping his waist and yanking him closer. The cramped space makes him curse under his breath—if he could, he’d climb right into Teetee’s lap, erasing the distance for easier access.
The car jerks slightly as it turns a corner, reminding them—too late—that they aren’t alone. He does not think he cares. Too influenced by the ugly green monster inside him that keeps reminding him of the eyes on his Teetee earlier.
Teetee however, freezes, “Phi,” he whispers, breath trembling, “They’ll hear.”
“Let them hear.”
Por moves up to crash their lips again. This time it’s messier than before. A lot more desperate for more.
He feels it in Teetee’s kiss.
The way he kisses this time, as if he has been starving for this longer than he can admit—teeth tugging Por’s lip, tongue pressing in to deepen the kiss until Por can’t help the voice breaking through his throat.
“You’re insane,” there’s a smile in his voice, “They’re right there.”
“Good,” Por mutters, breathing heavily, “Then they’ll know you’re mine.”
This time, Por sees the shift; he watches Teetee’s eyes darken, feels a smirk on his lips when he kisses him.
Teetee’s hand slides into his hair, tugging them, pulling them hard enough, just the way Teetee knows that he likes it—as if wanting more sounds out of him, “Tee—”
He gasps against his mouth, whispering a chain of ‘Tee’ , like a curse, like a prayer. He shudders when Teetee slips his free hand under his shirt, snaking around his waist, pulling him closer, closer.
When they break apart, he feels just as wrecked as he sees Teetee. The younger’s neck is littered with marks, and he feels pride bloom in his chest. Mine.
Teetee’s eyes are still dark as he stares at him, lips trembling with the ghost of a smile.
“Phi, when we reach the studio,” he mutters against his lips, leaving kisses between, “the practice is gonna have to wait.”
He kisses a path to his ear, nibbling softly on the flesh that makes Por bite down a moan— sensitive, “You have to finish what you started, P’Por.”