Work Text:
Life with the main family is different from what Pete’s used to, but he’s not complaining. It beats living under his father’s thumb, crawling between broken bottles and raised fists.
He’s always known to work for his food. Typically, the work required winning, and if not that, submission. Being a bodyguard is not much different.
They beat him, make him crawl with his hands tied. Tie him up and leave him in a room with no sunlight for twelve hours. Almost drowned, once, and felt the water logged in his lungs for two days.
It’s invigorating. Fulfilling in a way he never expected. Every new experience gets stored in the back of his mind, to remember later, and gnaw on beneath the covers.
He learns to hold back; trained to fight differently, away from claws and teeth.
He adapts to the main family’s clean, methodical ways. He learns to untie and retie his hands, underwater, in less than a minute. Learns to shoot a man point blank in the face, without recoiling, or flinching.
Learns that what he wants isn’t always what he needs. How sometimes what he needs, and maybe wants (partly) is to be put in his place.
Even the punishments – harsh and bruising – are gratifying in a way his father’s hand never was. Pete’s not toeing between fine lines and careful words. Everything here serves a purpose, including him.
No longer does Pete have to guess what awaits him at the threshold.
Although he’s still new – too new, as Big says – Pete’s already been assigned to guard the eldest son.
It’s… different, from what Pete expected when he joined the main family, but different can be good. It was a nice break from the bloodshed and bullet holes.
Less physical labor, but the emotional aspect of guarding Khun was something else. It could be exhausting. Draining. Like caring for a child; if the child was your boss who held your life in the palm of his perfectly manicured hand.
Despite this, Pete understands. He knows of the scars hidden beneath couture, and why Tankhun never allowed himself even a breath of sunlight except in the main courtyard.
He grits his teeth at any off-handed comment on the state of his hair and lack-luster appearance, opting to smile instead of letting his tongue loose.
Understanding doesn’t make the job any easier.
So, two months in, when Chan tells Pete he’ll be filling in with the others to greet the minor family, he’s ecstatic, nearly doubles over and kisses Chan’s feet.
He stands in line, enjoying himself despite the sweltering heat and orders to remain sharp and still when the others arrive. Avoids looking behind, at the reflection in dark windows. Pete would never get used to the grand house, it’s starless windows, or the never-ending hallways.
A sleek, black car drops off Khun Kan, who ignores the guards as he walks past.
Another car comes by, notably less fancy, deposits who Pete assumes are the minor family’s guards. He’s never seen them before, their pictures weren’t shown in the presentation.
They continue to wait. It’s more boring than Pete predicted, but he’s not complaining. Silence can be comforting.
Beside him, Arm sighs. Pete glances over, smiling at his tired expression.
“Bored?”
Arm shrugs just as another car pulls up, sleek and silver, and the guards straighten.
Everyone’s tense. Khun Kan’s eldest son would be at the meeting.
Pete’s heard a lot about him: the son position for Khun Kinn, the heir of the minor family. He’s heard what the other call him. How they whisper his name, like a curse, afraid of the spell it’d bring. Others spit it out like poison.
He’s described as ruthless as the others, despite being younger, if not worse. Not to be trusted. Deadly.
Always tailing after Kinn and his trail of lovers, discarding them like trash when he’s through. One of them still has scars, Ken told Pete.
Ken was sort of annoying, always trying to one-up someone. Pete didn’t really like him, but considering what he’s heard, he has no reason to not believe.
All this talk, however, has made Pete think it’s all an exaggeration. There’s worse out there. He’s seen it; lived it.
While the others are tense, Pete lets out a breath. Sucks in another. All he had to do was stand straight, avoid eye-contact, and follow the marks. The rules are clear. He’s ready.
Yet the moment the heir steps out of the car, all of Pete’s prepared state of mind comes crashing. He almost chokes on his breath, and feels a tear stinging in his eyes, as he represses the cough in his throat.
What everyone failed to mention – what the pictures failed to do justice – was how beautiful Vegas really was.
Thick, midnight locks, swept back to reveal smooth, moonlit skin. Perfect, unmarked and blemish-free down to the reveal of skin where the buttons of his velvet shirt were left open. The only mark of imperfection was the scar across his brow, but even that feels correct and intentional.
Pete’s too distracted to even think about how stupid it is to wear velvet in a place where summer never ends.
They also forgot to mention his lips, how chewable they looked, and his scent. Sweet wine, crushed with cinnamon and expensive cologne. Better than the rest.
Better than Kinn, who Pete had opted as the best when he met the heir of the main family. Rich people took care of themselves in ways that made them… tastier.
Unlike his father, Khun Vegas does look at them, standing pin-straight and unnoticed. A neutral expression, that gives nothing away, except indifference. They were nothing but specks of dust on the window.
Khun Vegas’ gaze sweeps across them, taking account of each one, before landing on Pete. His gaze is endless, as black as the night sky. Starless eyes trace over Pete, making him shiver like a wet dog. The moment is brief, but enough to make Pete’s heart skip a beat.
Vegas walks away, smirking.
Pete doesn’t realize he’s still staring until Arm taps him on the shoulder, telling him they have to move.
During the meeting, Pete has to force himself to look away, biting the inside of his cheek. It’s quite a challenge, with the shirt Vegas wears.
In the back of his mind, there are tiny whimpers of a dog, imagining a nibble of smooth, unblemished skin. Pete scolds it, sends it back with a kick, and reminds it that this was not its’ place.
He fades in and out.
Listening, but not really. Forgets why he’s here, missing the mark when it’s their time to be dismissed.
These urges were not foreign to Pete. It’s happened, more than once. He’s never done anything about it. Couldn’t do anything about it. He knows better than get close.
His mind and body were used it, but right there, under warm air, patting himself for a lighter, Pete could feel it in his legs. A wanting.
The need to open himself up and pull Vegas in. Devour him whole, savor every part of him. The dog whines, pleading to Pete to do something. It’s ear twitches when he hears a click, followed by the tiny flicker of flame.
The hand connected to the lighter is slender, soft, and unmarked. Pete finds it’s match and is brought face to face to the one person he was trying to get away from.
His throat burns. Pete’s quick to straighten up.
“S—Sawadee krab.” He smiles nervously.
Vegas watches with an expecting look, still holding out the lighter. He quirks a brow, the smallest smirk on his edible lips, and nods to the lighter.
Pete’s hands feel numb. He doesn’t know what else to do but lean in and light the end. Coughs after a drag.
It’s not his first time, obviously, but Vegas was making everything feel like a first.
“Thank you, Khun Vegas.” His face feels hot. Burning. Hopes it doesn’t show. He waits for the heir to leave, but Vegas stays, watching Pete, who’s doing everything to avoid looking at him.
“You’re a new one, aren’t you?”
Pete nods, not trusting his mouth. The dog leans in, unconsciously, enticed by the rich spice of cologne.
“And you’ve already been assigned to guard Tankhun.” Vegas comments. Zero questions or hesitations. No honorifics. “that must mean you’re good.”
He studies Pete like a bug in a flask. Pete was one, compared to him. Vegas’ eyes burn right through him.
“Er… yes, Khun Vegas, I guess you could say that.” Pete forces a smile. “it could just be beginner’s luck.”
It didn’t make sense, but Pete couldn’t be blamed. Not all dogs were smart under stress.
Vegas smirks, like he knows something else, or perhaps he just enjoyed making the bodyguard squirm.
“Luck doesn’t exist here, Pete.” He says. “not for dogs like you.”
The insult stings more than expected. Pete has half a mind to shove the cigarette in Vegas’ eye. But he’d likely lose an arm, or more, if he even dared to move any further. Dog or not, he had to remember his place.
Pete shivers, slightly, under Vegas’ watchful eyes. He didn’t like it, but the dog didn’t mind the sound of its’ name rolling around the other’s mouth.
The heir’s scent trails behind him as he walks away.
Pete’s stomach growls as he opens his mouth for a taste.
The air clears up and desire dies with the cherry of the cigarette. Pete never told Vegas his name, but he knew. Of course he knew.
Vegas was from the minor family. He was both of the family, and against it. He was the moon in the dark night of the underworld. Vegas was Vegas, and Pete… Pete was just a guard dog. Hardly a star. Even if he was something, there’s no way someone could want something like him.
This life, his life, was not a romance drama, with forbidden love and pinky-promised kisses. This was life, Pete’s life, a twisted ball of bones and guts that didn’t need further complications.
He couldn’t fuck up what he’s already worked so hard on: a place for himself. For them, to run around freely without someone questioning the blood trail.
A dark, bloody place, but a place nonetheless.
Days pass and Vegas’ cologne lingers in Pete’s nose hairs. Like a cold he can’t sneeze out, despite how hard he tries.
He trains harder, for longer periods, until Erika yells at him to get out. He goes into the gym earlier. Sinks to the bottom of the pool, waiting for his vision to blur before floating back up. Eats more meat, when he can. The tiny, pre-portioned meals weren’t doing him any favors.
But even with all these attempts, the dog runs amuck and teethes at the pole its’ tethered to. It’s given more pork, more spice, and even then, it wants more. It always wants more.
The dog almost unravels, prompting Pete to nearly slip during a casual spar.
Arm’s neck looked delectable, glistening in sweat, like the fatty juice of a steak. Pete loses the match, on purpose, before he loses a friend.
The dog, a rabid animal, was not hard for Pete to hold in. Urges like these have happened to them before, but not like this. Something about the heir to the minor family had cut through the threads of its leash.
What did Vegas have that made him so special, besides his smell? Everyone smelled good, everyone was comprised of the same components. The rich might be softer, tender, like baby lambs, but in the end, everyone is the same on the inside.
Yet, Pete can’t get the smell out of his nose. He breathes in and out and tastes smoke for days, mixed with wine and cinnamon spice. For days his dreams have all been the same.
The dog running after someone silver in the moonlight. The chase never lasts long; it is quick when it’s hungry. The dog catches its prey and sinks it’s ugly, yellow teeth into smooth, muscular legs. Devouring.
The dog has lived on rations worse than this, survived much longer, but it’d come out, sooner or later, until Pete gave it what it wants. The leash was coming unloose.
Pete has to take matters into his own hands.
The bass of the music vibrates off the walls and echoes through his body, from his ears to his toes. Neon lights flash around him, shining off silver chains and gold hoops as he makes his way to the bar.
Pete’s far from the city where he’s not concerned about finding someone he’ll recognize, and he’s not in an area he remembers from before. He’s underdressed, in jeans and a shirt layered underneath a plain button up. All black.
He’s never done this before. Opportunities presented themselves to him, and the dog was more than eager to follow through. He’s worked for his meals before, yes, but not like this. This required an effort he felt too small and naïve for.
The other club goers were too caught up in their own world, with their friends, to notice the loser standing by the bar.
No one smells good. The stink of Vegas still deep in his lungs.
An hour passes, then two, and and his cocktail gets more and more watered down by the minute. He’s stood by the bar, for god knows how long, and it’s agonizing. Shameful, actually, how everyone could see how desperate he was for attention, but wouldn’t give him even a smidge.
Pete downs the drink, makes a face, and prepares to leave when something warm comes up behind him.
“Are you waiting for someone?” They ask. Pete turns to face his meal.
Fair skinned. Dark hair, but not midnight. The scent was wrong. Amber and vanilla, mixed with tobacco. Almost as good, but not quite. He’d do for now.
“Yes.” Pete says. The man quirks an eyebrow. “You.”
When he smiles, the man smiles back. He leans in, mouth close to Pete’s ear. The vein in his neck so dangerously close to Pete’s mouth.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” His hand moves to Pete’s waist. “How would you like me?”
It’s disturbingly easy to convince the man to come to the room. Even when Pete mentions the name, and location, the man made a face, but still followed him to the shady motel.
The neon sign indicating vacancy flashes in the puddles, splashing away as Pete and the man make their way upstairs to the room with a sickly pink door and dirty windows.
Pete knows the man’s name, but he’s learned from an early age that using the proper name of something gives it meaning. The dog was just a dog. The man was just a man. Things are simpler, and easier, when they’re categorized this way.
He pushes the man against the door before he opens it, peppering kisses along his jaw and neck. It tastes nice, even if it’s all wrong.
“I saw you at the bar, looking around,” the man says with a sigh. “you’re a desperate little thing, aren’t you?”
The words make Pete shudder. It was embarrassing, how much he liked the attention. He rolls it around in someone else’s voice, and his pants start to feel uncomfortably tight.
“Yes,” Pete whispers, “I’m a needy thing.”
The man’s lips taste like vodka and lime. Pete manages to get the door open while the other holds onto him like a squid, rutting against his hip.
“C’mon,” the man says, “c’mon.”
Pete shoves the man inside. The room is dark, hiding the plastic sheet on the floor. The man’s footsteps crackle against the sheet, he’s too drunk to notice. He gasps against Pete’s cheek as his end pushes him against the wall.
Pete spares the man one last kiss as he reaches for the paperweight on the dresser. The last, loving feeling of this life. The paperweight is round and clear, with a yellow lily at its center.
As the man opens his mouth to invite Pete in, the dog lifts the paperweight and goes for the soft spot of his head.
The man collapses, but he’s not dead. Not unconscious either, not yet. Groaning and incapacitated, but only for so long. With bleary eyes, the man looks up to his attacker.
Pete’s already taking off his shirt and pants, left in his boxers, as the man aims to move. He’s expecting the worst, but it’s worse than the worst he’s thinking.
“I’m sorry.” Pete says as he climbs over him.
The man reaches out to claw at Pete’s face, but he’s already pinning the man’s wrists down and going straight for his carotid. It’d been teasing the dog since their chance encounter.
The screams are in a distant haze as wet heat spurts in Pete’s mouth. Eyelids flutter. Toes curl.
The taste is otherworldly. Indescribable. Teeth sink through the flesh like a hot knife through butter, tearing apart what’s there and leaving behind nothing for Pete to munch on afterwards.
The man’s screams turn into gurgles as the dog moves to chew on his neck. He stops fighting back, the plastic crackles beneath his weight. A dark pool of blood begins to form around them, below the dog’s knees.
The dog watches itself through the man’s dying eyes. Watches the blood dripping from its snout to the man’s open chest. Unlike Pete, the dog does not mind itself. It knows what’s it meant to do, and follows its purpose to a tea.
One last shaky rise, and the man is dead.
When it’s finished, Pete takes the dog to the bathroom and hoses it off in the shower.
He should use cold water, for the blood to rinse off quicker, but opts for scalding water. It’s a punishing heat that feels like glass was scrubbing into his skin. The water turns fading red to sunset orange to pale pink.
Pete hides behind the water as he wraps a hand around himself, shuddering at how hard he was. He’s on fire, burning as the sweet aftertaste of copper lingered in his mouth.
Rests his forehead on the cool tiled wall, thighs trembling as he strokes himself with fast, jerky movements. Quick, dirty, and rough, for something like him. It.
He sucks in a harsh breath as the dog reminds of him. The tenderness of lungs. Softness of a fleshy stomach. Sucking on the ribs and crunching on finger tendons.
As it ate, the dog looked up at its meal to find the face belong to someone else. Sharp, like a knife, and as beautiful as the moon. It liked what it saw and moved to chew on the lips.
When the face flashes behind his eyelids, Pete’s orgasm shudders through him, like hands crawling through his stomach. He nearly slips, knees wobbling as the aftershocks kick through him.
With slow, steady pants, the dog leaves, once and for all, and Pete’s left with himself. He avoids the mirror as he dries off and dresses in new clothes. Black, like before, but clean. Some of blood splattered onto his shirt.
The leftovers are wrapped in the plastic sheet that was left on the floor, that then goes into a black trash bag. Whatever spilled outside the plastic sheet is soaked with hydrogen peroxide and bar soap from the motel, scrubbed with cold water.
The rest gets drenched in bleach and wiped with towels from the drugstore he stopped by before booking the room.
It takes longer than expected. The dog was a messy eater when it hadn’t eaten in a while. The last meal it had was a stray cat, hiding in an empty alley.
Halfway through the clean-up, Pete feels a stupid, childish urge to cry. He could use a good scream.
He hated everything he was and everything he couldn’t be. The dog has never had to live with what it’s done, unlike him.
But he doesn’t cry, or scream, because the tears would leave behind DNA, and the scream would alert the others, if the man’s dying breaths hadn’t. Pete forces them away, ignores the sting in his eyes, until everything’s clean and thrown away at a dumpster miles from the motel.
Leaves the man’s bike at a bridge, along with his wallet and other belongings that didn’t get burned. If you leave just enough evidence, people don’t jump to murder as their first conclusion.
He walks to a bus stop, far from the bridge. It takes thirty minutes for the bus arrive, and there are only two passengers inside. Pete sits in the back.
Through the crack of the window, he hears the city coming to life.
Sunlight washes through the bus, bathing everything and everyone in its golden light. The warmth is a blanket Pete had when he was seven, covered in blue stars and yellow moons. Everything is beautiful, except for him.
A man wearing a yellow backpack gets off at a stop, the passenger sat closest to Pete moves to the front, and he’s left semi-alone.