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A year after the coup, Vegas asks Pete to teach him boxing.

My last fic of the year. It feels like a dream honestly. I'm so happy I got to write this for @cheresha after receiving a gift from them last year. I'm truly glad you enjoyed it, it was a pleasure to write this one for you ❤️ This was my source of inspiration for the story, in case you'd like to associate an image with Vegas doing (trying to do) boxing. This fic also marks the one year anniversary since @wretchedamaranth became my beta reader, so I'm overwhelmed with all kinds of feelings. They helped with this one too of course, tremendously so, and I am so, so grateful they've been a part of my writing journey, as well as one of the best friends I've ever had in my life. Thank you my friend, I don't know what I'd do without you. A special thanks to @musictooth too who, probably unaware of it, helped me get unstuck in how to write a specific vignette in the 1st chapter by making this gifset around a month ago. Your ideas are always so crunchy, thank you for sharing them with the fandom 💖 Last but not least, I'd like to thank a specific group of newly-found friends I've had the pleasure of getting to know these past few months. They wholeheartedly accepted all of me, and supported me throughout the process of writing this with their kind words. I adore you all, I'm so happy you're a part of my life. I hope you enjoy the fic. Hopefully I'll see you soon with its conclusion.

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The Magazine Quiz Conundrum (part 2)

From an excellent conversation with @lu-sn lu and @supernovasimplicity boots. Part 1 here.

By evening three, Vegas 100% knows Tankhun’s trying to quiz-trap Pete

He also vaguely knows he’s not supposed to tell Pete he can’t see his friends, because that would be controlling and Pete might leave if Vegas gets controlling

Pete will come home. He needs Vegas to feed him

And Vegas isn’t so pathetic he can’t get by on his own for an evening or three. He’ll just make dinner. Pete will come home. He’ll eat. It’ll be fine

(The fridge is at this point so overstuffed with the fruits of Vegas’s anxiety cooking that Macau’s getting concerned)

Pete meanwhile is four hours into Tankhun’s new quiz and getting twitchy. He’s started inventing reasons to call Vegas to “ask for quiz responses”

“You were born on a Tuesday, right?” he greets Vegas. Tankhun can’t hear Vegas’s response on the other end (not that he’s trying)

It’s a three-minute call at most. A lot of hums and yeses on Pete’s side—and not even an “I love you” at the end, which is promising

Except afterwards, Pete announces that he has to go now

But he’s barely started the quiz??

Pete gathers up the debunked quizzes Tankhun gifted him and begins to put on his shoes. “It’s dinnertime—”

“Eat here.”

“—and Vegas made hand-pulled noodles,” Pete explains, half-apologetically

And then he is simply gone

Tankhun watches on the security cameras as Pete exits the building and crosses the front sidewalk to meet Vegas, leaned up against his car flicking a lighter like a low-class goon

And—Tankhun makes Arm zoom and rewind so he can watch this part twice, then has him loop it for good measure—yes, that is a skip in Pete’s step the moment he sees Vegas waiting for him. Tankhun is steamed

Tankhun loves Pete. Pete was his most understanding bodyguard. Tankhun was the first to notice Pete missing, and the one who held a funeral for him, and the one who took him to Tankhun’s favorite place and sang karaoke at him to cheer him up when he was struggling

And here Pete is, telling him again and again in multiple-choice format that Vegas is a good cook and does thoughtful things around the apartment and cares for his (horrid) little brother and knows what Pete needs at the end of a long day

(Tankhun does not think to ask what Pete needs at the end of a long day, and Pete would not answer if he did)

Certainly it’s a lie and a facade—certainly Pete is brainwashed—certainly Vegas masterminded this whole plot as a slap in the face for Tankhun specifically 

And yet—

“Make more popcorn,” Tankhun snaps at Pol before the thought can complete itself. “Apparently the only thing Pete is loyal to is his stomach.”

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The Magazine Quiz Conundrum (part 1)

This bulletfic adapted from a delightful conversation with @lu-sn lu and @supernovasimplicity boots.

After a few awkward visits postcanon, Tankhun magnanimously decides to break the ice with Pete by giving him one of those “how compatible are you and your lover” magazine quizzes

The goal, he assures Pete, is to find Pete a different boyfriend figure out who Pete is because Tankhun doesn’t know anymore have fun. Tankhun is the best at fun, ask anybody

Naturally, Tankhun picks Vegas’s answers. He generously allowed Pete to answer for Vegas a couple times, but Pete kept choosing wrong and that cannot be allowed

And Pete’s type, going by the quiz, is a home cook who will respect Pete’s grandmother—really Vegas ought to save everyone some trouble and give him back now

…The quiz comes back “98% compatible”

The next quiz says “soulmates”

The sixth one proclaims “your love is HOT and SPICY 🌶️🌶️🌶️”

Well, a few of them were bound to be broken. Sometimes you can’t tell right away which quizzes are trustworthy and which ones will betray you in the end. Right, Pete? *tosses magazine into the growing pile behind the sofa*

Tankhun eventually decides they’re getting bad results because these quizzes are asking the wrong questions. How can you expect to learn the truth from a faulty premise?

He’ll just have to design his own quiz for next time Pete comes over

(By which he means he’ll write the first three questions and then delegate the rest to Arm and Pol with firm instructions to ensure that Pete fails)

(Wanting Pete to fail is not pettiness, by the way. Tankhun is awakening Pete to the truth—it’s actually the kindest thing he could do)

The result is a winding and incredibly specific quiz that features several pointed mentions of Pol getting shot and descriptions of Vegas’s general inability to love anybody

Pete navigates the quiz awkwardly but flawlessly. He scores “a love that spans lifetimes,” it’s horrid

Afterwards, Tankhun looks over the quiz outcomes and realizes that not just one but several of them are positive. Enormous oversight on Arm and Pol’s part

Tankhun only punishes them a little. This is still fixable. And at least while Pete’s playing magazine quiz with Tankhun, he’s not in that dreadful apartment with dreadful Vegas

Arm, make the next quiz infinite

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if you see this post you are obligated to reblog and tell me something good that happened to you this year

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: KinnPorsche: The Series (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Gun Theerapanyakun & Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun, Macau Theerapanyakun & Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun, Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham/Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun Characters: Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun, Gun Theerapanyakun, Macau Theerapanyakun, Nop (KinnPorsche: The Series), Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham, Original Characters Additional Tags: POV Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pack Dynamics, Canonical Character Death, both the previous tag and the MCD is for the same character (you know who), Alpha Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Implied Time-Travel, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, yes beta we live like Vegas and his eternal rage, Family Feels, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse Series: Part 2 of the fire inside me and you, an echo of the source - our primal souls… Summary:

Macau’s face blooms scarlet, a barely there, choked-back whine of shock and pain the only sound before the courtyard, the bodyguards, what feels like the whole compound, freezes over with deathly silence. The sound of the city, the rush of Vegas’s blood, the galloping time itself, stills for just a second, and the only one unaware? His father, ready to hurl more poison in his pup’s face.

Gun’s always been blind to what’s right in front of him, though. Vegas knows it now.

The worry turns into fury and Vegas charges in.

____

Pheeew, it’s been a while, eh? ^^” No idea if there’s anyone still interested in this AU or anything like this, but I’ve been sitting on it since summer and Im finally ready to let it breath, so – here it goes! A follow-up to “Woken up, wild beast”, which I’d highly recommend reading first if you haven’t already. That aside, I hope this one will be a nice read to someone somewhere out there! 

Hats off to everyone still keeping this fandom alive, y’all are the best and I’m sending you the best vibes, cheers! ^^

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i think love is stored in nighttime conversations and “did you eat yet” and books left outside your door and “i waited to watch this with you” and splitting something in half to share and “im proud of you” and folded towels and “you can pick” and heads on shoulders and “you’re right, that was shitty. im sorry” and knocks on doors and “DINNER!” and stupid jokes and “hey i got this for you” and coffee made just right and… there are so many ways people say i love you silently every day over and over again if you only listen

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its sooo cool messaging someone you think is cool. and then you find out they think YOURE cool like. awesome! yay! we should kiss

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hi everyone i hope you dont mind if i

(hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws)

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ginkgo leaf wall hanging quilt commission 🌿

cotton fabrics with hand carved block prints, quilted and sewn with the free motion foot on my machine

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From a chat I had with lu @lu-sn months ago, an idea that’s been living in my head rent-free. ❤️

They’re packing up Vegas’s room at the minor family compound—Pete on the floor with the boxes, Vegas on the edge of the bed and a dozen ugly outbursts.

(It is pain and presence and all Pete’s patience in the face of Vegas’s uselessness; it is a fragile, defensive rawness and a loving, too, and all of it bound up in grief and grievance.)

The packing goes more tolerably than it has any right to. Porsche never pokes his head in. Pete follows Vegas’s terse directives unerringly, sees too much but asks few questions. Three boxes and four garbage bags are filled in short order.

And then Pete comes upon Vegas’s drawer of trophies.

Not spelling bee trophies, you understand; these are the tokens of theft and successful exploits.

So here is the ring Vegas wore to visit Tawan. A forgotten earring. A pair of briefs, abandoned by a nameless squirrel-faced little twink who dangled off Kinn’s arm and Vegas’s every honeyed word.

Gifts, too: a set of ornate golden cufflinks, an enormous and tacky wristwatch. A dozen expensive baubles Vegas never used but forever gripped tight.

Here is a collection of meticulously labeled disks—one bears the squirrel-faced twink’s name, not that he’s aware—and Vegas knows the moment Pete picks up the oldest and glimpses its significance, because the corners of his mouth tighten a fraction. He sets down the disk and lifts Tawan’s ring instead, inspecting the empty promises engraved on its inner edge.

“Drop it,” Vegas bites out.

And Pete nods, and drops the ring back in the drawer with precisely as much consideration as Tawan deserves, and they move forward.

Or so Vegas thinks, except the next item Pete produces is a second ring. Gold and jade, a gift from some big-mouthed triad boy with his tongue hung so loose he ultimately lost it. “A shame,” Vegas had told Kinn at the time, airily—“It was a talented tongue, wasn’t it?”

There are at least four rings in that drawer.

The physical evidence of everything Vegas won over Kinn once brought him a mangled satisfaction. Now it is as if Pete is raising his mutilations to the light. He clung to them—they are his, as very little has been—but they are not of him.

“What,” he says sharply, “you want it?”

Pete raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think it would fit me, if I did.”

“Don’t get fucking jealous.”

Pete tilts his head. Looks up at him, thoughtful. “You’ve been a lot of different things to different people,” he says. “Did they fit you?”

(And here is the truth: sometimes, they did. Sometimes it was the wind in his face and a motorcycle engine revving under him and a rush of pure simple abandon. Sometimes the success of the lie overtook him and he became it; sometimes he ached with fragile pride for his meager wins.)

(Some nights he lay in bed with the smothering heat of a body against his back and cold sweat on his bare skin, and only his fingers dirty from touching Kinn’s leftovers because there was nothing left inside him to hold the stain.)

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Vegas says. His voice comes out strange and hoarse. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Pete.”

Pete crawls over. He picks up Vegas’s hand where it lies limp on the bed.

Despite everything—Vegas’s chest catches, watching him slide the ring onto his finger. He loathes—loves—his lungs are shot, can’t drag in enough air.

The ring dangles off his finger. Triad kid assumed his size, thought him grander than he was.

It looks gaudier now than it did the one time he attempted to wear it. Maybe it’s the absence of the family ring.

The tat and trinkets were designed for tawdry shapes, molds into which Vegas contorted himself. He is no longer capable of the imitation.

(Pieces of him continue to wear those shapes, still and forever. This alien body is an inescapable thing.)

Vegas watches his own hand clench into a fist. The urge—to unmake, to smash himself open—this too is inescapable. Easier to extract what is genuine from the beaten pulp than from the shell.

Pete knows this too, but he bows his head against Vegas’s arm before Vegas can even try. His forehead is warm—his hair soft—underneath, his hands hold Vegas’s wrist like a precious thing. Clumsily, Vegas’s free hand finds Pete’s nape.

“Be the parts that fit,” Pete tells him. “Hold what you want to keep. The rest will fall away.”

Here on his finger, a part of Vegas forcibly made native; here in the stretched-taut tendons of his forearm, the rot that is all Vegas’s own. Pete is careful with the invasive patchwork of him, but the specific gentleness he offers Vegas’s putrid inborn mess is fury and comfort in equal measure.

He strokes Pete’s hair. Slowly lets his fist unclench.

The ring clatters to the floor, bounces somewhere under the bed. They do not retrieve it.

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"so how did you two meet"

she messaged me on tumblr and we became obsessed with each other literally immediately and now we are bound by the red string of fate

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fic authors self rec! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love~<333333

Thank you for the ask, Yujeong! This took me a while to answer (I overthought the answers, as is my wont 😅), but it was so much fun.

A Close Shave

If running the razor down the side of Pete’s face felt intimate, the slick slide of blade against throat is something primal. Blood sings close to the surface, jugular an endless welling up, carotid a violent burst underneath. Drowning could not ease the pulse that sears through Vegas’s mind at the image—he suspects only one thing could. He could flick his wrist and end this. (He could nuzzle his face into the hollow of Pete’s neck and end this.)

In the safehouse, on the cusp of a transformation he cannot yet comprehend, Vegas shaves Pete’s face. Also a meditation on immolation and drowning. I struggle to compliment my own writing, but I think this fic has some of the best lines I’ve ever written. @sunshinesanctuary Dav did some devastating art for it, which made me cry heavily at the time and again whenever I think about it too hard (why are artists magic??).

a temporary abundance

Life used to be the means to a messy end, bodies tools given in service to a name larger than either of them. They are still learning what it means to live for living’s sake, to be made of flesh and openly want for all the things living flesh wants. It hurts because it matters. Such is living, and there is joy in being alive.

This little fic is more image than story—a golden moment of rest, Pete’s head in Vegas’s lap, and the recognition that the impermanence of stability makes it all the more precious. a temporary abundance was my first VP fic, and it has received some of my very favorite comments. It was how I met @theflowergirl Lily and my first interaction with @lu-sn lu.

Lapping at the Edges

There’s a kind of self-disgust you can find satisfaction in, narrow as the space between indignant inhale and resigned exhale. Ba, calling him a whore. The routine Vegas has straddled either side of: men much older than him, hungry for a taste of power, smiling through gritted teeth and sinking to their knees. His own knees, falling open as the world splits down its middle. Pete, frozen in the aftermath of a verbal blow. Inhale. Exhale.

Lapping at the Edges tormented me for ages—my evening of “drunk Vegas talks shit, asks to get hit” nonsense took two years to write after I trapped myself in an endless cycle of rewrites for chapter three. But ultimately, the struggle arose from my love for this story and the need to finish it right. I hope those who stuck around were satisfied by the ending. ❤️

won’t give up these ghosts

“Tell me what it’s like on the beach at night,” Vegas murmured as his head fell back onto Pete’s thighs. His mouth was a dark stain; his eyes were raptor-like. Pete caressed his head, searching for breath and words. “It’s like being the only stillness in the world,” he said at last. “The wet sand digs into your feet, and the sea is this massive moving thing you’re not a part of, and all you can see is water and sky and dark. And it sees you, but there’s nothing there to see of you. You’re safe. You’re—a void.”

All of my stories are in some sense about learning to live, but I suspect that message comes through clearest in this story, where Pete feigns death for the purpose of (nonsexual) funeral/body disposal roleplay. I love the contrast—lingering on death as an expression of the desire for life. (And Yujeong, I still often return to your comment on this one on hard days—it meant an awful lot to me.)

Passing Time

There are moments—too many, lately—when the tenderness presses heavy at the back of Vegas’s throat. Pete sits bright-eyed and pink-eared a mere breath away; he’s here, real and taking up space and confoundingly Pete and all, and when Vegas blinks he somehow continues to be. The weight of him dents his side of the couch and distorts the reindeer face on one of the Christmas-themed throw pillows.

It is a month—two, five, eight—since the world broke open and was remade in the shapes of what love is, and Vegas and Pete are still learning to live around the cracks. Writing in this kind of time-bound framework was a new challenge for me pacing-wise, and I think the result has some really lovely moments and lines. I wrote this fic as part of the 2023 KinnPorsche Big Bang, and was so fortunate to be paired with @kiiyuq yu, whose art for the piece is frankly the sort of thing that topples cities.

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What if we both loved Freddie Murcury and were bisexual and we kissed? 😳