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Their date night starts as they often do—they're at one of the Minor Family's club for a business meeting and when it ends in their favour, they decide to stay behind and drink in celebration. Sometimes Pete is able to drag Vegas up to the dance floor, but tonight is not one of those times. Not that it happens often, anyway—the constant fear Vegas had of displeasing his father in anyway doesn't disappear over night, just because the man himself is dead.
Pete understands that better than anyone.
Honestly, he's more than happy to sit by Vegas' side, enjoying his company, his touch, his words.
But sometimes, when Porsche and the others join them, Vegas is…well…never really happy when Pete leaves his side, but he tolerates Pete going to the dance floor with them when he can't stop swaying in his seat to the beat.
Especially when it isn't often that Porsche and the others do join them.
Though, again, that's a bit of an overstatement.
Porsche, Kinn, Tankhun, Arm, Pol, and even Tae and Time had come to the club after Vegas and Pete, while they were still in a business meeting. They had picked a table on the other side of the room, and while Pete sometimes wishes they could all sit together at one table without the risk of someone dying, he knows that's another thing that will take time.
Korn and Gun may be dead now, but that doesn't mean the bitterness they fostered between the cousins died with them.
So, Pete talks with his friends when they both meet at the bar, then they go their separate ways, Pete happily heading back to Vegas. The motion repeats until Vegas eventually whispers in his ear, telling him he can have a few songs dancing with his friends.
He kisses Vegas hard enough and long enough to begin to doubt his own decision, before heading to join his friends on the dance floor.
Pete loses himself to the beat, laughter in his chest as he watches Porsche, Tankhun and Arm go wild with their dance moves.
Yet, he still glances over to Vegas at the end of every song, a thrill shooting through him when the man lifts his fingers, reminding him how many he has left.
He sees the others exchange looks sometimes, and can almost hear their thoughts—wanting to remind Pete that Vegas isn't his owner. If he wants to dance with his friends, he can; if he wants to sit with his friends, he can; if he wants to come back to the Main Family, he can.
Pete just ignores them.
He knows all of that. He's right where he wants to be, and what they never seem to realise is that Vegas has no power over Pete that isn't freely given. Their start may have been unhealthy but fuck, they're part of the mafia, there's no aspect of their lives that is "healthy."
They have long since learnt not to broach the subject with Pete, however. That it's best to keep their thoughts as just thoughts. Especially after Porsche and Kinn tried it once, during a night rather similar to this one, and Pete had reminded them exactly how their relationship started. People in glass houses and all that.
Pete has spent his entire adult life with the Theerapanyakun family, fading into the background and doing nothing but watching. He knows there's not a single damn person who could claim the moral high ground, and if they try, well, he's no longer a bodyguard, paid to be quiet and have no opinion.
He's the equal partner to the head of the Minor Family.
Pete glances over to Vegas as the latest song fades into silence for nothing more than a second before another beat takes over. He expects to see his lover watching him; anticipates the final finger going down, instead beckoning him back to the table, to Vegas' side, where he belongs.
However, he doesn't meet Vegas' eyes.
Vegas isn't even watching him anymore.
Instead, he's locked in a conversation with two men that Pete has never seen before. Or at least, if he has, it was back when he was bodyguard and they faded into the background because they were nothing more than Kinn or Vegas' flavour of the week—or day, if he's honest.
Pete swallows, a strange feeling sweeping through his chest and settling in the pit of his stomach. The music fades away until he can't hear a damn thing; he doesn't even register the bodies grinding against his tense and still body. His eyes can't leave Vegas' face—can't turn away from the sight of him sitting so casually with these two men.
'Pete, you okay?' Porsche asks, a heavy arm landing on his shoulders. The impact is enough to draw Pete's mind out of its stupor.
He blinks, ignoring the way his eyes sting as he turns to face Porsche, finally drawing his attention away from Vegas. And the strangers.
He forces a smile onto his face, the act no longer as comfortable as it once was. And Pete fucking hates that his mask no longer fits, all because of fucking Vegas. It used to be the one thing he could rely on, no matter what situation he was in: he could put that smile on his face, look a little goofy, a little innocent, and no one would pry further.
He could push people away with a single expression that was supposed to help draw people in.
But now, that comfort is gone.
He slips on the mask and never knows if it's going to work this time around.
'I'm fine,' he says with a jerky nod of his head.
He glances back to where Vegas sits, wondering if he'd even notice if he didn't come back. If he's even realised that the song has ended and Pete's time to dance is over; if Pete had to leave the club this second, how long would it take for Vegas to realise he was gone? Would he even give a fuck?
The thoughts are never ending, relentless blows against his heart and soul, and he can do nothing but stand there and take them. No amount of training and experience can block them.
'Pete—' Porsche starts to say but his words trail away to buzzing as Vegas finally turns his attention away from the two strangers and meets Pete's gaze. His eyes seem to brighten, but that could simply be the lighting, the strobing multicolours adding a brightness that isn't actually there.
Vegas raises his hand and his fingers crook, a grin on his lips as he orders Pete to return.
And Pete wonders what would happen if he didn't move. If he stayed exactly where he is; if Vegas would care enough to come and bring him back, or if he'd think that it was too much effort. He wonders if that would be the end of everything, in one simple moment, because Vegas didn't really care if Pete came back to him or not.
Especially when he's got two gorgeous men at his side, waiting to fill Pete's shoes.
But as the thought enters his mind, he realises it's too late to even see what'd happen, for his feet are already moving. He pushes past the bodies, vaguely aware that the others are calling out to him, but he doesn't care. He's been asked to return to the table and he's too dedicated, too fucking devoted to Vegas, to dare and refuse him.
Not when it could end badly.
When it could cause Vegas to set him aside.
When Pete approaches the table, he realises that the strangers have taken a seat on either side of Vegas. Which means one of them is sitting in his seat because he always has Vegas' left side. He can still remember the night Vegas had explained his desire to have Pete on his left.
'The heart points slightly to the left. It's only fitting that mine is always pointing at you.'
It had been the cheesiest thing Vegas had ever said to him since their confession in the hospital after he'd been shot. And yet it had only strengthened Pete's resolve—made him realise that Vegas really did love him and wanted him by his side.
For now, at least.
Pete glances between the two men—they're both beautiful and pretty, the kind of men that Kinn, and therefore, by extension, Vegas, loved going after before. Slim, dainty figures with features so soft it's impossible not to look at them and be in awe.
He swallows, realising just how short he falls in comparison. He knows he'll never be like that—he's never been one to draw attention, and even though that's the way he likes it…it reminds him too much of before.
When Vegas was fucking his way through every single person Kinn had ever laid eyes on, taking them from his cousin like they were nothing more than playthings…and he'd never once considered Pete. He'd taken one look at him and discounted him, no doubt thinking he wasn't worth the time or effort.
And while Pete knows things are different now, it's difficult to forget the many times he'd been right there in front of Vegas, and been glanced over. The times at the entrance, where the only time he'd smiled in Pete's direction was because Porsche was standing next to him; when Vegas' hand had been on his shoulder only because he wanted to push him aside, take his seat which was right next to Porsche's.
He hates the way so many of his feelings are wound up with Porsche—because he likes Porsche. He genuinely does consider him a friend; remembers the way he stopped pressing when Pete asked, when he was still trying to work through his bizarre new feelings for Vegas.
He know that Vegas felt nothing for Porsche.
Well, that's a lie.
Of course there was lust—it's fucking Porsche, after all. Even Pete was a little blown over the first time he met him.
But the courting, the trying to convince him he cared…Pete knows that was only because Gun had asked him to keep an eye on Porsche. He never once cared about Porsche like he cares about Pete.
He's never cared for anyone like he cares for Pete…right?
'You're in Pete's seat, Lip,' Vegas' voice pulls him out of his thoughts, reminding him that he's still standing at the table like a stray pup, waiting to be told where to sit.
He forces a smile onto his face and shakes his head. 'Don't worry about it. I'll just sit here.' He slides into the place beside the stranger—Lip. It feels wrong, being so far from Vegas, not being able to feel the warmth from his body as he presses up against him. They never seem to know what personal space is, no matter where they are or who they're with.
At least he's still on Vegas' left.
Pete glances towards Vegas, watching as his eyes tighten a little but he says nothing else. He doesn't press the issue or tell Lip to move so that Pete can sit in his rightful spot. He merely grinds his teeth together and reaches for his wine, taking a long drink.
'We haven't met before,' the other one on Vegas' right says. He reaches across the table—and therefore pushes himself further into Vegas' body—with his hand and a small, insincere smile on his lips.
Pete's a master of those smiles—he knows when he's being faced with one.
'Pete,' he says as he takes the stranger's hand, wincing internally because his hands are smooth, soft and gentle. Pete knows his own hands are rough, scarred and calloused from years of boxing and handling guns.
How Vegas must miss having such soft fingers caress his skin, rather than feel like he's being raked over by sandpaper or stone.
'I'm Tex. This is my friend, Lip.' Tex straightens and then turns his attention back to Vegas. 'We rarely get to meet any of Vegas' friends. This is a nice change.'
And Pete knows exactly what he's saying—Tex's eyes flash, letting him know that he's fully aware that Pete is more than a friend, but doesn't care about it. He's taken one look at Pete, spoken a handful of words, and decided that he has no right at Vegas' side.
Not that Pete can blame him for coming to that conclusion. He often wonders what the fuck he's doing at Vegas Theerapanyakun's side, but it's one thing to have his own thoughts and insecurities, and another for some former fuck of Vegas' to say it aloud.
Especially when Pete expects Vegas to intervene; to put them in their place as he's done countless times before.
Hell, Pete can still recall every fucking detail when one of the Minor Family bodyguards had seen fit to insult Pete in front of Vegas. He'd been under the impression he was nothing more than an ass to Vegas, and so hadn't bothered to quiet himself as he complained about the "traitor Main Family spy" giving them orders.
The fucker still can't walk more than twenty metres without being in agony.
This time, however, Vegas merely takes another sip of his wine. The muscle in his jaw works, the only sign that he's annoyed, but apart from that? Zero reaction.
Pete watches him, waiting, wondering if he's perhaps waiting until he's finished his wine so he doesn't waste it—he's a bit of a snob in that regard…but no. The wine glass is emptied and he still says nothing, shuffling a little in his seat as he waves his hand, ordering another one without having to say a word.
The mask from before, the one Pete had considered long cast aside, slips back onto his face. His cheeks hurt in a way they never used to, everything tight and uncomfortable. He never used to feel out of place before Vegas.
Oh, he always knew he was wearing a mask, that he was hiding who he really was behind a goofy grin, but it never felt like it. It felt as fucking natural as breathing did.
Now, however, it's like he's wearing a skin tight suit, the fabric chafing and constantly reminding him that this isn't who he is.
'Same,' Pete says, unable to summon more than that.
Thankfully, he's saved from the humiliation as that registers when the barman shows up, a glass of red wine for Vegas and a double whisky on the rocks for himself.
That helps settle his mind a little.
The staff of the club view them as one. Whenever Vegas asks for another round, it is to include Pete—they'd only made that mistake once before, the very first time they'd come as a couple. And since the man who'd brought the singular drink now only has nine fingers because of it, they haven't forgotten it.
He sees Tex and Lip share a look, confused that they haven't been included in this round of drinks. Lip pouts and turns even more to face Vegas, his hands settling on Vegas' wrist. 'Nothing for us, Vegas?'
'No,' is all Vegas says as he lifts his glass and takes another drink.
And Pete tries not to think about how much talking the three of them appeared to be doing before Pete joined them. Had they been talking about something that Vegas didn't want Pete to hear? Had they been reminiscing about their times together? Is that the reason Tex and Lip don't view Pete as any sort of threat? Because Vegas was letting them know how much he missed them and the fun they used to have?
Pete swallows, his fingers curling into his palm until his nails bite against the sensitive skin. He reaches for his whisky and takes a long drink, the clink of the ice against the glass a little too loud for him. He winces and sits it back on the table, trying to remind himself how to be normal.
The problem is, since being with Vegas—since Vegas spends his every moment encouraging Pete out of his hiding place and making him embrace the fact he's a little twisted—he doesn't really know how to do that anymore.
'You seemed to be enjoying yourself on the dance floor,' Lip says with that same, fake-sweet smile that has Pete itching to punch it off. He takes a deep breath in. He can't be starting fights with friends of Vegas. Not if he wants to keep Vegas.
Pete watches as Vegas' jaw tightens further at that. Vegas may let him go and enjoy himself, but that doesn't mean he resents every second he's not at Vegas' side.
Obviously he doesn't resent it that much, when it took him a minute to realise that the last song had even ended. Pete shakes his head minutely, glancing briefly to the dance floor. The others are still there, dancing away without a care in the world. Pete is almost envious of them—can remember the times he'd be just like them, nothing going on in his head except the buzz of the music and the laughter in his lungs.
Porsche looks a little concerned, his brows furrowed as he looks over to where Pete sits. His movements slow and he cocks his head to the side, asking a question that Pete understands, even with the distance between them.
He shakes his head. Things are still quite tense between Porsche and Vegas. They've gotten better since the Minor Family was given back to Vegas, but the year or so it was in Porsche's hands is still a rift between them.
It feels strange to think that it's been more than three years since the attempted coup; three years at Vegas side…it's an impressive feat, an accomplishment no one else has ever attained before. But it does make sense that Vegas would grow tired eventually.
Pete realises the others are watching him, waiting for him to reply to Lip's words. There's just nothing that he can say, so he offers them a tight-lipped smile and reaches for his glass again, draining the remains of the alcohol in one gulp.
He doesn't usually like getting too drunk—Vegas never goes as far or as hard, and while it's never bad with Vegas, it's nothing like Pete wants. He likes being aware enough so that when they fuck it's as glorious as their first time together.
Right now, however, he hates the way his skin feels against his bones; the way his clothes itch and his heart hammers against his chest. He'll do whatever it takes to lessen the sensations running through him, setting him on edge like a fucking live wire.
He raises his hand with the glass still in his grasp, waving it a little to get the bar staff's attention, but before he can, it's snatched from him and set back on the table. Long, elegant fingers wrap around his wrist and lower his arm, the grip biting into the bones in a way that makes him sigh and causes the buzzing in his head to quieten.
Pete lifts his gaze from where Vegas' hand grips his wrist, only after having traced the small tattoos that hide on the inside of his fingers. He expects to meet Vegas' gaze—to see the reprimanding in his eyes and feel reassured that Vegas still sees him; still wants him.
However, when he finally lifts his head and turns to Vegas, he finds his lover looking at Tex instead, quietly talking with him and Pete can't hear what's being said due to the pounding music that is still rioting in his ears.
Something in Pete's mind snaps, his teeth gnashing together until he's certain they'll crack—the hand on his wrist no longer brings comfort, but instead restriction. With a snarl, he tugs it free, putting so much force into it that his hand keeps going even when freed, and sends Lip's drink sliding across the table, right into his lap.
There's not a lot of liquid left in it, but enough for the man in question to shriek as he shoots to his feet. Pete follows the motion, glaring between the three of them—Lip, Tex and finally Vegas, who seems to be hiding his grin behind his wine glass.
'Look at what you fucking did!' Lip snarls, tone shrill and demanding, enough to draw attention of the people nearby.
'Hmm.' Pete folds his arms over his chest, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs. 'Don't act like I ruined your outfit—you already did that when you decided to wear it.'
Lip's eyes flash, eyes widening and mouth falling open. He stammers for a few moments before he huffs, turning to face Vegas. He sinks back down onto the seat—Pete's seat. Where Vegas' heart points—and wraps his arm around Vegas' shoulder. His free hand comes up to Vegas' chest, touching the skin revealed by the unbuttoned area.
'Did you see what he did to me, Vegas?' he purrs, forcing a pathetic looking pout onto his face, but really, all Pete can look at is where his hands are. On his chest, inching towards his bullet wounds. The gunshots that almost took Vegas from him—the wounds that Pete cleaned, dressed, treated for months until they were nothing more than scars; the wounds that Pete kisses every single time they're together because while they nearly took Vegas from him, they also brought them together.
Pete acts before he even realises it.
His hand lashes out, gripping ahold of Lip's wrist and wrenching it free from Vegas' body. He bends it backwards, until the pain is enough to force a scream from Lip's mouth. He stops then, only so he can use the leverage and power he now has over Lip's body to drag him from the bench, sending him to the floor, all the while keeping ahold of his wrist.
His shoulder bends in an angle that it's really not meant to, earning yet another yelp of pain from Lip—the sound is more addicting and enjoyable than anything played while Pete was dancing. He brings his foot down onto Lip's back, forcing his chest into the ground so that he can wrench the arm out of its socket, and only then does he release Lip's wrist, letting it fall down beside him at an awkward and unpleasant angle.
Lip himself is a writhing, crying mess, and from the puddle growing around him, the idiot's already pissed himself from the pain. Pete rolls his eyes, stepping off his back and nudging him away so he's no longer blocking Pete's path.
His gaze meets Vegas', feeling a thrill when he finds his lover's eyes on him, unflinching and unblinking—like they should have been since he came back; since he left his side to go and dance with the others.
'You fucking—' Tex starts but before he can say more, Vegas draws his gun from his waist band and points it at him. He still doesn't take his gaze off of Pete but that doesn't matter. Not to Vegas and definitely not to Tex who freezes in the process of standing up.
'If you value your life, you won't finish that sentence, Tex,' Vegas mutters as his lips slowly spread into a wider grin the longer he stares at Pete. 'Now, pick up Lip and fuck off.'
Tex doesn't move straight away, and his hesitation is enough to cause Vegas' attention to flicker over to him. And the mere sight of him staring at someone else sets Pete's blood on fire again. He grinds his teeth, bundling his hands into fists.
Vegas seems to notice for his grin is near maniacal now. 'Either you leave now, or I let him slip his leash.' He clicks the safety back onto his gun and then leans back against the booth, taking his glass of red wine with him. 'Your choice.'
Tex's eyes flicker over to Pete, then, and he's not entirely sure what he sees, but it must be enough for him to realise that there's only one choice available for him.
He immediately bows his head and then stumbles from the booth, reaching down to take ahold of Lip, who is still crying and gasping for air. He wraps Lip's good arm around his shoulder, and using the leverage, stumbles away from their table towards the main entrance of the club.
Pete only turns his attention away from them when he's certain they're gone, and when he does, his head swivels straight back to Vegas. He is still reclining against the lush velvet seats of their booth, one arm draped carelessly over the rest while the other brings his glass of wine to his lips.
And while Pete wants nothing more than to fall to his knees and crawl to the space between Vegas', he still can't quite get over the burn from Vegas' indifference.
With a scoff and a shake of his head, Pete turns on his heel and follows the exact same path that Lip and Tex took.
The fresh, night air hits his face, almost enough to reset his mind. He takes a deep breath in, thankful for the slight chill that caresses his skin and dries the sweat. He rolls his neck, letting his eyes fall shut as his head falls backwards, his hair dangling over the collar of his shirt. He's grown it out in the years since leaving the Main Family—no longer hidden behind a unappealing bowl cut but instead a layered mullet with long curtain bangs.
When a hand slides over his throat, Pete knows who it belongs to on instinct. Vegas' hands have encircled his throat so many times; he knows the shape of his fingers, the weight of his palm, the bite of nails in an action that can cause death as easily as they cause pleasure.
The moment Vegas' hands settle on his neck, Pete's mind usually quiets. It's like knowing that's where they belong and nothing else matters. He likes collars, he likes chains and ropes, but nothing will ever quite match the feel of Vegas' hands wrapping around his neck, holding his life in his hands and instead deciding to bestow mind-numbing pleasure upon him.
But everything is still too fresh, too raw, too fucking sore for him to settle. The weight no longer feels calming and, much like when Vegas' hand had been on his wrist, it just feels like he's being held down against his will, like a trapped animal.
Before he can even really process it or try and stop himself—though, he's not really sure he'd have done that, even if he had been more present in his mind—Pete throws all his body weight backwards. Vegas, obviously unprepared for Pete to fight back, stumbles and his back collides with the brick wall, his head smacking against it with such force that even Pete can feel the impact.
He doesn't care though, instead using the shock and disorientation to rip Vegas' hand from his neck. He considers leaving him where he is, finding his own way back home and they'll talk things over in the morning. But when he turns to face Vegas, his shirt falls open and shows the scars covering his chest—scars that those fuckers were nearly touching.
Grabbing the collar of Vegas' shirt, Pete drags him into the dark alleyway—it smells like stale piss and alcohol, of rotten food from the trash that lines the streets. Not that Pete really cares about any of that right now. All that matters to him is that it's dark, that no one can see them as he leads them further down the narrow path.
When he's happy with the distance they are from the entrance, he pushes Vegas back against the wall once more. His lover blinks the confusion from his eyes, and Pete watches as the smirk returns to his face. He reaches up with his free hand, touching the back of his head and wincing—his fingers come back with a speck of blood and for a moment, panic and guilt flickers through Pete's possessive anger.
It's on the tip of his tongue to apology, to ask if he's all right, when Vegas says, 'You're sexy as fuck when you're jealous.'
The concern disappears and Pete grits his teeth together. He stares at Vegas for a long moment, watching as his lover's dark eyes sparkle with cunning. Pete's seen that look numerous times; knows when Vegas is playing some elaborate scheme…his hand tightens in the silk collar of Vegas' shirt and he crowds further into him, until their noses are almost touching.
Despite having an extra inch or two of height on Vegas, he doesn't seem concerned about this turn of events.
Instead his hands settle on Pete's hips, pulling them flush together and letting him feel the hard outline of his cock in his tight jeans. His hands then dip backwards, pawing at Pete's ass and squeezing it tight enough to short-circuit Pete's brain. They then move upwards, towards the waistband, and after loosening Pete's belt, he slips one hand down inside.
The touch of Vegas' hands—cold from the air—against the bare skin of his ass has Pete hissing, his fingers tightening further into the fabric. He hears a rip but he doesn't give a fuck about that. And fuck Vegas, if he even thinks about saying anything about him ruining his shirt.
Honestly, Pete wants to rip it further, wants to tear it from Vegas' body and throw it into a fire. It's not like he's going to be wearing it again. Not when it's been tainted by the touch of those two fucking whores.
As a finger slips between his cheeks and strokes against his rim, Pete finally finds his voice. 'You motherfucker. You did all this on purpose, didn't you?'
Vegas arches an eyebrow, trying to look innocent, but the glint in his eyes tells Pete everything he needs to know. He may be a good actor, and if it was anyone else, they'd probably have been fooled, but this was Pete he was talking to. He knows Vegas better than he knows himself. He can take one look in those dark brown orbs and know exactly what Vegas is thinking.
It's just a shame that the same is also true for Vegas with Pete.
'Oh, so only you're allowed to play that game?' Vegas asks with a hum as his finger slips inside Pete. He's still loose and lubed up from their previous round before the meeting. They'd been running so late afterwards they hadn't even had time to wash up. Pete wonders, briefly, if that had also been apart of Vegas' plan but it's chased away with a moan as Vegas' finger thrust deeper.
'I was dancing with my friends…' Pete tries to sound stern and annoyed; tries to cling to his anger and frustration and, yes, jealousy…but Vegas' other hands also dips into his jeans, spreading his cheeks further so he can push a second finger inside him. And really, how the fuck is Pete able to think about anything else as Vegas starts to thrust, slowly, maddeningly slow, almost enough for Pete to find his anger again.
'And I was talking with mine,' Vegas replies, his grin only growing.
'Well, your friends are dickheads,' Pete spits out between gritted teeth, trying to keep his moans to himself. He is still angry with Vegas for allowing this, for encouraging it, and so he wants to keep quiet, because he knows that's the one of Vegas' favourite things when they fuck—the noises he makes. He's spent all of their time together, encouraging Pete to be as loud and wanton as he wants, wringing out sounds from him that even Pete had no idea he could make.
Vegas is a conductor, creating a symphony, with Pete's body as his orchestra.
Vegas laughs, that high-pitched giggle of his that he only ever uses around Pete. 'The same could be said for yours, too, Pet.' His free hand slips from Pete's trousers, no longer gripping his ass and instead fisting in his hair. 'We can do this all night. You might as well just admit that your plan backfired.'
Pete swallows, closing his eyes tightly.
It's not like he went to the dance floor with the intention of making Vegas jealous. He wanted to spend time with his friends, dancing with them, just like they used to do at Yok's bar. Before. He can't deny that Vegas being jealous is a nice after effect, but he'd never push it—not without talking about it before, just like they do with all their play.
His mind conjures the image of Vegas at the table, those two fuckers on either side of him, and how he hadn't once looked at Pete. The song had shifted into something else, and Vegas should have been there, beckoning him to return…but instead he was talking to two handsome strangers, looking for the world like he didn't care if Pete was there or not.
The feelings rise over him like a wave, crashing and dragging him under, and he can do nothing but let his head fall forward against Vegas' shoulder. Vegas' hand is still in his hair, but the sting from the strain doesn't do anything to ease the aching in his heart. He feels Vegas tug at him, trying to lift his head back up, but he seems to realise that something is wrong when Pete's head doesn't rise.
'Pete?' he calls out, and Pete feels his fingers slide from him, and he feels empty and hollow and he whines in the back of his throat. Pete tucks his head further into the crook of Vegas' neck, trying to find his words but failing.
Not that Vegas needs it.
He's capable of reading Pete like a fucking book.
The fingers slip down along the crease of Pete's ass again, and then slide inside him, slow and deep.
'Pete?' Vegas calls out again and Pete takes a deep breath, bringing his arms up around Vegas' shoulders, clinging to him tightly.
He tries to find his words, but they're lodged in his throat. He can't make his mouth work, except to press his lips against the skin of Vegas' throat, right where his pulse point is. It hammers an erratic rhythm against Pete's tongue as he darts out to taste the sweat on his skin. His teeth then nibble on the skin, and he knows that if he had to bite down hard enough, his mouth would be filled with Vegas' lifeblood. He almost wishes he could do just that, gulp it down and consume Vegas' essence until they were one and the same.
'What's the matter, baby?' Vegas murmurs, voice deep in Pete's ear. His fingers rock in and out of Pete, nudging against his prostrate with every thrust inside. He tightens down around the slender fingers, a groan breaking free from the confines of his clenched teeth. 'Do you honestly think either of those idiots hold a flame to you? That any of them could bring me as much satisfaction or pleasure? Could make me so fucking happy or content? Could make me feel like I could be myself?'
The tears fall down Pete's face without him even realising. He tastes the salt on his tongue, wondering where its even coming from until he pulls back. Vegas' free hand comes up and cups his jaw, nails biting into his skin but the pain brings only comfort. His breath lodges in his throat, fingers clutching into the soft fabric of Vegas' shirt, holding him as tight as he can as Vegas' fingers rock upwards in a powerful thrust that has Pete's knees trembling.
Vegas' fingers then move to brush the tears away before he uses the grip to drag Pete forward.
Their lips crash together, a clash of teeth and tongue and when the coopery tang of blood fills Pete's mouth, the relief that hits him is enough to break through the previous fear and worry. His hands move from Vegas' shoulders and instead reach for the buttons. There's only two or three holding the shirt shut, but even that's too many for Pete to deal with.
He rips at the shirt, the pings of the buttons hitting the wall and ground are music to his ears. His fingers then claw down Vegas' chest, nails digging at the remnants of the bullet wounds, pressing and prodding, reminding Vegas exactly who he belongs to. What those scars represent.
'You're mine,' he grunts, lowering his head to Vegas' throat again so he can press his teeth into the vulnerable skin there. Maybe that's what's missing—the bullet wounds are hidden, no one knows they're there from one glance.
Pete needs to mark him further—somewhere obvious and visible, where there's no doubts in anyone's mind just what Pete is to Vegas. A collar of his own, to compliment the ones that Pete himself wears.
'All yours, baby,' Vegas replies, his free hand coming around to the front of Pete's trousers. He pops the button and tugs the zipper down, then tugs his trousers down over Pete's hips.
Pete whines in the back of his throat as Vegas pulls his fingers free from Pete's ass, but it devolves into a groan as Vegas manoeuvres their bodies. He slams Pete against the wall, the harsh texture grinding into Pete's cheek and making him grimace. It lasts for a moment before he pushes his own face further into the bricks, arching his back and spreading his legs are far as he can manage due to his jeans.
'My eager little slut,' Vegas groans in Pete's ear, and honestly, Pete can't decide what he likes more. The emphasis Vegas has put on that "my" or simply being called a slut. He moans deep in his throat and wiggles his hips, sighing happily when he feels Vegas' cock slide up and down against his cheeks.
'You want this, don't you, baby?' Vegas mutters, and Pete feels the head of his cock press against his eager hole. He relaxes his muscles, huffing every time it catches on his rim. He just wants Vegas to fuck him, already. He doesn't care that they're working only with the sloppy mess from their hasty fuck before. He wants—no he needs—Vegas inside him.
'Please,' he grunts out, his hands reaching around and grabbing his ass cheeks. He spreads himself open, presenting himself to Vegas. The only thing holding him upright now is the wall against his face, and Pete knows he's going to be scratched and bruised to hell tomorrow. And he can't fucking wait.
'Fucking hell, Pete,' is all Pete hears Vegas say before he feels the press of his cock entering him. He goes slow at first, easing the head of his cock inside, almost as if to avoid hurting him. But before Pete can protest this ridiculous notion that he's breakable, the tip is fully in and Vegas no longer hesitates.
With one snap of his hips, he's balls deep in Pete's asshole. Pete howls, arching his back as much as he can, his sounds cutting off suddenly when Vegas' fingers wind around his neck. He presses down heavily, effectively silencing Pete, before the other hand moves to the side and up, winding in Pete's hair. He grabs a whole fucking fistful and uses the leverage to haul his head back and away from the wall.
Pete misses the burn against his face but the sting of his scalp and the bruising force against his throat is enough to make up for it. And when Vegas' hips start moving, setting a downright punishing pace, he feels like he's in heaven.
'You think anyone could compare to this, Pete?' Vegas grunts, voice quivering just a little to let Pete know that, for all he's trying to appear indifferent, Vegas isn't as unaffected as he's trying to sound. 'Your sweet, little ass was made for my cock. Your sick, twisted mind matches mine perfectly. Anyone tries to take you from me—and I mean anyone—' He accentuates his words with a particularly harsh thrust against Pete's prostate. '—then they're dead. You understand? You're mine, baby.'
Pete tries to nod, tries to let Vegas know that he understands, that has accepts Vegas' terms, but Vegas' grip in his hair and throat is still too tight. All he does is cause the grip to tighten until blackness starts to seep into the corners of his vision.
He tilts his head backwards instead, and Vegas seems to understand what he wants for he moves with him, keeping enough pressure to hold him steady, but allowing Pete's head to settle on the meat of Vegas' shoulder.
It gives Pete the perfect view of Vegas.
He loves this Vegas.
He loves every version of Vegas, but this one is just for him. This is Vegas so lost to his pleasure—pleasure that he only gets from Pete, giving into the darker fantasies, knowing Pete is right there beside him, eagerly accepting all his twisted desires.
His hair falls forward into his face and eyes, sticking to the beads of sweat starting to gather on his forehead. His dark eyes are hooded, struggling to stay open but he's forcing himself because there's nothing that brings him more pleasure than seeing Pete lost in his own. The muscles and tendons on his neck and shoulders are straining; the pants on Pete's cheek hot and heavy.
'Vegas,' he groans, the name getting lost in his breaths and gasps for air. He can feel his release coming. So close to the edge and all he needs is Vegas' permission to launch himself off.
'Come on, Pet. Come for me,' Vegas growls in his ear, his tongue lapping up the sweat on Pete's neck until he reaches the hinge of his jaw. He bites down hard, and Pete knows from all his previous markings and bruises that this one is going to be a vivid, angry thing.
And he can't fucking wait to see it blossom. To wear it proudly, knowing that unless he had to wear a fucking headscarf, there's no way he'd be able to hide it.
The pain from the bite, the grip on his throat and in his hair, the permission falling from Vegas' sinful lips—they're all enough to send Pete hurtling towards release.
He comes all over the wall he's pinned against, his moans strangled and desperate as he ruts back and forth, grinding his hips into Vegas', encouraging him to come, too. His hands claw at Vegas' hips, enough that he knows his lover will be bearing his own marks of ownership.
'Pete, Pete, Pete.'
His name falls from Vegas' mouth like a prayer, a stream that only ends when he uses his leverage to turn Pete's head towards him, slamming their lips together in a messy kiss. Pete's barely got the strength to remain upright, let alone kiss back, so he lets Vegas consume him, taking what he needs as his thrusts grow more desperate.
Then Vegas' hips freeze altogether, and Pete moans low in the back of his throat as he feels himself being filled with Vegas' come. Vegas' teeth capture Pete's bottom lip, hard enough that when they finally part, the coppery tang of blood fills Pete's mouth.
Their foreheads knock together before Vegas lowers his to Pete's shoulder, huffing heavily while kissing the skin he can reach with every exhale.
Pete has no idea how long they stand there, Vegas' cock still inside him, starting to soften, his own body still bent in a manner that is growing uncomfortable with every passing second, before he brings a shaking hand up to cup the back of Vegas' neck.
His fingers gently stroke through the hair there as he says, 'The same goes for you.'
Vegas lifts his head, his eyes hooded and filled with that fucked out bliss that Pete loves. He would bet his life on the fact that Vegas has never had that look before he was with Pete, because it's a look that requires letting down guards and pretences.
'Huh?'
'You said if anyone tries to take me from you, they're dead.' Pete's fingers move until they're slipping down the back of Vegas' neck, nails scratching with enough pressure to make Vegas shiver. 'The same goes for you. Anyone tries to take you from me, and they're dead.'
Vegas says nothing for a beat, blinking at Pete with a rather confused—and adorable—expression on his face, before he huffs out a laugh.
'God, you're fucking perfect,' is all he says before he seals his lips over Pete's again, consuming him whole.