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Pete is bored out of his skull .
It’s not like his job is awful. He works at a pet store. He gets to pet the hamsters and coo at the birds all day, and his boss is never around so if he grabs his phone from time to time, no one cares.
But it’s a slow day. There’d been one very annoying child screaming at the poor rats earlier, and a slightly less annoying child who nonetheless had knocked over an entire tower of cat food, and other than that, nothing.
He pets the hamsters, who tolerate it, barely. He coos at the birds, who continue to hate him. He checks his phone, where he has a single spam text telling him his account at a bank he doesn’t use has been frozen. It’s a monotonous cycle, and there isn’t even anyone else in until two, so he’s going to lose his goddamn mind soon.
The bell above the door rings and Pete tries not to look horrifically desperate for human interaction. He straightens up at the counter, slides his phone into his back pocket, and offers the doorway a big customer-service grin. “Hi, welcome in!”
Then he stops, because the man in the doorway is the most beautiful man Pete has ever seen in his entire life. He’s all cheekbones and narrow waist, wine-colored shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, black pants sinfully tight.
Pete is wearing his least ripped jeans and an ugly green apron with a stain in the corner that is probably not bird poop, but might be. Great.
The man smiles at him and it’s all sharp edges and danger and Pete is a professional who does not immediately think of all of the ways this man could be dangerous to Pete. No. Not at all.
“Afternoon,” the man purrs. Purrs . Like he’s some type of gaudy mafia boss on a path of seduction. Pete bites his bottom lip and tries not to drool all over himself but it’s a very near miss.
“A-are you looking for anyone - I mean anything?” Pete’s cheeks flush a color he knows will be a dead giveaway that he is very much gay and very much horny . It’s been a long time since he’s had anything exciting to note.
The man looks around the small shop and Pete takes the chance to let his eyes trail down the open front of his shirt, thinking about how much he wants to sink his teeth right into his nipple.
“Depends on who is asking.” The man takes another step forward and Pete gets a whiff of intoxicating cologne, dark and earthy with a little bit of spice. He inhaled again, slower, trying to ignore the thudding of his heart.
“I am?” Pete’s voice does not squeak at the question, but it nearly does.
The man trails his gaze down from Pete’s messy bangs to the hem of his threadbare jeans and smirks.
“Just looking. But if I see something I like, I might take it home.” He winks and walks past Pete towards the back wall, where the puppies and dog accessories are kept.
Oh Fuck.
Pete tries not to follow him, he really does. Nobody likes to be harassed by the employees when they’re trying to shop. Nobody wants to feel like they’re being watched.
But there’s something magnetic about this man, something that lures Pete in, despite the obvious danger. Pete plants himself firmly in cat food, able to see, but still far enough away for plausible deniability, and starts stacking cans that have already been stacked.
The man is giving a selection of leashes serious consideration. He runs his fingers over one, just basic blue nylon, and then disregards it. He bypasses the retractables entirely.
His hand stops over the most expensive leash, leather at the hand loop and chain all the way down to the end. He’s got nice hands. Long fingers. God, Pete’s so fucking desperate he’s mooning over a stranger’s fingers.
Because the universe hates Pete, and will take any opportunity to take away his dignity, Pete knocks over a stack of cans in that minute. They clatter loudly to the floor, and the man looks up, eyes locking on Pete’s.
Immediately, Pete ducks his head, cheeks red, humiliated to be caught staring. He drops to his knees and gathers up cans as fast as he can, but not so fast that a pair of elegant hands don’t have time to join him.
“Here,” the stranger says, helping Pete stack the cans back on the shelf. He’s holding the chain leash, and Pete really hopes he doesn’t cost the store a sale by being a disaster.
“R-right,” Pete says. “Um. Thanks.” He shoves the rest of the cans onto the shelf, not really caring where they end up. “Did you… did you need help finding anything else?”
The man looks down at him on his knees and smirks, a look that sends danger signals straight to his brain, and unfortunately, his cock.
“How much do you know about leashes?”
This is not the question Pete was anticipating so it takes a few seconds to catch up with his currently lagging brain. While on his knees. At this man’s feet.
“Is there more to know than the fact it’s a leash?” Pete blushes, feeling ridiculous for asking such a question, and he feels even more ridiculous when the man smirks.
“Of course,” he purrs, “there’s the fact of determining if it’s acceptable to use on full grown pets.”
The way he says full grown sends a shiver down Pete’s spine and he’s not sure why. He feels like there is a joke here that he isn’t a part of, that this man is insinuating something that Pete just can’t figure out.
He is good at his job — he’s done this long enough to grasp the hang of it — but he’s never had a devastatingly handsome man quiz him about leashes .
Pete slowly climbs to his feet and flushes when he almost stumbles forward, his fingers clutching tightly on the last can in his hand. “What, like different dog breeds?”
The man’s eyes trail down Pete’s body once more before his eyes darken. “Sure. Something like that.”
He’s getting absolutely nothing helpful from this man, a frustrating experience with any customer, and yet Pete doesn’t care.
Talk to me, he thinks, pay attention to me.
God, he’s desperate. He should have let Porsche take him clubbing when he tried.
Pete leads the way back to the leashes, looking them over. “The one you have in your hands is pretty sturdy,” he notes. “Chain always works well. A little too heavy for a smaller dog, though.”
Again, the man looks at him, slowly, taking all of Pete in. Pete thinks he might stop breathing, just for a second.
“He’s not a small dog,” the man says.
“Th-then you’ll want to skip the retractables,” Pete stammers out, turning his red face back to the wall so he can indicate the ones he means. “A larger breed will snap those. You can’t go wrong with nylon or leather,” he adds, running his fingers over both.
“I do like a bit of leather,” the man purrs. Pete’s not looking at him, he can’t look at him, not when his voice is doing that.
“The one you’re holding is a best seller,” Pete manages to squeak. “Top of the line. Little pricey, though, so if you want something cheaper…”
He picks up a brown leather leash, steadies himself, and turns to hold it out. The man inspects it without touching it, then tugs at the leash stretched between both his hands until the chain rattles.
“This one,” he decides. “For the aesthetic.”
Pete nods and sets the leather back on the shelf. “Right,” he says, somewhat more stable than he’d been a minute ago. Somewhat. “I can check you out over here…”
The man follows him to the counter, leans against it, makes himself comfortable. Pete focuses very, very hard on working the ancient register and the slowly-dying credit card reader. The man’s card labels him as Vegas, and it’s a fitting name.
There’s something bright and intense and intoxicating about him , something that speaks of whiskey and late nights, cigars in secluded corners and whimpering pleas in expensive hotel rooms. He wonders who he is and where he came from, and what types of people he takes home.
“Vegas,” Pete finds himself murmuring, immediately flushing in embarrassment as Vegas laughs .
“Naughty,” he tuts. “Do you have a habit of misbehaving? It’s polite to ask my name first.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Pete stutters and he nearly drops the card as he tries to hand it back to Vegas, who merely grabs Pete’s wrist and gently plucks the card from his trembling fingers before letting go.
“I’m in a good mood, so I’m inclined to forgive you. This time.”
Pete clears his throat, desperately wishing his half boner away and pushing down the imagine of bound hands and spread legs, of fingers around his throat and teeth on his skin. His ears are on fire, his cheeks are on fire, his skin is on fire; he’s never been more aroused in his life and he’s mortified .
He has no idea what to say to that — saying I will do anything if you call me a good boy and if I’m so naughty why don’t you punish me and what are you going to do about that? all seem to be equally terrible decisions — and it would be just his luck to open his mouth and sexually harass the hottest customer he’s ever seen in his life .
Instead he picks up the chain leash and offers it to Vegas. “So, you never did tell me what you were getting this for.”
Vegas takes the chain from Pete’s hands and fixes a dark and sultry look on him. “This? Oh, it’s for bad boys who misbehave.” And with that he gives one last smirk before walking out the front door, leaving Pete an absolute mess behind the counter.
Porsche breezes in at 2:07, because he has never been on time for anything in his life and because he has no idea what sort of crisis Pete has been having while left alone for two hours. He is, in theory, the best of Pete’s coworkers, but Pete still wants to throttle him sometimes.
Pete follows Porsche like a puppy through the aisles as they unpack the shipment that finally arrived, babbling out the whole embarrassing story. He’s heard all of Porsche’s embarrassing romantic mishaps, so it’s only fair. He leaves out the kinkier thoughts he had about Vegas because Porsche doesn’t need to know that much about him, but makes sure to include the rest of the disastrous encounter.
Halfway through the story, Porsche comes to a complete and total stop in Bird Seed. He turns to look at Pete, just staring at him as he wraps up.
“Wow…” Porsche says slowly. He looks at Pete like he’s grown three additional heads.
“I know,” Pete moans. “He was gorgeous and I was a disaster.”
“No,” Porsche says, shaking his head, “I mean, ‘wow, I had no idea you were that oblivious.’”
Pete stares back at him, utterly and completely baffled.
“Pete,” Porsche says, in a very slow voice, like Pete is a particularly small child. “He was hitting on you.”
Pete blinks. “He what now?”
“Sometimes,” Porsche says, “I have no idea what goes on in that head of yours.”
Pete frantically replays the day in his head. No. No. It’s impossible. Nobody that gorgeous flirts with someone as shabbily dressed as Pete. “He was buying stuff for his dog,” he insists.
Porsche raises an eyebrow. “Is his dog 5’10” with a bowl cut?”
Self consciously, Pete tugs at a lock of his hair. It’s not a bowl cut. Or at least, it won’t be when he finishes growing it out.
“He didn’t say what kind of dog it was,” Pete mumbles petulant, a little stung about the teasing jab. Not at Porsche, but at the reminder of how uncomfortably dorky and awkward he is.
“Of course he didn’t,” Porsche rolls his eyes. “I bet you he didn’t even look at anything else, just took the first one he touched.”
Pete tugs at the edge of his cotton t-shirt. “Not the first one he touched.”
“Pete,” Porsche says slowly. “He said you were misbehaving and then said the leash was for bad boys .”
“I—” Pete opens his mouth and shuts it again. He doesn’t have a protest for that, doesn’t have an explanation that isn’t why would someone that hot be interested in someone like me?
Porsche rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot, and I know what you’re thinking. You’re too hard on yourself — I promise you that some guys like that — suave and hot and mysterious — like the flustered and awkward ones. He probably was thinking something weird about training you or some freaky pet play kink.”
Pete is saved from having to respond to this by the chime of the door tinkling and opening to reveal Kinn, Porsche’s latest fling. Although, it’s been more permanent than usual.
Porsche wastes no time in regaling the whole tale to Kinn — leaving out Vegas’s name, thankfully — only to have Kinn fix Pete with an amused look.
“Are you always this dumb?”
Pete throws a can of cat food at him.
It misses, but only barely. Kinn holds his hands up in surrender. “I have work to do,” Pete mutters, turning his back on them in favor of stocking the shelves again.
Not that it’s going to help at all. Kinn can and has stuck around for Porsche’s entire shift before, because their boss doesn’t give a shit as long as no customers are ignored. Sure enough, he gets maybe five minutes of peace while Porsche and Kinn mutter to each other behind him, before they start up again.
“Porsche is right, you know,” Kinn tells him. He leans against the shelf Pete’s stocking, so Pete can’t even properly ignore him. “Some guys are into it. I keep telling you my cousin would be all over you.”
He does, in fact, keep saying that. The problem is what else he keeps saying about his cousin. That he’s insufferable, that Kinn can’t stand him, that they’ve done nothing but fight since they were toddlers. Also, he’s apparently a ‘freak,’ which Kinn has never elaborated on, but could mean anything from ‘likes a little pleasure with his pain’ to ‘collects the heads of porcelain dolls and displays them in his living room.’
“I’m not going out with your weird cousin you hate.”
“I don’t hate him,” Kinn objects, even though the exact words ‘I hate my cousin’ have left his lips multiple times. “He’s family. I just… like it better when there’s less of him. But you’d probably like him. Guys like you always do.”
“Guys like me?” Pete questions, but when he turns his gaze on Kinn he appears to have realized he’s put his foot in his mouth, and he doesn’t clarify.
“Anyway,” Porsche interrupts hastily, “you need to get out more. If you got laid once in a while, you wouldn’t have to worry about embarrassing yourself in front of hot customers.”
“Thanks for just stating that outright,” Pete says sarcastically. “Makes me feel really great about myself.”
“I’m just saying…”
“No blind dates,” Pete says firmly. “No horrible cousins. No hot leash customers. If you really want to help me, you’ll feed the birds.”
“The canaries always try to peck me,” Porsche complains.
“The birds hate everyone equally, you’re not special. Shoo.”
Thankfully, blessedly, they leave him alone after that. It’s a peaceful shift for the rest of the afternoon.
It’s not so peaceful two days later , when Pete is once again alone on shift suffering through an ungodly slow day.
He has his phone out and is reading a nonfiction book about the sex lives of animals — it started as a joke but then he read about the fact that female lobsters pee in the males faces for seduction purposes — so now he’s invested and all he can think about is—
The door opens.
And Vegas Theerapanyakul walks in the door. Today he is wearing a vibrant red silk shirt tucked into sinfully tight black jeans, and his heeled boots click against the tile as he saunters over.
“Hi,” Pete says breathlessly, hastily locking his phone and shoving it in his pocket.
“How’s my misbehaving bad boy today?”
“Good?” Pete squeaks. Chokes, almost. His conversation with Kinn and Porsche bounces around in his head on repeat and he can’t stop hearing he was hitting on you.
“ Really?” Vegas fixes Pete with a sharp look. “You’re telling me that you’ve been a good boy ?”
Pete whimpers. He can’t help it. The sound falls from his mouth as a base instinct reaction and he throws his hand over his mouth in horror.
Vegas, the bastard, just laughs. “That’s what I thought.”
Pete wants to die on the spot . He wants to quit his job and change his name and move to Iceland. Or something. He must have a horrific look on his face because Vegas takes pity on him and changes the subject.
“I’m back because I need a dog crate. Large, sturdy, somewhat oversized and can be fitted for some extra comfort.”
“We won’t—”
“Have anything in stock? I know.” Vegas saunters over to the counter and leans forward, placing his elbows on the counter giving Pete an obscene look down his shirt. He wants to lick every inch of Vegas. Desperately. “We can order something, I’m patient. And price isn’t an issue, obviously.”
Obviously. Vegas walked out of one of Pete’s trashier romance novels, clearly, the ones he swears up and down he doesn’t read but downloads to his phone when no one is looking. He’s hot, he’s rich, he might be kinky (Pete is still not ruling out the possibility that Vegas has some sort of Great Dane, and just also likes making innuendos), he is the total package and Pete can barely get his tongue to work right around him.
They have a computer behind the counter. It both looks and runs like something Pete would have used in middle school. The fact that it isn’t running Windows Vista is, frankly, a miracle. But it gets the job done when it comes to ordering, and the catalog has pictures. Pete tries to turn the monitor towards Vegas, but there’s a lot of stuff in the way, various knick knacks and treats on sale at the counter.
“It’s alright,” Vegas tells him. “I’ll come to you.”
Technically speaking, customers are not allowed behind the counter. For security purposes. And technically speaking, if Vegas steps too close to Pete, Pete might literally explode.
But he says absolutely nothing as Vegas circles the counter, a tiger on the prowl. He crowds right into Pete’s space, leaning around his shoulder to look at the computer. They aren’t touching, not quite, but Pete can feel the heat of him all down his back.
“Not that one,” Vegas murmurs, his voice low and soft against Pete’s ear. Pete scrolls down. “Not that one either.”
There aren’t exactly dozens of options for dog crates, but Vegas makes him scroll through each and every option twice before he’s satisfied.
“There we go,” he murmurs. His hand covers Pete’s on the mouse, freezing him in place. “That looks like we could make it comfy, doesn’t it?”
Pete could not describe the crate if he tried. He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking at. Everything has narrowed down to Vegas’s skin against his own.
He’s vaguely aware of Vegas using his grip on Pete’s hand to click a few buttons, of both his arms wrapping around Pete to type in his information on the order form. They touch in only a few scant places, but Pete feels every one like fire against his skin.
“All set,” Vegas says, and then he steps back, which is quite possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to Pete. He makes a noise, unable to contain it, a soft, breathy little not-quite-whine. It dies before it gets too loud, thankfully, but he hears a chuckle behind him and he thinks Vegas might have noticed it anyway.
His mouth is dry, his palms are sweaty, and if he turns away from the counter Vegas is going to see that he’s hard. So Pete keeps facing forward, body stiff, as Vegas circles the counter again and leans forward once more.
“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks. Pete nods, not trusting himself to make anything resembling actual words. “Late?” Pete shakes his head. Vegas grins at him. “When do you get off?”
Now? Please? Right now? Pete swallows and forces himself to settle down. “F-four,” he manages to stammer out.
“I’ll be in at three thirty,” Vegas tells him. “I need your help with something.”
Pete nods. What else can he do? He watches Vegas leave with no small amount of yearning.
He’s still staring helplessly at the door when Porsche comes in.
Pete refuses to admit to Porsche what happened — no matter how many pointed and suggestive looks Porsche gives him — and he also refuses to move from behind the counter for a solid ten minutes.
For reasons.
The rest of his shift drags , and it might honestly be the worst job he has ever done.
That looks like we could make it comfy , Vegas said. We .
Pete shivers again, overwhelmed by the remnants of Vegas’s earthy cologne lingering on his skin, the heat of his chest behind him, the husk of his voice as he murmured in Pete’s ear.
Pete might not be very experienced sexually but he knows what he likes and he also knows the very deep dark secret desires he would die before admitting to anyone. That looks like we could make it comfy, Vegas said, and Pete can’t stop thinking about Vegas making it comfy for Pete . With soft blankets and pillows. A collar around his throat… attached to the chain leash Vegas bought the first time.
Good boy .
Pete is going to lose his goddamn fucking mind . He can’t stop thinking about getting on his knees for Vegas, anything to get him to pet his hair and call him a good boy again.
By the time Pete gets home he feels like he is about to explode and he climbs straight into the coldest shower of his life. It doesn’t stop the inevitable swirl of come wash down the drain and the trembling in his legs that has nothing to do with the freezing water.
He dreams of Vegas, and collars and leashes and dog crates.
—-
The next day is the slowest shift of his life . There is not a single thing engaging enough to distract him from the slow tick of the seconds passing, the agonizing minutes crawling by.
“I’ll be in at three-thirty, I need your help with something .”
Pete swears his watch must be broken, that there’s not a single possibility that time is moving at this infinitesimal rate. Finally, agonizingly, it’s three-fifteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-three. Twenty-five.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
And then the door opens, and in walks Vegas.
Pete tries to smile and act like he wasn’t just counting each second of the last three minutes.
“Hi,” he flushes. There is no one in the shop, it is just the two of them.
Vegas strides over to the counter and leans in, his gaze dropping down to Pete’s lips before flicking back up to his eyes. “How’s my good boy today?”
The noise Pete makes is halfway between a whine and a whimper, half moan and half groan. He isn’t even sure what to call it, a primal sort of reaction that has all the blood rushing straight to his cock.
Pete searches for a response that is appropriate but comes up blank, and instead he stretches his hands out on the counter until his fingertips brush the delicate silk of Vegas’s shirt, the smallest piece next to his forearm.
Close enough to Vegas’s elegant hands.
And then he looks at Vegas’s hands and his brain boots back up from the fuck me fuck me fuck me chant to the oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck spiral of panic.
“That’s a collar,” Pete says, quite unhelpfully.
Vegas raises his hand and grabs Pete’s wrist, flipping his hand over on the counter and placing the collar in his palm. He doesn’t pull away though, so Pete’s hand, palm up, with the collar in the center, is weirdly sandwiched between Vegas’s hands. One on top and one underneath.
Warm .
“Do you like it?” Vegas asks, and oh that is a tone of voice that Pete is going to have horny dreams about for months .
The leather is buttery soft, supple and smooth, clearly custom made. It’s the perfect thickness for flexibility while keeping support, and the width is perfect , not too large or too small. Pete strokes his thumb along the outer seams and he can’t even fathom at the cost of something like this. It almost seems a shame to put this on a dog.
“It’s beautiful,” Pete says, his eyes fixed on the counter. He swallows, and looks back up, resolutely ignoring the urge to ask Vegas about the collar, and where he got it, and if it really would fit around his neck as well as he thinks it would. “You’re such a good owner, to invest in something like this.”
“It’s worth it,” Vegas says softly, his eyes dark and intense, “for the right pet.”
Pete feels ridiculous at the hot flash of jealousy that spreads through him. He is not jealous over a dog , not jealous over the fact that Vegas is giving all of his money and attention to his pet . Pete looks down at the collar in his hands and swallows again, tracing his finger along the beautiful o-ring in the center.
“It’s kind of funny that this is almost the perfect size to fit me,” Pete says before he can stop himself, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “You must have a very large dog.”
Vegas makes a pained noise that is almost a laugh but not quite, his lips twitching at the corners. He looks close to saying something and Pete has a strange impulse that he doesn’t want to hear whatever it is.
“So,” Pete hastily clears his throat, trying to ignore the way his cheeks are burning and the rush of embarrassment flooding his body. “You said you were here for me, what is it that you need my help with?”
A little furrow appears between Vegas’s brows and it’s the first time he’s appeared anything other than cool and collected. It smooths out quickly, though, before Pete can panic about somehow upsetting him.
Vegas taps the thick O-ring at the front of the collar. “I need a tag,” he says. “I heard you do engravings?”
“Oh!” Pete says. “Right. Of course.” The engraving machine is the newest thing in the place, the only piece of equipment that works perfectly and efficiently. It sits next to a small display of metal tags, which he leads Vegas to.
Vegas looks them all over, and then looks at Pete. “You choose,” he suggests. Pete feels a knot of confusion twist in his gut. It feels like a test. Like something he can get wrong.
“You’ve never told me what your dog is like,” Pete says. Porsche insists there isn’t a dog at all, but here they are, at the engraving machine, Pete’s hands still wrapped tightly around the collar. He knows he will have to hand it back to Vegas at some point, but he desperately wants to keep holding it for as long as he can get away with it.
Vegas laughs and shakes his head. He looks up at the ceiling for a long moment, during which Pete feels adrift and a bit lost, and then finally sets his eyes back on Pete’s face. “Sweet,” he says. “Adorable. A bit oblivious.”
That helps Pete in absolutely no way whatsoever. He frowns, turning to rifle through the charms. There are dozens, all different sizes and shapes, but in the end he chooses something simple to compliment the collar: a large silver circle.
“Here,” he says. “You put it in the machine—yeah, right there, and then you can type in—“
Vegas doesn’t actually need his instructions, apparently. He inserts the charm into the little slot and taps the touch screen a few times.
And then Pete watches, uncomprehending, as Vegas types in Pete’s own name. One very pointed letter at a time.
Pete looks at Vegas. Vegas looks at Pete. Vegas raises an eyebrow, a challenge, and when Pete fails to say anything at all—because he’s going to choke on his own saliva if he tries to speak at this point—he taps enter. The machine whirs to life with a droning hum as it begins to etch Pete’s name onto Vegas’s dog tag.
Oh.
Oh.
Porsche is going to laugh at him for the next decade.
“You…” Pete squeaks. “I…” There are no words.
“Do you want it?” Vegas asks, nodding at the collar. “I thought you were hard to read, at first, until you responded very well to my naughty boy comment. But then you asked me what the leash was for and I thought, he can’t really be that oblivious, can he? That I was flirting? So I had to come back of course, but then you still weren’t getting it. I thought for a second you might not be interested in me after all but then I realized you just weren’t picking up on any of my hints .”
His many, many hints. His retroactively very obvious hints.
“If you don’t want it—“ Vegas says reluctantly, reaching for the collar. Pete yanks it up against his chest possessively, out of reach.
“Mine,” he says, a bit stupidly. A bit too forward. But Vegas offered it to him, Vegas said he could have it, and Pete wants. He aches, all the way down to his bones. Vegas’s answering smile is like a bonfire, the way it warms Pete all the way through.
This is, of course, the day that Porsche decides to be on time for work for the very first time ever. He comes through the door, Kinn in tow, and stops short, looking between Pete and Vegas.
“Why do I feel like I’m interrupting something?” He asks. Kinn sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose.
“Vegas,” he says stiffly.
“Cousin,” Vegas replies. Pete’s brain screeches to a halt.
“ What are you doing?”
“Following up on your suggestion,” Vegas says. “Or is this not the ‘awkward pet shop boy’ you’ve been trying to get me to meet?”
“Oh my god you’re the freaky cousin,” Pete mutters, before his mouth catches up to his brain. Vegas raises an eyebrow, but he thankfully looks more amused than insulted.
Behind Pete, the machine spits out the finished tag. Pete’s eyes go very wide and he frantically attempts to snatch it and hide it at the same time Vegas reaches for it. He ends up accidentally smacking it out of Vegas’s hand, and it skids across the floor to rest at Porsche’s feet.
Porsche looks down. He looks back up. The ground, unfortunately, does not open up to swallow Pete whole.
“You know what?” Porsche says, “I’ve decided I don’t wanna know.”
Pete is grateful for three fucking seconds until Kinn squats down — flashing Pete all of his goddamn muscular tits that apparently runs in the family and these cousins inability to button their shirts — and picks up the tag.
“Vegas,” Kinn says a little pointed. “We talked about—”
“My freaky little sex obsessions?” Vegas looks back over at Pete and his eyes linger on the divot of Pete’s throat — the exact spot the black collar would be resting if it was around his throat — before looking back at Kinn.
Kinn winces. Pete is frankly sympathetic, because it seems Vegas is the only one in this store not mortified.
“You’ve had that collar for years,” Kinn says with a trace of bitterness that confuses Pete. “I thought you gave that—”
“Did you really think I would spend this much money on Tawan? ” Vegas chuckles, low and dark. “I only said that to piss you off.”
“You said you ordered it for someone special and—”
Vegas shifts his weight onto one leg and tilts his head, a strange look on his face. “Pete is special.”
“So what, you thought it was a good idea to engrave a dog tag with Pete’s name on it when you haven’t even gone out on a date yet?”
Pete opens his mouth to protest that it’s probably the most romantic thing anyone has done for him and easily the best way he’s ever been aggressively asked out but changes his mind. Vegas can handle this very mortifying interaction.
“The only thing that matters,” Vegas says slowly , and condescending enough that Pete winces, “is if Pete likes it.” Vegas reaches across the counter and scratches under Pete’s chin and he wants to die but also does not want Vegas to stop.
Vegas smirks and murmurs a good boy and Pete swears he is ascending to another plane of existence.
“And frankly, Pete seems to be happy with it,” Vegas continues, withdrawing his hand to Pete’s devastation. “So I don’t see the issue?”
“The issue—” Kinn starts but stops when Porsche grabs his arm.
“Please,” Porsche begs, “for the love of god, shut up. I do not want to hear a single word out of either one of your mouths. I do not want to ever hear about this again, I do not want anyone to bring this up in the future. Do you understand me?”
Vegas just laughs. “Fine by me. I was just heading out anyway.”
Vegas steps away from the counter and Pete feels a rush of cold shame — he’s just going to leave after this? — and watches Vegas get halfway to the door. He stops, sighs heavily and throws his head back. He turns around and there is exasperation and amusement all over his face.
“Puppy,” Vegas says pointedly, “are you coming home with me or not?”
Porsche groans, loud and long, but Pete doesn’t care. He has completely lost the ability to care about anything other than the collar in his hands and the man halfway across the room. He doesn’t even care that there are seven more minutes left in his shift.
Pete’s pretty sure he rips his terrible apron in his attempt to get it off, flinging it down on the counter and hurrying to follow. Vegas draws him in with an arm around him, palm pressed warm and firm against Pete’s lower back as he guides him out.
Vegas has a motorcycle, because of course he does, he has walked directly out of all of Pete’s most mortifying fantasies. Pete has to let the collar go to ride it, and he’s only a little sad as Vegas tucks it into his bag.
It’s not a long ride, but Pete practically vibrates the whole way there. He can’t entirely believe that he’s doing this, that this is happening.
Vegas’s apartment is just like the man himself, a beautiful, expensively decorated place that Pete barely even sees before he’s being herded along to the bedroom.
Possibly, they should have gone on an actual date. Gotten to know each other. Shared stories. But Vegas has been throwing sexually charged innuendos at him all week and Pete is just a man, he’s not some sort of god who can resist all that flirting.
Vegas’s bed is huge, with navy sheets and more pillows than are strictly necessary. The leash lays across the foot of it, like Vegas was entirely confident in his ability to get Pete to come home with him.
“It’s a shame the crate isn’t here yet,” Vegas says, shutting the door behind Pete. Locking it. Pete shivers. “But it’s alright. We’ll have plenty of time to break it in later, won’t we, puppy?”
Is Vegas going to keep calling him that? God, Pete hopes so. It’s not a pet name he’s ever considered before but it makes heat coil in his belly and a flush stain his cheeks.
“Speak,” Vegas instructs, stern and sharp, and Pete realizes he was expecting an actual answer.
“Yeah,” he says, swallowing his nerves down. “Yes, absolutely.”
As if he would be satisfied only having this once.
“Good boy,” Vegas praises, and then he pulls the collar out and Pete’s whole world tilts, angles towards Vegas and might never tilt back again. Vegas takes his time clipping the tag onto the collar, the tag with Pete’s name, and he must know what it’s doing to Pete. He must know that Pete can barely breathe as he watches him, that there’s only so long he can stand to be patient before he bursts.
“Come here,” Vegas murmurs, reaching out to snag Pete’s wrist and pull him close. “Chin up. Let me see that pretty neck.”
Pete stumbles, right into Vegas’s arms and orbit, his entire universe shattering into cosmic dust, sinking back into a gravitational pull with Vegas at the direct center. Pete stands still as Vegas moves in closer, one hand wrapping around his throat and the other settling on his hip.
His heart stutters in his chest and he swallows, his hands flexing at his sides. He is suddenly nervous, unsure of what to do or where to look, Vegas so overwhelming and intoxicating he feels quite possibly like drowning.
Vegas’s touch is molten lava, scorching Pete to ashes and dust, withering away one layer at a time. His hands caress Pete’s throat and his thumb presses up into the underside of his jaw, pushing his head up.
“Obedient, aren’t you puppy?”
Pete nods. He doesn’t understand where this earth shattering tension is coming from but he aches for Vegas down to the very marrow of his bones.
“Normally I like to trial run things before I take anyone home,” Vegas says softly, wrapping one arm around Pete’s waist and pulling him flush against him. “Do a little kink test, ask a few questions. Make sure some boxes are checked—”
—Pete would rather chew his arm off before stopping and filling out paperwork—
“— but I think you need this as much as I do.” Vegas presses their foreheads together and Pete can’t even breathe, and then Vegas’s lips are on Pete’s and he’s kissing Pete with a hunger that sinks under Pete’s skin and expands, until each beat of his heart matches each sweep of Vegas’s tongue in his mouth.
Holy fuck .
Vegas pulls back, breathless and disheveled, and then he licks a long stripe from Pete’s jaw to his throat.
Pete moans and Vegas bites down into the tender skin of his neck before pulling back and lifting the black collar up to fasten it around Pete’s throat. The soft click of the fastening goes straight to Pete’s cock and he whimpers, desperate and needy.
It’s not too tight around Pete’s throat, nor too heavy, but it’s very, very present. He can feel it, when he breathes, when he shifts. The tag rests in the dip of his collarbones, still a bit chilly, not yet warmed by his skin. There is not going to be a single moment today where Pete forgets it’s there. He thinks he’ll feel it long after it’s gone.
Vegas rubs their noses together, in a move so unexpected and blatantly affectionate that it steals Pete’s breath right from his lungs. Somehow, in all this, he was not expecting tenderness.
And then Vegas pulls back, just a little, to smirk at him. There, there’s the danger Pete saw in him before, erotic and hungry. Vegas snaps his fingers towards his feet and Pete’s body moves before he even gets the command out. Pete’s on his knees, head tilted back, looking up at Vegas, before Vegas finishes wrapping his tongue around the word ‘kneel.’
It visibly startles Vegas, who looks down at Pete in something that might have been awe, had Pete been the impressive type. Vegas cards a hand through Pete’s hair and Pete leans into the touch, already desperate for more.
“Good boy,” Vegas praises. “ Very good puppy.”’
Pete’s warm all over. He wishes he’d thought to dress lighter today. Wishes he was out of his clothes entirely, but Vegas hasn’t told him he could be, and he’s not going to do anything Vegas hasn’t explicitly told him to do.
Belonging, obedience, submission. Pete’s been daydreaming for years, and now everything is right within reach, with a man who looks like he stepped out of a goddamn magazine. He’s going to get this right if it kills him.
Vegas steps around Pete, out of sight for a long minute that makes Pete’s heart race in his chest, and then he’s thankfully back. With the leash, stretched out between his fists, showing off the chain.
Better for a big dog, Pete had told him, and the whole time Vegas had been sizing him up, picking out the perfect tools to use on Pete.
This one, for the aesthetic, Vegas had said, and Pete vehemently agrees that the aesthetic is perfect with the black collar.
Vegas clips the leash to the collar and gives it a sharp tug. It constricts around Pete’s throat, just for a moment, but enough to spark inside of him and make him feel small and overwhelmed in the best way.
“Crawl,” Vegas tells him, and leads the way. There’s no time for shame, not even a second to be embarrassed. The leash tugs the collar tight and Pete follows after him on all fours, happy to go, happy to be led.
Vegas settles on the edge of the huge bed, knees spread wide so Pete can crawl right up in between them. It takes very little prompting for Pete to rise up onto his knees, hands politely in his lap, cheek resting on Vegas’s inner thigh. He nuzzles a little once he’s there, certain he can get away with it, and he’s right. Vegas rewards him with a pleased smile and a hand under his chin, scratching lightly. Pete didn’t know that was going to be a thing for him, but apparently it is.
“For now,” Vegas tells him, “if you ask me to stop, I’ll stop. We can revisit that later, we’ll have time.”
For now, he says. As in, perhaps in the future Pete can beg him to stop and Vegas will keep going. Pete’s lips part around a sound, breathless, high, needy. Vegas slides his thumb into Pete’s open mouth and presses down on his tongue, forcing his jaw wider.
“Pretty,” Vegas notes. “But can you use it?”
Yes. Yes I can, let me show you.
Vegas doesn’t make him wait. He undoes his belt, sets it to the side. Undoes the button on his jeans, slides the zipper down. He isn’t wearing any underwear, couldn’t possibly fit it under those pants, and Pete’s mouth waters around Vegas’s thumb.
“Stick your tongue out,” Vegas says, pulling his hand away. Pete does, eagerly. He can be patient. He can be good.
Vegas’s cock is long and thick, already dark and damp at the tip. He taps the head against Pete’s tongue once, twice, and Pete can taste the bitter salt of him. He moans, can’t help himself, and all Vegas does is grin and wrap his free hand around the back of Pete’s head, guiding him forward.
Pete is daring enough to lick the tip of it and is reprimanded almost immediately, a sharp smack on his cheek and a tut from Vegas.
“Naughty boy,” Vegas says, and Pete feels it down to his very toes.
He can be good. He will be good.
Pete opens his mouth and swallows down hungrily, every inch of him aching to do this right, to do this well . His mouth is just the right size to stretch around Vegas’s cock, just enough pain in the burn of the stretch and extension of his jaw, and Pete loves it.
Vegas keeps his hand in Pete’s hair and his touch is gentle and Pete doesn’t really like that; he wants Vegas to be rough with him, wants Vegas to take what he wants from Pete. Pete wants to be the perfect boy, the perfect pet, the best puppy; he wants to perform so well that Vegas has to keep him.
Vegas must understand — Pete isn’t sure why he is surprised at this point, there has been an unexplainable tension between the two of them — because he twists his fist in Pete’s hair and tugs.
Pete moans, louder, his mouth sliding backwards on Vegas’s cock. He whines in protest and looks up at Vegas with wide eyes, his hands flexing in his lap.
The carpet is plush under his knees and Pete hates that he’s still in jeans; he wants to feel the give of the carpet against his skin. He wants the cool air of the room to settle over his flushed body, wants to be on display for Vegas, to be naked and presented for his owner.
He wants to be on his knees for Vegas, wants to always be on his knees for Vegas, to be at his owners feet in nothing but the collar he gave Pete. He wants to be the perfect pet, the most beautiful and well behaved puppy, wants Vegas to gain nothing but joy and pleasure from him.
He wants to please so desperately his body burns with it.
Pete nuzzles his cheek into the thigh of Vegas’s jeans and whines again and Vegas flexes his legs together in response, pressing his inner thighs against Pete’s shoulders, boxing him in.
“Puppy,” Vegas says fondly, and Pete preens , feeling one more layer of tension unlock in his body.
Things are a bit hazy now, his frame of focus narrowing in to the heat of Vegas’s body and the intoxicating smell of his musk. Vegas tugs on the chain leash and Pete leans in, his mouth open and waiting for Vegas’s cock.
Vegas allows him this freedom and Pete takes it with greed and elation, moving back in to swallow Vegas’s cock once again. The girth of him fills his mouth and pushes back against the back of his throat until he’s choking on it but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop until he’s swallowed around the head, drawing it into the very back of his throat.
His own arousal seems far off and distant, irrelevant to the task at hand, but Pete feels the mess in his boxers already for how much his cock is leaking precome.
“You’re perfect,” Vegas praises, keeping one hand taunt on the chain leash and the other hand in Pete’s hair. “Such an obedient puppy, such a good boy, so eager to please me. Waiting for the right person to see what a good boy you can be, weren’t you? Just waiting to find your owner, waiting for your owner to pick out a collar for you. You were just waiting for someone to take you home, weren’t you? To claim you? To get you on your knees where you belong? Perfect puppy, and you are all mine.”
Everything is an undulating blur of sensation, out of focus and hazy, everything except for Vegas’s cock, his thighs, his smell, his voice. Pete’s entire world, galaxy, universe is Vegas.
His owner .
“You’re mine now, puppy. You belong to me. I’m going to take such good care of you, make sure you are praised and cuddled and trained so well. Is that what you want? To belong to me?”
Pete can’t say anything; his words have long since been stolen from him and his mouth is full. But he wants Vegas to know, needs him to know how much Pete wants this. He hums a little plea around Vegas’s cock, and Vegas hisses and rocks his hips forward, until Pete’s throat opens up and welcomes him.
It sounds like Vegas wants to keep him. He hopes Vegas wants to keep him. Pete can’t imagine what he’ll do if Vegas kicks him out once the collar comes off, if his shifts go back to boring, lonely stretches of time, if he can’t dwell in this safe, hazy space.
And then Vegas shoves his foot forward against Pete’s confined cock and Pete stops thinking anything at all.
“Go ahead,” Vegas tells him, his foot so tight against Pete it’s almost painful. “Be a good puppy.”
There’s nothing to do but arch his back and rock forward, grinding himself against Vegas like an animal, like the helpless pet he is. He’s not going to last. He hasn’t even gotten his cock out, and he’s going to spill all over himself, flood his underwear like a teenager.
Vegas groans and tightens his hand in Pete’s hair, guiding him back and forth just a little faster. “Make me come,” he commands. “Make me come, and then you can.”
Pete doesn’t even need the encouragement. He wants Vegas to come, wants to feel it on his tongue and down his throat, wants to swallow everything Vegas has to give him. His own pleasure is secondary, an afterthought. A nice bonus but entirely unnecessary to how much enjoyment Pete is getting out of this moment together. He works his tongue around the head and down the shaft, swallows thickly. There’s a bit of saliva gathering at the corner of Pete’s mouth, sloppy and a little gross, and he doesn’t even care.
He looks up at Vegas through his eyelashes, vision slightly blurry from the wetness that gathers every time Vegas slides particularly deep. Vegas looks down at him, eyes full of pleasure and amusement and… pride? Pete whimpers, rutting against Vegas’s foot, the edge right within his reach, and Vegas closes his eyes and groans and comes.
That’s all it takes for Pete, the first splash of hot, bitter fluid on the back of his tongue. His own orgasm comes in waves, thick pulses that jumble his thoughts into nothing and make his mind completely blank, empty of everything but Vegas, Vegas, Vegas. Pete swallows, and swallows again, nearly choking himself in his determination to get every drop, and in the end Vegas has to literally drag him off his cock, ignoring Pete’s whine of protest.
“Don’t be greedy,” he chides, with absolutely no heat to it whatsoever. Pete blinks up at him through hazy eyes, tongue between his teeth like he might get more if he only looks pretty enough. Whatever Vegas sees, it makes him laugh. Not a mocking sound, but a soothing one, one that Pete will hear for weeks in his dreams.
“Up,” he says, snapping his fingers.
Pete blinks hazily, uncomprehending of the command. Vegas sighs and stands and tugs the leash, repeating the up with more force this time. Pete stands clumsily, stumbling forward into Vegas’s arms.
“You’ve made a mess of yourself,” Vegas tuts and Pete feels the first curl of shame in his stomach. Vegas however, instead of reprimanding him further, strips off his silk shirt and lifts the hem up to Pete’s cheek.
To Pete’s horror, he uses the silk to wipe up the saliva and come from Pete’s mouth, tilting Pete’s chin up before leaning in and kissing Pete gently. Pete stands there, awkward and unsure, his head stuffed full of cotton and cloth.
But then Vegas’s fingers reach around for the clasp on the collar and Pete whines in protest and distress, yanking himself back from Vegas’s hands.
He doesn’t want Vegas to take off the collar because if he takes off the collar then Pete is no longer puppy , no longer good boy, and what happens if Vegas takes back the collar? Takes the collar away from Pete? What happens if he doesn’t ever put it on Pete again? What if he asks Pete to leave? What if—
“Easy, puppy,” Vegas says gently. “It’s okay. I just want to get you into the shower. Is that okay?”
Pete blinks at Vegas, his hands twitching at his sides. What Vegas is asking is too much because he wants a shower but he doesn’t want Vegas to take the collar off, and he can’t choose, and—
“Alright,” Vegas chuckles. “Come here.”
Vegas doesn’t wait for Pete to obey, he merely bodily maneuvers Pete across the room into the large extravagant bathroom. In a few precise moves he unclips the leash from the collar and sets it to the side and then has all of Pete’s clothes off and on the ground in a small pile. Pete feels marginally better to be out of his soiled underwear. Vegas sheds his jeans and walks into the shower and fiddles with a few knobs before detaching the shower head.
“Come here puppy.”
Pete pads forward, following the orders because he wants to be good . Vegas grabs his wrist and pulls him in, keeping him mostly out of the spray. The water is warm and soothing against his skin and Vegas is methodical as he lathers body wash into Pete’s skin, cleaning under his armpits and down his stomach.
“Take your time,” he murmurs in Pete’s ear. “Come up when you’re ready.”
Pete takes a slow inhale and closes his eyes, allowing the sensation of Vegas’s hands on him combined with the hot water pull him closer to the surface. He starts to feel a little better by the time Vegas is finished, pulling him out onto the warm tile and toweling him dry.
Vegas gets them both into the bed, curled around Pete’s back, warm against him, bare skin on bare skin. It’s intimate. Even after everything they did, the collar and the leash and all that, it’s this quiet intimacy that stutters Pete’s heart and slides like electricity under his skin. Vegas’s hand splays across Pete’s stomach, rubbing in gentle circles, and for a while Pete just closes his eyes and lets him. He thinks he must have been a very small child the last time someone rubbed his stomach, and he could probably fall asleep like that if thoughts weren’t beginning to creep back in again.
Oh, god, he’d been mortifying, hadn’t he? Coming in his pants like that, refusing to give back the collar. It all reeks of desperation, doesn’t it? Vegas could probably tell just how long it’d been since Pete got laid, definitely knew how brand new everything was to him.
“I can hear you thinking,” Vegas murmurs against his hair. “It’s very loud.”
Pete’s pretty sure he blushes all the way down to his chest.
“Back up with me, puppy?”
Not if you keep calling me that, Pete thinks wryly, but he manages to wrap his tongue around a few words. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Vegas’s free hand finds Pete’s hair and brushes it away from his face, soft and so gentle as he pets him. Which, again, not helping, but it feels too good to make him stop.
“Do you want me to — ” Pete begins
“Are you hungry?” Vegas asks at the exact same time.
Do you want me to leave, Pete had been going to ask, and dreading the answer. Maybe Vegas wanted him for the sex, nothing more. Maybe Pete was overstaying his welcome.
But Vegas tucks his mouth against Pete’s jaw and repeats the question, hand pressing harder on his stomach to keep them tight together, the indication clear for the first time that day.
Stay.
“Yeah,” Pete says, tension unspooling in his chest. “Starving.”
“Good boy,” Vegas says. “Let me make you something to eat.”