Work Text:
Really, Phuwin thinks dizzily, I should’ve known.
The entire Dr. PONG+ team is down the hallway at this moment, blissfully unaware, or perhaps shamefully perceptive, of what is transpiring quite beyond Phuwin’s control in the break room. These walls, these contained offices where Phuwin has never stepped sideways even for fun, are being made to witness a deranged meeting. Clandestine, surely. Debased to its very bones.
“Ah—” Phuwin cries out, but not for help; he’s distantly aware of Pond Naravit’s satiated, smug laughter scraping against the bottom of his tongue as if it is something to be tasted, his hands clenching and unclenching hotly at his sides as his head spins and spins and spins, his brand presenter clothes discarded at their feet where he’s trying not to step on them. His legs are unsteady. His whole being is unsteady. “K-ngh-Khun—Pond—please—”
Air grows scant, a thumbscrew in Phuwin’s lungs twisting deeper and deeper, and Pond’s broad shoulders block out almost everything else, remarkably like the slopes of a great mountain. “Say one more time that we need to return to filming,” Pond breaths, eyes glinting like hard, frozen pools of tar, “and I will make sure you don’t go home for the week. Khun Phuwin.”
This entire time, he hasn’t broken eye-contact once, and won’t let Phuwin look away, either, and when he speaks, his voice rumbles and sinks straight through Phuwin’s chest, almost skin to skin. He isn’t bluffing—Naravit Lertratkosum doesn’t. Phuwin should be thankful that he’s at least hidden away from the sight of the entire building and staff, even though they probably know why the new site director takes such long and arduous breaks with the presenter during a 24-hour filming schedule for the product advertisement.
Phuwin likes to think that he has a thick skin after years of being in the entertainment industry, but. His face burns and another muffled whimper cracks out of him at just the thought of everyone knowing. And as if to torture him more, Pond forces his jaw up with a thumb. They’re standing against the refrigerator, and Phuwin thinks he can feel the hums against his bloodstream, and how warm the surface is, and how he’s trapped between two unyielding forces. One of Pond’s arms is around him in a parody of an embrace, but in fact, two of his fingers are knuckles-deep inside Phuwin’s stretched hole, opening him, getting wetter with each slide. His other hand has now travelled from Phuwin’s face to his hip, pinning him in place.
This man enjoys seeing the shame in Phuwin’s gasps.
“Please,” Phuwin whispers, eyes blurring with sudden dampness, and then his head knocks back against empty air and the world fractures into the drag of Pond’s thick fingers, the press of his warm knuckles, the closeness of his bespoke suit and soft cologne lashing suddenly against Phuwin’s guts like a whipping tail, and the pleasure in his lower back bursts open, and oh, oh.
Pond laughs, low and husky into Phuwin’s temple, “There you are, baby. So easy.” Instead of moving away, he crowds closer, pushing Phuwin harder against the fridge, his voice getting tighter on the next word, as if he’s just had his first taste, “Look at me—you like my fingers inside you? Hm?”
No answer makes it past Phuwin’s lips. The seconds are pooling into minutes, and he’s missing his call time, and he needs to get out of here and do his job, and not stand here like a doll for this man to use him however he pleases. He grips the edges of the fridge to steady himself, but heat simmers everywhere from his belly, and his cock jumps.
Phuwin’s words click wetly, helpless, “For the week.” His hands fly up to rest flat on Pond’s chest, his shoes skidding dangerously on the floor for a second that sends Pond’s fingers crooking deeper. His uneven breaths climb higher, faster, and he knows he’s clenching—shamelessly, the thought won’t leave his head—like a tight, stubborn little mouth, and he stares pleadingly into Pond’s eyes, “Okay. You can—I’ll be with you for, ah, for a week—just—please, let’s go back to work, Khun.”
The movement of those fingers inside him dull down from filthy, deep grinds to gentle, thoughtful half-circles that catch the rim of his hole again and again, teasing, knowing, playing. Pond cocks his head, his mouth parted in a look Phuwin has come to know as total concentration, a specific look that only gets directed at Phuwin when they’re like this. He seems perfectly composed and put-together, still fully dressed, not a hair out of place, as if debauching Phuwin before lunch is part of his routine. And then he twists his knuckles a certain way, and thrusts up into that spot again, and violent tremors jolt all along Phuwin’s limbs, his waist going soft, his legs losing gravity, and Pond says, “You’re worried about what others think?” and Phuwin knows that beneath that thin veneer of propriety, Pond Naravit is a hungry, greedy man. “Ashamed, Khun Phuwin? Of what?”
Phuwin pants, mouth open and throat parched, his arms going round Pond’s neck, clinging to that steady, terrifying firmness of Pond’s shoulders. The top edge of the refrigerator digs into his back when he tilts on his heels, and Pond’s fingers curl and pump inside his hole in a rhythm that makes him push back involuntarily, helpless. He can’t press forward, can only be pressed back and grit his teeth against the confusing onslaught of pleasure-pain. His head is spinning almost too badly for him to understand what Pond is saying, and he shivers a little when Pond’s breath skims his cheekbones, clenching down on him again—fuck— “Nn- hah- let me go.” He tries to glare, but it’s difficult; everything is like oil, slipping away and yet sticking to flesh, “I- I said you can—for a week—already—so just, j-ah, ah—”
“So gorgeous,” Pond’s voice comes thick and hot down Phuwin’s flushed chest, like boiling honey. His fingers have become three inside Phuwin’s welcoming hole, its tight little mouth making space as naturally as if Pond was always supposed to fit there, scraping electric pleasure against his soft walls in deep, plunging thrusts. Phuwin suddenly feels like a toy; a toy about to be used and used. “Fuck, Phuwin, you’re so tight. Can you count how many fingers there are inside you? How many, my pretty boy?”
The lack of respect in the way Pond says his name is what pushes Phuwin over. He stares into Pond’s eyes as he comes, soiling his briefs for the rest of the day where it would stick to him uncomfortably like a jarring reminder throughout the shoot, the meetings, and the promotional interview.
Truly, from the very start, Pond has made his intentions for Phuwin clear. At first, Phuwin couldn’t believe it because Pond was eight years older than him, and a respected businessman, and he had shown nothing but politeness and charm to everyone, including him. But he’s always been a little entitled of Phuwin, from the very first day he stepped in as the site director. The very first day they met. As if he’d seen a piece of meat he really, really wanted to eat before anyone else could snatch it from under his nose. Phuwin isn’t even surprised that he’s gotten himself into this mess with Pond Naravit, of all people. It was almost inevitable.
The fingers don’t stop, wringing out his orgasm out of him until it starts to hurt, and Pond leans in with a dark, glazed look in his eyes which means he won’t let go until Phuwin has given him everything he has. “T-three,” Phuwin gasps, shaking, hips going loose and then suddenly tense as Pond gets a hand under his left leg, pushes it up in the air, bent at the knee, and Phuwin’s eyes go wide, a loud, surprised moan slipping out of his throat before he realizes he made such an obvious, incriminating sound merely three doors away from the set— “Four!- hnng, oh god—”
He hadn’t been wearing much for the last twenty minutes but now his briefs are also on the floor, pooled around the ankle, one of his legs bent in the air; he has already been divested of his pants and coat, and now he’s afraid that he’ll be made to take Pond completely naked in an office building. By far, this is Phuwin’s biggest fear.
He doesn’t want his first time to be here.
Just as he’s collecting enough breaths to protest, Pond slows his movements, stops, and pulls out his fingers from Phuwin’s stretched hole one by one. They’re breathing almost into each other’s mouths, noses lightly brushing—like affection, Phuwin thinks for a wild, fleeting second before shoving that thought to the very back of his head—their eyes locked. Phuwin’s arms around Pond’s neck. Pond’s hands gently putting him back on both feet.
“You,” Pond brings up a hand to cup the side of Phuwin’s face, thumb swiping over his jaw, “have nothing to be ashamed of. Nobody would dare judge you as long as I’m alive.”
Phuwin squirms in his arms, attempting to step away, but then his breath hitches as two big, familiar hands slide languidly over his ass, a casual grope. A way to say that this, too, is Pond’s. He’s pushed forward, and his chest meets Pond’s, and now they’re truly, horribly close, sharing used breaths between their mouths like vape. Then, Pond’s gaze breaks for the first time from Phuwin’s, and settles unquestioningly on his lips. Phuwin feels Pond’s hardness straining between their hips, feels where it sits hot but patient, secure in its knowledge that sooner rather than later, it would be allowed to plunder and take what it so badly wants. The thought clears the haze in Phuwin’s brain a little, but there’s nowhere to go.
He doesn’t resist when Pond’s mouth descends intently on his, as Pond’s lips, surprisingly soft, spread over his like a revelation. He forgets to breathe, and has to be reminded of it between coaxing, chaste pecks and a mirthful, “Breathe, my boy.” It occurs to Phuwin that this is their first kiss. And then, his lips part on their own, and Pond’s tongue slips in between, tasting the edges, swiping at the fading lip-gloss. He rumbles, short, like a feasting, ancient beast enjoying his temple sacrifice. He kisses Phuwin for a long time, deep, slow kisses that muddle up Phuwin’s brain just as badly as Pond’s fingers.
Not even a single person comes to call on them. By the time Pond’s finished dressing him back up (going down on his knees, blithe, sliding Phuwin’s briefs up, helping him get into his pants, re-buttoning them, and then re-buckling his belt, and making Phuwin feel strangely young and vulnerable), they’ve killed something close to thirty-five minutes with no good reason, and Phuwin is too wrung-out to give a proper excuse.
At the end of the workday, Pond strolls up to him, hands in his pockets, impeccable and unruffled, and hands Phuwin a set of car keys. At Phuwin’s confused, somewhat annoyed expression, he smiles, and indulges, “I believe you know your way to my condo.”
Blood drains from Phuwin’s face, and then spikes up the next second like a tide. There’s a word for this, what he’s become—whore. He can pretend all he wants that Pond’s unprofessional interest in him is disgusting and unethical and not Phuwin’s fault, but. He’s not disgusted. And he’s going to spend the week in his boss’ bed, anyway.
Honestly, he only has himself to blame.