Do I need to lose hope on so many lines I’ve crossed unforgiven? 🧎🏻♀️
Our last update was posted when my co-writer ( @stratumgermanitivum ) was in active labor. As of right now we have the fic on hold due to how busy we are — Strats has a newborn infant and I have two jobs and a lot of other things going on.
There was an end note with the update that it’s not abandoned but we don’t know when the next update will be.
Strats and I had a variety of fics we were working on that have been put on hold: the only active project is our puppyverse.
(Also on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49025569)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The last thing that Nuea needed in his already complicated life, was to fall for one of his clients. Unfortunately, that is exactly what he somehow managed to do.
Seeing Sailom in the McDonald's felt like fate — that perhaps the gods were finally shining their favor down on him after all — that is, until the most gorgeous woman walked in and sat down across from him.
Nuea has always known he is queer as they come, but he can still appreciate the beauty of someone like her. Someone who clearly was of the caliber and worth to date this mysterious hot guy who is exactly Nuea’s cup of tea. He is grateful for the happenstance that he won’t have to see this guy again, that he can sulk and nurse his wounds long enough to forget about him.
This works for him and is all well and good, until the very big important client just happens to be Mr. Perfect.
It’s always been a very poor decision to get involved with clients at any job — or any coworkers for that matter — but getting involved with a client in his line of work is catastrophic. Career ending, really. Because not a single person will hire a wedding planner who would actively break up a wedding.
Nuea has never had a problem with this; he keeps his eyes on the prize and blocking out the rest, but he also has never had a client that have zero desires or wishes for their own wedding. It’s almost as if they don’t even want to get married, as if this is some type of forced match, but they seem to genuinely care about each other which makes Nuea even more confused.
Even pressing Yiwa further gets him nowhere, and Lom is dodging his calls all the time unless he is being actively annoying, in which Nuea wants to dodge his calls. He can’t run from Lom forever, though, so unfortunately it means he is once again back at the gym, once again questioning all of his life choices that led him here, of all places.
It doesn’t help that Lom is just as evasive as always, but this time it’s compounded with the fact that he is glistening with sweat in a tank top that displays his arms like a crime. And it’s not until one of the trainers starts making pointed comments about his weight that Lom stands and abandons his pretense of working out, grabbing Nuea by the hand and dragging him off into the corner.
He tries to keep it on topic by pressing Lom about the hotel choices, but Lom just grins and tightens his fingers around Nuea’s wrist.
“What do you want?” Lom asks, sounding for all of the world genuinely hung up on the concept.
What does he want? All Nuea wants is for Lom to make one goddamn decision on his own, he wants Lom to take this seriously, he wants Lom to push him up against the wall and—
“Why does it matter what I want?” Nuea says instead, feeling the flush grow as he tries to push that thought back down.
Lom raises an eyebrow, almost looking offended that Nuea would ask. “Because you are the one planning it, we hired you because you are good at what you do. Were we wrong?”
“No!” Nuea shakes his head vigorously and tries to tug his wrist out of Lom’s grasp. Lom doesn’t let go.
“Then help me plan this wedding,” Lom murmurs, taking a step forward. He is now close, much much too close.
“It’s not my wedding,” Nuea protests. “It’s yours, and—”
“What if it was?”
“—what?”
“What would you pick if it was your wedding?” Lom takes another step closer and this time Nuea tries to take a step back. He doesn’t get very far and Lom doesn’t release his grip on his wrist.
Nuea has a rule about distance and boundaries, it’s important to keep a line between personal and professional, it’s important not to give too much away when working for someone you probably won’t see again. So it surprises him at the unprompted honestly that tumbles from his mouth.
“People like me don’t get married. Or happily ever after.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Lom says. He looks Nuea up and down and if he wasn’t absolutely sure that Lom is marrying someone else, he would be convinced Lom is checking him out. But that is preposterous.
Because—
“Can I tell you a secret?”
Nuea freezes, looking up into Lom’s overly earnest eyes. “Only if it will help me plan this wedding.”
Lom hesitates and looks around the gym and even though they are alone in this particular hallway, Nuea has a feeling that this is something he doesn’t want anyone to overhear. He sighs and pulls Nuea down the hallway into the locker room, closing the door behind him.
“Yiwa doesn’t love me.”
Out of all of the things Nuea expects Lom to say it is not this. He has a gut feeling that Lom might be fucking with him, but he looks completely serious. “It’s a fake wedding. It’s why she doesn’t care about any of the details.”
Oh. Oh. “Then—”
“She’s got a girlfriend.” Lom pushes Nuea backwards and he stumbles, his back hitting the locker with a bit more inelegance than he would like. Lom places both of his hands on either side of Nuea’s face and leans in. “Which means, I’m not actually in love with her.”
“Oh,” Nuea repeats, this time out loud.
This changes everything. Well. Not everything, but it changes enough that Nuea no longer feels guilty about wanting Lom to fuck him right here right now. And you know what? Maybe it’s time he actually takes what he wants.
He isn’t quite sure who moves first but one moment Lom has him boxed in against the lockers and the next they are kissing, wild and hungry and desperate. Lom’s skin is warm under his fingers and the sweat has not quite dried, enough that Nuea feels slightly unhinged as he claws Lom’s shirt up over his head.
Lom reaches down and picks Nuea up and Nuea gasps, rocking his hips forward against the hard bulge in Lom’s gym shorts. Nuea wants Lom inside of him, wants to fucked against this locker until he cries, but he knows they can’t. Not in a public locker.
That doesn’t stop Lom from rutting into him, lips trailing down Nuea’s jaw and neck, teeth nipping at a sensitive spot near his collarbone. Nuea knows it’s not going to take much for him to fall apart, and he doesn’t doubt that he would let Lom fuck him right here in the open.
Luckily — or unluckily — he is saved from making that decision by the sounds of the locker room door opening and Lom breaking off the kiss, pulling back looking flushed and much worse for the wear. He reaches forward and pulls out a packet and hands it to Nuea, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Here. You might find some of this helpful.”
And then that’s when reality comes crashing back down on Nuea; that even with all of this, Lom is still his client and still getting married.
“Right,” he mumbles, looking away. “Well, if that’s all.”
“Nuea—” Lom says, “hey—”
Nuea shakes his head. “Thank you for meeting with me, I’ll look these files over and get back to you.”
And then Nuea flees, with the ghost of Lom’s lips on his.
(Also on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49025569)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The last thing that Nuea needed in his already complicated life, was to fall for one of his clients. Unfortunately, that is exactly what he somehow managed to do.
Seeing Sailom in the McDonald's felt like fate — that perhaps the gods were finally shining their favor down on him after all — that is, until the most gorgeous woman walked in and sat down across from him.
Nuea has always known he is queer as they come, but he can still appreciate the beauty of someone like her. Someone who clearly was of the caliber and worth to date this mysterious hot guy who is exactly Nuea’s cup of tea. He is grateful for the happenstance that he won’t have to see this guy again, that he can sulk and nurse his wounds long enough to forget about him.
This works for him and is all well and good, until the very big important client just happens to be Mr. Perfect.
It’s always been a very poor decision to get involved with clients at any job — or any coworkers for that matter — but getting involved with a client in his line of work is catastrophic. Career ending, really. Because not a single person will hire a wedding planner who would actively break up a wedding.
Nuea has never had a problem with this; he keeps his eyes on the prize and blocking out the rest, but he also has never had a client that have zero desires or wishes for their own wedding. It’s almost as if they don’t even want to get married, as if this is some type of forced match, but they seem to genuinely care about each other which makes Nuea even more confused.
Even pressing Yiwa further gets him nowhere, and Lom is dodging his calls all the time unless he is being actively annoying, in which Nuea wants to dodge his calls. He can’t run from Lom forever, though, so unfortunately it means he is once again back at the gym, once again questioning all of his life choices that led him here, of all places.
It doesn’t help that Lom is just as evasive as always, but this time it’s compounded with the fact that he is glistening with sweat in a tank top that displays his arms like a crime. And it’s not until one of the trainers starts making pointed comments about his weight that Lom stands and abandons his pretense of working out, grabbing Nuea by the hand and dragging him off into the corner.
He tries to keep it on topic by pressing Lom about the hotel choices, but Lom just grins and tightens his fingers around Nuea’s wrist.
“What do you want?” Lom asks, sounding for all of the world genuinely hung up on the concept.
What does he want? All Nuea wants is for Lom to make one goddamn decision on his own, he wants Lom to take this seriously, he wants Lom to push him up against the wall and—
“Why does it matter what I want?” Nuea says instead, feeling the flush grow as he tries to push that thought back down.
Lom raises an eyebrow, almost looking offended that Nuea would ask. “Because you are the one planning it, we hired you because you are good at what you do. Were we wrong?”
“No!” Nuea shakes his head vigorously and tries to tug his wrist out of Lom’s grasp. Lom doesn’t let go.
“Then help me plan this wedding,” Lom murmurs, taking a step forward. He is now close, much much too close.
“It’s not my wedding,” Nuea protests. “It’s yours, and—”
“What if it was?”
“—what?”
“What would you pick if it was your wedding?” Lom takes another step closer and this time Nuea tries to take a step back. He doesn’t get very far and Lom doesn’t release his grip on his wrist.
Nuea has a rule about distance and boundaries, it’s important to keep a line between personal and professional, it’s important not to give too much away when working for someone you probably won’t see again. So it surprises him at the unprompted honestly that tumbles from his mouth.
“People like me don’t get married. Or happily ever after.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Lom says. He looks Nuea up and down and if he wasn’t absolutely sure that Lom is marrying someone else, he would be convinced Lom is checking him out. But that is preposterous.
Because—
“Can I tell you a secret?”
Nuea freezes, looking up into Lom’s overly earnest eyes. “Only if it will help me plan this wedding.”
Lom hesitates and looks around the gym and even though they are alone in this particular hallway, Nuea has a feeling that this is something he doesn’t want anyone to overhear. He sighs and pulls Nuea down the hallway into the locker room, closing the door behind him.
“Yiwa doesn’t love me.”
Out of all of the things Nuea expects Lom to say it is not this. He has a gut feeling that Lom might be fucking with him, but he looks completely serious. “It’s a fake wedding. It’s why she doesn’t care about any of the details.”
Oh. Oh. “Then—”
“She’s got a girlfriend.” Lom pushes Nuea backwards and he stumbles, his back hitting the locker with a bit more inelegance than he would like. Lom places both of his hands on either side of Nuea’s face and leans in. “Which means, I’m not actually in love with her.”
“Oh,” Nuea repeats, this time out loud.
This changes everything. Well. Not everything, but it changes enough that Nuea no longer feels guilty about wanting Lom to fuck him right here right now. And you know what? Maybe it’s time he actually takes what he wants.
He isn’t quite sure who moves first but one moment Lom has him boxed in against the lockers and the next they are kissing, wild and hungry and desperate. Lom’s skin is warm under his fingers and the sweat has not quite dried, enough that Nuea feels slightly unhinged as he claws Lom’s shirt up over his head.
Lom reaches down and picks Nuea up and Nuea gasps, rocking his hips forward against the hard bulge in Lom’s gym shorts. Nuea wants Lom inside of him, wants to fucked against this locker until he cries, but he knows they can’t. Not in a public locker.
That doesn’t stop Lom from rutting into him, lips trailing down Nuea’s jaw and neck, teeth nipping at a sensitive spot near his collarbone. Nuea knows it’s not going to take much for him to fall apart, and he doesn’t doubt that he would let Lom fuck him right here in the open.
Luckily — or unluckily — he is saved from making that decision by the sounds of the locker room door opening and Lom breaking off the kiss, pulling back looking flushed and much worse for the wear. He reaches forward and pulls out a packet and hands it to Nuea, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Here. You might find some of this helpful.”
And then that’s when reality comes crashing back down on Nuea; that even with all of this, Lom is still his client and still getting married.
“Right,” he mumbles, looking away. “Well, if that’s all.”
“Nuea—” Lom says, “hey—”
Nuea shakes his head. “Thank you for meeting with me, I’ll look these files over and get back to you.”
And then Nuea flees, with the ghost of Lom’s lips on his.
fandom: bloodhounds (2023); ship: Hong Woo-Jin & Kim Gun-Woo
The thing is, if Woo-jin hadn’t been so unflinchingly confident that he was going to win, there was a slight chance that he could have won. But the thing is, he underestimated Gun-woo.
At twenty-seven, the weight of the world is on his shoulders, the weight of a father's expectation and disappointment and rage; a measurement of not enough. Never enough. Always falling short.
The trophy is his, by right. By birthright.
If someone asked Woo-jin what the first thing he noticed about Gun-woo was, he wouldn’t be able to answer, because he didn’t notice Gun-woo. Not until they were in the ring together, facing off from opposite sides of the ring.
Woo-jin is a seasoned boxer, an undefeated boxer. He doesn’t have to worry about the rookie — Kim Gun-woo, the super rookie — and his killer left hook to the body. One hit wonder, one and done. Woo-Jin laughs to himself at the irony, that when he wins this match and takes home the trophy, rookie Kim Gun-woo will also be a one-hit wonder.
Despite the weight of expectations, Woo-Jin loves boxing. It’s his lifeblood, his beating heart, his blood and breath and backbone. His salvation. His deliverance. There is something transcendent about stepping into the ring, weighted gloves on his fists, staring down the man across from him. The rush of adrenaline that comes from the sound of the bell, the way they come together and meet in the middle.
It’s not as if he delights in the fear in his opponent’s eyes, but he does find satisfaction at making men kneel. Or something to that effect.
He feels the weight of his comrades gaze on him and shakes himself down, reminding himself that this is his ring, his lifeblood, his prize to win. Super Rookie Kim Gun-Woo and his left hook have no place here, not in his match.
Woo-Jin expects Gun-woo to have some trepidation, but the first thing that really gets to him is how stoic he is. A wall of muscle and a walled-off mask, unreadable minute reactions that leave Woo-Jin baffled at what he is thinking. The second thing that gets to him is the fact that Gun-Woo is good.
Really good.
Annoyingly good.
Good enough that he manages to put Woo-Jin on the back foot, struggling to regain control of the match. The third thing is how inconvenient his defense is; one punch and two punches and three punches and four, fists connecting with solid muscle and an iron defense. Impenetrable.
Speed and precision mean little when faced with an unmovable mountain, that you cannot move a mountain, you have to go around. So go around he does, or tries, at least. Dodging and ducking and dancing around the ring, agile and limber and light on his feet. It’s a game, really, a song and dance and call and response, a beckoning that turns into a reckoning when fists meet the face.
Except.
It’s Woo-Jin that takes the real official first hit. Not Gun-woo. A sharp uppercut that has him dazed, shaking the stars out of his eyes before diving back in. Gun-woo is impenetrable and Woo-Jin forgets his own very important rule: don’t get emotional.
He can throw taunts and jabs, jeer and tease, all in attempts at aggravation and distraction. He needs his opponent to lose their cool, to lose their composure, to lose their chance at defending.
Woo-Jin forgets this. And gets irritated.
And takes a wicked left hook to his kidney as a consequence. He expects to shake it off, but his body has other plans and he sinks to his knees as the breath is knocked from his lungs. A single left hook and everything Woo-Jin has worked for flashes before his eyes.
He cannot lose.
Distantly he can hear the count; one, and two, and three, and four; and the air burns as he struggles to breathe. Five, and six; Woo-Jin cannot lose like this. He cannot let this rookie punk take everything from him.
Seven.
He stands.
It’s enough resilience to give him a second chance, enough determination derived from pure spite that fuels his vindictive desperation to win. He can see it now, the arrogance of trying the same thing the second time. But Woo-Jin is prepared. He knows it. Knows how to block it, how to beat Gun-Woo.
And it fails. He looks like a fool.
And Gun-Woo, the bastard, stands there and looks apologetic.
###
Food.
He wants food. No, he needs it. The tender texture of meat on his tongue, soju on his lips, the rejuvenation of a vigorous match; even if he lost. He doesn’t want to order take-out though, he doesn’t want to eat at home, alone.
Food is about celebration, collaboration, connection. Food is about bringing people together, which is why the last person he expects to be waiting for him is Gun-woo.
Gun-woo, who stands and smiles, looking genuinely happy to see him, asking shall we go eat with such eager sincerity that Woo-Jin feels justified in taking another swing at his annoying perky ass.
Earnest. This is the best way Woo-Jin can describe the expression on Gun-Woo’s face, just as earnest as he talks about pork belly as he does to wish for Woo-Jin’s company.
He really doesn’t know how he feels about that. His gut instinct is to say no, to scoff, to play it off and go somewhere else. But somehow when Gun-Woo turns his back, Woo-Jin feels compelled to follow. His pride may be large but his stomach is even larger.
And the fact that Gun-Woo stole his trophy and his prize money, the least he can do is pay for dinner.
###
It seems almost natural to fall into step with Gun-Woo, natural and intrinsic as if they just weren’t shirtless and breathless and beating each other with fists. Natural in the way their shoulders brush, in the way they sway into each other and apart — well, maybe this is just Woo-Jin, but after two nasty left hooks into his liver, he thinks he has a right to be a little unbalanced on his feet. Which has nothing to do with the solid weight and warmth of Gun-Woo.
It’s almost too easy to tease Gun-Woo; naïveté and misguided optimism, faith and trust, wide eyes that steal all attention just to him.
###
Sitting across from someone at a cozy barbecue joint in town should feel natural. Instead this feels intimate. The restaurant is devoid of other diners, just the two of them in the center of the room, table covered in various dishes.
Woo-Jin watches as Gun-Woo carefully places each slice onto the grill and he feels compelled to know everything. This turns out to be a mistake because with each question his fascination grows; strong and competent and powerful, yet humble and modest as if it truly is nothing worth mentioning.
Stubborn, too. Stubborn enough that Woo-Jin really wants to get Gun-Woo to obey. There are other things Woo-Jin notices, like how Gun-Woo’s eyelashes frame his expressive eyes, how he has two moles on the left side of his nose, and how good he is at just about everything.
How when he smiles, it makes his heart skip a beat.
How he promises to obey, and then still doesn’t listen. How much that thought devolves into something else, a flush creeping across his skin.
How when Gun-Woo says hyeong the heat makes a home inside of him. How his thoughts are consumed with Gun-Woo saying hyeong with those wide eyes and soft smile.
How he opens his mouth and leans forward, taking the food into his mouth with such enthusiasm Woo-Jin feels flushed and flustered. How he wonders what else he can put in Gun-Woo’s mouth.
###
The alcohol settles under his skin and he feels the giddiness grow, rising up in him like a balloon. He feels weightless, even despite the loss of the match, something about Gun-Woo’s effervescent enthusiasm enough to infect him with genuine joy.
They walk in pace, slowly, as if they have nowhere to go or nowhere to be, as if the only thing that matters is the two of them. The night however, is drawing to a close, and Woo-Jin already regrets the loss of time. He doesn’t understand how someone can make him feel weightless, full of joy.
He needs this to happen again, so he pulls out his phone and hands it to Gun-Woo. He turns, catching sight of the crinkle in Gun-Woo’s eyes as he teases him, words soft and breathless on his lips. Their knees brush and neither one of them moves, the warmth pressing in until Woo-Jin never wants to leave.
But then the bus comes, screeching to a halt with a whoosh as the doors swing open, Gun-Woo standing and giving Woo-Jin one last smile.
Woo-Jin watches him depart on the bus, enchanted. Perhaps next time he will find the courage to see what Gun-Woo’s lips actually taste like.
Ryan Gosling’s Ken and Simu Liu’s Ken are definitely gay for eachother. Their little rivalry?? Holding hands during “I’m Just Ken?” Liu’s Ken kissing the other Ken on the cheek?? Come on now
Barbie (2023); Gloria learns to have hope in Barbie again; 1k, character study
—
Gloria loves her life. Truly. Sasha is a beautiful daughter, strong and opinionated and everything she wants her daughter to be. But she is also a teenager, and as such, hates her mother.
It’s not a surprise, really. Gloria remembers hating her mother at this age, the age where everything is too much and not enough, the age where the world is blossoming around you but also breaking around you, the age in the hopes and dreams and limitless possibilities shatter into a million pieces, forced to face the fractures of what once was and what once could be.
Barbie.
A doctor. A lawyer. An astronomer. A scientist. A planner. A dreamer.
Barbie was supposed to be the ideal, but as with all gilded houses and rose colored glasses, the ideal is much more of a poison than a promise.
Gloria remembers her childhood, the joys she felt when she could just be, the joys in all of the ways that anything was possible if she just believed hard enough. The outfits and the adventures, the way that Barbie was Barbie and Barbie is Barbie. In the ways that anything is possible.
She remembers though, growing up. The ways that life came too hard to fast too soon; crying in the bathroom from shame of blood soaked jeans, looking in a mirror and realizing you aren't the same as everyone else, realizing that there are limits and expectations and somehow you are not enough.
Not enough.
Never enough.
The burning shame of realizing that you don't look a certain way or sound a certain way, that the world wants you to be a hundred million things, a thousand impossible things. Watching the years go by, understanding that it doesn't matter what you do or how hard you try, you will always fall short of impossible standards created by people who don't actually want you to succeed.
A pawn in the patriarchy, systemic oppression enforced to encourage infighting and complacency, a redirect away from the glass ceiling down to the glass bars of the gilded prison in which is just what womanhood is.
So Gloria can't blame Sasha. Beautiful, wonderful Sasha, an extension of herself but with so much more bravery and agency that somehow she can't find anymore.
A job where she is just a face — not even a name – but someone who sits at a desk and allows the men to make the decisions for and about women.
She can't blame her own daughter for losing faith, not when she doesn't have faith of her own. When her entire identity has been stripped down to motherhood, that the hopes and passions and fire inside of her has long since frozen, that the aspirations that she could be anything was a carrot on a stick designed to keep her running.
Do you ever think about dying?
Gloria does. Or doesn't. Sorta. Or kinda.
Isn't that the existential horrors of intrusive thoughts? The ones that creep in at the edges of consciousness and awareness and lingers in the ways that make you feel.
She loves her life. She does. She loves her daughter. Her husband is... well. He's there. There's nothing wrong with him but she doesn't love him. She does, but not in the ways she knows she should. He is sweet, and kind, and a good father, but he doesn't make her heart race in her chest, cheeks flush with exuberant joy, in the ways she longs for more.
Life is... there.
People call this depression, but is it really just that? Or is it that she finds herself moving through life without a purpose? Why is she here? What was she supposed to do? Was she always supposed to be here? In a job that she once found joy in because it was an embodiment and expression in what she believes in, but is now a room of male executives that keep their doors shut and ideas dismissed for everyone else.
Is it really a surprise she wanted to go back to where it all began? It is a surprise that in her job, and family, and life, wanting to revisit the hopes and dreams that Barbie offered? The adoration she had over the doll, the way Barbie could have been anything and was everything.
There were days she wanted to be an artist, months where she found joy in the drag of pen across the paper, in the seep of ink that blooms into color that stains the page. She used to draw, until one day she stopped drawing. One day she closed her sketch pad and never opened it back up again. One day the creativity that she used to cultivate seeped away until there was nothing left.
Barbie as a child was a conduit of her future, but now she is a marker of her complacency. She stopped trying. She stopped believing. She stopped creating.
The first sketch was nothing, broken charcoal on paper, smears on her hands as her fingers clench too hard with too much pressure. The second was more of the first, but she felt something uncoil in her with each tear of the sketch pad.
Ideas came to her: Barbie, as who she is now. Barbie, that is a representation of who she, Gloria, is now. Barbie — with her effervescent enthusiasm and energy — as a representation of the trials and pitfalls of life.
Of human emotion.
Of the crack in her heart and soul but also the warmth of her child in her arms, the smell of her hair pressing into her cheek. The way she can watch her daughter grow into something.
A Barbie who can allow herself to be. Cellulite, and anxiety, and depression. Barbie who is something more than perfect.
Barbie who is real. Barbie who feels and loves and dreams, who is a creator, not a thing created. Who is a dreamer, not just a dream made. Gloria knows that Barbie is a conception, not real, but isn’t that the whole point? That the reality and truth are the things we speak into existence? That the power we give to concepts are the concepts that hold the most weight.
Gloria needs Barbie now, more than ever. So she grabs her sketch pad, and she draws.
Tags: thigh biting, blood play, vampire Vegas, human Pete
///
Pete has proven to be the most delightful pet. More than anything else, Pete responds to Vegas as if Vegas is a god, not a monster.
Vegas knows what he is. Has always known what he is. He has never been ashamed of this, or felt the need to justify his urges or desires; Vegas is not nice, or kind, or generous. He is cruel and callous and cavalier with the people around him, has lied and stolen and cheated to get what he wants.
He doesn’t know how to be given something, freely, without condition. He doesn’t know how to accept a gift or an offering simply because that person saw the need or desire to do so.
But that’s all that Pete does. All that Pete is.
Since that moment in the dungeon, since Pete came apart with just the feel of Vegas’s fangs in his neck, he has been insatiable. Obsessive. Fervent.
Pete craves Vegas almost as much as Vegas craves Pete; eager and willing to offer his neck for Vegas to sink his teeth into, dipping under a haze of submission to be nothing more than what Vegas wants from him.
Pete… is everything Vegas could possibly have ever imagined, or wanted, or desired. And Pete is all his.
Pete offers his body to Vegas for his own pleasure, sex, or violence, or hunger, all one and the same between them, inextricable from the other. Vegas delights in making Pete come all over himself from just the act of feeding on him, making his body with bruises and bite marks and bloodstains, from his neck all the way down to his stomach.
However, one thing that Vegas has recently discovered, is how sensitive Pete’s thighs are. How responsive he is, how quickly he comes when Vegas gets anywhere near them.
So tonight he is going to have some fun with this.
“Hold still.” Vegas leans over Pete on the bed and tightens the rope wrapped around his wrists, tugging on it to make sure it is secure to the bedpost. His arms are extended out over his head, the rope crisscrossing his shoulders and down his torso to emulate a harness. Vegas leans forward and ghosts his lips along Pete’s, smiling when Pete tries to press himself into the kiss.
“I told you to be still,” Vegas scolds, and Pete just whines.
Vegas trails his lips down Pete’s neck, licking at the half healed cuts from this morning. Pete has enough of Vegas’s blood in him on a consistent basis that none of the marks or abrasions Vegas gives him lasts long at all, but it’s fun enough to see how far he can push it, how much Pete will bleed out before Vegas gives him more blood.
At this point the two of them are continuously linked, Vegas is comprised of Pete’s blood and Pete is comprised up of Vegas’s blood; the only thing left that Vegas can do is cut open Pete’s chest and hold his still beating heart in his hands.
He just might, Pete begs for it enough, after all.
Vegas settles himself down between Pete’s spread legs and traces his finger along the script of his tattoo, moving sideways to where Pete’s cock rests, dark red and weeping at the tip. Vegas looks up and holds Pete’s gaze and then brings his palm down, hard.
Pete spasms, the pain reverberating through him as his orgasm overtakes him, his cock spurting over his thighs and abdomen.
“I think this is the most fun when you’re still sensitive,” Vegas teases before leaning down and licking a long stripe of Pete’s come up off his skin. Pete just moans, body writhing away from the touch but also arching into it, always a duality of desire.
Vegas slides his hand down the soft skin of Pete’s inner thigh, squeezing his fingers into the tender skin and watching the color bloom under the pressure of his fingers. There are several places to draw blood in the thighs and some are detrimental — those Vegas will save for last, just to make things really fun.
He starts small. A gentle kiss on the inside of Pete’s left knee, tongue flicking along the crease and tasting the tang of Pete’s perspiration. He nips, just barely, and grins when Pete’s leg jolts in his grip.
“Easy,” Vegas chides. “Behave.”
Pete makes another noise of assent before relaxing in his grip, eyes wide and hazy as he watches Vegas. Vegas loves it when Pete goes nonverbal like this, not because he enjoys it when Pete doesn’t talk, but more-so for the fact that he is blissed out and flying high and desperate for every morsel of attention Vegas gives him.
He kisses the inside of Pete’s thigh, right alongside the crease of his knee, and takes time to make the smallest bite. He doesn’t even fully draw blood, just enough to break the skin and turn it a blooming pink. He wants to build up to the good stuff.
He moves up, this time nipping the tender skin until he feels the salty tang of blood, barely holding back his own moan at the intoxicating taste of it.
Everything about Pete is addictive, from his smell to his sweat to the taste of his skin, all of this which he willingly offers to Vegas. A lamb in the den of a lion, on the alter of sacrifice. Adoration met with temptation, purpose met with divine deliverance.
Vegas never truly had anything to believe in before this, but Pete is everything kept from him and more. A manifestation and embodiment of the desires of his soul, his own beating heart made into flesh and blood, ripe for the taking. And the tasting.
Vegas hides his smile in the skin of Pete’s thigh and moves further up, creating a small crescent moon with his incisors. Pete’s skin is warm now, the flush dark along the surface, blood working overtime as it spreads to his open wounds.
There have been times where Vegas has cut Pete open with his teeth, watched as crimson rain fell across the canvas of his skin, waiting until the beat of his heart was a faint little thing before cutting open his own wrist and holding it to Pete’s lips. Sacrilegious in the way he would then stroke his own cock as Pete drinks the blood of his keeper, ingests the divine force working to keep him living.
The way his hunger is unmatched, eyes feral and blazing with the heat of a hundred dying suns, a brand and a missive of expectation of belonging. This is usually enough to push Vegas over the edge, spilling his release in his palm only to remove his wrist from Pete’s mouth, only to have Pete lick up his come.
But for now, Pete is bound to the bed, arousal pulsing through him with each beat of his heart, a fragile breakable human that entrusts his existence to the creature that wants to devour him.
Vegas makes a deeper cut this time, a sharp slice of his teeth that has Pete gasping, the hot rush of blood trickling down the inside of his thigh getting perilously close to the bed before he licks it up, grin causing him to smear it along his cheek. He suckles at this one for a few moments, working a bruise that will turn purple and blue in the matching rays of the dawn light, a kaleidoscope of color in mirroring of nature and nurture. Or at least something to that effect.
He holds Pete down to the bed and kisses up the top of his quad, nipping at each mole to remark his own claim. He moves over to the other side and repeats the process, growing more impatient with himself as he tries to drag this out.
Really, he could have hours of fun with Pete, except that he gets to a point where he aches for it, he burns with the desire to consume, to ignite himself in the flames of revelation, licking up the sides of his enclosure as he dives deeper and deeper into hell. Temptation is one of the greatest sins, after all, but Vegas will suffer a million times for the taste of Pete on his lips.
Pete can’t hold back his moans now, cock hard again, thick and heavy hanging on his hip. He squirms under Vegas’s mouth and Vegas knows that he is just as eager as Vegas is.
Vegas moves up to where his pulse beats the loudest, the place where he carries his life force under such delicate conditions. Humans are fragile; fragile bones and skin and muscle and sinew, breakable from every facet and angle to be given a new purpose.
And this is Pete’s.
Vegas licks the skin right over the femoral artery, savoring the way Pete’s pulse throbs under his tongue. He aches for it, aches to sink his teeth into the tender skin and feel the flow of blood over his chin and lips, drinking until he can’t anymore. Pete twitches his thigh, pushing himself closer to Vegas’s mouth, tugging at the rope with a whine.
Vegas moves away and settles his urge by marking up a handful of new bite marks along the inside of his thighs, until he can feel the aching need from Pete. He settles himself back between Pete’s thighs and hooks his leg up over his shoulder, kissing down the line.
“We’ll only have a few minutes baby,” Vegas warns, placing a gentle kiss over the thrum of Pete’s life point. His other hand reaches between the cleft of Pete’s ass to push two fingers inside, twisting up until he pushes into his prostate. Pete spasms on the bed and makes a punched out sound, cock leaking on his stomach.
He is already stretched open from earlier, when Vegas spent an hour licking up inside of him with no other purpose than to just taste him. Vegas himself is on the edge, his own desire riding the delicate knife tip, needing to both be inside of Pete and to feel the beat of his heart on his tongue.
He curls his fingers again, massaging into Pete’s prostate until his second orgasm hits, causing him to go boneless on the bed above him.
Vegas sinks his teeth into the artery, and rips.
The rush of blood is immediate, covering Vegas’s lips and chin, soaking through the bedsheet underneath them. Vegas closes his eyes and drinks, allowing himself five seconds, ten, twenty, before ripping himself back. Pete is already going hazy, eyes fluttering as his body shuts down. Vegas hooks his other leg over his shoulder and slides him across the bed, the blood coating his skin as much as a lubricant as anything.
Vegas pushes his cock inside of Pete and sinks inside, Pete crying out as he bottoms inside. He knows he is close — being inside of Pete is like coming home — and he has a few minutes before his heart will stop working.
They’ve played this game before, racing the clock for their own carnality, and this time Vegas is determined to win. Just like always.
He bends Pete nearly in half and fucks into him with sharp snaps of his hips, the warmth of Pete’s blood covering his groin and easing the way. He leans in and slides his lips against Pete’s grinning when Pete realizes that Vegas’s mouth is still full of his own blood.
“That’s it baby,” Vegas praises, “just like that.”
He kisses Pete with the intensity of a thousand lifetimes, each second passing a threat against the eternity he plans to spend with Pete. With his heart and soul, spread before him like a gift.
Vegas groans when he comes, filling Pete with hot pulses of his own release, kissing Pete again with fervent delight as the wound on his thigh slowly stops bleeding.
Vampire blood has healing properties, but so does Vampire semen. No one knows, because no one has played around long enough to find out.
It’s not nearly as powerful as blood, so it’s a moderate fix, but Vegas knows with his own seed inside of Pete that he doesn’t have to worry about Pete bleeding out on him, as much of a feast as that would be.
Pete makes a noise and tugs again at the ropes and Vegas sighs, reaching up and slicing through them. Pete flexes his hands and looks at them for the briefest moment before sinking them in Vegas’s hair, dragging him in for another kiss.
Vegas will never get over the intensity in which Pete longs for him, in which after everything Vegas does, he still needs him.
Tags: Fluff, Professional Cuddling AU, Cuddling & Snuggling, therapy dogs, mentions of anxiety and depression, Vegas is going through it, pete is very very cute, allusions to pet play (kink), pete is a puppy (fluff)
Vegas shows up to pet some therapy dogs and finds Pete instead:
ATTACHED ART BY @kiiyuq !!!
read below or read on ao3
🐶🐶🐶
Vegas loves dogs. Always has.
Growing up he always wanted one of his own, a puppy that was his. One that could sleep in his bed next to him, that he could take on walks, that he could feed and cuddle. A dog that would love him no matter what. A dog that would always love him.
His father refused, said animals were for vagrants and common folk, that people like them in upper society don’t have dogs. They don’t have pets.
His father also had a lot of opinions on propper animals, instructing him to take care of some hedgehogs as he was younger only to berate and scold Vegas when they died off one by one.
His father had opinions on a lot of things, really.
Like that Vegas isn’t living up to expectations, isn’t following the path set for him, isn’t bringing honor to the family. It doesn’t matter that Vegas is unfathomably intelligent, managing a double major in record time with near perfect grades. It doesn’t matter that he has done every single thing his father has asked of him, the fact that he still has the audacity to pursue something like an English degree is unforgivable.
Vegas is on his own now, after all of that. Working part time to supplement his income — as his father refuses to pay for a single textbook — and works twice as hard to finish his degree.
He didn’t even really pay attention to the fact that he was stressed, or depressed, or anxious. All of those things are a baseline for him. Why would he point out that he feels hopeless and worthless and broken? That’s just who he is.
Apparently, though, normal people don’t feel those things. And all of this is perfectly normal, that it’s just brain chemistry, that lots of people face these problems, which Vegas finds ridiculously contradictory according to the previous point that normal people aren’t feeling miserable from the moment they wake up to the moment they go to sleep.
At least, these are things the college therapist explained to him, gently, as if Vegas might crawl over the desk and strangle them with his bare hands.
It crossed his mind, at least.
Vegas would rather gouge out his own eyes than submit to the mortifying ordeal of being perceived, of being forced to talk about things that upset him, to talk about his feelings. Even though it was nice to have a space with someone who actually listened to him, and who he felt didn’t look down on him or want to use him for something. Someone who wasn’t constantly comparing him to his cousin.
Still, his sessions haven’t been as productive for his overall mood as the therapist would have liked, so now Vegas is given a new task.
Visit the campus therapy dogs.
Apparently, once a week, a mental health organization comes on campus with trained service dogs, designed to help people with depression and anxiety and other mood disorders. That they can help bring joy and help relieve stress. Vegas thinks this is a weird concept but he isn’t going to complain, not when he can picture a gray Pitbull with wide eyes, head in his lap. Or maybe a black lab, fur soft under his fingers and tail thumping against the ground as Vegas scratches its head.
It’s just a fact that Vegas loves dogs, so what does he have to lose?
He writes down the date and time on a paper and takes it with him, noting that the soonest is a few days from today. He at least will be able to move through the mountain of homework he has, call Macau, go to the store and meal prep, do laundry, and perhaps finish reading his book.
Just a usual days list of tasks.
Vegas tries to forget about it, not wanting to waste all of his time and energy on something still so far away, but he fails. Once the idea has been placed in his mind he can’t stop thinking about it. He wonders what it would be like to actually gain a service animal. Is that allowed? To have with him, always.
It doesn’t matter anymore that his father wouldn’t allow it, the school campus refuses and his off campus housing also prohibits pets. But service animals are an exception to that rule, right?
The days pass slow and fast, all at once and not at all. But finally the day comes and Vegas feels a flutter of excitement in his stomach. He shouldn’t be this nervous, or have this much anticipation. It’s just a normal thing.
But the thing is, it’s not.
Because when he gets to the room that the event is supposed to take place, when he opens the door expecting to find the dogs, all he sees is a cute boy with a collar and dog ears, in an oversized sweater, staring back at him.
The room is almost set up with a large cage along the wall — fully stocked with comfortable looking pillows and blankets — some toys surrounding the cage, and a few extra large dog beds in the middle.
Vegas blinks, sure he is just hallucinating, but no, it seems to be not a delusion caused from undue stress and lack of sleep, but in fact, an actual guy dressed like a dog surrounded by dog toys.
“I’m sorry,” Vegas says slowly. “I must have gotten the wrong room.”
He didn’t. He knows he didn’t. He double and triple checked it.
The guy smiles and Vegas is first and foremost almost knocked over by his dimples. Dimples.
“Are you Vegas?”
Vegas nods, a little taken aback that the guy knows his name. Vegas takes the opportunity to examine him, noting that the cuffs of his sweater are extra long, over his fingers that he has curled at the ends. The sweater looks soft, a material that invites touch. It’s big on him, slipping off one shoulder to expose a collarbone and Vegas feels very overwhelmed in a lot of reasons.
“I’m Pete,” he explains. “I’m going to be your therapy dog for today.”
“My… what?”
Pete just smiles up at him and something about the warm brown of his eyes and the way his dimples dip into his cheeks has Vegas’s skin flushing. This has to be some type of joke.
“Did my therapist put you up to this? Is this a prank?”
“No, absolutely not.” Pete brings one hand up to adjust the puppy ears on his head before dropping them in his lap. “I help out with the other dogs, train them and volunteer when they are here. But there are times they can’t make it and usually don’t schedule themselves to come if there’s only one or two people signed up. So that’s where I come in.”
Vegas shifts on his feet and thinks about where to shove his hands; on his hips? Clasped behind his back? In his pockets? Crossing his arms? Why don’t people think about this? Is he over thinking this?
Pete makes a soft nose and Vegas snaps back to attention on him, trying to ignore the blush on his cheeks. “You can start by taking off your shoes, if that makes you more comfortable.”
Vegas wants to snap that nothing would make him more comfortable, but he leans down to pull off his shoes anyway. He’s grateful he’s wearing his normal black socks today, and not any of the embarrassing ones that he only gets away with when he’s wearing boots.
He really should leave.
This is really fucking weird.
“Who are you?” Vegas asks instead.
“I’m a biology major, but I also participate in a lot of the drama productions. I just like being a puppy sometimes, and find a lot of people need more hugs than they think they do.” Pete doesn’t move closer to Vegas but the longer he is standing with Pete sitting the more uncomfortable he gets.
He’s in jeans though, and a blouse that is extremely wrinkleable. He also has no idea what he is allowed to do or supposed to do.
“Come a little closer to me,” Pete suggests softly.
Vegas wonders how often he does this. Wonders who else has seen Pete like this in a sweater and black athletic shorts and fluffy socks, smiling at him like he is the best thing he’s seen all day.
Vegas knows for a fact that can’t be true. He is usually the worst part of someone’s day.
But he pads forward anyway, socks quiet on the rug, feeling his stomach flip as Pete looks up at him with an unfairly soft expression.
Vegas can’t remember the last time he was hugged by someone, and he really can’t ever remember a time that someone looked at him like that. People don’t look at him like that. Vegas is the asshole, the jerk, the black sheep. No one ever wants to be with just him, without the Theerapanyakul name or the money.
He gets in close enough that he is standing almost directly above Pete, and he is irritatingly, even cuter up close.
“I won’t bite,” Pete laughs softly. “I’m here to do whatever is most comfortable for you.”
“I’m very, deeply, extremely uncomfortable.”
“I can see that.” Pete slides his thumb along the ridges of his knuckles, still covered by the cuffs of his sweater. “Do you want to maybe sit down and I can put my head in your lap? Some people like that. Or I can start by a simple hug?”
Vegas tenses. He doesn’t mean to, but he hasn’t been held in so long that the idea scares him. What if he’s a bad hugger? What if Pete thinks he is weird? What if he makes Pete uncomfortable and he fucks this up too?
He sits anyway. This is all about trying new things, after all. He looks over at Pete who hasn’t moved, clearly waiting for Vegas to tell him what is okay to do.
Vegas looks down at his hands in his lap and twirls the ornate family ring around his finger a few times. Pete’s hair does look really soft, and the idea of Pete laying with his head in his lap is… nice.
“The first one,” Vegas mumbles, scared to admit it. This is weird, right? This is weird. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t be this nervous or out of sorts with physical contact with someone. If this goes poorly he never has to come back, so there’s nothing stopping him from allowing something silly.
Pete must be used to this because he nods and shifts around, dropping down on his back and gently rests his head against Vegas’s thigh.
Vegas would prefer to kill everyone he could before admitting it, but the moment Pete rests the weight of his head on his thigh, he feels better. He is warm, but solid. Something tangible and real.
“Can—” Vegas starts but wrenches his jaw shut. He is already embarrassing himself enough, he doesn’t need to do more.
Pete, though, once again seems to understand. He turns his head just slightly so that he is looking up at Vegas and smiles that disarming smile again. “You’re allowed to touch me. That’s kind of the whole point.”
Vegas swallows back the thought of doing more than just touching, that Pete shouldn’t say such things because now Vegas is thinking about a host of inappropriate scenarios. He shakes it off and lifts one hand and hesitantly places it on Pete’s chest.
The swear is as soft as it looks and Vegas can’t help but slide his hand down to feel the texture. Pete is warm. So warm, and so firm. Firm in the way a body holds weight, that it exists and takes up space and is real. But he also feels soft.
He looks fit and trim, but Vegas can feel that he has this softness to himself that wraps him in a layer of comfort. Pete releases a small breathy sigh and curls closer into Vegas.
His heart jumps into his throat and Vegas wants to never let him go. He can’t help it, really, not with how attached he is already. Slowly he lifts his other hand to Pete’s forehead and brushes some of the bangs off his face and Vegas is dismayed to find out that his hair is just as soft as he thought it would be.
He wonders what else Pete does, if Pete enjoys playing puppy full time. That if this is just some silly joke for him or if he would look at Vegas with wide dark eyes if Vegas called him puppy.
He wants to know, but doesn’t.
He wonders what it would be like to hold Pete in other ways, to lay his head on his tummy and hide his face and maybe Pete could tell him softly that he is good. That he is doing a good job.
Vegas aches with it.
He feels tongue tied and out of sorts, feels like he wants more more more more more. More.
Pete makes another sound as Vegas combs his fingers through his hair again and Vegas wants to try something out.
“Pretty puppy,” Vegas says softly, scratching behind Pete’s ears, careful not to dislodge the actual puppy ears Pete is wearing. Vegas isn’t really sure what he was expecting but it is not Pete emitting a breathy moan.
Vegas freezes as Pete flushes but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t try to deny what happened, or play it off as something else.
“Does my puppy like that?” Vegas does it again, this time massaging his fingers into the nape of Pete’s neck and the back of his head. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?”
Vegas is only marginally prepared for Pete’s moan this time, and when he continues to apply pressure against Pete’s skin, Pete makes another desperate sound.
He has a feeling that this is not included in the standard service, that whatever Pete does with other people, it’s not this. Vegas feels a little insane, frankly, and isn’t sure how to possibly address this feeling. He wants to make Pete moan again, and again, and again. Make him moan as he becomes — and stays — desperate for him. He also realizes all in a rush that he is half hard, quickly in danger of becoming fully hard.
“I don’t normally do this,” Pete says softly, shifting to look up at Vegas. “And even though this is free and not anything paid, I need you to know that I don’t… I’m not inappropriate with people.”
Vegas suddenly feels like shit. Of course he doesn’t do this, and Vegas is being absolutely pathetic by getting hard with the smallest amount of physical contact. He thinks he should apologize, but the words are stuck in his throat.
“But,” Pete says again, soft enough that Vegas has to strain to hear him. “What I do on my own time…”
This is a dream, surely. Things like this don’t happen to Vegas. He doesn’t randomly meet cute boys with dimples that moan when he calls them puppy, who make his heart flutter in his chest with what feels like genuine joy. This is just too good to be true.
Vegas must not have said anything or reacted in time because Pete suddenly looks anxious, not fully pulling away but trying to create a little bit of distance.
“I’m so sorry, oh my god. I think I missed read the situation. This is really inappropriate and weird and awful. I am really so sorry.”
Vegas thinks about cutting him off but he is distracted by what is clearly present signs of arousal through the crotch of Pete’s pants. Looks like Vegas isn’t the only one feeling things after all.
“Easy puppy,” Vegas chides, allowing the urge to rise up in him and fall out. He wants to take care of Pete so bad. In so many ways. “I didn’t say no, now did I?”
Pete shakes his head, but doesn’t respond.
“I’ve always wanted a dog, you know,” Vegas hums thoughtfully. “But I guess a puppy like you is just as good. Better, even.”
Vegas is overcome with the need to feed him, to crawl into his bed at his apartment and pull Pete in his arms and wrap all of his limbs around him.
Pete just watches him, silent and waiting.
“So what do you say puppy, do you want to come home with me?”
Pete smiles, and it cuts through Vegas’s heart in a way he knows he will never be the same again. “Yeah. Yeah I’d love that.”
###
Vegas discovers many things that night. One, that Pete is a phenomenal cuddler. Two, he really, really loves being called puppy. Three, he is incredibly eager to eat food out of Vegas’s hand. Four, his tummy is as soft as expected. Five, he is profoundly easy to talk to.
And six, that Pete cuddles just as well without clothes than he does with them.
And seven, when he wakes up in Vegas’s arms in the mornings, Vegas thinks that he might finally be able to be happy.
Artists! Would you be interested in joining a Kinnporsche Big Bang? (Details Below)
Yes
No
Not Sure/Maybe
Voting ended onJul 2, 2023
For those unfamiliar, a Big Bang is a collaborative event between writers and artists! In this instance, the writers will be challenged to write a five thousand word fic, and you, the artists will be challenged to create any form of artwork you like, based off of that fic.
“What starts as a silhouette against the brilliant sun, slowly comes into sharp focus as the man nears Pete. He’s not walking, he’s prowling, stalking closer towards his prey, towards Pete.“ (moneyshot by @hawkshadowwrites & @sapphicblight)
Tags: Fluff, Professional Cuddling AU, Cuddling & Snuggling, therapy dogs, mentions of anxiety and depression, Vegas is going through it, pete is very very cute, allusions to pet play (kink), pete is a puppy (fluff)
Vegas shows up to pet some therapy dogs and finds Pete instead:
ATTACHED ART BY @kiiyuq !!!
read below or read on ao3
🐶🐶🐶
Vegas loves dogs. Always has.
Growing up he always wanted one of his own, a puppy that was his. One that could sleep in his bed next to him, that he could take on walks, that he could feed and cuddle. A dog that would love him no matter what. A dog that would always love him.
His father refused, said animals were for vagrants and common folk, that people like them in upper society don’t have dogs. They don’t have pets.
His father also had a lot of opinions on propper animals, instructing him to take care of some hedgehogs as he was younger only to berate and scold Vegas when they died off one by one.
His father had opinions on a lot of things, really.
Like that Vegas isn’t living up to expectations, isn’t following the path set for him, isn’t bringing honor to the family. It doesn’t matter that Vegas is unfathomably intelligent, managing a double major in record time with near perfect grades. It doesn’t matter that he has done every single thing his father has asked of him, the fact that he still has the audacity to pursue something like an English degree is unforgivable.
Vegas is on his own now, after all of that. Working part time to supplement his income — as his father refuses to pay for a single textbook — and works twice as hard to finish his degree.
He didn’t even really pay attention to the fact that he was stressed, or depressed, or anxious. All of those things are a baseline for him. Why would he point out that he feels hopeless and worthless and broken? That’s just who he is.
Apparently, though, normal people don’t feel those things. And all of this is perfectly normal, that it’s just brain chemistry, that lots of people face these problems, which Vegas finds ridiculously contradictory according to the previous point that normal people aren’t feeling miserable from the moment they wake up to the moment they go to sleep.
At least, these are things the college therapist explained to him, gently, as if Vegas might crawl over the desk and strangle them with his bare hands.
It crossed his mind, at least.
Vegas would rather gouge out his own eyes than submit to the mortifying ordeal of being perceived, of being forced to talk about things that upset him, to talk about his feelings. Even though it was nice to have a space with someone who actually listened to him, and who he felt didn’t look down on him or want to use him for something. Someone who wasn’t constantly comparing him to his cousin.
Still, his sessions haven’t been as productive for his overall mood as the therapist would have liked, so now Vegas is given a new task.
Visit the campus therapy dogs.
Apparently, once a week, a mental health organization comes on campus with trained service dogs, designed to help people with depression and anxiety and other mood disorders. That they can help bring joy and help relieve stress. Vegas thinks this is a weird concept but he isn’t going to complain, not when he can picture a gray Pitbull with wide eyes, head in his lap. Or maybe a black lab, fur soft under his fingers and tail thumping against the ground as Vegas scratches its head.
It’s just a fact that Vegas loves dogs, so what does he have to lose?
He writes down the date and time on a paper and takes it with him, noting that the soonest is a few days from today. He at least will be able to move through the mountain of homework he has, call Macau, go to the store and meal prep, do laundry, and perhaps finish reading his book.
Just a usual days list of tasks.
Vegas tries to forget about it, not wanting to waste all of his time and energy on something still so far away, but he fails. Once the idea has been placed in his mind he can’t stop thinking about it. He wonders what it would be like to actually gain a service animal. Is that allowed? To have with him, always.
It doesn’t matter anymore that his father wouldn’t allow it, the school campus refuses and his off campus housing also prohibits pets. But service animals are an exception to that rule, right?
The days pass slow and fast, all at once and not at all. But finally the day comes and Vegas feels a flutter of excitement in his stomach. He shouldn’t be this nervous, or have this much anticipation. It’s just a normal thing.
But the thing is, it’s not.
Because when he gets to the room that the event is supposed to take place, when he opens the door expecting to find the dogs, all he sees is a cute boy with a collar and dog ears, in an oversized sweater, staring back at him.
The room is almost set up with a large cage along the wall — fully stocked with comfortable looking pillows and blankets — some toys surrounding the cage, and a few extra large dog beds in the middle.
Vegas blinks, sure he is just hallucinating, but no, it seems to be not a delusion caused from undue stress and lack of sleep, but in fact, an actual guy dressed like a dog surrounded by dog toys.
“I’m sorry,” Vegas says slowly. “I must have gotten the wrong room.”
He didn’t. He knows he didn’t. He double and triple checked it.
The guy smiles and Vegas is first and foremost almost knocked over by his dimples. Dimples.
“Are you Vegas?”
Vegas nods, a little taken aback that the guy knows his name. Vegas takes the opportunity to examine him, noting that the cuffs of his sweater are extra long, over his fingers that he has curled at the ends. The sweater looks soft, a material that invites touch. It’s big on him, slipping off one shoulder to expose a collarbone and Vegas feels very overwhelmed in a lot of reasons.
“I’m Pete,” he explains. “I’m going to be your therapy dog for today.”
“My… what?”
Pete just smiles up at him and something about the warm brown of his eyes and the way his dimples dip into his cheeks has Vegas’s skin flushing. This has to be some type of joke.
“Did my therapist put you up to this? Is this a prank?”
“No, absolutely not.” Pete brings one hand up to adjust the puppy ears on his head before dropping them in his lap. “I help out with the other dogs, train them and volunteer when they are here. But there are times they can’t make it and usually don’t schedule themselves to come if there’s only one or two people signed up. So that’s where I come in.”
Vegas shifts on his feet and thinks about where to shove his hands; on his hips? Clasped behind his back? In his pockets? Crossing his arms? Why don’t people think about this? Is he over thinking this?
Pete makes a soft nose and Vegas snaps back to attention on him, trying to ignore the blush on his cheeks. “You can start by taking off your shoes, if that makes you more comfortable.”
Vegas wants to snap that nothing would make him more comfortable, but he leans down to pull off his shoes anyway. He’s grateful he’s wearing his normal black socks today, and not any of the embarrassing ones that he only gets away with when he’s wearing boots.
He really should leave.
This is really fucking weird.
“Who are you?” Vegas asks instead.
“I’m a biology major, but I also participate in a lot of the drama productions. I just like being a puppy sometimes, and find a lot of people need more hugs than they think they do.” Pete doesn’t move closer to Vegas but the longer he is standing with Pete sitting the more uncomfortable he gets.
He’s in jeans though, and a blouse that is extremely wrinkleable. He also has no idea what he is allowed to do or supposed to do.
“Come a little closer to me,” Pete suggests softly.
Vegas wonders how often he does this. Wonders who else has seen Pete like this in a sweater and black athletic shorts and fluffy socks, smiling at him like he is the best thing he’s seen all day.
Vegas knows for a fact that can’t be true. He is usually the worst part of someone’s day.
But he pads forward anyway, socks quiet on the rug, feeling his stomach flip as Pete looks up at him with an unfairly soft expression.
Vegas can’t remember the last time he was hugged by someone, and he really can’t ever remember a time that someone looked at him like that. People don’t look at him like that. Vegas is the asshole, the jerk, the black sheep. No one ever wants to be with just him, without the Theerapanyakul name or the money.
He gets in close enough that he is standing almost directly above Pete, and he is irritatingly, even cuter up close.
“I won’t bite,” Pete laughs softly. “I’m here to do whatever is most comfortable for you.”
“I’m very, deeply, extremely uncomfortable.”
“I can see that.” Pete slides his thumb along the ridges of his knuckles, still covered by the cuffs of his sweater. “Do you want to maybe sit down and I can put my head in your lap? Some people like that. Or I can start by a simple hug?”
Vegas tenses. He doesn’t mean to, but he hasn’t been held in so long that the idea scares him. What if he’s a bad hugger? What if Pete thinks he is weird? What if he makes Pete uncomfortable and he fucks this up too?
He sits anyway. This is all about trying new things, after all. He looks over at Pete who hasn’t moved, clearly waiting for Vegas to tell him what is okay to do.
Vegas looks down at his hands in his lap and twirls the ornate family ring around his finger a few times. Pete’s hair does look really soft, and the idea of Pete laying with his head in his lap is… nice.
“The first one,” Vegas mumbles, scared to admit it. This is weird, right? This is weird. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t be this nervous or out of sorts with physical contact with someone. If this goes poorly he never has to come back, so there’s nothing stopping him from allowing something silly.
Pete must be used to this because he nods and shifts around, dropping down on his back and gently rests his head against Vegas’s thigh.
Vegas would prefer to kill everyone he could before admitting it, but the moment Pete rests the weight of his head on his thigh, he feels better. He is warm, but solid. Something tangible and real.
“Can—” Vegas starts but wrenches his jaw shut. He is already embarrassing himself enough, he doesn’t need to do more.
Pete, though, once again seems to understand. He turns his head just slightly so that he is looking up at Vegas and smiles that disarming smile again. “You’re allowed to touch me. That’s kind of the whole point.”
Vegas swallows back the thought of doing more than just touching, that Pete shouldn’t say such things because now Vegas is thinking about a host of inappropriate scenarios. He shakes it off and lifts one hand and hesitantly places it on Pete’s chest.
The swear is as soft as it looks and Vegas can’t help but slide his hand down to feel the texture. Pete is warm. So warm, and so firm. Firm in the way a body holds weight, that it exists and takes up space and is real. But he also feels soft.
He looks fit and trim, but Vegas can feel that he has this softness to himself that wraps him in a layer of comfort. Pete releases a small breathy sigh and curls closer into Vegas.
His heart jumps into his throat and Vegas wants to never let him go. He can’t help it, really, not with how attached he is already. Slowly he lifts his other hand to Pete’s forehead and brushes some of the bangs off his face and Vegas is dismayed to find out that his hair is just as soft as he thought it would be.
He wonders what else Pete does, if Pete enjoys playing puppy full time. That if this is just some silly joke for him or if he would look at Vegas with wide dark eyes if Vegas called him puppy.
He wants to know, but doesn’t.
He wonders what it would be like to hold Pete in other ways, to lay his head on his tummy and hide his face and maybe Pete could tell him softly that he is good. That he is doing a good job.
Vegas aches with it.
He feels tongue tied and out of sorts, feels like he wants more more more more more. More.
Pete makes another sound as Vegas combs his fingers through his hair again and Vegas wants to try something out.
“Pretty puppy,” Vegas says softly, scratching behind Pete’s ears, careful not to dislodge the actual puppy ears Pete is wearing. Vegas isn’t really sure what he was expecting but it is not Pete emitting a breathy moan.
Vegas freezes as Pete flushes but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t try to deny what happened, or play it off as something else.
“Does my puppy like that?” Vegas does it again, this time massaging his fingers into the nape of Pete’s neck and the back of his head. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?”
Vegas is only marginally prepared for Pete’s moan this time, and when he continues to apply pressure against Pete’s skin, Pete makes another desperate sound.
He has a feeling that this is not included in the standard service, that whatever Pete does with other people, it’s not this. Vegas feels a little insane, frankly, and isn’t sure how to possibly address this feeling. He wants to make Pete moan again, and again, and again. Make him moan as he becomes — and stays — desperate for him. He also realizes all in a rush that he is half hard, quickly in danger of becoming fully hard.
“I don’t normally do this,” Pete says softly, shifting to look up at Vegas. “And even though this is free and not anything paid, I need you to know that I don’t… I’m not inappropriate with people.”
Vegas suddenly feels like shit. Of course he doesn’t do this, and Vegas is being absolutely pathetic by getting hard with the smallest amount of physical contact. He thinks he should apologize, but the words are stuck in his throat.
“But,” Pete says again, soft enough that Vegas has to strain to hear him. “What I do on my own time…”
This is a dream, surely. Things like this don’t happen to Vegas. He doesn’t randomly meet cute boys with dimples that moan when he calls them puppy, who make his heart flutter in his chest with what feels like genuine joy. This is just too good to be true.
Vegas must not have said anything or reacted in time because Pete suddenly looks anxious, not fully pulling away but trying to create a little bit of distance.
“I’m so sorry, oh my god. I think I missed read the situation. This is really inappropriate and weird and awful. I am really so sorry.”
Vegas thinks about cutting him off but he is distracted by what is clearly present signs of arousal through the crotch of Pete’s pants. Looks like Vegas isn’t the only one feeling things after all.
“Easy puppy,” Vegas chides, allowing the urge to rise up in him and fall out. He wants to take care of Pete so bad. In so many ways. “I didn’t say no, now did I?”
Pete shakes his head, but doesn’t respond.
“I’ve always wanted a dog, you know,” Vegas hums thoughtfully. “But I guess a puppy like you is just as good. Better, even.”
Vegas is overcome with the need to feed him, to crawl into his bed at his apartment and pull Pete in his arms and wrap all of his limbs around him.
Pete just watches him, silent and waiting.
“So what do you say puppy, do you want to come home with me?”
Pete smiles, and it cuts through Vegas’s heart in a way he knows he will never be the same again. “Yeah. Yeah I’d love that.”
###
Vegas discovers many things that night. One, that Pete is a phenomenal cuddler. Two, he really, really loves being called puppy. Three, he is incredibly eager to eat food out of Vegas’s hand. Four, his tummy is as soft as expected. Five, he is profoundly easy to talk to.
And six, that Pete cuddles just as well without clothes than he does with them.
And seven, when he wakes up in Vegas’s arms in the mornings, Vegas thinks that he might finally be able to be happy.
Tags: Fluff, Professional Cuddling AU, Cuddling & Snuggling, therapy dogs, mentions of anxiety and depression, Vegas is going through it, pete is very very cute, allusions to pet play (kink), pete is a puppy (fluff)
Vegas shows up to pet some therapy dogs and finds Pete instead:
ATTACHED ART BY @kiiyuq !!!
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Vegas loves dogs. Always has.
Growing up he always wanted one of his own, a puppy that was his. One that could sleep in his bed next to him, that he could take on walks, that he could feed and cuddle. A dog that would love him no matter what. A dog that would always love him.
His father refused, said animals were for vagrants and common folk, that people like them in upper society don’t have dogs. They don’t have pets.
His father also had a lot of opinions on propper animals, instructing him to take care of some hedgehogs as he was younger only to berate and scold Vegas when they died off one by one.
His father had opinions on a lot of things, really.
Like that Vegas isn’t living up to expectations, isn’t following the path set for him, isn’t bringing honor to the family. It doesn’t matter that Vegas is unfathomably intelligent, managing a double major in record time with near perfect grades. It doesn’t matter that he has done every single thing his father has asked of him, the fact that he still has the audacity to pursue something like an English degree is unforgivable.
Vegas is on his own now, after all of that. Working part time to supplement his income — as his father refuses to pay for a single textbook — and works twice as hard to finish his degree.
He didn’t even really pay attention to the fact that he was stressed, or depressed, or anxious. All of those things are a baseline for him. Why would he point out that he feels hopeless and worthless and broken? That’s just who he is.
Apparently, though, normal people don’t feel those things. And all of this is perfectly normal, that it’s just brain chemistry, that lots of people face these problems, which Vegas finds ridiculously contradictory according to the previous point that normal people aren’t feeling miserable from the moment they wake up to the moment they go to sleep.
At least, these are things the college therapist explained to him, gently, as if Vegas might crawl over the desk and strangle them with his bare hands.
It crossed his mind, at least.
Vegas would rather gouge out his own eyes than submit to the mortifying ordeal of being perceived, of being forced to talk about things that upset him, to talk about his feelings. Even though it was nice to have a space with someone who actually listened to him, and who he felt didn’t look down on him or want to use him for something. Someone who wasn’t constantly comparing him to his cousin.
Still, his sessions haven’t been as productive for his overall mood as the therapist would have liked, so now Vegas is given a new task.
Visit the campus therapy dogs.
Apparently, once a week, a mental health organization comes on campus with trained service dogs, designed to help people with depression and anxiety and other mood disorders. That they can help bring joy and help relieve stress. Vegas thinks this is a weird concept but he isn’t going to complain, not when he can picture a gray Pitbull with wide eyes, head in his lap. Or maybe a black lab, fur soft under his fingers and tail thumping against the ground as Vegas scratches its head.
It’s just a fact that Vegas loves dogs, so what does he have to lose?
He writes down the date and time on a paper and takes it with him, noting that the soonest is a few days from today. He at least will be able to move through the mountain of homework he has, call Macau, go to the store and meal prep, do laundry, and perhaps finish reading his book.
Just a usual days list of tasks.
Vegas tries to forget about it, not wanting to waste all of his time and energy on something still so far away, but he fails. Once the idea has been placed in his mind he can’t stop thinking about it. He wonders what it would be like to actually gain a service animal. Is that allowed? To have with him, always.
It doesn’t matter anymore that his father wouldn’t allow it, the school campus refuses and his off campus housing also prohibits pets. But service animals are an exception to that rule, right?
The days pass slow and fast, all at once and not at all. But finally the day comes and Vegas feels a flutter of excitement in his stomach. He shouldn’t be this nervous, or have this much anticipation. It’s just a normal thing.
But the thing is, it’s not.
Because when he gets to the room that the event is supposed to take place, when he opens the door expecting to find the dogs, all he sees is a cute boy with a collar and dog ears, in an oversized sweater, staring back at him.
The room is almost set up with a large cage along the wall — fully stocked with comfortable looking pillows and blankets — some toys surrounding the cage, and a few extra large dog beds in the middle.
Vegas blinks, sure he is just hallucinating, but no, it seems to be not a delusion caused from undue stress and lack of sleep, but in fact, an actual guy dressed like a dog surrounded by dog toys.
“I’m sorry,” Vegas says slowly. “I must have gotten the wrong room.”
He didn’t. He knows he didn’t. He double and triple checked it.
The guy smiles and Vegas is first and foremost almost knocked over by his dimples. Dimples.
“Are you Vegas?”
Vegas nods, a little taken aback that the guy knows his name. Vegas takes the opportunity to examine him, noting that the cuffs of his sweater are extra long, over his fingers that he has curled at the ends. The sweater looks soft, a material that invites touch. It’s big on him, slipping off one shoulder to expose a collarbone and Vegas feels very overwhelmed in a lot of reasons.
“I’m Pete,” he explains. “I’m going to be your therapy dog for today.”
“My… what?”
Pete just smiles up at him and something about the warm brown of his eyes and the way his dimples dip into his cheeks has Vegas’s skin flushing. This has to be some type of joke.
“Did my therapist put you up to this? Is this a prank?”
“No, absolutely not.” Pete brings one hand up to adjust the puppy ears on his head before dropping them in his lap. “I help out with the other dogs, train them and volunteer when they are here. But there are times they can’t make it and usually don’t schedule themselves to come if there’s only one or two people signed up. So that’s where I come in.”
Vegas shifts on his feet and thinks about where to shove his hands; on his hips? Clasped behind his back? In his pockets? Crossing his arms? Why don’t people think about this? Is he over thinking this?
Pete makes a soft nose and Vegas snaps back to attention on him, trying to ignore the blush on his cheeks. “You can start by taking off your shoes, if that makes you more comfortable.”
Vegas wants to snap that nothing would make him more comfortable, but he leans down to pull off his shoes anyway. He’s grateful he’s wearing his normal black socks today, and not any of the embarrassing ones that he only gets away with when he’s wearing boots.
He really should leave.
This is really fucking weird.
“Who are you?” Vegas asks instead.
“I’m a biology major, but I also participate in a lot of the drama productions. I just like being a puppy sometimes, and find a lot of people need more hugs than they think they do.” Pete doesn’t move closer to Vegas but the longer he is standing with Pete sitting the more uncomfortable he gets.
He’s in jeans though, and a blouse that is extremely wrinkleable. He also has no idea what he is allowed to do or supposed to do.
“Come a little closer to me,” Pete suggests softly.
Vegas wonders how often he does this. Wonders who else has seen Pete like this in a sweater and black athletic shorts and fluffy socks, smiling at him like he is the best thing he’s seen all day.
Vegas knows for a fact that can’t be true. He is usually the worst part of someone’s day.
But he pads forward anyway, socks quiet on the rug, feeling his stomach flip as Pete looks up at him with an unfairly soft expression.
Vegas can’t remember the last time he was hugged by someone, and he really can’t ever remember a time that someone looked at him like that. People don’t look at him like that. Vegas is the asshole, the jerk, the black sheep. No one ever wants to be with just him, without the Theerapanyakul name or the money.
He gets in close enough that he is standing almost directly above Pete, and he is irritatingly, even cuter up close.
“I won’t bite,” Pete laughs softly. “I’m here to do whatever is most comfortable for you.”
“I’m very, deeply, extremely uncomfortable.”
“I can see that.” Pete slides his thumb along the ridges of his knuckles, still covered by the cuffs of his sweater. “Do you want to maybe sit down and I can put my head in your lap? Some people like that. Or I can start by a simple hug?”
Vegas tenses. He doesn’t mean to, but he hasn’t been held in so long that the idea scares him. What if he’s a bad hugger? What if Pete thinks he is weird? What if he makes Pete uncomfortable and he fucks this up too?
He sits anyway. This is all about trying new things, after all. He looks over at Pete who hasn’t moved, clearly waiting for Vegas to tell him what is okay to do.
Vegas looks down at his hands in his lap and twirls the ornate family ring around his finger a few times. Pete’s hair does look really soft, and the idea of Pete laying with his head in his lap is… nice.
“The first one,” Vegas mumbles, scared to admit it. This is weird, right? This is weird. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t be this nervous or out of sorts with physical contact with someone. If this goes poorly he never has to come back, so there’s nothing stopping him from allowing something silly.
Pete must be used to this because he nods and shifts around, dropping down on his back and gently rests his head against Vegas’s thigh.
Vegas would prefer to kill everyone he could before admitting it, but the moment Pete rests the weight of his head on his thigh, he feels better. He is warm, but solid. Something tangible and real.
“Can—” Vegas starts but wrenches his jaw shut. He is already embarrassing himself enough, he doesn’t need to do more.
Pete, though, once again seems to understand. He turns his head just slightly so that he is looking up at Vegas and smiles that disarming smile again. “You’re allowed to touch me. That’s kind of the whole point.”
Vegas swallows back the thought of doing more than just touching, that Pete shouldn’t say such things because now Vegas is thinking about a host of inappropriate scenarios. He shakes it off and lifts one hand and hesitantly places it on Pete’s chest.
The swear is as soft as it looks and Vegas can’t help but slide his hand down to feel the texture. Pete is warm. So warm, and so firm. Firm in the way a body holds weight, that it exists and takes up space and is real. But he also feels soft.
He looks fit and trim, but Vegas can feel that he has this softness to himself that wraps him in a layer of comfort. Pete releases a small breathy sigh and curls closer into Vegas.
His heart jumps into his throat and Vegas wants to never let him go. He can’t help it, really, not with how attached he is already. Slowly he lifts his other hand to Pete’s forehead and brushes some of the bangs off his face and Vegas is dismayed to find out that his hair is just as soft as he thought it would be.
He wonders what else Pete does, if Pete enjoys playing puppy full time. That if this is just some silly joke for him or if he would look at Vegas with wide dark eyes if Vegas called him puppy.
He wants to know, but doesn’t.
He wonders what it would be like to hold Pete in other ways, to lay his head on his tummy and hide his face and maybe Pete could tell him softly that he is good. That he is doing a good job.
Vegas aches with it.
He feels tongue tied and out of sorts, feels like he wants more more more more more. More.
Pete makes another sound as Vegas combs his fingers through his hair again and Vegas wants to try something out.
“Pretty puppy,” Vegas says softly, scratching behind Pete’s ears, careful not to dislodge the actual puppy ears Pete is wearing. Vegas isn’t really sure what he was expecting but it is not Pete emitting a breathy moan.
Vegas freezes as Pete flushes but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t try to deny what happened, or play it off as something else.
“Does my puppy like that?” Vegas does it again, this time massaging his fingers into the nape of Pete’s neck and the back of his head. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?”
Vegas is only marginally prepared for Pete’s moan this time, and when he continues to apply pressure against Pete’s skin, Pete makes another desperate sound.
He has a feeling that this is not included in the standard service, that whatever Pete does with other people, it’s not this. Vegas feels a little insane, frankly, and isn’t sure how to possibly address this feeling. He wants to make Pete moan again, and again, and again. Make him moan as he becomes — and stays — desperate for him. He also realizes all in a rush that he is half hard, quickly in danger of becoming fully hard.
“I don’t normally do this,” Pete says softly, shifting to look up at Vegas. “And even though this is free and not anything paid, I need you to know that I don’t… I’m not inappropriate with people.”
Vegas suddenly feels like shit. Of course he doesn’t do this, and Vegas is being absolutely pathetic by getting hard with the smallest amount of physical contact. He thinks he should apologize, but the words are stuck in his throat.
“But,” Pete says again, soft enough that Vegas has to strain to hear him. “What I do on my own time…”
This is a dream, surely. Things like this don’t happen to Vegas. He doesn’t randomly meet cute boys with dimples that moan when he calls them puppy, who make his heart flutter in his chest with what feels like genuine joy. This is just too good to be true.
Vegas must not have said anything or reacted in time because Pete suddenly looks anxious, not fully pulling away but trying to create a little bit of distance.
“I’m so sorry, oh my god. I think I missed read the situation. This is really inappropriate and weird and awful. I am really so sorry.”
Vegas thinks about cutting him off but he is distracted by what is clearly present signs of arousal through the crotch of Pete’s pants. Looks like Vegas isn’t the only one feeling things after all.
“Easy puppy,” Vegas chides, allowing the urge to rise up in him and fall out. He wants to take care of Pete so bad. In so many ways. “I didn’t say no, now did I?”
Pete shakes his head, but doesn’t respond.
“I’ve always wanted a dog, you know,” Vegas hums thoughtfully. “But I guess a puppy like you is just as good. Better, even.”
Vegas is overcome with the need to feed him, to crawl into his bed at his apartment and pull Pete in his arms and wrap all of his limbs around him.
Pete just watches him, silent and waiting.
“So what do you say puppy, do you want to come home with me?”
Pete smiles, and it cuts through Vegas’s heart in a way he knows he will never be the same again. “Yeah. Yeah I’d love that.”
###
Vegas discovers many things that night. One, that Pete is a phenomenal cuddler. Two, he really, really loves being called puppy. Three, he is incredibly eager to eat food out of Vegas’s hand. Four, his tummy is as soft as expected. Five, he is profoundly easy to talk to.
And six, that Pete cuddles just as well without clothes than he does with them.
And seven, when he wakes up in Vegas’s arms in the mornings, Vegas thinks that he might finally be able to be happy.
