Chapter Text
Pete walked down the same hallway as always, adjusting his tie, which was already perfect; he had to arrive on time before the second family entered through the main elevator. He greeted another of the guards as he passed without a smile, only with a slight movement of his head; he never showed his smile inside that building, it was very likely that, by doing so, his dimples would be noticed too easily. And he knew no respectable guard with the dimples of a child on his face.
He turned the corner of the hallway, unsurprised to see Chan waiting for him with a cold attitude; he approached, judging him with his eyes. He looked straight ahead: his back straight, his weapon in its place, and his favorite knife hidden inside his suit.
“As soon as the meeting between the two families is over, you are free to go,” Chan placed his heavy hand on his shoulder. “Monday without fail at 10 is your return time.”
He nodded; he had no idea how he did it, but he was capable of memorizing the schedule of every single guard, from where they were at that moment to where they should be in the coming months.
He leaned his back against one of the cream walls; his presence was barely noticeable as people passed, he was there to guard, not to be seen. As soon as the elevator doors opened, the minor family presented themselves, or at least part of them: Khun Gun and Khun Vegas.
He wasn't even allowed to look at them directly, unless they spoke to him, but from where he stood he could see Vegas's wine-red shirt with the collar open. “One more button and his abdomen would be visible.” He repressed all his gestures and grimaces; he saw him say something to his father and saw his sharp cheekbones pass in front of him.
He remained motionless, without moving a muscle, looking straight ahead. When Chan signaled him with his eyes, he knew what he had to do: follow him, do not leave him alone or lose sight of him.
Having Vegas Theerapanyakul walking alone through the building was just as dangerous as playing roulette with weapons. He followed him seven steps behind, until he saw him enter one of the bathrooms.
He could wait outside, like any of the guards, but he wouldn't take the risk, not with him. As soon as he took the doorknob, he could swear his breath hitched: Vegas was waiting for him, leaning against the marble with the mirror behind him.
A chill ran through him when his gaze stopped on him and he saw him walking slowly. The echo of his footsteps on the floor was already enough to intimidate anyone. He was serious, still with the same cold face he showed in the hallways.
Vegas moved closer, much closer than he should; his hand went directly to his cheeks, squeezing them. The dark glint in his eyes didn't scare him; it didn't really, not him.
“Just following orders, right, Pete?”
“Vegas, I...”
He squeezed his hand harder on his jaw, forcing him to lift his head; he obeyed, he knew what happened if he didn't.
“Did I give you permission to speak?”
He pressed his lips together in that moment, repressing any words; he leaned in to smell his neck; he was never sure what came next with him. He closed his eyes as soon as he released his face to grab his tie.
He felt the heat of his body crashing against him, or perhaps it was his own heat from having him so close there in the main mansion. Vegas's fingers slid along the inside of his waistband and he opened his eyes to look at him with desperation.
No, he couldn't do that there; they had never done it, and they had rules against it, their rules.
“Were you going to tell me something, Pete? Or are you afraid of something?”
He looked intently into his eyes and the cold smile he gave him. He wanted to tell him to stop as his hands slid further down, but he clenched his jaw, feeling the heat of his hand inside his clothes.
He shook his head slowly, exchanging a look in his eyes. He was starting to get hard, just from a touch of his and seeing his eyes up close. He couldn't even tell at what moment he had unbuckled his belt, but he knew perfectly well what he was doing now.
He put his hand inside his boxers, his nails grazing his arousal; his throat closed up in that moment and he could only plead with his eyes.
“The meeting is going to be boring; it’s better to know that my pet is aroused waiting for me outside.”
The instant he brushed the tip of his member with his finger, his lips parted, but without making a sound.
“You’re off today, aren’t you?” he asked, slowly withdrawing his hand.
“Yes, as soon as the meeting ends,” he replied, swallowing hard. “Vegas,” he added, regretting forgetting it.
He seemed to ignore his momentary oversight and nodded, stepping back a few paces.
“Fix yourself up and leave; I’ll see you in two hours at my apartment, don't be late.”
He didn't need to add a threat to his words, they weren't necessary with him. He nodded, lifting his chin again and giving him a colder look. Only when he left the bathroom did he breathe normally again.
He took a few steps toward the mirror to see his flushed face and disheveled clothes. First, he adjusted his pants, tucking his shirt back in while his gaze drifted to the cubicles behind him, all open and empty.
The heat in his face had barely subsided by the time he straightened his shirt. He washed his hands before leaving; at the very least, he needed an alibi for why he lingered after Vegas had stepped out.
He buttoned his jacket firmly again, checking whether his arousal was visible or not. Fortunately, the long, wide design of his blazer concealed enough to hide what Vegas had done to him.
As soon as he opened the door, Chan was waiting for him with a gaze more hostile than usual.
“What were you doing?”
“I had to pretend to use the bathroom while he was in here.”
He was almost certain there were no cameras in the bathrooms, and he was good enough to lie naturally.
“What did he say to you?”
Chan had already assumed they had spoken; there was no point in denying it. The good thing was that he could say whatever he wanted; they would never question Vegas for his version.
“That I’m a dog loyal to the family and asked if I wasn’t tired of always obeying,” he didn't tremble or hesitate for a second as he said it.
It wasn’t a lie; he remembered Vegas saying that to him at some point in his life.
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
Chan took a moment to nod; Pete didn’t take it personally, it was Chan's job to watch over all the guards of the main family. Chan walked into the office where he knew everyone else was, while Pete remained outside in the hallways with the other guards.
In front of him were two of Gun’s guards and Nop, Vegas’s personal guard. This was an informal mid-year meeting; none of them were supposed to enter except for Chan; everyone else had to wait outside.
When Nop, standing across from him, shifted his gaze toward him, Pete tried not to move. The fact that Nop knew about him and Vegas made him nervous; he knew Nop was in Vegas's confidence, but Pete had only seen him working in the field; they had never truly spoken.
The first time he had done so was the night everything with Vegas began; he had gone out dancing only because he had a night off, and Vegas was at the same bar. From one of the VIP areas, Vegas had seen him enter and thought Pete was following him.
When Nop told him that Vegas was calling for him, Pete wanted to resist, hit him, and flee, but to his misfortune, he had already drunk too much for that, and the fact that Nop was accompanied by three others didn’t help. Although he could have handled the other three with ease, Nop doubled him in weight and size. One of his arms was a weapon in itself.
He took him to Vegas 그 night, where everything became much more complicated than it should have been. The guard wouldn’t stop looking at him, and Pete rolled his eyes to return a cold stare; but Nop wasn’t really looking at him, he was looking at his messy tie; once Pete adjusted it, he stopped looking.
He exhaled, trying to think of something other than Vegas pinning him against the bathroom door to touch him, but it was impossible. Vegas had programmed him for that.
When he used that deep voice with him, Pete lost total and complete control over everything. He had become something worse than a lover; no, a lover required affection involved, and they only shared a bed for pleasure. They shared their tastes, finding pleasure in one another.
And then they went back to ignoring each other as soon as the uniform went back on. They were compatible, nothing more; they liked the same things from two different perspectives, and apparently, he was the only one who wasn’t afraid of him, nor afraid to surrender himself, giving him control over everything.
The meeting ended sooner than he thought. Mr. Gun was the first to leave, annoyed as always; Vegas followed after him. No one but their guards moved in the hallway, at least not until the elevator doors closed behind them.
“You have 72 hours off, Pete,” Chan said without looking at him. “Report back on Monday.”
“Thank you,” he said before heading down the hall.
He wanted to change, at least into something that didn’t fit as tightly as that suit. He had the rest of his afternoon free and intended to enjoy it. He practically ran to his dorm, bumping into Porsche, who wanted to pretend he had gone to train early when Pete knew perfectly well he was returning from Kinn’s room.
“Leaving already?” Porsche sounded more cheerful than any other guard.
“Yes, I’ll be back Monday.”
He pulled his already-packed bag from under his bed and stripped off his stiff blazer, tossing it over the bag; he knew he’d need to use it upon his return, and he had only worn it for an hour. He undressed quickly, not noticing that Porsche was still watching him.
“I hope whoever leaves those marks is kinder this time,” Porsche said from the bed. “You really are happy to see him.”
He didn't like the suggestive tone, but his arousal was evident through his tight boxers. Porsche had no idea who his "friend" was, as he called him; Pete had been extremely careful never to reveal the person he was seeing, just as he kept Porsche's secret about sleeping with his boss.
“Don’t bother me unless it’s necessary,” he grabbed his bag from the bed in a hurry. “Love you,” he added with a smile to take the weight off his threat.
“I hope he marks you uglier this time,” he heard him mutter before heading out the door.
He couldn't wait to get out of that building. He closed one of the service doors behind the guards' gym behind him; he never used the main entrance.
He got into one of the passing taxis, leaving his bag by his side. He still had an hour left of the time Vegas had given him; as he looked out the window, he thought he saw a motorcycle with the same license plate numbers he had seen when leaving the main house.
He kept it on his radar long enough to determine if he was being followed or not. He asked the driver to stop; there were still a few blocks to his apartment, but he preferred to continue on foot. It would be easier to distract them than being in a vehicle.
He got out, looking over his shoulder; on the way to his apartment, he stopped twice for street food, using the moment to get a good look at who was following him.
He didn't see them anymore after the third improvised turn; he didn't want to lead anyone strange to his apartment. Few people knew about it, and he preferred it to stay that way.
As soon as he went up the stairs, he made sure no one was behind him. He left his work bag on the bed and searched one of his hiding spots for one of his secret phones and one of his weapons.
He preferred not to take his work uniform where he was going. He took a smaller bag with only two changes of clothes and some hygiene items from his bathroom. The bare minimum, as always. He made sure to leave the curtain closed and a light on along with his television, at least so they would believe someone was still inside.
He made sure his gun was at the waistband of his pants before leaving his apartment; the old door made too much noise as he stepped out. Although his building was twice his age, at least it had several exits. That was why he had chosen it in the first place: its noisy, traffic-filled streets gave him a perfect escape if he needed it.
He walked a few blocks before taking another taxi to where he had to go. His hidden phone vibrated; no one but Vegas and Porsche had that number. He knew Porsche wouldn't contact him there if it wasn't serious, so that only left Vegas.
Vegas: Where are you? Pete: Arriving.
He knew he had a few minutes left before his time limit, but he didn't want to test his patience. When he reached the back door of Vegas’s building, Nop was already waiting for him, as always, smoking.
Vegas had never asked him to use that entrance, he had asked for it himself, just as he had asked him to stop sending cars for him. He knew perfectly well how to take care of himself.
Nop said nothing to him, he just opened the door for him; not even a glance, just as he treated people at his own job, a courtesy he greatly appreciated. While he went up in the elevator, he took out his cap and his gun to leave them in his backpack.
He checked the time again: five minutes late. Those turns he asked the taxi driver to take had been excessive, but it was never too much if he didn't want all of Bangkok to know he was Vegas Theerapanyakul's companion.
The elevator opened directly into Vegas’s apartment; its black, cold floor was the first thing to greet him. He took a few steps to the cabinet where he took off his shoes, and more comfortable slippers were waiting for him.
It was a surprise that Vegas wasn't waiting for him standing behind the doors; he heard no noise except for a light sound from the kitchen. He didn't have servants inside; it had to be him.
He walked slowly through his house, feeling that his sportswear didn't blend well with the pure, cold aesthetic, nor with the black and white paintings. The spicy aroma made his mouth water just by smelling it; having Vegas cook for him was one of the luxuries he had rarely received.
He went into the kitchen, seeing him leaning over a pot he was closing. He said nothing; his footsteps couldn't be felt on the floor, but he didn't doubt that he already knew he was there.
“Six minutes late,” he breathed, annoyed.
“I’m sorry, I thought...”
“Go shower and wait for me in the bedroom.”
He hadn't even let him explain. He wrinkled his nose before turning around and leaving the kitchen. The fact that Vegas’s room had double doors to enter seemed excessive to him, but not as much as his black and gold bathroom or the jacuzzi he had already enjoyed after a long night.
He took off his clothes, leaving them on the marble; the shower flooded the bathroom with steam faster than expected. He was grateful he had asked for that shower first; after practically walking at full speed for several blocks, it was what he needed.
He heard footsteps behind him and didn't bother to turn. As soon as Vegas reached him, the first thing he caressed was his tattoo; he ran his rough finger over it. He resisted any contraction at that. Turning around, he saw him still in his clothes, which were beginning to get wet.
His fingers continued caressing his chest, moving up the center to his neck, stopping his breath; when he gripped him tightly, he didn't resist, he let him pull him close to kiss him while the water flooded his face.
The way he kissed him didn't give him time to breathe and, with the hot water falling over his face making the task harder, his entire body began to feel weak in that instant; weak and craving to be touched even more.
Vegas didn't do it; his only contact was his mouth over his and his hand on Pete's neck. As soon as Pete leaned in, longing for contact, Vegas broke the kiss, leaving him breathless.
“The kiss was because you were good today, Pete,” he said with a smile that froze his blood. “Turn around.”
That couldn't be all. Vegas didn't forget anything, and Pete knew he hadn't forgotten those minutes he was late either.
He felt Vegas's fingers trace his spine and move down to his rear; his breath began to hitch.
“But you weren't entirely good, were you, Pete?” he asked in a colder tone.
“Vegas...”
He didn't want to beg, not yet, but that was as far as he got before Vegas pressed against his entrance with a finger. He felt the first one go inside him with a painful patience.
He pressed his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes when Vegas pulled it out slowly; his lips parted, his own arousal already more than evident, the water continuing to fall over part of his back. He heard him open something—it must have been the shower gel; he was almost certain of it when Vegas touched him again, pressing two fingers inside him. He wasn't ready or prepared for that pressure within him.
To his regret, Vegas didn't move his fingers or take them out; Pete turned his face, trying to look at him while being tortured without any kind of movement.
“You didn't answer my question,” Vegas's dark eyes continued to watch him. “You arrived late; did you disobey me?”
“Yes, sorry,” he begged, looking at him. “Please, Vegas.”
He moved his fingers inside him; he knew perfectly well where his prostate was and began to stroke it with his fingers, causing involuntary tremors.
“I haven't even started and you're already begging.”
He withdrew his fingers, leaving him wanting more; he heard the same sound of the gel again, but didn't move. Something cold touched his entrance and his first impulse was to move forward; Vegas held him in place in that moment.
He could guess what it was; he wasn't prepared for it, and two fingers definitely hadn't loosened him enough. He bit his lips, hiding his face from Vegas without complaining. Vegas stepped back again, leaving the shower without taking his eyes off him. He felt a bit uncomfortable, completely stretched and watched by Vegas.
“Go on with what you were doing,” he heard Vegas say.
He had put a butt plug in him and was watching him as if he were a damn art exhibit. Pete didn't grumble or give him a dirty look; he knew Vegas's extremes, and Vegas was being "good" to him. But as soon as he took a step toward the shower products, he felt the pressure inside; he parted his lips as he watched Vegas take off his wet shirt, his muscles and scars perfectly visible in the bathroom light.
He reached for the liquid soap before making the mistake of saying something; he hadn't seen Vegas's whiskey glass until he heard the sound of ice and glass. He wanted more than to be watched; he wanted to go to him, kneel, and kiss every one of those marks; he wanted Vegas to ask it of him.
When he finished bathing, he looked at him, waiting for him to say what to do. The fact that Vegas had complete control over everything was why he was there; it wasn't blind control—he gave it to him of his own free will so that Vegas could do with him as he saw fit.
Vegas gestured with his head and Pete followed him out of the bathroom, still without drying off; the air conditioning in the room was lower than usual. The change in temperature hit his skin, causing chills; combined with the pressure he felt with every step thanks to the plug, he hadn't been able to stop his gasping.
“Get on the bed, pet; kneel facing the headboard.”
The leather handcuffs were already there, where he had seen them the first time; Vegas never bothered to hide them—they hung from the same silver chain. He climbed onto the bed and prepared himself mentally for what was coming as he saw Vegas take out a spreader bar with ankle cuffs at each end; he knew what he was being prepared for.
Vegas laid it on the bed and slowly approached him, chaining his wrists, taking his time with each one. The chain was closer than usual, limiting his hand movement even further.
He cursed mentally when Vegas said nothing after adjusting his wrists. He saw him climb up behind him and adjust his ankles with the same calm.
“Tell me your color, pet.”
“Green.”
He bit his lip after speaking; it wasn't the most comfortable position he had been in, he didn't have many places to hold onto, his legs were painfully spread, and his rear was still trying to adjust to that plug.
“I hope you don't mind waiting, pet.”
“No, Vegas, please,” he asked, lifting his head.
“Do you want something for your mouth too?”
He breathed slowly, accepting what Vegas had chosen; he heard him walk away, leaving the room. He needed Vegas to touch him, to come back; he moaned again in need as he tried to shift.
He wanted him there in the same room; he preferred his gaze over total absence. He moaned again, looking at his deplorable condition. He bit his lip hard; the plug wasn't helping—it kept him stretched in a painful way in that situation, and he needed more. He couldn't even move his knees back to collapse onto the bed: his knees and his tied hands would prevent it.
He lost track of time, giving small moans of supplication. When Vegas returned, he heard him place something on one of the pieces of furniture; his vision was completely limited.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked, running his fingers down Pete's legs to his rear and continuing up. “Or should I give you more time to wait?”
“Vegas, sorry—” he fell silent when the touch stopped, closing his eyes tightly.
His fingers traced his back again and moved down once more; his breathing quickened when he touched the plug with his fingers and tapped it slowly. His whole body vibrated in that moment, and his breathing became erratic; when he began to pull it out, it was his true point of pain for the day. The emptiness it left behind made him curse under his breath.
The last thing he saw was his cold smile before he reached one of his blind spots. The instant he placed his entire palm on the middle of his rear where his leg began, he knew what was coming.
“You’re going to count,” he said, speaking slowly.
“Yes, Vegas.”
The first strike didn't hurt as much as the way he left his hand there and caressed slowly; it felt like tiny needles at the same time. He counted as loud as he could each of the six strikes he gave him, caresses included.
“Color,” he asked, without stopping the caress on his skin.
“Green,” he answered with a raspy voice. “Vegas, I need you.”
He heard the sound of lubricant behind him and smiled. He wanted him inside; he needed it; he wanted him to touch him, to let him come.
“What a good pet I have, so obedient and strong.”
He gasped loudly when he felt him move inside him without prior notice; he leaned his face against his arm, his cursing increased, and he could only think of how Vegas held him and moved behind him without mercy or hesitation.
“Vegas, please,” he said between moans, closer to a sob than to a coherent sentence.
“Don’t come until I order you to.”
It was an order, but he wasn't sure if he could fulfill it. The fog of his arousal blocked all his senses at once. He could only feel the pleasure and Vegas hitting his prostate; his mouth was open and he wasn't sure what he was saying.
Vegas’s thrusts became faster and more erratic as he leaned close to his ear and began to stroke his member, which wouldn't stop leaking without being fully released.
“You’re perfect, Pete,” he heard him say in a low voice. “Perfect for me, so obedient.”
His name was all he could say in the form of a plea; when Vegas stopped, a heat flooded him from within and his legs tensed involuntarily, as did his abdomen. Vegas's thumb stroked his member from the tip while his hips moved with a life of their own and Vegas was still joined to him.
“That’s it,” he whispered, “come for me, Pete.”
He tilted his head closer to the sound of his voice; his whole body felt lighter after that, he could have lost consciousness of what he was doing after that moment.
The pressure on his knees decreased enormously and his feet didn't feel so rigid; gradually, he felt more comfortable and warm at the same time.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer handcuffed and, instead, his arm was wrapped around Vegas's chest. He blinked a few times, seeing the room more illuminated; he tried to sit up, but his lower back and legs didn't obey orders immediately.
Instead, Vegas’s arm tightened around him, pulling him closer; it felt more like a hug. He looked up at him, seeing him reading some book in Italian that he couldn't quite understand.
“You can go take a shower if you want before eating,” he offered without looking up from his book.
He wrinkled his nose; his stomach seemed to be taking priority over anything else.
“Or I can bring you your dinner now if you prefer.”
“Yes, please, I’m starving,” he smiled, narrowing his eyes.
Vegas seemed to laugh at his expression with a smile. As soon as he was able to stand up, he looked at himself and saw he was wearing his underwear and the sheets didn't seem to be the same as before; plus, he felt clean.
He never had any idea how Vegas managed all the mechanics, but he wasn't interested in knowing either. Despite the throbbing pain in his rear, he was sitting on the bed by the time Vegas brought the food.
The tray, as always, brought only one plate and two sets of silverware; he usually called it "aftercare," and Pete believed he just liked to laugh at him when he got annoyed by him stealing his delicious food.
They weren't a couple. He was aware of that, but he was the closest he had ever been to having one. If heavy sex and aftercare could be called a relationship, in those few moments where they weren't eating together, having sex, or sleeping. They didn't usually talk.
He understood Vegas's silence in not wanting to talk about his father or what he did within the family, and Pete didn't feel very encouraged to talk about his work either; he felt it as a betrayal of his confidentiality.
Instead, they spent moments in silence while Vegas read and he took the opportunity to rest on his chest or legs with his eyes closed without fully falling asleep. His mind never turned off, not completely, except when he gave Vegas control.
He finished eating and appreciated the bottle of juice Vegas handed him afterward. The silence led him to feel tired again; he had no idea of the time, but it couldn't be very late. He didn't bother to check the clock; he wasn't interested.
He settled on his side, watching Vegas return to his book; barely a minute had passed when he turned off the lights and lay down close, drawing him in. He could smile all he wanted; the light inside was zero, he couldn't see it.
It was impossible not to be able to sleep there; he was safe and calm. Strangely, sleeping with the most dangerous man in Bangkok by his side brought a smile to his face. He didn't have to worry like in the mansion; this was possibly the most secret and safe place where he could sleep.
Their relationship was a complete secret to everyone; he knew no one but Nop who knew about it. Of course, he preferred it that way; Vegas was dangerous to all the other eyes that saw him, but not to Pete.
He knew the Vegas who cooked and also the one who read books while running his fingers through his hair. He didn't want to imagine what would happen to him if his boss knew what he did on his days off, or how much his colleagues would hate him. What he was doing was wrong, he knew it.
A knock at Vegas's room forced him to sit up abruptly; they had never knocked on his door. He looked at Vegas, who was already on his feet with his gun in his hand.
“Boss, we have a problem,” Nop said behind the door.
“Stay,” Vegas ordered in a cold tone, looking at him.
His mind wandered, thinking what the problem could be: a delivery mission gone wrong, his father calling him, or his brother, or a last-minute job. Vegas disappeared behind the door while Pete rested his arm on his knees.
He didn't want to stay in bed; the moment Vegas entered, he was already standing up.
“Get dressed and come,” he said, opening his wardrobe.
He took a shirt and some pants to throw them on the bed. He, instead, dressed standing inside his wardrobe.
“What’s happening, Vegas?”
“We have a problem.”
The urgency and the calm in his voice told him something was truly wrong; they didn't have problems that could involve both of them. He was just a bodyguard and Vegas was the son of a major mafia family.
“Some men entered your apartment shooting.”