Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The only sound in the room is of the pouring rain pelting the windows and of Vegas’ harsh breathing as he sits on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, gaze distant and unseeing. His mind is turned inwards as a scene flashes unbidden in front of his eyes, like a real time mirage playing out across his bedroom floor.

He can’t turn his eyes away, can’t snap his focus elsewhere, and the only other person who ever has a chance of drawing Vegas’ focus to something other than the twisted maelstrom that is the inside of his own head isn’t here. Instead, Pete’s been summoned to the Major Family like the loyal dog he always was, and who is Pete to deny them? The Major Family gets what they want, they always have, and they always will.

They can summon Pete to them with a simple text message from Porsche, asking for his presence, and Pete happily complies, back to the life he’s used to and the friends he has but never sees, not as long as he’s with Vegas and the Minor Family. Who is it to say that they can’t and won’t call him back to them one day and never let him go, that Pete won’t happily stay there and go back to his old life, the one in which he gets to spend time with his friends whenever he pleases. The one in which he hasn’t had to give up the majority of his life to spend his days caring for Vegas and Macau, secluded in the Minor Family compound like the rabid dogs the Major Family thinks he and his brother to be.

And isn’t he used to it by now? Used to being alone, used to the Major Family having the ability to take everything away from him.

And doesn’t Vegas deserve it?

The scene plays out like a movie in front of his eyes, Pete chained and hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, bloody and bruised. Vegas, coldhearted and uncaring, belt in hand and standing over Pete’s limp body. This Vegas didn’t stop even when Pete flinched away from him, even when Pete blacked out and went limp, chains cutting bloody marks into his wrists when his full weight went slack on the chains. This Vegas is standing over his prey with a pleased and vicious smile etched on his face, either not noticing or simply uncaring as Pete’s breaths slow and stutter, eventually coming to a halt altogether.

Why wouldn’t Pete want to leave? Didn’t he know how close he came to being nothing but a decaying body when Vegas was done with him? Vegas knows how easy it would have been for the monster inside of him to simply not care, for the Vegas of this play to have become real. For Pete to have been dead, been killed, at his hands.

Vegas lets himself fall deeper into the recesses of his own head, the sound of the rain taking up a steady echo in his head like a second heartbeat. Vegas’ breaths become raspier in his throat, his breaths coming faster and faster until he feels faint, losing the energy to even keep his head up and bending to rest his head on his arm, still on his knee. He can hear his heartbeat through the skin of his wrist, and has a vicious urge to dig it out until it stops altogether, just like the Pete of the scene.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like this, doesn’t know how he keeps himself still and fights the self destructive urge he feels bubbling under the surface. He knows how easy it would be to end things, to destroy this life he and Pete build back up from the ground together.

He doesn’t hear the door creaking on its hinges, or the hurried footsteps. Not until there’s suddenly a pressure on his shoulder that tells of another's presence, and he jumps to his feet, the destructive urge rearing its ugly head as he grabs the arm and twists, his vision nothing but the red of rage and blood.

Until there’s a surprised cry in a voice that’s as familiar to him as the back of his hand, and Vegas’ vision rushes back to him in one foul swoop, registering Pete on his knees in front of him. Vegas drops his arm as if it were lava, stumbling back to collapse against the far wall on shaking legs that barely hold his weight. Vegas may as well have stopped breathing, his heart thudding painfully in his chest until he thinks it might burst.

Pete looks up at him with open eyes, even as he cradles his arm to his chest. He doesn't look scared, or wary, or anything a normal person would be feeling in this scenario, when faced with Vegas’ cruelty. His shirt at the shoulders show a spot of darkened color, his hair glints ever so slightly in the light of the room, both hints of having been stuck in the rain.

Pete doesn’t break eye contact with Vegas as gets a knee under him and slowly starts to rise to his feet, the movement jostling his arm. He doesn’t bother hiding his wince, and Vegas presses himself into the wall at the sight of it, as if he could bury into it and hide himself away as Pete stalks towards him.

He stops a mere feet away, eyes all-seeing and knowing as he watches Vegas' face and catalogs his reactions. The way Vegas' eyes are misty as he watches Pete approach, the way his breath catches harshly in his throat as his eyes stop at Pete's arm. The way his hands tighten into fists at his sides, as if stopping himself from reaching out.

The rain is a roar in his ears, his heartbeat is the beat of a drum echoing through his blood.

“-as.”

There’s bruises already starting to darken the skin of Pete’s wrist, and Vegas knows all too well what the handprints will look like when had time to fully form. What the bruises of handcuffs chafing the skin of Pete’s wrist looked like after Pete was left hanging on them for days. How easy to bruise him, to leave his mark on him like a lion marking its territory, marking its prey to hunt and consume.

“Vegas.”

What the mark of multiple lashes of a belt looked like upon the previously smooth skin of Pete’s chest. What the scars look like now, several criss-crossing lines of scar tissue permanently marking his skin. The red and infected welts of them, Pete sitting limp and unconscious from wounds left untended for too long, the fever heat of his skin when Vegas laid a hand upon his forehead.

“Vegas.” A step forward until there’s barely any space between them. A raised arm, a featherlight brush of skin to skin, and it’s like a spark goes off in the air between them. A gasp of air like a man drowning and Vegas flinches backwards, colliding harshly with the wall, vision tunneling in until all he sees is Pete standing in front of him, arm still raised.

Vegas’ knees suddenly go weak, giving out from under him and Vegas can do nothing to fight it as he sinks to the floor. His eyes finally stray from Pete’s arm and make their way up to meet Pete’s gaze, who gives a slight smile at finally having drawn his attention out of wherever his mind had taken him. Pete leaves a good amount of space between them, drawing his arm back and taking a seat on the floor across from Vegas, leaning his back against their bed.

Vegas allows his eyes to search Pete’s face for the emotions missing, for the fear and disgust at Vegas’ weak and pitiful show of emotions. When he fails to find them, he uses Pete’s eyes as a lifeline to drag him back to the surface, to finally take control of his own body, feel his breathing start to steady and the pulse of his heartbeat to finally recede, the sound of the rain nothing but background noise. Only then does he register Pete’s voice, quiet and calm, whispering assurances and gentle nothings like “It’s okay, I’m right here, I’m right in front of you. It’s me, I’m alright, take deep breaths, yes good. Like that.”

He lets himself close his eyes and tilt his head back to rest against the wall, taking one deep breath followed by another, and another, letting Pete’s gentle affirmations settle over his body like a calming blanket.

It could be seconds, it could be minutes, it could be hours until he opens his eyes. It’s only when he meets Pete’s gaze with his own once more that Pete quiets, letting Vegas take the lead.

Vegas’ voice feels stuck in his throat as he tries to speak, nothing but a quiet croak of Pete’s name escaping him.

“I’m right here.” Pete’s reply is quiet, like trying not to spook a startled rabbit. He slides his injured arm across the space between them, not quite touching but leaving the choice to Vegas. Vegas’ eyes once more flicker down to Pete’s wrist, at the light outline of a handprint starting to appear before flicking back up to Pete’s eyes.

Vegas doesn’t know what emotions are showing in his eyes, but it must be something, to make Pete reply the way he does. “I’m not glass, Vegas. You won’t break me.”

Vegas feels something cold settle into the pit of his stomach at the words. He swallows dryly, even as it does nothing but make his throat ache. “Not yet.” The words are nothing but a harsh rasp.

Pete tilts his head, not understanding.

Vegas takes a second to regain his bearings and takes another deep breath. "I haven't broken you. Yet."

Pete's mouth opens on a silent 'ah' of understanding. He shuffles forward until he's knee to knee with Vegas, who has gone stockstill, eyes troubled.

"Vegas, listen to me." Pete's eyes shine with a certain sort of determination, just daring Vegas to look away. He can't, he never could. Pete's eyes are a black hole, sucking him in, leaving him impervious to his whims. Vegas wonders if Pete even has an inkling of the power he holds over him, of what Vegas would do for him.

The knowledge scares him, sometimes. Of what he would do for Pete, if he’d only ask. How he’d gladly pick up a gun just to aim it at himself, like that moment back at the pool of the Minor Family. Except this time Pete doesn’t stop him, no, Pete is standing there encouraging, watching with a satisfied expression as this time, Vegas pulls the trigger.

“Vegas.” Pete repeats his name for the hundredth, no the thousandth time that afternoon, and once more Vegas feels his voice wash over him like a wave, until Vegas’ mind finally goes silent, attention wholly on the man in front of him.

“I stayed.” If Vegas wasn’t already looking at him, the two words would have snapped his attention back to Pete like the snap of an elastic band. “Back then, at the safehouse, I stayed, even when I barely knew you beyond the monster you made yourself out to be.” The use of that particular word from Pete’s mouth sends Vegas flinching back, elbows knocking against the wall.

Something in Pete’s face gentles, his next words coming out quieter, as if to soften the blow of them. “You after your father would visit was one of the only brief glimpses I had of the you behind the mask.” Vegas thinks he manages to restrain his flinch, this time. Pete’s eyes give nothing away. “The you who bandaged up my wounds even though you’re the one who gave them to me, the you who mourned for the passing of your hedgehog. If that Vegas was one I trusted enough to lay myself quite literally bare to when we had sex for the first time, then why wouldn’t I trust the Vegas in front of me now? The one who is trusting me enough to see this side of him. The side that even you despise and think weak.”

Vegas doesn’t know if he’s still breathing, if the glassy sheen to Pete’s eyes are reflected back in his. Pete doesn’t give him a moment to figure it out. “Vegas, you built up this wall around yourself that I don’t think even you yourself know how to knock down. But I am here, and I’m not leaving. Not now, not any time soon.” Pete continues, and this time Vegas can definitely make out the trails of wetness spilling over Pete’s cheeks, can feel the twins to them spilling down his own.

He doesn’t remember moving but he must have, because in the next second Pete’s body is fit tightly against his own, arms like rubber bands around him as Pete crushes him tightly to his chest. Vegas thinks he might be crying in full now, his breath shaking in his lungs, his body shivering. He can feel the miniscule tremors in Pete’s body from where they’re pressed together. Vegas presses his head firmly into Pete’s neck, and lets them both cry until they simply can’t anymore, by which point Pete gently but firmly pushes Vegas back with a hand on his chest until they can look into each other's eyes.

Pete places a gentle hand upon Vegas’ cheek, and Vegas turns his head ever so slightly to brush a kiss against his open palm. They don’t need words to convey the emotions shining in their eyes, and when they both lean in for another kiss, they know everything will be alright.

Chapter Text

Pete places a gentle hand upon Vegas’ cheek, and Vegas turns his head ever so slightly to brush a kiss against his open palm. Pete’s eyes are red rimmed, the trail of tear tracks evident. In his eyes is shining an emotion so bright that it physically hurts Vegas to look at, and so Vegas leans forward to trace the tear tracks with his mouth, letting them lead him to Pete’s lips, Pete’s hand falling to rest on Vegas’ shoulder.

When they kiss it's like the encounter of two starved beasts, kisses open mouthed and heavy. Vegas lets his hands roam across Pete’s body, from his back and down his sides, just the barest brush of fingertips above the line of Pete’s pants and then back up, across his sides and to his chest, gently brushing before making their way back down. His fingers start to tease his waistline when Pete hesitates into the kiss, and Vegas stops and pulls back enough to look Pete in the eye.

The weight of Pete’s gaze is heavy, piercing right through him to see the tumultuous layers underneath. Vegas hides nothing, let’s Pete read the naked truth in his eyes. That Vegas needs a distraction, yes, but that he wants this. Wants to see Pete pleasured and blissful under him, needs to replace that image in his mind of Pete limp on the chains and not breathing with a new image of Pete, one of gasps of pleasure leaving his lips with every movement from Vegas above him.

He lets Pete read this on his face, and maybe Pete doesn’t know the whole truth yet, doesn’t know just how twisted Vegas’ mind truly is. Vegas will confide in him one day soon, when the thought of it doesn’t send panic clawing up his throat.

For now, Vegas simply lets himself enjoy the simple nod of permission Pete gives him, the act of trust not to be forgotten. Vegas lets himself lean forward once more to capture Pete’s lips in an almost desperate kiss, pinning him with his back against the side of the bed by that one point of contact alone. His hands, previously left forgotten on Pete’s waistline, now finally dip below the line of his pants. He does nothing but simply touch, sweeping his hands over the curve of Pete’s hips and retreating, teasing touches pausing at the point above the buckle of his pants.

He feels Pete sigh a complaint against his mouth and Vegas lightly chuckles, backing off from the kiss to rest his mouth on the fluttering pulse point on Pete’s neck. Pete tilts his head, giving Vegas better access for fleeting kisses and teasing scrapes of teeth.

Vegas takes pity on him soon enough, and deftly works open the buckle of Pete’s pants. He works his hands under them, around his hips and to the curve of his backside, putting a gentle pressure to make Pete lift his hips so he can work the pants down. He leaves them to rest on his knees, quite liking the idea of them restricting Pete’s movements and instead leaving him at Vegas’ mercy.

Vegas continues his path of kissing and suckling along Pete’s neck, his hands finally skimming Pete’s boxers and working towards his goal. He takes several detours, fingers of one hand trailing down a knee while his other hand takes the path up his chest to trail over the point of a nipple. He hears Pete hiss out a breath above him, back arching slightly into Vegas’ touch. He allows his hands to meet once more at the line of Pete’s boxers, catching the hem of Pete’s shirt in his grasp. He draws back to draw the shirt above Pete’s head, flinging it in a corner of the room. He's about to lean back down, when his gaze catches on the healed scars on Pete’s chest, the aftermath of getting involved with Vegas.

Vegas feels himself freeze, breath stopping in his lungs. His mind gets filled with the color of red, the red of blood, the red of anger, the sound of Pete’s screams as he was lashed with the belt. A quiet whisper of his name makes him turn his head, right into Pete’s understanding gaze. Pete’s eyes are soft, heated. He doesn’t have to say a word. Instead, he smiles, and lets that do the talking for him.

Vegas takes a second to get his breath back, to absorb Pete’s smile. Soon enough, he feels a smirk grace his lips as he leans down to trail his teeth over Pete’s pulse point, dipping his hand finally lower, lower. He skims his hand over the hardness of Pete’s length under his boxers at the exact same time he nips at Pete’s neck just hard enough for it to sting, and Pete lets out a strangled moan at the conflicting sensations, head colliding back against the bed.

Vegas feels pleased as he draws back to look at Pete, eyes half lidded as he meets Vegas’ gaze. He maintains eye contact as he presses his hand down with a light pressure, and Pete’s eyes fling shut. Vegas tsk’s and draws back his hand, Pete whining with the loss of contact. Vegas waits til Pete opens his eyes to press down with slightly more pressure, and watches as Pete’s breath catches in his throat yet keeps Vegas’ gaze.

“Good boy.” He accompanies the words with a scrape of nails against Pete’s center. Pete hisses out another breath. Vegas skims his hand up Pete’s length, scraping his nails again at the tip. Pete’s eyes flutter almost shut as he lets out a breathy moan, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Vegas decides to reward him for the effort and scrapes his nails from tip to base and then back up, applying pressure at the still of his hand. Pete’s back arches on an open mouthed gasp, and Vegas takes the opportunity to lean in and nip once more, taking Pete’s pulse point between his teeth as his hand repeats the motion again, and again, until Pete is trembling beneath him, unable to do anything other than gasp with pleasure.

Pete’s hands find their way to the sleeve of Vegas’ shirt, gripping with tight fists. Vegas digs his teeth in hard enough to leave a mark, drawing his hand back at the same time. Pete nearly collapses against the bed, chest heaving with deep breaths. Vegas allows himself to take a second to drink in the sight of him, rosy cheeked with arousal, before taking both of Pete’s hands in his own. His gaze catches on the marks on Pete’s wrists, and it takes most of Vegas’ willpower to look away, to keep away the thoughts that start swirling in his mind.

He draws them above Pete’s head, gathers both his wrists in one hand and pins them to the bed. He pushes them into the bed once, twice, giving Pete directions to which Pete acquiesces with a quick nod.

Vegas leans down for another kiss as his thank you, nipping at Pete’s bottom lip as he draws back. Pete’s chest is still heaving, skin covered with a thin sheet of sweat. Vegas gives him all of five more seconds to catch his breath.

Then he’s dipping his hands under Pete’s boxers at his hips, sweeping around to the swell of his ass and pushing Pete up to take the hem of his boxers in hand and push them down, leaving them to pool at his knees along with his pants.

Vegas then sits back on his heels. He drinks in the view in front of him like a man dying of thirst, eyes sweeping from Pete’s half lidded eyes and red cheeks, hands still exactly where Vegas placed them, down to the curve of Pete’s length, fully hard and wet at the tip.

Vegas doesn’t know how he got this lucky. What he did to deserve this man in front of him, why Pete didn’t run the second he had the chance. Why he stayed, why he continues to stay. That vicious part of Vegas’ mind supplies the fact that Pete does not yet know of the scenes that play out in his mind, that Pete would indeed run if he knew.

The other part of Vegas’ mind, the part that looks at the Pete in front of him laid bare and trusting, supplies him with the fact that Pete should be allowed to decide for himself and that maybe, just maybe, Vegas can let himself trust that Pete would stay.

Pete must decide Vegas is taking too long, for he bucks his hips in the air with a quiet whine. It promptly snaps Vegas back to the present, and he wastes no time in taking him in hand and working him in quick strokes, quick flicks of the wrist from tip to base.

Pete’s mouth hangs open as unrestrained gasps of pleasure leave his lips, hips bucking into Vegas’ grip. There’s a crinkle in the corner of his eyes that grows deeper as the seconds tick on, as Vegas slows down the speed of his hand. He’s learned Pete’s reactions, the heaving of his chest, the interval of the gasps leaving his lips, to know when to slow to a stop. To ensure Pete is left straddling the ledge, not tipping over it. Not yet.

Vegas stills his hand, and the curse that leaves Pete’s lips is sinful. It does nothing but make Vegas chuckle, eyeing Pete’s white knuckle grip on the sheet above his head. Pete is still bucking his hips, trying to chase that last bit of pleasure, and so Vegas withdraws completely to sit on his heels.

It takes Pete a few seconds to finally still, to will his eyes open to meet Vegas’ gaze. Vegas is aware of the smirk on his lips, of the hardness in his pants. There’s a steady building ache in him, watching Pete like this, but this moment isn’t about him. He’s wholly focused on Pete, on keeping Pete pleasured and blissful.

Vegas keeps his voice in that calm and cold way of his, purely instructional as he says to Pete, “I didn’t say you could come, now did I?”

There’s a fire in Pete’s gaze, a challenge, as he shakes his head.

“Good,” Vegas says, “you can’t until I give you permission.”

Pete simply presses back against the bed, lifting his shoulders as well as he can from where his arms are still obediently kept above his head, as if to say ‘Bring it on.’

And Vegas will.

He grabs Pete under the arms and stands in one quick motion, letting Pete’s pants and boxers fall to pool on the floor. He deposits Pete none too gently on the bed, Pete not able to move his hands in time to catch himself as he almost bounces off it and to the floor.

Pete makes a move to adjust himself on the bed, to move closer to the center from where he bounced to the edge, but Vegas makes a harsh sound in his throat and enjoys the way Pete immediately stills.

“You don’t move unless I tell you to,” Vegas orders, not looking to see if Pete obeys as he strides to the dresser across the room and opens the first drawer to retrieve the object of his goal. When he turns back around, it is with a pleased feeling that he notices Pete has indeed not moved, despite his awkward positioning on the bed.

Vegas strolls slowly the few steps across the room, carelessly dropping the object he retrieved on the bed before bending and, with an arm under each of Pete’s knees, slides him across the bed until his knees are hanging off, head in the center.

“Hands where I put them,” he says, and Pete raises his arms above his head once more, fingers intertwined. “Good boy.” He watches the effect that has on Pete, the shiver that goes through his frame as his eyes never leave Vegas’.

Vegas wastes no time in dropping to his knees in between Pete’s outstretched legs, a smile on his lips at the sound that comes out of Pete’s mouth. On his knees, he’s at the perfect height to lean forward and nose at Pete’s erection.

Pete whimpers, legs twining around Vegas’ back.

Vegas leans back just enough to exhale a whisper of breath against Pete’s heated skin, before dipping and taking him in his mouth without preamble. Pete’s back arches on a moan that echoes throughout the room. Vegas has done this enough times by now to know just what brings Pete the most pleasure, what can wring the most beautiful sounds out of him. He does just that.

He leans up enough to take the tip in his mouth and suckling, tongue laving the underside, hand coming up and working the rest of him in short strokes, wrist twisting and tugging. The result is exactly as expected, Pete’s voice breaks with the force of his moan. Vegas wishes he can see him, the way his face would scrunch up and his hands dig with a white knuckled grip into the sheets as he tries not to thrash.

Vegas doesn’t take it gentle on him, starts bobbing his head with no particular rhythm, taking his hand off and instead searching blindly for the lube he threw on the bed earlier. He makes a pleased sound in his throat when he finally locates in, enjoying Pete’s moan at the vibration.

He notices the way Pete’s legs start tightening almost imperceptibly against his back, the way his moans start coming faster and faster. Pete makes an almost desperate sound above him to warn Vegas that he’s close, and Vegas slows just enough to keep him desperate for more.

He goes back to suckling lightly as he pops open the lube and starts coating a few fingers. He knows enough about Pete’s habits to know Pete has his eyes squeezed shut, oblivious to what Vegas is doing.

Vegas kneels straighter, gaining the height to push Pete’s legs back further to expose him right where Vegas wants him. Vegas lines up his hands, pulls back enough to look at the way Pete is breathing heavily, his eyes scrunched shut and mouth open on an ‘o’ of pleasure.

And then Vegas bobs his head, taking Pete almost fully at the same time he pushes a finger past Pete’s entrance. Pete nearly screams at the intrusion, at the way Vegas bobs his head faster and faster, finger pistoning in and out at almost the same speed.

Pete’s moaning is at a fever pitch, whimpers escaping on breathy inhales, body thrashing enough that Vegas has to take his other hand to pin his hips to the bed. Vegas takes his mouth off with a soft pop only long enough to command Pete, “Come for me, Pete. Come on.”

He barely manages to take Pete in his mouth in time before Pete is coming with a scream, spilling down his throat. Vegas sits back and stills his hand, but doesn’t withdraw it. Instead, he watches as Pete’s form wracks from the aftershocks, his eyes glazed over and staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

Vegas rubs at his thigh calmingly, whispering sweet nothings until Pete starts to come back to himself, glancing down at where Vegas is still kneeling. And Pete, for everything that Vegas loves him, starts smiling. How did he deserve this man?

Vegas takes that as the challenge it is, and starts working his finger in and out of Pete’s entrance in steady strokes. Vegas feels a vicious satisfaction when Pete’s eye scrunch shut at the overstimulation.

Vegas knows Pete is ready, knows Pete doesn’t mind a little stretch and burn, yet Vegas is still feeling a little raw around the edges. It's for this reason that Vegas slowly works in another finger until he’s knuckles deep before thrusting them in and out.

He then searches for the right angle, eyes on Pete’s face. When Pete arches on a breathy whine, Vegas is satisfied he found it and focuses on that spot on Pete’s body, once, twice, three times more. Only when Pete is almost sobbing Vegas’ name on every breath does he finally withdraw his fingers.

Pete gazes up at him through sweat drenched hair and half lidded eyes, near delirious with the pleasure. Seeing him like this makes something in Vegas relax that he didn’t even know was tense. He’s doing good, he’s not hurting him, he’s doing exactly the opposite. He’s doing exactly what he meant to be doing. Pete’s impatient whine tells him exactly that, and is the push Vegas needs to finally, finally, unbutton his belt and push his pants and boxers down and step out of them in one smooth movement.

If he were anyone else other than Vegas, if he had even a fraction less of the self control he usually prides himself on having, he wouldn’t have been able to hold out as long as he had. He would have come simply from the noises Pete was making.

As it is, he feels dangerously close to that ledge from the simple act of lubing himself up and bending down to align himself with Pete’s entrance. He presses a soft kiss to Pete’s lips as he slowly presses in.

The warm pressure of Pete around him is almost enough to make him come right there and then, and Vegas hisses out a breath as he tries to reign back his control, nearly shivering with it. He can feel Pete’s quick and heavy breaths under him as Vegas leans forward to rest his head on Pete’s shoulder. When he’s fully bottomed out he stays put, taking deep breaths and simply relishing in being this close to Pete, their bodies so flush against each other they almost feel like one.

“Vegas, please.” Pete’s voice is wiry thin, voice sounding raspy in his throat. There’s a hand at the back of Vegas’ head, fingers running through his hair and Vegas lifts his head to look Pete in the eyes. His face feels wet, and at first he wonders if it's simply the amount of sweat dripping off Pete, until Pete’s hand is resting on his face and wiping away the tears apparently running down his face.

He didn’t realize he was crying. But now it makes sense, the way his breath is coming fast and unsteady, the way he feels as if he’ll break apart from the look in Pete’s eyes, from the feel of Pete around him.

He doesn’t remember giving Pete permission to move, but finds he doesn’t care as he draws his hips back enough that he has to line up again before thrusting fully back in with one quick movement. It's the right side of rough that they both like, and it draws a shared moan into the space between them.

Vegas does it again, and again, until he’s gotten into the rhythm of it, every thrust drawing the most wonderful of moans from Pete’s mouth, until he can’t hold his own groans back. As he thrusts, he adjust the angle ever so slightly until-

Until there. Until one particular thrust sends Pete reeling back with the force of it, with the drag directly against the most sensitive part inside of him, and his head tilts back to the ceiling with his mouth open on a soundless scream as Vegas angles for that spot again, and again.

Until Pete can’t take it anymore, until his release is too close, his body too sensitive. Vegas is too concentrated on the angle of his thrusts, of chasing his own release that he doesn’t realize Pete is slowly gathering himself under him, looking for the right moment to-

To buck up with his hips, the suddenness of the movement making Vegas lose his balance and Pete takes advantage of it, switching their positions and pinning Vegas by his hips against the pillows.

Vegas’ eyes are wide and wild, and Pete can’t withhold the smile off his face as he lines himself up with Vegas’ length and sinks back down in one smooth movement. Vegas curses and flings his head back against the pillows. Pete knows his smile is one of vicious satisfaction as he bounces on Vegas’ length, the slap of their skin on skin echoing through the room.

Vegas’ hands find Pete’s hips simply to hold him, to keep him steady, letting Pete take control. Vegas didn’t know he needed this, needed to have the control taken from him until he feels himself sink into the sheets, feels his mind go pleasantly full of static, every nerve ending focused on the feel of Pete around him.

Pete stops his bouncing when he feels the ache in his center grow almost unbearable, and he knows it’ll only take a few more thrusts for him to spill all over Vegas’ chest. Before that, though, he takes both of Vegas’ wrists in his and pins them to the bed, leaning down until his face is mere centimeters away.

“Vegas,” he says, waiting until Vegas’ eyes meet his before he rises fully, and sinks down once more. It feels so good, he’s so close, but not yet, not yet. Almost.

There’s a smile in Vegas’ voice, a wondrous sort of disbelief. “Clever.”

Pete grins, teeth bared. “You see, Vegas. I’m strong. I can manhandle you if I wanted to.”

Vegas’ smile falls off his face, his eyes narrowing as he tries to catch the meaning of Pete’s words. Pete simply puts more force on the grip he has on Vegas’ wrists as if in reminder. “I can defend myself if I thought I needed to.” Pete makes himself rise and fall once more with those words, the ache within him growing until he thinks he might combust.

Vegas’ face goes blank. If Pete were anyone else, if he hadn’t learned to read Vegas like an open book, he would be scared from the blank canvas of emotion Vegas’ face had become. Or be scared of the smirk that slowly crosses his face.

The smirk is his only warning before he’s getting thrown off Vegas, his back just hitting the sheets when Vegas slides once more past his inner walls. He automatically picks up an almost brutal pace, and Pete’s hands fling up to scratch uselessly at Vegas’ back. They both know it’ll leave marks, it’ll leave bloody scratches, but neither of them find it within themselves to care.

Vegas is slamming in again, and again, thrusts clumsy and desperate. Pete has no control over the sound he’s making, can barely hear himself over the blood rushing through his veins, over the overwhelming pleasure threatening to bury him.

He’s still overstimulated from his first release, and now his second isn’t far behind, just one, two more thrusts and Vegas hits that sweet spot inside him that makes Pete’s nerves catch on fire, and Pete feels his mouth drop open. He might be crying, he might be begging Vegas for more, he might just be screaming with the force of his release as it barrels through him.

Vegas isn’t much better, the combination of Pete’s walls tightening around him and the sound of the pleasure he’s bringing Pete; the sight of Pete under him taking up every corner of his mind; finally fully pushing those other thoughts away; it’s enough to Vegas to thrust once, twice more until he can’t anymore, until his chest heaving with the force of his moans as releases inside Pete.

Aftershocks wracking them both, Vegas simply collapses next to Pete on the bed. Both of them fully spent and exhausted, it’s a lot of work for them to simply turn their heads towards the other. Pete’s grin is as effective as the sun for the way it lights up the room, for the peace it brings Vegas in its wake. Vegas uses the last of his energy to reach for Pete’s hand and presses a kiss against the bruise on the inside of his wrist.

This time, when Pete smiles, Vegas allows himself to smile back.