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Working nearly the last decade as a bodyguard Pete is used to being invisible. Used to being overlooked, ignored, underestimated. His job is designed to blend in, his job is designed to be unassuming, his job is designed to make sure he is not perceived as a threat until it is too late.
Pete has spent nearly a decade getting used to this, and for the most part he is fine.
For the most part, he has survived.
For the most part, he has lived his life and pushed down his feelings and swallowed his insecurities, swallowed away the inadequacies, swallowed his delusional fantasies. He has desires, and hopes, and wishes — of course he does, he is only human after all — but there is no place for such ambitions and dreams for men like him. He keeps these secrets close to his chest, keeps them buried down until there is nothing left but the ghosting feeling of longing, of an ache for something more.
It should be easy to forget, to push aside the flutters in his chest and beat of his heart, easy to pretend it’s anything but what it is. Because the thing is, he spends his entire job watching The Family , eyes on Kinn and Tankhun as he is ordered — and eyes on Vegas as he is not — and he hears the stories. He hears the warnings, the admonishments and lectures, whispered behind closed doors and dark corners.
Stay away from the minor family .
Really, what this means, is stay away from Vegas .
The devil in red, the one lurking in the dark corners and behind closed doors, adept at stealing men right out from under Kinn’s touch, adept at getting guards on their knees. He has a way about himself, has a way in seduction and secrets, to get people to believe the promises and lies and stories spins.
Pete hears the stories.
He hears the warnings.
He hears the lectures and admonishments.
He just doesn’t care.
He knows what Vegas is about and he aches . As a guard, his point is to stay unnoticed and hidden, and he is so good at this, doing nothing but watching and listening, out of sight and mind. He knows the things that Vegas does to the guards who want it — and even the ones that don’t — and he knows what his alleged tastes are. Darker proclivities that border on the violent and sadistic and hedonistic.
And Pete aches .
He is used to being invisible and for the most part he has grown accustomed to it, grown content and complacent, but what he finds he is not okay with is watching Vegas make his way through the long list of conquests, without a second glance his way. He watches Vegas scoop up each and every escort — sloppy seconds at its finest, and how Pete wishes for just one night — and watches Vegas then make his way to Tawan. At least Pete didn’t like Tawan to begin with so it wasn’t hard for him to hate him, to transfer all of his misplaced anger and frustration onto someone who he felt was a two-timing traitor. But then Tawan was gone and next came Porsche, and somehow this was a million times worse.
Perhaps because Vegas’s seduction of Porsche seems to not only be performative but personally tailored, always managing to be one step away to step in. He watches Vegas lurk around — Porsche asking who he is smiling at, when obviously it wasn’t Pete — and linger in the shadows waiting to steal Porsche away. He watches Vegas show up and ask for Porsche, take him away on a motorcycle ride through the dark city streets, and Pete decides frankly he just can’t do it anymore, can’t sit around and think about all the ways Vegas is fucking through Bangkok, all the ways he would fuck Porsche if Porsche let him. Can’t stand to sit still and think about Vegas with Porsche tonight, with how that burns through him.
Everything he has done has been in service for the family, has taken no nights off, has done nothing but stay at the beck and call of others. So he decides that for once, he is going to cut loose. For once, he wants to get so drunk he can’t think straight. Can’t walk straight.
And maybe, just maybe, he can find someone to fuck him hard enough that he forgets his own name. Until he forgets Vegas’s name.
He doesn’t want to go to the bar that Porsche used to work at — even though frankly it's the only bar in the city he actually knows of. No, he wants to go somewhere that no one knows him; easy enough, he only knows guards on property and they won’t be out and about but he doesn’t want to take any chances for getting caught.
A cook in the kitchen is the one to give him a recommendation, a darker bar that doesn’t have rules on public affairs, that turn a blind eye to some of the seedier tastes. It’s not exactly one of those clubs — exclusive and vetted and wait lists days long, clubs Pete has no hope for getting in on as hard as he tries — but it’s at least bordering the line between the two. With any luck, he will find someone to fuck him hard and dirty and filthy. He knows the risks and the type of men that will be here, and somehow that just adds to the dark thrill inside of him.
Maybe if someone hurts him hard enough to break him, he will no longer be forced to reconcile all of the things he can’t have.
When he shows up and walks through doors, past the bouncer who gives him a dark and speculative look, he knows he made the right choice. The dance floor is littered with sweaty bodies, dancing provocatively in a way that invites something more. He slides up the bar and orders a drink, and then a second, and then a third; knocking them back one by one with an eagerness that only comes from desperation. He wants to not think, wants to be taken completely out of his head, wants to dance until his feet hurt and his body aches.
He has a fourth, and fifth, knowing that his tab will be astronomical, but finds that he just doesn’t care. All of his money has gone straight to his grandmother, has spent years and years saving for himself only to never spend it.
He’s spending it now.
A sixth.
A seventh.
The room is a blur, the bodies are a blur, the floor tilts and his vision swims, his pulse thrums and his body sweats, and he moves through the dance floor hoping for something more. Hoping for hands to grab him, to press themselves against him, to pull him close.
He wants to be seen.
He wants to be wanted.
An eighth, and he starts to ache.
A ninth, and he starts to writhe, his body undulating on the dancefloor, searching and seeking for something that he can’t find. He starts to worry, starts to wonder that maybe this won’t happen at all, that maybe there is no one here who could possibly want him.
And that’s when it happens.
A hush falls over the club — as much as it can with pulsing beat and shouted conversation — but a stillness as everyone turns their attention to someone new. To a man dressed in a silk shirt barely buttoned, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, with a gaze dark enough to put anyone in their place.
Vegas.
Pete thinks he is hallucinating, at first.
Thinks this is a vivid delusional vision brought on by the sheer amount of alcohol coursing through his body. He feels fuzzy, fumbling around to find his balance, vision swimming as he tries to keep his eyes on the only one that matters.
Vegas .
He isn’t alone, though. There are men that flank him, walking beside and behind almost as in deference for something else; Pete doesn’t recognize them but he also doesn’t think he could recognize Porsche, or Arm, or Pol, not with the way the room is spinning and how he has eyes only for Vegas.
He unconsciously moves forward, weaving himself through the crowd in an attempt to get closer, wanting to just drink in the sight of him. Wanting to look at Vegas for as long as he wishes, openly and brazenly, and most importantly, off duty. With no obligations, nothing but himself, no one else watching him to prevent his eyes from lingering a beat too long. He’s not supposed to notice Vegas, not supposed to watch Vegas. Unfortunately for Pete that’s all he does, all he can do.
Vegas moves towards the back part of the room, settling himself down in a booth as the men sit across from him. They seem to be in deep discussion and Pete isn’t sure if this is business or pleasure, isn’t sure if the men here are partners in the Theerapanyakul empire or if they are something Vegas has on the side, hidden and tucked away.
One of the men at the table glances around the room, expression twisted with a lecherous look, eyes fixing on different dancers before settling on one. Pete isn’t sure if this is standard, but all he knows is that despite his partners at the table, Vegas has not glanced up. He has not perused the room, has not taken stock of everyone else in a way that indicates his darker desires.
The urge to go over there nearly overpowers him and he almost takes a step forward before he hesitates.
He is so drunk.
He is so, very drunk.
He is so unbelievably, foolishly, catastrophically drunk.
The ground tilts beneath his feet, his vision shifts in and out of focus, and he can feel his body slow to respond. He is drunk, but he is also burning with desire. He has held his composure for so long, held himself back from the man he aches for and the one he truly wants. He is burning with it, thrumming with it, aching down to his core.
He came here to get fucked, to find someone to bend him over and claim him, own him, degrade him, find someone to fuck him until he is nothing but theirs, until he has nothing left but what they deem to give him. He came here to forget Vegas.
But he is drunk. And Vegas is here.
He waits, watching from a distance for just a brief moment, long enough for Vegas to order a drink: blood-red wine, in a glass he swirls between his fingers.
It would be so easy to walk over there, to throw himself down at the feet of a man competent enough to hold his leash between a clenched fist.
He wavers, just long enough for an enticing scene to play out before him, one in which Vegas actually looks at him, and it’s pretty much an easy decision after that. He doesn’t allow himself think twice, doesn’t let himself talk himself out of this decision — this massively horrifically stupid decision. Vegas could kill him where he stands, could fire him, could humiliate him, could do so many things that would make Pete’s life actively worse.
He doesn’t care.
All he can see is Vegas, all he can think about is Vegas, his mind consumed with the horrific thought of being too late , of Vegas finding someone else in the club, someone else to get on their knees for him, to let themselves be used for his pleasure. He can’t bear letting his one chance go like this.
He makes his way across the room with purpose, dodging dancing bodies and errant limbs, eyes fixed on his prize. His one goal. He is so very drunk.
There is a split second when Vegas looks up at Pete before Pete is dropping down onto his lap, placing his hands on his shoulders. The material feels intoxicating under his touch and he wants to rub his face in it, like an animal scenting its owner. He wants to roll around and ruminate in it, wants to nuzzle his face into his neck and lick at his pulse point. Vegas smells incredible .
Vegas makes a sound of surprise and Pete can feel the intensity of his gaze, the way it burns , cold fury and blazing condescension, enough that Pete feels scorched by an open flame.
A normal person might care. A normal person might feel the sting of the words, the allusion of a dismissal, the implied rejection. But Pete is not a normal person. He has wanted Vegas, obsessively, for so long . He already knows Vegas doesn’t want him. He already knows Vegas isn’t attracted to him. That is a fact. It has always been a fact. But now, he is simply too drunk to care.
“Pete—”
“Hi,” Pete giggles, shifting in closer. Or maybe he slurs, he isn’t sure. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, everything just a little too out of reach.
There is silence surrounding him, an odd experience in a room with endless noise, but Pete recognizes that no one is talking. Vegas’s hands land on his hips in an attempt to move him but Pete doesn’t budge. Instead he slings his other leg over Vegas’s hips so he is straddling him properly, sliding his hands down Vegas’s torso to play with the buttons barely holding his shirt together.
“What the fuck do you think are you doing?” Vegas growls, his hands reaching out to grab him by the wrists, hard enough that Pete knows will bruise. It’s enough to get Pete to moan, wriggling his hands in Vegas’s grasp in an attempt to get back to the flimsy material of his shirt. “Are you drunk ?”
“Only a little,” Pete lies.
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Enough.” Which is true in a sense. Enough that he’s lost count, a dangerous amount, probably. A sloppy amount. He isn’t sure if this is a good or bad thing to Vegas — if it leans in his favor or against it that he is sloppy and inebriated, or that he might not remember this in the morning. His thoughts are sluggish, trying to catch up to his body and what it wants, what it needs , but what it wants and needs is Vegas.
“I’m in the middle of a meeting.”
It takes a few beats for the words to make sense and then they do, but not enough for Pete to change his mind. Or move. The way Vegas is looking at him should scare him, but it doesn’t. It’s enough to bolster his courage.
“So? Your men here have whores of their own…” Pete doesn’t care that Vegas is in a meeting — it’s not like Pete’s job isn’t to stand and be silent and still while the Theerapanyakul men maintain their important business.
Vegas makes a strange noise and Pete takes this as incentive to rock forward, slotting his hard cock against Vegas’s crotch.
“Please, Khun Vegas. I can be a good slut for you. Just let me suck your cock, Khun—”
“No.” Vegas cuts him off and squeezes Pete’s wrists with even more force, drawing out a harsh gasp.
There is a chuckle behind him and Pete ignores it, trying to shake off the rising feeling of shame. “Is it because I’m not Porsche?”
Vegas pauses, eyes fixed on Pete in a way that makes him feel exposed . In a normal situation, Pete would understand the cue and take his leave. In a normal situation, he would shut his mouth and blend into the background. In a normal situation, he wouldn’t have any courage at all to even speak to Vegas.
But this is not a normal situation and Pete is very, very drunk.
“I see the way you look at him. The way you follow him around, always pushing and pushing.” Pete curls his fingers into the hem of Vegas’s shirt and tugs, pulling it up out of his waistband so he can slide his hands under the material. “Is it because I’m ugly? Or that I’m plain and boring? I can be anything you want, Khun Vegas. You can even hurt me. I like it when it hurts.”
“Is that so?” Vegas drops Pete’s wrist and lifts his hand to Pete’s throat, digging his thumb into the dip of his clavicle and windpipe, curling the tips of his fingers into the nape of Pete’s neck and squeezing .
For one moment Pete instinctively tries to fight Vegas off, but then he forces himself to relax into it. His eyes flutter shut and he moans again, heart beating erratically under his skin.
“I should fuck you right here on this table to teach you a lesson,” Vegas growls, “for what happens to mindless sluts who interrupt me. Who come to me and ask for a full meal instead of the scraps they deserve.”
Pete should be horrified. He should be repulsed, turned off, frightened, or disgusted. He isn’t any of those things. In fact, he is intoxicated by the image of being spread out in front of everyone while Vegas fucks into him, chokes him until he sees spots, using his slutty hole for his own pleasure. Because for Vegas, Pete will spread his legs, abandon his morals, do anything to get his hands on him. But instead of all of his wildest dreams coming true, Vegas releases him and Pete falls backward, slumping against the edge of the table.
“Please,” Pete whines, back arching as his body throbs with need. Vegas is right here, had his hands on Pete. How could he not realize Pete wants this? How could he possibly look at Pete and think this is a performance? “Please, I’ll do anything—”
“No, you won’t. Men like you are convinced you want the dark and dangerous, want to be hurt and used. But when it comes down to it, they’re cowards who can’t handle it. They run from the pain, the humiliation. They beg me for it and then it’s all a lie. Go home, Pete. And don’t ever do this again.”
“But I do,” Pete protests. “Want the real you. I want all of that.” Vegas pauses and the hesitation causes a rush of boldness in Pete and grabs Vegas’s hand and brings it to his cock. “I want you to fuck me right here in front of everyone.” “Please, Khun Vegas. I don’t care what you do to me. Choke me. Hurt me. Use me. I want your violence and everything that comes with it.”
Vegas looks him in the eye and squeezes his cock hard enough that a normal person would feel pain, but all he feels is burning arousal.
He’s never been able to explain this before, this desire to be used. To be degraded. To be fucked like he is worthless. Never been able to get anyone to understand his desire for pain, his longing for it. But the way Vegas looks at him… the stories Pete hears about the men Vegas fucks and how he fucks them… Pete can be all of that. He will be all of that. He will take anything Vegas chooses to give him, even if it’s just this one moment.
Pete brings Vegas’s other hand up to his throat, guiding his hand to the best spot and when Vegas wraps his fingers around his throat and squeezes , Pete’s body bucks up into the touch.
“Curious,” Vegas muses, sliding his thumb along the underside of Pete’s jaw.
Pete wants to ask what is curious, but doesn’t dare interrupt. He presents his neck in a sign of submission, eyes fluttering shut as he allows himself the greed of soaking in the moment.
“You would let me do anything I wanted, is that right?”
Pete nods.
“If i stripped you naked and left you here on this table while I ignored you, you would be fine with that?”
“If it pleases you, Khun, then yes.”
“And if I let each of my men have a turn with you while I watched, you would still be compliant?”
This is a harder question but only takes a brief hesitation before Pete nods.
“And if I decided I wanted to fuck you with my loaded gun—”
Pete inhales sharply and nods. “Yes.”
Vegas seems to be experiencing a battle of wills with himself before he sighs and snaps his fingers. “Then down on your knees, pet. Keep my cockwarm while I finish business and maybe then I’ll give you what you want.”
It seems to be a copout from the filthy scenarios Vegas presented, but Pete is still all too eager to clamber down and drop to his knees under the table. And whatever worries or reservations Pete had before this, they cease to exist as his lips wrap around Vegas’s cock, settling himself between his legs.
His home.
Where he belongs.
And when Vegas does fuck him on the table in front of everyone, Pete can’t help but notice that for once, Vegas seems to be the one gazing at him in wonder. And no matter what, Pete plans to keep it that way.