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It’s a good night. The best sort of night. It’s a night when Pete gives everything over to Vegas. His obedience, his loyalty, his life. Vegas directs it all. There are no choices left for Pete to make. All he has to do is follow at Vegas’s heel, a good pet.
Vegas may not sit at the head of the minor family, ruling with an iron fist, but he’s still deeply enmeshed in the politics of it all. They’ll never fully be detangled from it, but Pete privately suspects Vegas wouldn’t want to be. It gives him a purpose, a direction to aim his intense focus in. Tonight is all about acquisition. Vegas needs to charm a few people, sign a few papers. Pete is there to accentuate his power, show off his influence. It’s a role he’s happy to play.
He’s been decorated for the evening; a rich velvet blouse smooth across his skin, opened to the chest, mirroring Vegas. A delicate gold body chain brackets his hips, crisscrossing across his toned chest and leading up to dangle from the o-ring in his delicate gold collar. It’s almost not even a collar — he didn’t pout when Vegas first showed it to him but it was close — but it’s enough to wrap around his throat and rest against the jut of his collarbones. It’s enough for Pete to feel the pressure, and he reluctantly admits that it’s a stunning piece of jewelry, made even more special that it was made specifically for him.
Pete’s already feeling a little bit floaty, a little bit hazy. Their play began before they even left the house, and he’s had enough time to sink into it by now. Vegas’s hand is warm and firm on his lower back, guiding Pete deeper into the bar, and all Pete has to do is surrender to the pressure. They come to a stop by the bar itself, and Pete is vaguely aware of Vegas making conversation, of the laughter and casual amusement of the men Vegas manipulates, but none of it really matters. Not for Pete.
“Drink, pet.”
A glass appears in front of Pete. Two fingers of whiskey, neat. Pete knows it’ll be the only alcohol he gets tonight; Vegas will want him clear-headed and consenting by the time they get home. Permission granted, Pete wraps his fingers around the glass and raises it to his lips, sipping quiet and docile at Vegas’s side. There’s a low thrum of warm pleasure under his skin at Vegas’s attentiveness, at Vegas taking care of his needs even when he is busy giving his full attention elsewhere.
Pete takes a small step closer to Vegas’s side and is rewarded with a soft stroke of fingers across his cheek, Vegas dragging his thumb along Pete’s bottom lip, collecting the residual moisture. Vegas presses his thumb into Pete’s lips and he parts them, allowing Vegas to slide the pad of his thumb inside of Pete’s mouth.
He sucks, tasting the whiskey on Vegas’s skin.
“Easy,” Vegas murmurs, a soft chiding warning that rolls across Pete’s skin, a not quite pleasant emotion flashing in him.
Vegas turns back to the men he is deep in conversation with and the unpleasant feeling grows, twisting into a tangible presence in his chest. He is being good for Vegas, he is Vegas’s good pet. So why does this not feel right?
Pete allows the clamor of the bar to wash over him, the sounds a distant, dull thrum. He shifts again and this time Vegas’s fingers tighten on his hip, just bruising enough to pull a mewl from his lips.
Vegas pinches him.
It hurts, but what hurts more is the nonverbal reprimand. Pete is good. Pete is being good. He just wants more of Vegas’s attention, but Vegas isn’t even looking at him. Vegas is talking to these rich men trying to wrap up a deal that’s important to him.
Pete is good. Pete can be a good pet; quiet and obedient and still. And then Vegas can take him home and worship him exactly how he wants.
Normally, on a night like this, time trickles through Pete’s fingers like sand through an hourglass. He can blink and find himself at the end of a two hour conversation, without a clue as to what was said. The world drifts by him like a dream, and he feels nothing but the low hum of pleasure in his veins, the pride of a job well done.
Tonight, everything flashes in and out of existence in grating bursts of sensory overstimulation. He’ll start to settle, start to get comfortable, and then somebody will laugh too loudly and Pete will tense again. His safe, comfortable headspace feels just out of reach, and he doesn’t know why. Sure, he’s used to a little more attention from Vegas, but Pete is not so spoiled that he can’t drift in his own head for an hour, right?
Slowly, the conversation trickles off. The men bid their goodbyes, leaving them alone at the bar. Vegas presses his lips to Pete’s temple, a shock of affection after Pete has felt so isolated.
“You did good,” Vegas tells him. It feels like a lie against Pete’s skin, even though they don’t lie to each other. He didn’t sink the way he was supposed to. He had to be reprimanded. “Let me finish my drink, and then we’ll go home for your reward.”
The promise settles uncomfortably in Pete’s stomach, but he tries to accept it. Vegas has decided he was good. Vegas makes those choices. Pete, the pet, does not. Pets don’t know what’s good for them, what they deserve, what they’ve earned. That’s not for Pete to decide.
Pete allows himself to look up, to watch Vegas as he takes the final swig of his drink. His eyes linger on the bob of Vegas’s throat, the long arch of it. Pete wants to sink his teeth into him. Maybe a reward won’t be so bad, if it means he gets his hands and mouth on Vegas. Maybe‒
“Vegas.”
The voice is more of a purr than anything else, seduction layered over confidence. Vegas and Pete both turn towards the newcomer.
He’s a slender man, a bit shorter than Pete, a bit smaller. His hair is pushed back away from his face, and his smile is just a little too sharp and pleased for Pete’s liking.
“Som,” Vegas says, his voice low and smooth, and oh, Pete isn’t a fan of that, either. It’s not exactly a flirtatious voice; since they got together, Vegas has only ever aimed that at Pete. But there’s a warmth there that chafes at Pete. This is Vegas’s ‘you’re going to give me everything I want’ voice, the voice he once heard Vegas talking to Porsche in. The voice that Pete watched Vegas seduce countless people with.
Som leans against the bar, his body angled towards Vegas, just a little bit closer than anyone sane would find appropriate, especially with Pete standing right there. “How’ve you been? It’s been ages.”
“Busy,” Vegas says. His body shifts, his hip cocked, all of him open and inviting. “You know how work can be.”
“Bosses are slave drivers,” Som agrees. “But that never stopped you from making time for the little people before. No one’s seen you out and about lately. You’ve been missed.”
Every word out of Som’s mouth twists Pete’s nerves tighter and tighter, a spring with far too much pressure applied to either end. He waits for Vegas to introduce him, for Vegas to say anything at all about his pet, his partner at his side.
Vegas doesn’t.
Som’s eyes trail down the opening of Vegas’s shirt and linger in all of the wrong places: his throat, his collarbones, the curve of his chest. All of the places that belong to Pete. He hates it. Vegas doesn’t even notice it.
Pete watches as Vegas twirls the water glass between his fingers, the remnants of liquid sloshing around and around and around. Pete feels a little like that water, right now, stuck in a rotation and unable to settle.
Vegas shrugs. “Let them miss me.”
Som’s lips twitch into a devilish grin and he takes a step forward, his eyes flicking back up to Vegas’s mouth. “I missed you.”
Vegas smiles, dark and dangerous. “Did you, now?”
Pete feels a low snarl rise in his chest, feels the growing anger of the injustice of the situation. He’s still quiet, though, because he is Vegas’s pet. He is Vegas’s pet, he shouldn’t need to remind Vegas of this. And then Som’s gaze glances over at Pete and his attention on Pete is all wrong. Pete feels it to his core, this rising sensation along his skin, crawling across his awareness one inch at a time. It’s like the time in the safehouse, with his skin hot and tight and stretched too thin over his burning body.
“Who’s this? I didn’t realize the minor family took such care in dressing up their guards.”
Vegas doesn’t even look at Pete. “He’s not a guard.”
Som’s eyes flash with curiosity but Vegas doesn’t elaborate and instead he turns away from Pete and back to Vegas. “Who do you have guarding you these days? You always were the type to run headfirst into trouble. Maybe you’ve got time for just a little more?”
Vegas laughs. Laughs, cheerful and bright, like Som has said something particularly clever. Like Som amuses him, pleases him in some way. Pete’s blood is boiling, he can hear the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, and still Vegas speaks as if Pete isn’t standing there at all.
“I tend to look after myself, these days,” he tells Som, which is bullshit. They look after each other. Maybe Vegas, in all his pompous arrogance, thinks he’s looking out for himself, but Pete always has his eyes on him. “But no, no time for trouble. This was a business call, not a social one.”
Som spares Pete another glance, contemplative, calculating. Judging Pete’s value and coming up short, based on the playful little pout he turns on Vegas.
“You used to be fun,” Som says, light and breathy and teasing. “Surely you have a few minutes to spare for an old… friend.”
Pete had his suspicions already, but the way Som says friend just confirms it. This is one of Vegas’s old boy toys, one of the dozens of men he fucked for one purpose or another, abandoned when they were no longer useful. Though, if Som was abandoned, no one told him that. Maybe someone should.
“We should catch up some other time,” Vegas says, neither a yes or a no, not the firm shut down he should give. “Unfortunately, I was just on my way out.”
There’s nothing unfortunate about it, and Pete feels his lips peel back in a snarl. It’s too much, too far. The fragile peace he’d been struggling to hold on to is shattered.
Som doesn’t push Vegas, but he does push his luck, leaning forward and trailing two fingers down Vegas’s arm. “Next time,” he says, and this is just one offense too far. Pete’s hand snaps out, so quickly he barely realizes he’s done it, and he gets a grip on Som’s wrist so tight the bones grind together. Som let’s put a pained gasp, turning wide, startled eyes on Pete.
Pete tightens his grip enough that he knows it will leave an ugly bruise, and he doesn’t feel bad about it for one second. He’s about to go further, to step forward and push Som back away from Vegas but Som yanks his arm away before he has a chance. Pete lets him.
“He’s not your bodyguard?” Som snaps, rubbing his wrist, the blossoming red mark blooming prettily along his skin. “Then what the fuck was that?”
Vegas shrugs, a quick glance over at Pete before looking at Som. “Seems you upset my pet.”
And Pete doesn’t have anything else inside of him except blind rage, white hot fury that threatens to burn this entire place down.
My pet.
Words that bring Pete so much comfort and belonging are now sharp thorns, slicing and cutting and carving open his chest. The words rattle around in his head, breaking off chunks of his resolve with each thudding impact in his chest.
Pete understands the rules of their game; does Vegas?
And then Vegas turns and looks at Pete, looks at Pete for the first time in what feels like hours. The room is too small, the noises too loud, his clothes too tight and revealing, the collar around his throat on the wrong side of tight. Vegas reaches up to touch Pete’s cheek and he reacts.
He turns his head and sinks his teeth down, his bite settling right past the first knuckle of Vegas’s index finger. His mouth blooms with the taste of copper, spreading along his tongue. It tastes like victory, if victory could be laced with arsenic.
“ Pete,” Vegas snarls, trying to wrench his hand back. Pete won’t let him. “Pete, what the fuck .”
Spiteful and furious, Pete digs his teeth in a little harder, until Vegas is forced to use his free hand to grip Pete’s jaw tightly and force his mouth open. Vegas yanks his injured hand away, inspecting it, and when he doesn’t immediately release Pete’s jaw Pete snaps his teeth at him again.
“Shit, Pete!” Vegas releases him, taking a step back like he thinks Pete might lunge at him. And Pete considers it, for a moment. Truly considers sinking his teeth into Vegas and ripping him apart the way he’s ripped Pete apart.
“Oh, now you know my name,” he hisses instead. Vegas looks at him with one eyebrow raised. Like Pete’s crazy. It’s not a look Vegas has ever given him before, and Pete hates it as much as he hates the rest of this horrible night.
Vegas straightens himself up, and the confused frown slides away from his face, replaced by sternness and narrowed eyes. Pete knows Vegas’s ‘disappointed owner’ expression, and he is not going to stand here and be lectured, be disciplined, especially with Som still watching them in wide eyed fascination.
“You know what?” Pete says, absolute disgust in his voice. “ Curry .”
Vegas blinks. He freezes like that, mouth still open around the shape of a command, a reprimand, but no sound leaves him. Pete can’t entirely blame him for his shock; he can count on one hand the number of times he’s used his safeword, and the last time he’d been actively bleeding.
“Pete,” Vegas finally manages, and Pete can’t stand to hear his concern either. He hadn’t been particularly concerned while he was flirting with his ex fling right in front of Pete.
“No,” Pete says sharply. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t tell Vegas no. He doesn’t argue. But here he is, trembling with his anger. “No, fuck this, I’m tapping out.” He spins on his heel, stalking blindly across the bar, looking for the the closest possible exit. He needs air. He needs space.
Okay. Breathe. One step at a time.
He doesn’t bother seeing if Som is still there, doesn’t bother waiting or checking to see if Vegas is following him.
Pete’s thoughts are a mess; his thoughts are barely even thoughts. He hasn’t been fully under all night so there’s less of a hazy fog around him, but he’s still itching with the lingering tendrils of it.
That beautiful, intoxicating space in his head that Vegas puts him into. The space that’s supposed to be sacred. The space that’s supposed to be just for the two of them.
Pete feels cold — which makes sense, the level of clothing he’s wearing is minimal — and each and every sound grates along his frayed nerves. The raucous laughter of some seedy men in suits, the clink of glasses and chink of ice being scooped, the way the floor sticks to his shoes, the way the music sinks into his ears and grinds down.
He feels exposed in a way he hates. He wants his suit back. No, he wants his black turtleneck. He wants to be covered, to be hidden from view. Everything is okay when Vegas’s eyes are on him but Vegas’s eyes aren’t on him, they haven’t been all night.
Pete likes these games — loves them, really — and he indulges Vegas endlessly because Vegas’s love and attention and adoration are an addiction. So he allows Vegas to parade him around like an object, like a trophy. He loves it.
He hates it right now.
He’s not clueless. He knows who Vegas is. He’s aware of Vegas’s history. Their relationship started about as unconventional and disjointed and rocky as it could possibly be. Pete spent years watching Vegas flirt and seduce, pursue whoever caught his eye.
It was never Pete.
Ever. Vegas never had eyes for Pete.
His thoughts are starting to turn a bit quicker, jumbles of emotions and memories fighting to register in his conscious thought, all the while he tries to fight back the rising shudders under his skin.
“Pete!” He hears Vegas call out to him. He ignores it and keeps walking.
He pushes people out of his way, uncaring of who they are or if he hurts them. He doesn’t have any idea how he’s getting home — he doesn’t have a phone on him, he came with Vegas and was leaving with Vegas — but he’ll be damned if he’s going to stick around for this.
He doesn’t want Vegas to even look at him right now, even though he knows that all he wants is Vegas to touch him.
“ Pete !” Vegas calls again, and this time he manages to catch up with Pete right as he steps outside onto the street. His hand wraps around Pete’s bicep, and Pete immediately shrugs it off, whirling around to face him.
“No,” he snaps. “No, you don’t get to touch me right now.”
There’s a flash of something dangerous in Vegas’s eyes; he’s different with Pete than he ever has been with anyone else, but he still doesn’t like to be denied, to be told what he can and can’t do. Pete can see the urge to bite back written across his face. He doesn’t, he manages to control his anger for once in his life, but he does grab for Pete’s arm again. Pete swats at him, and Vegas grabs the other wrist as well, backing Pete up until he hits the brick wall of the bar.
Vegas isn’t stronger than Pete, not exactly. They’re both well-trained, fairly evenly matched in size and skill. But Pete is unused to fighting Vegas off with any real seriousness, and what’s more, he doesn’t actually want to hurt Vegas. Or, he does, but not to a degree where Vegas might sustain actual damage. The hand that pins his wrist to the wall might as well be an iron manacle, and Pete feels like all he can do is scowl.
“Baby,” Vegas says, soft and sweet. It’s a placating voice, meant to smooth over ruffled feathers. Pete has no desire to be placated.
“Fuck off,” he growls, teeth bared like he might bite Vegas again. He won’t — he’s a bit more present in his own mind than he’d been at the time — but if Vegas thinks he will, maybe he’ll back off.
Vegas doesn’t. His brow furrows in confusion, and his hand slips from Pete’s bicep to his waist, wrapping around him until their bodies are drawn together. He presses his face against Pete’s throat, lips just above the delicate metal of his collar. “Talk to me, sweetheart,” he coaxes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
The fact that Vegas doesn’t know is just another layer to Pete’s offended fury. He squirms in Vegas’s grasp, but Vegas only tightens his grip and grazes his teeth threateningly over the thin skin covering Pete’s pulse. “If you don’t tell me,” he says, “I can’t fix it.”
The words scrape along his resolve and Pete snarls again. He hates it. His entire body is pulsating with blind fury and he doesn’t want to tell Vegas what’s wrong , because he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to just talk about his feelings like they exist . The whole point of being Vegas’s pet is that he doesn’t have to do these things. That no matter what, Vegas takes care of him. No matter what, Vegas knows what’s best for him. No matter what, Vegas is there for him. But he wasn’t, and he isn’t, and that hurts Pete more than anything.
He shouldn’t have to explain to Vegas what it means to be a good owner; he shouldn’t have to explain to Vegas his needs as a good pet.
Vegas presses Pete closer into the wall and wraps one hand around the back of Pete’s neck — carefully leaving his hand out of biting distance, Pete notices with vindictive pleasure — and instead kisses his way up Pete’s jaw to nuzzle into his cheek.
“Pete,” Vegas says again, a soft whisper into his skin. “I’m sorry.”
And then Vegas is kissing him and Pete allows it for three seconds; long enough to enjoy it and forget why he’s mad but enough time to remember that he is, in fact, furious.
He bites Vegas’s bottom lip hard enough that it splits open under his teeth, blood filling both of their mouths. Vegas pulls back with an affronted noise — stupid really, he shouldn’t be pushing his luck right now — and looks at Pete with wide, hurt eyes.
“What’s the matter ?” Vegas asks, and this time his voice cracks, just slightly but enough to slice through Pete’s blistering rage.
“I’m going home,” Pete says instead, once again trying to squirm out of Vegas’s grip. It's useless, frankly, even though Vegas is barely touching him. Pete is strong enough to knock Vegas to the ground but he can’t even find the strength to push him away.
“Okay,” Vegas says, cutting Pete off. “Let’s go home.”
Pete snarls again. “Oh, let’s go home? Isn’t that so unfortunate for you? Well, fortunately you’re not coming with me. You’re free to stay and catch up with that slut .”
There is a long, heavy silence that hangs between the two of them. “You’re jealous,” Vegas finally says. He’s looking at Pete as if Pete has grown an extra head, disbelief and confusion in his eyes.
“Of course I'm jealous,” Pete snaps, his anger spiking once more.
“Of Som,” Vegas clarifies, like the very concept is unfathomable to him. Pete snarls just at the mention of his name; he’d like to rip it from Vegas’s mouth, until he can never bring himself to shape the sounds of it again.
“The man you were practically fawning over? Yes.”
Fawning, Vegas mouths soundlessly. His confusion drives Pete absolutely insane. As if Vegas has never been jealous before. “Baby,” Vegas says, and Pete wants to smack him, “why would I give a damn about him when I have you right beside me? Looking like this,” he adds, pressing a palm to Pete’s chest, right over the skin left exposed by the open halves of his shirt.
“Naivety is not a good look on you,” Pete tells him, shifting in a fruitless attempt to dislodge Vegas’s hand. He doesn’t want to sit here and split hairs with Vegas on why he’s jealous.
“I’m not interested in Som, not when—” Vegas says again and Pete snaps, cutting him off.
“You don’t get it, do you? You belong to me. You are mine . Do you understand?” Pete says, placing his hands on Vegas’s chest and pushes. Vegas doesn’t budge, watching Pete open mouthed. “I own you, Vegas. You’re my owner but I’m your pet, this works both ways. You’re responsible for me, you take care of me, but you are mine .”
Pete feels breathless, as if admitting all of this is revealing the most vulnerable part of his soul. He hates it. He’s never minded feeling invisible, not until Vegas, and he hates this lingering curl of rejection in his chest. He’s spent enough time watching Vegas fuck around and he hates it. He’s also spent enough time with Vegas breaking bones of people who even bothered to look at Pete, and the thought of the double standard is enough to spike his rage again.
“If it were me, ” Pete says, holding Vegas’s gaze with blazing defiance, “and the roles were reversed and I was in there flirting with someone — with someone I’d slept with, no less — you’d have broken their arm and then bent me over a bar stool, fucking me right then and there in front of everyone. If it were me, in there, chatting up some old friend— ” Pete’s voice drips disdain at the word, “— you would have put me in my place faster than I could blink. So yeah, Vegas. I’m jealous.”
Vegas’s grip tightens on the back of his neck as Pete speaks, a cold fury in his eyes at the very thought. There are no others, of course — Pete was a virgin when he met Vegas, and there certainly wasn’t anyone else since — but just the thought that someone else might have put their hands on Pete is clearly too much for Vegas to bear. Good. Let him suffer with that thought for a bit.
And then Vegas’s expression clears, rearranges itself into something more pleased, more feral. Pete can’t help the sudden frisson of electric heat that travels down his spine, just at that look. When Vegas speaks his voice is dark, dangerous. “Is that what you need, baby? Do you need me to claim you in front of everyone? Fuck you in front of anyone who looks at me so they know who I belong to? How you’re the only one who gets to touch me?”
Pete has the rapidly growing sensation that he’s somehow lost the argument. Somehow, Vegas has turned it back around on him, regained the upper hand. Pete swallows around a mouthful of fury that now has nowhere to go, overtaken by the shock of lust burning under Pete’s skin. Vegas follows the motion with his tongue, licking a stripe over Pete’s throat and pulling a gasp from his lips.
“Are you acting out for attention, pet?” Vegas asks him, his mouth stretched into a smile against Pete’s skin. “Is that what this is? A tantrum?”
Pete reaches for the anger he just had, tries to wrap his fingers around it, and can’t. There’s a bit of offense there — because really , Vegas, a tantrum? — but even that is muted beneath Pete’s hunger, his want. He’s been craving Vegas’s eyes on him all night, he can’t bear to turn away now.
“No,” Pete says, just to be spiteful.
Vegas, however, sensing blood in the water — and not his own blood, mind you — pushes in for the kill. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he licks at Pete’s thudding pulse. “I’ve been a neglecting owner, an even worse boyfriend. I didn’t give you the proper attention and care, of course you’re acting out.”
Pete wants to fight back but somehow Vegas is pushing him right back into that hazy heat, the submission crawling up his spine and licking across his skin like dancing flames. He’s not quite there, and refuses to go under again tonight. Not until Vegas has learned his lesson.
“I made a grave mistake tonight,” Vegas says, sounding like he actually means it, apologetic and remorseful. “I made you think that you aren’t the most important thing in my life. I took my eyes off of you, and made you doubt that I would rip this place apart for you in a heartbeat. I neglected you, enough that you thought for one moment that there is a single thing in this world I value above you.”
Pete makes a noise, a desperate little punch of air, and Vegas takes it for what it is: submission. He feels Vegas smile wicked sharp into his skin and then his hands are around Pete’s thighs, hoisting them up around Vegas’s hips. Vegas kisses along Pete’s collarbone, pausing to nip at the tender skin, the places where Pete’s pulse thrums a litany of devotion. Love bites, nothing more.
“I feel you holding back on me, baby,” Vegas murmurs, and one hand leaves Pete’s hip and reaches out to grab Pete’s fist, clenched at his side. “I love it when you’re feral. If you need to hurt me, hurt me. Don’t hold it in anymore.”
It’s like a dam breaks inside of Pete and the anger and rage, the jealousy and possessiveness burst forth out of him. He tightens his legs around Vegas’s hips and pulls him in closer, hip to hip, and he sinks his fingers into Vegas’s delicate silk shirt and rips it.
“He touched this,” Pete growls, pulling it apart in pieces. “You’re never wearing this shirt again.”
Vegas’s skin practically glows under the street lights, exposed for Pete to touch, to trail his fingers over. He gets his nails in Vegas’s back, dragging them down, leaving long angry lines in his wake. Vegas growls against his collarbone, fierce and just as hungry as Pete feels.
“No one else should ever touch you,” Pete tells him. “No one else should ever dare.” He ducks his head and sinks his teeth into Vegas’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise, to pull a pained noise from Vegas that swiftly twists into pleasure.
“Gonna mark me up, baby?” Vegas asks, sliding his hand into Pete’s hair and pulling him closer instead of away. Pete hums his agreement, sucking a livid mark into Vegas’s skin. It will linger there for days, a constant reminder for Vegas of Pete’s anger and affection in one.
Vegas is hard against him. Pete can feel the heat of him, crushed between their bodies. His own body is responding, coming alive under Vegas’s attention. Pete aches for him, has been aching for him since they left the house, and now some of that desire is bubbling back up to the surface.
“Fuck me,” Pete murmurs against Vegas’s shoulder, leaving smaller, less vicious bites along the rest of it and up Vegas’s neck. Vegas, with his penchant for open shirts and refusal to acknowledge the top two buttons of any outfit, won’t be able to hide any of these. He’ll bear Pete’s mark for all to see for days, and it settles something pained in Pete’s chest.
Vegas pulls Pete back by the hair, his grin sharp and knowing. “Is that what my pet needs? For me to fuck you right here, out in the open? To have everyone watch you get what they’ll never have?”
Pete’s answering moan is smothered by Vegas’s mouth, his searching tongue. All he can see and smell and taste is Vegas. As it should be. As is Pete’s right.
“Vegas,” Pete moans, heat rising up under his skin as the image spreads out and takes space in his mind. It’s the first time he’s said Vegas’s name since he stormed outside and it seems to spark something in Vegas, spurring him on.
“Everyone will look at me and see what you did to me,” Vegas says, dark and sultry. “That’s what you want, baby, isn’t it? For people to see your nails in my skin and teeth on my neck, for people to feel envious over the one person who ever gets to mark me up like this?”
“You’re mine ,” Pete growls.
“Of course I’m yours.” Vegas’s hands linger at the waistband of Pete’s trousers, looking around at the empty street, illuminated in the dark streetlights. “Tell me this is okay, pet, and I’ll fuck you right here against this wall. I’ll fuck you in front of everyone, just to prove who I belong to. That you own me, body and soul. Tell me this is what you want, and you’ll have it.”
“Yes,” Pete breathes, his fury forgotten, replaced by the molten warmth of belonging. “ Please .”
It’s all the permission Vegas needs to rip Pete’s shirt out by the hem, his fingers fast and efficient as they unfasten Pete’s pants and push them down his hips. Vegas doesn’t even bother to remove Pete’s shirt, just tears it open with the corresponding ping of the buttons hitting the ground. This is easy, natural. They’ve fucked enough times half dressed in semi public places that it takes very little wrangling and manouvering to get Vegas’s cock free and lined up with Pete’s puckered rim.
They don’t have lube and Vegas doesn’t even bother to prep Pete before he’s pushing in, one inch at a time. Pete relaxes around the thick girth, his body eagerly claiming what belongs to him. Every inch of Vegas is his, his lips and fingers and tongue and cock, every single aspect of Vegas’s method of pleasure belongs to Pete. No one else’s.
Pete leans in and runs his tongue along the sharp jut of Vegas’s jaw before sucking a dark hickey, blood racing at the beat of Vegas’s heart under his skin.
Vegas is not gentle when he starts to thrust inside of Pete — why ever would he be, when their love is made of claws and blood and teeth — and Pete feels the friction of the wall rub all the wrong way against wounds that are days, weeks old. He sinks his fingernails into Vegas’s skin again, drawing deep red welts with each slide of his own back against the wall, a manic grin spreading across his face when the wounds on his back break open, the hot blood a balm against his skin.
Their breathing mingles in a synchronized beat, each inhale and exhale winding each other tighter into their embrace. Pete watches a bead of sweat trail down Vegas’s forehead before licking it up, claiming one more thing that is his and his alone.
“Fuck, baby,” Vegas groans, and Pete can feel his pace become erratic.
“Don’t you dare finish before me,” Pete hisses, sinking his teeth right over Vegas’s nipple for good measure. Vegas makes a surprised noise of pain and pleasure, indignation at Pete giving him an order but also instinctually obeying. Pete licks up the small droplets of blood budding around the crescent shaped bite marked over Vegas’s chest and smiles, a feral glee burning under his skin.
Vegas’s hips slow to something more steady, firm pressure inside Pete that spreads electric pleasure through his nerve endings. “Good boy,” Pete teases, and it earns him a vicious grin and a firm hand around his cock.
“I think you’re getting carried away with yourself, pet,” Vegas warns him, his voice a low rumble that ripples through Pete, settles in his veins.
“I think I’ve earned it,” Pete retorts, tightening his thighs around Vegas’s hips, grasping and clawing at him, rocking himself against him to seek out more friction.
“I’ve let you get away with quite a bit of misbehavior tonight, baby. Don’t push your luck.”
As if Vegas had to let Pete do any of this. As if Pete hadn’t been in complete control of himself all night, making his own choices, Vegas be damned. Pete would do it all over again, too. His anger and his hurt were worth it to have Vegas against him, inside of him like this.
So, of course, Pete pushes his luck. He wraps his arms around Vegas’s neck and drags him in closer, drawing a line up Vegas’s throat with his tongue. “Make me come,” he demands, scraping his teeth along Vegas’s jaw, more threat than anything else. He doesn’t ask permission, he doesn’t need to. Right now, no matter what Vegas may think of himself, Pete is in control. Pete holds everything they are in the palm of his hand, and Vegas can have it back only if he can satisfy him.
Maybe Vegas knows that, maybe he just can’t hold back anymore. Either way he twists his wrist, strokes Pete towards a perilous edge and knocks him over it. Pete comes with Vegas’s name on his lips, Vegas’s skin under his teeth. Vegas chases his own pleasure in Pete’s body, a little too rough, a little too painful, and thus entirely perfect.
The door opens beside them, and both of them freeze in place. Pete had forgotten entirely they were just outside the back door, visible to anyone who walked in or out, anyone passing by.
And then, of course, it’s fucking Som. Pete feels a renewed burst of rage, and when Vegas starts to turn his head, Pete grabs him by the jaw and yanks his face back towards him.
“Eyes on me,” he growls. “It’s me you’re fucking.”
“Just you,” Vegas promises him. He doesn’t spare Som another glance, but Pete does, with a vicious smile to go with it.
“Like what you see?” Pete tosses out, the barbed words aimed solely at Som. “Better take a good look now, because if you ever think about touching him again — or think about looking at him again — I’ll peel the skin off your stupid pretty little face.”
Som makes a noise that is full of justified fear and backs away, his hands raised. Vegas chuckles into Pete’s skin, not pausing for a moment.
“Possessive,” Vegas teases.
“Show him, baby,” Pete purrs. “Show him how much you want me .”
Vegas complies and doubles his pace, his hips slamming into Pete, rough, all-encompassing. “Come on, come on,” Pete gasps, head thrown back. He’s bleeding, he’s sore, and all he wants is for Vegas to fill him up, mark him, claim him.
“Demanding,” Vegas gasps. “Bossy. Bratty—” Any other adjectives he might want to attribute to Pete are lost to his groan as he finally reaches his peak, flooding Pete with heat. Pete groans, another wave of pleasure rolling through him.
Slowly, gently, Vegas lowers Pete’s legs to the ground. They almost don’t hold him; he’s trembling, aching all over, and there’s fluid leaking down over his thighs that’s going to make a mess of his pants in a minute.
The door slams next to them as Som hurries back into the bar, and Pete can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and breaks free. He feels lighter, now, even though all of him is seconds from collapse, even though he desperately needs to crawl into bed and be coddled there.
“Take me home,” He says, one last demand before he lets Vegas reclaim his power.
Vegas, breathless, wide eyed, a little bit awestruck, complies.
The next morning, Vegas is summoned to the main family compound for business and he takes Pete with him. He’s dressed in his usual extravagance and he winces each time his golden chain necklace brushes against the bright red bite marks across his collar bones. He purposely left his silk shirt open to expose the litany of abrasions across his skin, as much for Pete’s satisfaction as his own.
Porsche’s eyes, upon seeing Vegas, trail down with a look of concern and horror on his face. “What happened?”
Vegas’s lips twitch into a smirk and he turns to brush his finger along Pete’s bottom lip. Feeling generous Pete flicks his tongue out to curl around the pad of Vegas’s finger before sucking the digit into his mouth.
“I was neglectful of my pet, and suffered the consequences.”
Pete hums, satisfaction licking across his skin, and allows himself to drift.