Chapter Text
Feel the pain of my love
Can I raise my head this morning?
My mind's needing cauterised
I'm in the shallow end drowning, it's a soup of flies
[Accident without Emergency, Biffy Clyro]
Pete tiptoed into the room, trying to be inconspicuous and discreet on the off-chance that Vegas might be already asleep (one man could dream, right?), trying to pull as little attention to him as possible as he crossed the house and headed directly towards the bedroom. He opened the door slowly, trying to keep any sound at a bare minimum then entered the room, sliding his body into the tiniest opening possible.
He felt a little foolish sneaking around this way, like a teenager coming home from an evening out and scared of getting reprimanded by his parents. Well – it wasn’t that different. Pete knew he was going to be in a well of problems when Vegas caught wind he came back this late and Pete really wished he had time for a shower before that.
He was dying to get the dirt and the grim off him, old sweat from his afternoon still clinging to his skin and making him uncomfortable. His clothes, which he hadn’t thought of bringing a change of, reeked and his left eye still burned and stung every time he blinked.
Also, he was so, so cold. It was ridiculous. He never had to wear a sweater before but he hadn’t been able to part from it since this morning and the thing stank.
Well, at least he wasn’t drunk this time. See? He was learning. Although he probably should not mention that to Vegas, lest the man got the idea those little ‘punishments’ of his were bearing fruits…
The room he occupied with Vegas was, in Pete’s opinion, quite lavish. It was a 3-room space, with the bed on the right side of the entrance, tuck in a not-so-little alcove keeping it from view of the door. The antechamber as Pete had come to call it had a couch in front of a low table and a few shelves mainly filled with Vegas’ books and some non-confidential documents. The room opened on one side to the en-suite bathroom, and on the other to the walk-in closet.
Pete was 100% counting on the space disposition to avoid being seen by Vegas as he crossed the bedroom, making a beeline for the closet and grabbing his sleeping attire before making a run for the bathroom. He had his hand on the handle, had almost made it, when he heard a voice coming from the bed, making his head drop in defeat. One of these days, he’d managed to sneak in on Vegas!
“Can you put the laundry basket outside when you’re done, Pete? They’ll come to collect it tomorrow morning.”
“Sure thing,” replied Pete, a little taken aback that the request was not accompanied by any remark on how late it was or question on where he had been. He turned around, realising that Vegas was indeed still in bed and didn’t even get up to come and see him.
Pete frowned, slightly disappointed. Didn’t Vegas want to see him after they’d already been apart for hours? Wasn’t he curious why he was so late? Didn’t he worry about what Pete’d been up to?
He felt a little bit at a loss at his own reaction. He always complained about Vegas controlling habits, his need to always know where Pete was and with whom, all the questioning that never failed to follow every time Pete stepped out to do something without the other man. It was grating on him, making him feel he wasn’t truly free to do what he wanted or that he had to report, like he was employed by Vegas rather than his boyfriend, like he was a child in need of constant supervision…
So really, he should be happy that there wasn’t any questioning or probing tonight. And yet, there he was, being displeased by Vegas apparent lack of care… like he wanted to be grilled about where he had spent his evening after he promised he’d be back before supper.
What the hell Pete?, he thought as he entered the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with a little too much strength that made the sound resonate. He grimaced. Great. Now Vegas probably knew he was annoyed… there really wasn’t any winning for him tonight, was there?
Shouldn’t he be happy that Vegas was starting to actually trust him? That he didn’t feel the need to question him or monitor his every move? That was what he asked for!, he thought as he stepped into the shower and started to soap himself vigorously under the hot water. Why was he even tiptoeing into his own room anyway? He fucking lived here, he should be able to walk in and out as he damned pleased!
Pete put his face under the spray, letting the water wash away his frustration. He was being ridiculous, he knew. None of this was actually Vegas’ fault. It was just the leftover insecurities from the conversation he’d had with Porsche that afternoon, the reason his eye hurt and he was late. It was the result of feeling so wrong in his skin all day, mind swarmed by invading thoughts he was too tired and sore to shake out.
So what if tonight he’d actually have appreciated some of Vegas more overbearing attitude to act as a balm to the self-doubt that’d been jamming his mind? He couldn’t expect Vegas to know that.
He shouldn’t expect anything from Vegas anyway, he thought woefully before shaking himself out of his gloomy thoughts. He was just tired and cold and wanted Vegas to worry about him and not the stupid laundry basket!
Pete scolded himself, raising the temperature of the water to a punishing scalding degree that turned his skin red. The pain always helped to clear his mind when he got himself in this state.
He shouldn’t be sulking. If anything, he should probably show gratitude for this change of behaviour, however unexpected. Yes, thought Pete as he finished rinsing his hair of the last suds of shampoo, good behaviour should be recompensed. Positive reinforcement and all that. Pete could deal with his own doubts, he was a big boy. He took the soap for a second time and spent some more time on a more thorough, intimate cleaning.
He stepped out of the shower feeling like a fool. Vegas hadn’t even come to see him at the door. He probably wouldn’t want to touch Pete, and yet there he was, wasting water cleaning his ass.
Pete sighed and pushed his fingers painfully into his eyes, willing his mind to just shut up for a whole minute. He’d been running in circles like that for hours and he was frankly exhausting himself.
He spent the day swinging between wanting to curl onto himself to cry and ready to lash out violently at anyone around him, alternating between demeaning himself and doubting Vegas, uncontrollable bouts of possessiveness and neediness tearing away at his soul.
The thing was – Pete knew what was wrong, he knew he was dropping, hard and for a while now. He belatedly realised it this afternoon after he decked Porsche right in the face for looking at him with so much pity and worry it made him sick to his stomach.
He really didn’t deserve any of that.
Pete was used to recognising the feelings that sometimes crashed into him some hours after sex, a sudden, unexpected funk plunging his mind in gloom when he’d been perfectly content minutes before. It didn’t happen often luckily, but even the first time (well, the second really, as he realised in hindsight the first had probably been during his captivity, and didn’t that lead to a complete clusterfuck of feelings?), he immediately understood why it was called a ‘drop’. He’d been floating, body light and energised, only peace and clarity and love in his mind, then without warning, all the physical aches and sorrows had awakened, cuts burning and muscle cramping, he’d been warm and happy but out-of-nowhere felt so cold, so tired, sluggish and in pain and his thoughts all over the place, viciously reminded how much of a freak he was for allowing anyone to treat him like that; for wanting it to be treated like he didn’t matter, like he was a possession to be used and thrown away.
It ought to make anyone feel bad, only finding solace in true agony.
He learned to deal with it now, mostly allowing it to pass on its own. Nasty feelings always ended up taking a hike out of his mind if he ignored them long enough. Sometimes, if he felt especially bad, he even let Vegas help, which was never an easy feat, the malicious voices of his mind all too happy to convince him he was nothing but a bother and a dead weight unworthy of the attention and loving care he was provided with.
This time it was different, though. The feelings hadn’t so much crashed into him as they slowly crept to the back of his mind while he was vulnerable and asleep, surrendering him effectively unable to protect himself. He’d woken up that morning sore and cold for no good reason, skin prickling uncomfortably, movements made shaky and hesitant by an undercurrent of agitation and restlessness settled deep in his body, heavy sorrow and impetuous anger at his fingertips; insecurities crawling and invading his head all day long without respite; a new imaginative form of torture, a bit too close to his usual grievances to be entirely imputable to the after effect of the sublime experience of last night.
Not that it changed anything, really. Pete still had to deal with the shit in his mind.
Pete swiped the fog and looked at himself in the mirror. Last night hadn’t been that impactful on his body, apart from some blemish and redness he couldn’t quite distinguish from the shower temporary burns, he’d got away with basically no physical stigma. He supposed that Vegas had already satisfied his urges for blood and violence on the poor sod he spent the afternoon torturing under the watchful (and probably disgusted) eye of Porsche (hence: the pity and worry for Pete this afternoon). Pete could only guess since Vegas had refused him to be present for the festivities.
Last night had been… something else.
They’d been absolute morons, having a scene after Vegas spent the afternoon torturing some unfortunate soul. It was the first time Vegas laid a hand on anyone since – since Pete, really. Going in, he hadn’t known how he’d react to it, still trying to untangle the parts of him that were truly his and those he forced into himself against his nature to perfectly fit into the mould carved by his father’s hand.
Vegas had come back in an atrocious state of mind, eyes blank and faraway, sunken, stuck in the darkest recess of his mind. He was shutdowned and impenetrable, a mask of complete indifference on his face that even Pete hadn’t been able to crack.
In retrospect, they probably shouldn’t have had sex that night. But they had planned it and they were both just too stubborn to back down.
Pete didn’t remember ever been that scared of Vegas since that very first night in the minor family’s basement, before he even took him to the safe house, when he’d been nothing but rage and fury. It wasn’t so much the agony he put his body through that made Pete run, but the emotional intensity of being looked at with so much hostility, yet not being seen for the person he was, just a commodity to be used and abused. Minutes into the scene and they both had plunged back into unspoken, taboo memories they pretended didn’t exist.
The way Vegas had looked and treated him with icy disinterest had terrified Pete out of his skin. It had felt like Vegas was a shred away from slicing his throat open the entire evening. Yet he never fell under so quickly, so far and so deep into subspace, powerfully brought to his knee by the ferocity screaming away in his mind. Vegas could have cut him open that night, and Pete wouldn’t have minded. He was swimming in glided euphoria.
Figures his biggest kink would be terror and a death wish.
Vegas’ inability to compartmentalise between the pain he inflicted as a tormenter and the one he gave out of love had him crashing down brutally, sending him right back in the middle of his darkest safe-house memories, leaving him shaking and trembling against Pete all evening and only calming down after Pete had him touch and kiss and lick every welt and scab he left on his body, showing him that for all the emotional intensity, he’d barely even hurt him.
And as Vegas was fighting with the demons of his past, Pete was still riding the golden elation of complete abandon, still dazed and floating, completely blissed out. The dissonance between their reactions had never been so striking.
Pete crossed his eyes in the mirror, guilt and disgust sitting heavily in his throat.
What a freak. And he wondered why Vegas hadn’t come to see him at his return? He must already be so tired of him. He was so fucked up even the town’s biggest psychopath couldn’t deal with him.
He put on pants and a tee-shirt, brushed his teeth and dried his hair, then brought the laundry basket outside the room, letting it fall on the floor with a ridiculously vindictive thump, and locked the door to avoid any disruption (though, he had to admit, very few people would dare to enter their room and those who had terribly regretted it). He then made his way to the bed where Vegas was already lying on top of the covers, only wearing grey sweatpants.
Pete froze and allowed his eyes to roam to expanse of skin exposed to the air, taut over the nicely shaped muscles of his pecs and barely-there abs which were slowly starting to make a return since the end of Vegas’ hospitalisation and strict order not to put any tension on his core. The skin was smooth, a shade paler on his torso than his arms, and beautifully marred with scars and marks that all told the story of the rough life the man in front of him had lived up to this day.
Vegas was sporting a pair of reading glasses and was deeply immersed in his book – The 120 days of Sodom, deciphered Pete on the cover, probably yet again another of those English novel Pete didn’t understand a word of – looking utterly relaxed and at ease, waiting for Pete to come and join him.
He simultaneously felt his breath hitched at the alluring, natural pose Vegas adopted without even trying, making Pete want to crawl over him and lick every centimetre of skin displayed, and a pang of jealousy at the idea that anyone other than him ever had the right to see Vegas in such luxurious domesticity. Pete swallowed around the undesired wave of possessiveness, schooling himself to rise above the anguish that accompanied it, and made his way into the room.
“How’s the shiner? You put ice on it?” asked Vegas without taking his eyes off the page his was reading and Pete froze again – for an entirely different reason.
“How do you know –” Vegas had not looked at him once since he entered the room – Pete would know, his indifference was fuelling his frustration – so how the hell did he know about that?
Unless he’d known even before Pete entered the room, which meant… that fucking asshole!
Pete grinded his teeth, ignoring the thumping of his heart.
“You had me followed?” he cranked. Again, he did not add.
Vegas stilled; it was minute, barely there at all, but Pete saw it all the same. His eyes remained on his stupid book, but he clearly had stopped reading, his eyes fixed on a single point. Yeah, damn right you better not look at me right now!, silently raged Pete, pushing away the elation.
“You were late,” said Vegas, still going for indifference, not even trying to deny it. “I got worried.”
Pete felt his cheek muscle twitch. He breathed deeply, both to try to remain calm, having no energy for a fight tonight, and to tell that little part of him that was doing a victory dance to shut the fuck up. He couldn’t be happy about Vegas spying on him. It was not okay, even if it warmed him just like he needed.
Vegas cared, showing it in his own psycho way, which Pete strictly refused to encourage or entertain.
Be mad, not glad, he strongly reminded himself.
Fuck, they were both completely ballshit crazy, weren’t they?
“Are you mad?,” asked Vegas, finally detaching his eyes from his book to observe Pete who felt his skin tingle under his lover’s careful and measured look.
Pete sighed. No use trying to convince himself he was, when what he really felt was relieved that Vegas hadn’t actually changed that much overnight and still cared enough about Pete’s endeavour to send a tail on him.
“I’m annoyed,” said Pete, which was as close to the truth as it could be without revealing everything. It would be properly suicidal, in a Pete-getting-tied-to-the-bed 24/7 way if he was to ever admit liking it. “Didn’t you say you trusted me?”
“I trust you,” replied Vegas, his eyes finding Pete’s through his glasses. “It’s him I don’t trust.”
Pete huffed and turned his back to Vegas. “Wasn’t always the case,” he mumbled darkly, sitting down on his side of the bed. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, I’m just tired right now,” he said, lying down on his side, head turned towards to wall.
From the corner of his eye, he observed Vegas behind him through the corner mirror adorning the wall. He seemed to hesitate a moment about touching Pete, his hand hanging in the air for a few seconds, before he thought better of it and retreated back to continue reading his book.
Pete felt a pang of disappointment erupt in his throat at the aborted gesture, the cold creeping back into his body with a vengeance despite his skin still being pinky from the warmth of the shower.
He closed his eyes, trying to contain his emotions. He hated feeling so raw, so uncertain and unreasonable. Porsche’s words from this afternoon kept ringing into his mind, making him behave like a lunatic, hitting his friend (and getting a nice black eye for his trouble), being mad at Vegas for not being his usual nagging over-controlling ass then annoyed for being exactly that.
He felt both ultra-possessive of Vegas, to the point of being jealous of the man he killed yesterday, of the ghosts of his past, of anyone daring to cross his path, wanting all of Vegas to be truly his only, the past, the present and the future, every single touch and every single gaze, and, at the same, knew he probably didn’t deserve any of that.
You’re so pathetic, what does he even see in you?, he thought.
You’re nothing special boy, you just got lucky!, supplied a distant voice from his past.
He hasn’t changed, how do you know he’s not playing you too?, Porsche’s voice echoed like a overplayed disk encroached in his mind.
I’m sorry Pete, you must hate me. They all end up hating me in the end, Vegas’ own words of last night replayed viciously.
It was insufferable. You TOO. THEY. ALL. How many?
The idea that Vegas had ever shared anything like what they had with someone else was absolutely unbearable. Just thinking about Vegas being with all those other men, giving away little pieces of himself to them, was enough to make him want to scream and break things, foregoing his usual poise and control.
It made him want to cry.
The old age image of Khun Vegas forced itself into his mind, the fake smiles and snaky eyes, the self-assured, arrogant, unattainable image of a man confident that he could have everything and anyone at a snap of his fingers. Why would such a man bother with little, insignificant, broken Pete who got a kick when Vegas was crumbling down on the inside?
Why the fuck did Pete thought himself any different from all those that came before him? Who did he think he was exactly? How much of a gullible, naïve idiot was he to think Vegas would keep trying so hard with him? He didn’t need Pete. He could fuck anyone, could torture anyone, could kill anyone – There’s nothing special about you, boy, you’re nothing. Why would Vegas choose you? A man like him, he only had to open his hand to have the world at his feet, and what had Pete to give him? He wasn’t anyone important, didn’t have a glare to his name; he wasn’t the hidden child of the family, there wasn’t any secret inheritance waiting for him at the end of the road. He was not really cute, not really handsome, just a boring average island boy with no allure, somewhat good at fighting, at cooking, at pretending – but not the best, never the best.
He was just a big pile of messed-up.
You just got lucky.
He knew he didn’t compare to any of Vegas’ past conquests and simply looked like a fool next to the man himself.
It’d been easy before, with Vegas hurt and licking his wounds, swallowing in his own self-pity fest (I have nothing left to give). Pete had been his beacon of light, the single most important thing in his life; but things were changing lately, Vegas was involved once again, meeting with his uncle and being given business to handle, collaborating with Porsche on the second family matters, going to business meetings and deals closing, torturing men that weren’t Pete; growing back into himself more and more every day, all the while Pete was left bereft, aloof, with no purpose anymore.
On a good day, he felt so confident in this relationship, knowing nothing could touch them, he finally found a place he belonged, but on the bad ones, none of this seemed to matter, the anxiety taking over and eating up at him from the inside.
It’s the chemical imbalance in your brain speaking, he tried to reason himself, like it made any of it less true.
Porsche had really not chosen a good day for his usual shit (How do you know he’s not playing you too?) and Pete had violently lashed out at his own friend and there he was a few hours later, being pleased by being spied on by his boyfriend – who should trust by now! Did he think Pete such a wimp he couldn’t defend himself? Did he think Pete so incompetent? – as if he needed it to prove to himself that Vegas truly cared.
He blinked away the tears that were gathering in his eyes.
Fuck this shit.
He was not that pathetic. When Pete had problems, he confronted them and the crux of the issue was literally lying behind him, so close Pete could hear every breath he took and the rustle of the paper when he turned a page of his book.
He turned around in the bed, drinking Vegas profile, his dorky glasses and overgrown hair that licked his shoulders, the naked scarred chest and veiny hands, delicate fingers and powerful biceps, such a beautiful creature on the outside, the perfect disguise for the torturous monster hiding inside. Pete had seen it all already, how could he still doubt yet again?
“Do you still like Porsche?” he asked, surprising himself almost as much as Vegas. That… was not how he had planned to go about this.
Vegas’ eyebrow comically rose well above the frame of his glasses. He turned to look at Pete like he’d totally lost his marbles. Maybe he had.
“What? When have I ever?”
“Didn’t you, though?” wondered Pete. He looked to the side, not quite sure how to look at Vegas’ eyes when he knew how stupid it sounded in his own mind. Why wasn’t he telling the truth? Can you still love me after last night? Will you still love me when you see how truly ugly and pathetic I am inside?, but all his mouth only supplied was: “You tried to fuck him. More than once.”
Jealousy was easier than existential crisis.
“I have,” admitted Vegas. His tone was calm, measured, but Pete could feel eyes searching his face. Good luck trying to find an answer there, even Pete didn’t know how to entangle the mess going on in his brain. “That doesn’t mean I ever liked him,” he said, making it sound as if the words alone were scorching his mouth. “Or that I was ever interested.”
“Why, then?” he couldn’t help but ask, resisting the desire to cover himself with the bed sheet and escape the shame of this entire conversation about his best friend. Shit, what if Vegas told him he was still attracted to Porsche? What if he realised how much better Porsche was, how he looked like being a mafia boss was written in his DNA, even barely months into the business? Pete had been at it for years and despite all his accomplishments he was still looked at like the goofy idiot that could somehow hold a gun.
Such a good dog, that was Vegas thought of him while he relentlessly pursued Porsche.
“Well, on top of the added bonus of getting one over Kinn,” started Vegas after marking the page he was at and closing his book, showing Pete he was giving the conversation a proper interest, “I was intrigued, at first. It made no sense for uncle, or even Kinn, to hire such an unprofessional buffoon. Even my father seemed to have an uncanny interest in him… Well, I guess we know why now.”
Vegas stopped, his fingers idly caressing the side of the book resting on his laps as he considered his next words.
“Pa was very adamant I keep tabs on Porsche… but after a while, it became a question of pride. His resistance got me very… frustrated.” Even now, Vegas couldn’t quite leave the contempt of being rejected out of his voice. “Porsche – he makes himself look like it’s so easy to gain his trust, when in reality, he is possibly one of the most distrustful people I know…” Vegas scoffed before adding, in an almost delighted tone: “I’m not sure he fully trust Kinn, even to this day.”
Pete chose to ignore that last part and especially the enjoyment Vegas seemed to get at the idea of Kinn’s and Porsche’s relationship being less perfect than it appeared. He’d made his peace with the fact that Vegas would more likely at one point or another get back on his taking-over-the-main-family agenda, and he resolved himself not to stand in his way when it happened. He’d only get caught in the crossfire.
He felt fingers on his head, slowly threading his hair. “What silly ideas did he put into your head?”
“No, he didn’t,” assured Pete. He was just a fucking idiot, that’s all. An overly emotional, self-doubting, tired and cold idiot that couldn’t keep his tongue in check tonight, it seemed. “I guess it’s just weird, the two of you working together, is all.”
“Well, no need to worry love, I’d happily repaint the main family compound with his brain if I thought I could get away with it,” Vegas reassured him in his own, very personal style, before pressing a kiss atop Pete’s head. “He should consider himself lucky I’ve already been informed how that shiner came to be, or I might very well have succumbed to my most basic instincts… I do not like people touching what’s mine.”
Pete felt his entire body shiver at the unveiled, unbridled savageness of his tone, the violence of his words and the sincerity of them awakening Pete’s desires, making his blood boiled like hot lava with the need to be owned and possessed then the shame of enjoying hearing him talk about his friend like that.
His head snapped up, his eyes slightly overgrown with surprise. “You know?”
“About your little jealousy fit and how you almost blew him a new hole with your naked fists?” he asked, voice full of mirth. “Oh Pete, I wished I’d been there to see…”
Pete felt his face heat from embarrassment and brought it back down quickly to hide himself in his pillow. Damned spy!, he thought as Vegas happily laughed.
He petted Pete’s head a few more times before going back to his reading, probably thinking the subject closed. And it very well should be, except his jealousy about Porsche had only been a side effect of the true issue, and now that he started talking, it seemed his mouth had decided to run on his own. He really shouldn’t be surprised. His inability to shut up at appropriate times was pretty much what had got them together to begin with.
“So…” he asked, tentatively raising his eyes towards Vegas face. “How many other… Porsche… have you had?”
There was no missing the smirk that appeared on Vegas’ face, even though he didn’t detach his eyes from his book.
Fuck, Pete just sold himself, didn’t he?
“Well, none of course,” said Vegas with a smug expression. “I don’t make a habit of letting people escape me.”
Pete frowned. “Vegas, you know what I meant!” he said in an aggravated tone of voice.
Vegas turned a page – Pete was going to fucking burn this book! – and his smirk grew bigger. Of course, he’d find this entire conversation and Pete’s insecurities fun, wouldn’t he?
Bloody sadist who got a kick getting Pete all flustered.
“Oh, but pray tell, what is it exactly that you wish to know, darling?” he asked, this time finally turning to Pete with a wolfish expression. Pete felt himself go weak like every time he saw that look, knowing damn well what it meant. He would probably have stepped away if he hadn’t already been lying in bed, with no room to escape.
Vegas laid next to him, his body hovering over Pete’s, just close enough for him to feel the heat of the exposed skin, but not so close that they made contact with each other. Pete clenched the covers to keep himself from reaching towards the inviting body pressed so close and fixed his eyes into Vegas’, as a way to keep himself from swaying to his chiselled cheekbone, his plush lips or the marks barely visible on his neck that Pete ached to make anew.
Vegas was so close that their noses touched, making it hard to look at both his eyes at the same time.
“Do you want a list of all my past lovers, with names and addresses so you can pay them a visit, hm? Do you want to hurt them a little, tell them I’m yours now? Boast to them they can never have me back?” Vegas slowly traced Pete’s nose with the tip of his own, a barely-there caress that made Pete’s breath quicken, his mouth opening slightly to taste the breath of the man in front of him. Vegas’ nose slowly slid down to his upper lip, then to the bottom one, before coming back to its initial point, pressing itself harshly, almost painfully against Pete’s.
Pete felt suspended in the moment, observing, drinking Vegas’ hungry expression, the obvious amusement and the raw openness of his face as he teased Pete out of his nagging worries.
“Or do you want to kill them?” he asked, his tone taking a sinister, darker turn. “Do you want to make them pay for ever touching me? Do you want to make anyone who ever laid a hand on me disappear from the face of the earth so no one but you will be left?”
Pete felt his breath hitch as he got slammed by a tidal wave of desire at these words, completely taken by surprise by the sheer strength and violence of it. He felt his mouth dry up and his face heat. He was sick, and it must have shown on his face, as Vegas’ smile lightened up in all his glorious viciousness. He so obviously loved this side of Pete.
“Oh, you do, don’t you?”
“I’m not as awful as you,” managed to say Pete, defending his honour at last, fingers digging painfully in the bedcover to keep himself from grabbing the burning flesh of Vegas’ chest muscles pressing against them.
They both knew it was a lie, but one Pete cling to with all the strength left in his body. He might have killed before, but he was not a murderer!
Vegas licked his lips. Pete felt a tremor shake his body.
“Is that so?” he asked, prettily amused, as he started dragging his nose all over Pete’s cheeks, his lips brushing lightly against the skin, never quite making contact. Pete closed his eyes, shuddering, and allowed himself to bask in the sensation just for a moment, surrendering like a willing victim to the predator holding him down.
Vegas’ nose steadily made his way to Pete’s ear shell, pressing and probing at the mounts and dips before his lips finally joined the party and bit the lobule of his ear, hard.
Pete let out a moan, feeling some of his own uneasiness seep through the pain. Maybe he should just let Vegas fuck all his worry away, after all. Maybe then he’d remember how well their broken pieces fitted together, last night just a slight.
“Do you want to know how I fucked them?” kept drowning on Vegas in his ear, and Pete felt all his body go rigid at those words, icy cold water replacing the hot-like lava in his veins in a matter of seconds. “You want me to fuck you like I fucked them?”
Pete’s eyes blinked open and he let go of the sheet, ignoring the pin and needles sensation in his fingers as he firmly pressed them against Vegas’ torso and pushed him. “Get the fuck away from me!” he shouted, putting all of his force into the shove, effectively throwing him away.
Pete was breathing hard, his mind still lost somewhere between lustful passion and utter disgust. They sit, looking at each other in silence for a second.
“Don’t ever talk about fucking other people when you’re in bed with me,” said Pete in a voice as firm as he could manage, still feeling the after effect of the words ripple indignantly over his skin.
Vegas gave him a sharp, quick nod, eyes a little wide, making it clear he got the message loud and clear. There wasn’t much boundaries that Pete wasn’t willing to test and probe at, but this seemed to be a big, strong one that took even Pete by surprise with the intensity of his body rejection.
The atmosphere got uneasy, heavy and oppressing for a moment, and Pete pressed his hands to his eyes, trying to sort out his muddle thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My head’s a mess right now.”
He was about to turn around and lie down on his side, back facing Vegas to wallow in his unwanted feelings and emotional turmoil, but Vegas reached and took his hand, prying it away from his face and forcing Pete to face him, displaying all the ugly emotions dancing in his features.
Pete tugged slightly but Vegas didn’t let go of his hand, letting their intertwined fingers lie on the bed in between them. He looked at Pete with an expression a lot less amused now, seemingly only grasping how serious Pete had been about the entire conversation.
“What’s this about, Pete?” he asked, the lines around his mouth deepening and making him look almost severe. Pete pressed his fingers, trying to keep a link between them as he watched Vegas’ open expression slowly retreat behind his fake, indifferent mask. “Be it five or one hundred, what will it change?”
Absolutely nothing, Pete knew. This wasn’t about Vegas having had lovers before him, it was about how ill-fitted Pete himself was, but he had to admit that the thought of Vegas being with someone else was enough to enrage him. If he let himself go down that road, then even one would be too much. Pete felt he was scowling despite himself.
“What do you want of me?” asked Vegas. “I can’t change the past.”
“Do you even know how many?” Pete asked, because of course he had to choose this moment to let his masochistic side express itself.
Vegas snarled back and Pete had to clamp down on his hand to not let him get away. To each his turn, he guessed.
“I didn’t fucking count!” Vegas used his free hand to get his hair out of his face. “What, you want me to narrate you into every single fuck I’ve had?” he snapped. “For someone who doesn’t want to hear me talk about fucking other people, let me tell you, you’re making a poor-pissed job.”
“I don’t – ” interrupted Pete, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath. When he opened them again, he found Vegas searching gaze on him, visibly annoyed, but trying all the same. Pete took courage in the sight. They weren’t lashing out each other and trying to rip their eyeballs out, so there was that, at least. They were evolving.
“I don’t care about how many,” he finally said, defeated. “I just – I’ve seen what you do to people. I’ve seen grown-ass men on their knees begging you, I’ve seen them literally blowing themselves up for you and I…” Pete blinked, looking Vegas right in the eyes as he admitted: “And I would too, and so much more.”
Pete saw the way Vegas’ breathing faltered at that, his pupil growing bigger, making his eyes look dark and daunting, turning frighteningly black.
“But then you walked away and – ”
The hand holding his pressed painfully into his skin. “You think I’d walk away from you?” asked Vegas, voice almost hesitant. There was a tilt in his shoulder, as he seemed to falter, looking almost crushed, and Pete felt like a true asshole.
“No,” he promised. “I know you wouldn’t.”
Vegas eyes twitched. “Then what? I never hid what I was and what I did from you. What do you want from me?”
Pete looked to the side and rubbed painfully at his neck, having no idea how to put words to this mess of feelings that were fucking him over. How do you know he’s not playing you/such a naïve, stupid little boy/forever useless, waste of space/even your own mother didn’t want you.
“Pete, look at me!” barked Vegas, and Pete obey, his body reacting instinctively to the commanding tone. He felt like Vegas’ eyes were scorching him all the way to the bottom of his soul. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know!” he lashed out, shaking his head. “I don’t know! I feel so useless. I don’t get it! There’s nothing special about me. What the fuck are you doing with my inexperienced ass when you could have anyone?”
Everybody always talked about Vegas ruthlessness, his Machiavellianism, how he could kill a hundred and sleep the night through, tear a man open and laugh at the colour of his intestines; as if this was what was so scary about him. But Pete, he’d seen, the true danger of this man was not his actions, but how easily he could manipulate the people around him, mould himself to whatever, whoever he needed to become until he had them wrapped around his fingers, moving them around as puppets on a string then severing the cord at a moment’s notice and leaving them empty shells. He was a snake, slowly enveloping whoever got too close into his clutch and by the time you realised what was happening, he had already sunk his teeth so deep into your neck that any fight became useless.
Vegas was an imposter, never showing his true colours. Pete would know; after all, it took one to know one.
And Pete was terrified of him, terrified of the sheer strength of the feelings he had developed for that wench of a man, so, so scared of the way his heart had opened despite his best intentions. He felt so raw and uncertain and unworthy. He’d been so, so ready to give him his life last night, but would Vegas even want that?
A warm hand pressed against his cheek brought him back to the moment, anchoring him to his body before he got too far back into himself.
“Pete,” said Vegas, pressing his hand to the back of his head and forcing him to look at him. “All the people in my life, they always had a purpose, a reason to be, a means to an end” Vegas looked at him, eyes bearing into him with an intensity hard to withstand. “You’re the first one I don’t need a reason for. The only one I want just for myself and nothing else. So please,” murmured Vegas, pressing their foreheads together, “remain as useless to me as possible, would you?”
He smiled, a little trembling smile that made Pete all squishy inside. Fuck, being in love with a psychopath was hard work.
“Also,” concluded Vegas, pushing his forehead against Pete’s a little harder to press his point, “your little inexperienced ass feels the best, always so tight and warm for me, begging for me to fill it… How could I ever want someone else’s?”
“You asshole,” grumbled Pete, letting his head fall down into the crook of Vegas’ shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. He allowed himself a moment to let go of the worst of his feelings. Being close to Vegas like this seemed to do a better job at mending his wayward thoughts than any of the inward pep-talk Pete had been giving himself since the morning. “That’s how you comfort me? Telling me I’m useless and nothing but an ass to fill?”
“Well,” asked Vegas. “Did it work?”
Despite all his best intention, Pete felt himself smile against Vegas’ shoulders. “Yeah, it did. You’re lucky I got so many daddy issues.”
Vegas snorted. “Woah, Pete, that’s so pathetic,” he fake-mocked before pressing a kiss against his temple. “No idea what those could possibly be…”
“Right,” murmured Pete, snuggling closer to the warm skin, “because you’re such a poster boy for mental sanity yourself.”
“You said it, not me…”
Pete laughed. They really were so pathetic, grown ass men killing people by day and crying into each other shoulder at night ’cause their fathers were mean to them. Pulling out teeth and finger nails without a twitch of the hand, then having a mental breakdown because love was scary.
Pete wondered if everybody felt this way or if Vegas and he were just special nut cases.
They stayed like that in each other’s arms for a moment, simply basking in the warmth and enjoying the simple touch before Vegas lay back, taking Pete with him, lying down facing each other, drinking each other up, letting their hands wander aimlessly over each other. No in a sexual or sensual way, but just to feel each other presence and take comfort in the shared heat.
“I’m sorry,” said Pete after a while. “I don’t know why I’m acting like that.”
He did. He didn’t want to admit it.
I thought you might kill me last night and I loved it. Being jealous of a man Vegas tortured and killed without him. Was there even a term for that level of insanity?
“You apologise too much,” said Vegas, not for the first time. He seemed to contemplate something for a while, observing Pete, cataloguing his facial feature with the tip of his finger.
For a brief moment, he felt Vegas read right through him, but –
“Just how inexperienced are you, really?” he asked.
Pete felt taken aback by the question, not at all what he’d been expecting. He sputtered slightly and reddened for no good reason.
“I mean, I know I’m your first man,” Vegas continued to ponder, not looking to judge him, but sincerely curious, “but have you had any girlfriend?”
Pete felt his eyes reduce to slits. Was he being set up?, because it clearly felt like it. “What, you need a number?” he parroted.
“So none, then?” concluded Vegas, his eyes filling up with mirth. “You’re too good to me, Pete…”
“Oï, I’ve had girls!” he defended himself. Not a lot, mind you, the life of a bodyguard was surprisingly taxing with not a lot of opportunities to go out, but still. “They were just one night stand, you know? Nothing serious.”
“Nobody worth killing, then?” Vegas asked, almost pouting.
“No,” said Pete with finality. Fucking psycho. “The only girl I can remember the name of, I haven’t seen since I was sixteen. See? No need for murdering frenzy.”
Vegas arched a brow. “Oh, so a girlfriend after all?” Pete froze. Ah shit, that one escaped him. “Was she from the island?”
Pete smiled queasily. Vegas looked way too amused by the situation given that Pete just had a literal meltdown minutes before. He was becoming very good at distracting Pete with idle chitchat when things got a bit too intense for him.
“What’s the story?,” prodded Vegas, hand splayed at Pete’s side, sending delicious shivers through his skin. “You left her to come to Bangkok and she still patiently waits for you every night, looking gloomily at the sea?”
“We had sex,” said Pete in lieu of an answer.
Vegas blinked. Pete blinked back.
“And?”
“That’s it,” said Pete. “We had sex, I just put the tip in, she screamed bloody murder, we never talked again.”
He had no idea why he even admitted to that, but thought it well worth it when he saw the way Vegas eyes opened comically before he actually guffawed.
“Pete, you beast!,” he said in English. “What did you do to the poor girl?” He looked at him suspiciously. “Did you get into the wrong hole?” he asked, poking him in the sides
Pete opened his mouth in affront, twisting to avoid the prodding finger and wondering how the hell he did it to be right every single time. He frustratingly pushed his shoulder, as Vegas kept on looking annoyingly amused.
“She asked for it!” Pete defended himself, which only made Vegas laugh again. God, he was digging his own grave.
“Yeah,” commented Vegas, “it’s what I always say, but nobody ever believes me…”
That statement was so wrong, on so many levels, that it really left Pete with no choice than to defend himself, lest he’d appear as heartless as this bastard.
“She was one of those Christian freaks,” he explained. “You know, the kind that wants to remain pure for marriage, so they’d only let you do it from behind?”
“That’s a real thing?” asked Vegas, looking genuinely taken aback. “Geez, straight people are such weirdos…”
“Beats me too,” Pete didn’t judge other people’s religion and he certainly didn’t care at 15 with the promise of sex dangling under his nose, but it had always seemed a bit strange as a general principle. But what did he know? Maybe there was a god of the kinks in the Christian cult?
“So what, didn’t know about lube in the backwaters?” asked Vegas, eyes full of mirth and looking way too invested in the story.
Pete glared. “We did. We snitched it from a shop, condoms too. Just didn’t know about the… preparation process…” Which, now that he had first-hand experience in the matter, certainly explained why she’d screamed like he was ripping her a new one and never looked back at him.
“What a pussy,” commented Vegas, in English again.
Pete bit his lips. There was just something about Vegas cussing in another language that did things to him.
“Literally a girl, Vegas,” Pete reminded him. “Not like you’d know what it feels like having a dick in your ass, now, do you?”
He held his breath at that, looking at his boyfriend, searching his face for the answer. It didn’t matter, Pete had to force himself to think, sex was sex and he wasn’t a fool enough to think that Vegas had never done with other things he did not have with him – especially given his extensive experience – but he couldn’t help the little purr of contentment that came from his chest as he got the answered he hoped for.
“No,” replied Vegas, sobering up. “I can’t say that I do.” There was something odd on his face, as if he was considering adding something, but held it back.
Pete bit his bottom lip, drawing Vegas’ eyes to it. “Not even once?”
“It’s a dick-free ass,” quipped Vegas, putting his face closer to Pete’s on the shared pillow, his hand roaming over Pete’s side above his shirt.
“Good,” sighed Pete. It was stupid, he knew, but if he couldn’t have that part of Vegas, then it was only fitting that nobody else did. He wanted all of Vegas to himself and wash him from any memory of past lovers.
There was something else he was curious about whilst on the subject.
“And with a girl, have you ever…?”
Vegas visibly shuddered in disgust. “No,” he said, vehemently. “Well, kind of. Does a whore sent by my father to fuck the gay away counts?”
“Oh Vegas, shit, I’m so sorry,” said Pete, horror inching onto his face. “That’s awful.”
“It really was,” confirmed Vegas, lips turned down in a squeamish grimace. “If anything, that convinced me I truly was gay, not a redeeming straight bone in me.”
He said it in a very light, matter-of-fact way, while derisively shaking his head, but Pete could only imagine it must have felt anything but at a younger age. Khun Kan had never really bothered hiding his latent homophobic ways, but it was usually contained to some snide remarks here and there, not having that much of a leg to stand on when the head of the main family had openly recognised his own son(s?)’s sexuality and explicitly forbidden any comment on the subject. He never considered what it must have been like for Vegas outside of the watchful eyes of the family, but he imagined it hadn’t exactly been all sunshine and rainbows…
No fucking surprise there.
“To think that for so long, Khun Kinn thought you were only pretending to like guys to irk him,” idly commented Pete, awkwardly remembering sitting through entire spiels of Kinn cussing at Vegas every time he would steal or turn one of his boyfriends against him, which happened fairly often. Like very often.
Pete forced himself out of that slippery slope of thoughts. That was something he truly needn’t remember right now. He was still a bit too raw for that.
Vegas chuffed. “That asshole really thinks the world revolves around him, doesn’t he?”
Pete would have commented that Vegas had literally scare Kinn out of caring for anyone with how many people ended up cheating on him with Vegas or just turned against him because of his cousin, but again, slippery slope, bad Pete.
“Although I suppose I should thank him for making it something we could compete for,” Vegas thought aloud, a contemplative look on his face, his eyes looking to the side of Pete’s shoulder. “That’s at least a field he could never beat me at.”
“Being the best boyfriend stealer isn’t a reason to boast,” dryly commented Pete.
Vegas served him his best innocent smile. “Sorry, you’re right. You’re the only love of my life, I can’t even remember anyone else before you,” he swore, with grandiloquent words and obvious derision. “You make me feel like a virgin,” he added in a sing-song pitch as a way to rub it in nicely.
Pete rolled his eyes and pushed Vegas face away from him. “Fuck off. Go back to your book,” he said, propping himself on Vegas’ shoulder, while the latter did take back his book, silently agreeing to let that conversation rest for the moment.
He closed his eyes, enjoying their closeness, the warm skin of Vegas beneath his cheek and the fingers playing with the hair of his nape.
He allowed his mind to wander a bit, steering it clear from his earlier worries. At this point, his thoughts were so tangled, he didn’t know if the issue was his ridiculous jealousy, the uncertainty of his feelings or the guilt of apparently being turned on by the fear of death.
He let his fingers drift randomly against Vegas’ skin, tracing the dips and mounts of his chest and abdomen absent-mindedly, the smooth stretches of almost white skin and the rough patches of old wounds, categorising those that looked like they’d barely been patched up, ugly discoloured welts, and the neat little lines where he’d got proper medical attention.
He pushed his face a bit deeper against his shoulder. Emotions still felt heavy, a loaded burden on his body, but Pete recognised he felt a little better already, more grounded and in control of his thoughts. He didn’t know why he insisted on dealing with everything on his own. He should have just manhandled Vegas in a day-long cuddle and be done with it.
He shifted slightly to look up at Vegas who was entirely focused on his book, eyes roaming over the words and lips twitching here and there as he read an interesting bit. Pete knew that Vegas was an eager reader, but even for him, this was a bit much. Pete pressed himself closer, letting his hand wander a bit lower, patting the skin of his tummy, tracing the scars of his latest encountered with death that were nicely healing. He could see small goosebumps appearing on the skin and a slight twitch any time he touched an area a bit more sensitive.
Pete focused his eyes on the words in the book. He could make out the letters, but yeah, his English was nowhere near good enough to understand that level of language.
“Do you enjoy books about zombies?,” asked Pete, more used to see Vegas read books about mental manipulation and crowd control, or his bloody favourite (a.k.a. endless boredom) ‘the art of war’… and the ones Pete had been forbidden to make a comment about, the hot mafia gay porn trash novels that existed in way too many variations and that Vegas couldn’t help to criticise for the ‘utter lack of realism’ (yet couldn’t stop reading).
They might or might not have roleplayed a few scenes out of those books. Horny women were scarily imaginative (although he’d have something to say about the realism of some of the described practices).
“Zombie?” repeated Vegas, at a loss. “Not particularly. Why?”
Pete looked at him. “Isn’t this book about zombies? I think I saw the movie version of it…”
Vegas cleared his throat. “No,” he said, deliberately slow and in an obviously demeaning way, talking to Pete like he was the village idiot. “This is ‘120 days of Sodom’, a book on sadism, not ’28 days after’… Let me tell you, those French put even me to shame, that’s to say…”
Pete straightened up and sat as if he’d just been burned. He turned fully towards Vegas. “You are reading a book about sadism?” he repeated, wanting to make sure, his heart starting to hammer in his chest.
Vegas nodded, eyes glinting.
“No, you are not,” said Pete, taking the book from Vegas’ hands with wide scared eyes, unmoved by his complaints, mind blank. He got out of the bed, leaving Vegas to sulk like a five-year-old having his favourite toy confiscated, and dumped the book in the back of the furthest book shelf, shuddering in horror. Fuck, he’d better start monitoring Vegas reading. He had more than enough fucked-up ideas as it was without needing freaking books giving him more.
He contemplated going back to bed, but frankly, he knew he wasn’t in any state for sleeping and the adrenaline spike of Vegas’ choice of reading had robbed him of the nice warm feeling of their cuddling. He felt somewhat agitated again now that he wasn’t subdued by the warmth of Vegas’ skin against him and his soothing hand in his hair.
He stepped out on the balcony to smoke, the air of the evening hot and moist against his skin, yet the cold was already seeping right back into his bones.
Pete scowled.
He didn’t used to be like that before Vegas. He didn’t use to care so much. It was easy then to disregard whatever was going on inside his head, he could just look the other way and pretend he wasn’t feeling anything at all, living in the moment without consideration of what was already past nor fear of what was to come. He used to think of death as an old friend waiting for him at the end of the way, almost comforting in his immutability. Now, it felt like a constant threat looming over him and menacing to rob him from the unexpected happiness he somehow landed into unsuspectedly.
He took a long drag of his cigarette, letting his lung fill with the burning bitterness of the smoke, his jaw set in displeasure at himself.
It took a certain kind of crazy to grieve the constant state of misery he had lived in until his eyes were forced open without consent.
“Are you brooding again?” asked Vegas’ voice behind him, coming to join him on the balcony. He pressed himself against Pete’s back, his hand curling around his waist and his chin digging into Pete’s shoulder, eyes on the city lights in front of them.
“Sorry,” mumbled Pete. Vegas had done such a good job of getting him out of his gloomy thoughts just a moment before, and there was Pete willingly diving back into the black recesses of his mind barely minutes afterwards. It was like he wanted to be miserable. “I’m all over the place today.”
Vegas hummed pensively at his back.
“Are you dropping?” he asked, making Pete jerk in surprise.
Maybe Vegas had read him better than he let on.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Pete, letting his back rest against the firm chest behind him, cigarette dangling at his fingers. “Maybe I’m just anxious.”
“About last night?”
Pete felt Vegas tense behind him and he dropped his head in defeat. So much for steering clear of the subject. He should have just gone back to bed and let it rest at misplaced jealousy. Now, he was paying the price of his nicotine addiction in the form of an open-hearted conversation.
“About yesterday,” corrected Pete, sliding his free hand over Vegas’ ones resting in his stomach. “I wanted to come with you.”
Vegas hummed. He knew, of course. They fought about it before he left.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that ever again,” said Vegas, his head heavy on Pete’s shoulder, hand tight around their linked fingers. “You looked so scared when I came back.”
Pete pulled on his cigarette and released the smoke in the air in front of them. He was fucking scared alright, but he could have opted to safe-word out at any time. He’d wanted it, however fucked up that was.
“I liked it,” he confessed.
“I know,” replied Vegas, arms tightening around him as Pete tried to turn around. “Your eyes always betray you.”
Pete sighed.
“But you didn’t,” he said. Vegas didn’t break down often or easy, but when he did, it was generally ugly; yet Pete could barely remember any of it with how far he was gone into his own bliss.
Vegas pressed a kiss into his neck. “It was a lot in a single day.”
One of his hands strayed from the lock of Pete’s fingers and roamed higher, coming to press against his chest, right above his heart.
“So, are you gonna tell me who’s got you so jealous? The guys I fucked or the ones I tortured?” said Vegas against his ear.
Pete felt a rush through his body. Fucking Vegas and his mind-reading abilities. He clamped his mouth shut. As if Pete would ever admit to that!
The hand on his chest pressed and pinched the skin through the material of his tee-shirt. Pete bit his lips, not even trying to escape Vegas’ embrace.
He relented.
“I don’t like to share you,” he mumbled through gritted teeth.
“I lied, you know,” said Vegas against his ear. “You’re not useless, you’ve never been. I can’t live without you, Pete.”
He grabbed Pete’s wrist and brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag, before turning Pete’s head towards him and forcing his mouth open with two fingers on his jaw. He angled Pete’s head back to close the space between them and softly blew the smoke into Pete’s awaiting mouth, dark, gleaming eyes staring at Pete.
Pete felt his entire body shiver and his cock twitch in interest. Fuck that was hot.
“I promise next time I’ll take you with me,” said Vegas, lips curling into a smirk. “I bet you’ve got a real mean streak underneath those doe eyes of yours.”
The hand that was not currently holding Pete’s jaw slid under his shirt to caress the skin of his belly. Pete’s breath hitched, his stomach contracted.
Pete gaped a bit. What was Vegas doing? He knew Pete couldn’t handle things well when he was in this state – tender lovemaking would end up with Pete uncontrollable bawling his eyes out and a complete ruined orgasm for both of them and anything too intense would have the reverse effect of making him crash down twice as hard after. Anything else was just catch or miss; either Pete’s mind would blissfully submit readily like a junkie waiting for a fix, or he would resist it all the way through, making things awkward and testing Vegas’ patience, which was a perfect recipe for disaster.
“Vegas,” gasped Pete. It was such a bad idea, but there was Vegas, the fingers on his jaws sliding lower to dig into the muscle of his throat, hips grounding up to press into his ass deliciously slowly. Pete’s body made the decision before his mind caught up with it, grinding back into Vegas to feel him slowly filling up to a semi through the cotton of their pants. Pete’s Adam apple bobbled against the fingers pressing at his throat.
Vegas raked his face with a sinful smile. “I have an idea I want to test out,” he said, nails grazing the sensitive skin of Pete’s belly and making him squirm.
He made a gesture towards Pete’s hand and puckered his lips. In a daze, Pete brought his hand up to let him have another drag of the cigarette, observing the dip of his cheeks as Vegas sucked teasingly on the stick before the hand on Pete’s neck wrangled his head backwards, splayed on Vegas’ shoulder and then, he kissed him, plunging his tongue in Pete’s mouth and forcing Pete to swallow the smoke suddenly pushed into him.
The kiss was intense and demanding, very much Vegas, bitter smelling and sinful, Pete’s head twisted back and chin up, neck stretched uncomfortably and angle all wonky, yet leaving him panting and flushed when Vegas let go of his lower lip after a last nibble.
Pete stared up at him through lidded eyes, blood pumping at his ears.
“So?” asked vividly Vegas, fingers browsing the elastic of his pants. “Interested?”
Pete cleared his throat, straightening up. He arched a brow. “Is it inspired by your book?” he asked cautiously. He should probably limit near-death experiences to once a month or something.
Vegas licked a strip of skin behind Pete’s ear, making him mewl. “No, that can wait another day,” he answered, his breath deliciously tickling Pete’s nape. “I want to try something else,” he said without offering more details, a dangerous-looking smile on his lips.
He patiently waited for Pete to make up his mind, kissing and lapping at his neck, one thumb caressing his collarbone and the other hand drawing patterns on his abs.
Pete’s eyes fluttered. Truth be told though, he wasn’t feeling up for anything too fancy tonight. He was still cold and tired and wanted to lie in bed in Vegas’ arms for a few hours. But … yeah, he kinda wanted sex too. He always did. He could pretend all he wanted, even in the throes of his gloomiest thoughts, sex was never far from his mind. They were both horny fucks. It was a wonder how he managed to get so far in life living so vicariously. Maybe he was making up for lost time.
Pete stepped away from Vegas’ intoxicating warmth, turning around to face him. He bit his lips.
Oh, whom was he kidding anyway?
“Nothing too extreme, okay? I’m still a bit…” frayed around the edges and scared I’ll really lose it if you push me too much “tense”.
Vegas grabbed him by the biceps, fingers digging into the naked skin of Pete, the buzz of arousal slowing spreading between them like an undercurrent.
“You’ll like it,” Vegas promised tugging him towards him, their burgeoning erections brushing slightly. “Tying you up okay?”
“Yeah,” breathed Pete, because, when was it not, really? “Kiss me?”
“Yeah,” answered Vegas, his fingers tightening almost painfully around Pete’s arms in anticipation as he pulled him forwards and crashed their lips in a messy, unrefined kiss Pete desperately needed.
The cigarette bud fell to the floor, all but forgotten for now.