Our Liminal Space [+18]

Space

That was all it took.

Something inside Vegas snapped, Pete saw it in his eyes, the moment when he realized he couldn't take any of this back. Pete didn't care. He had pushed him past the point of no return—this was why he provoked Vegas after all. Right back to square one where they were both trying to fix something they didn't even know was broken in the first place.

That's why Vegas' lips crashed into Pete's, hard and painful, all that fake pretense of gentleness gone with the wind that was still blowing outside. His hand left Pete's cock and tore off Pete's boxers in one swift motion, following with his sweatpants. No, Vegas' sweatpants but it didn't matter anymore, because Vegas' grip tightened on the inside of his thigh, yanking his legs wide open as he growled into Pete's mouth.

"I'm going to be gentle with your body," Vegas murmured, his voice low, dominant, just like Pete wanted, "that's non-negotiable." His hand slid between Pete's legs, two fingers tracing the line of Pete's butt cheek and gently ghosting over his entrance.

Pete moaned, his breath catching in his throat at the softest touch—just barely a graze of Vegas' fingers near his rim. That tiny, teasing contact was enough to make him lose whatever grip he had on reality. If he ever had one, it slipped the moment Vegas knocked at the door anyway. Now, everything felt like a dream, blurred, but he didn't care. Not as long as Vegas' fingers stayed exactly where they were.

"But I'm going to show you how much I missed you. How sorry I am." Vegas' voice was raw and sounded sincere, a deep growl was punctuating his words as he bit down on Pete's bottom lip, tugging it enough to make Pete gasp into his mouth. "And how I'm the only one who can fuck you like you want. Like you deserve."

Hell yes, Pete deserved this. Pregnant, alone, and with nothing but a tear-soaked pillow and his jar of pickles for company. Morning sickness, that aching emptiness in his chest that not even Nutella mixed with hot sauce could fix. And Vegas knew it too—because Vegas was the reason Pete was in this fucking mess to begin with.

The guilt, the darkness, and that relentless, unspoken need to prove to Pete that he was everything he needed—it was all clear in those eyes. They glinted with intensity, and for once, there was no mask, no room for doubt. Vegas' real nature was laid bare between them, as raw as his words, as consuming as the pain they'd caused each other.

"And I'm not going to hold back, so don't come crying, because I won't listen to you begging me to stop."

Pete will. Oh he'll cry. He'll beg him to stop. And Vegas won't listen. Just like before. His Vegas was back. At least for tonight. And Pete was about to take advantage of every single second of it.

Those were the last words Vegas spoke before Pete found himself pushed onto the mattress without any warning and suddenly Vegas was up on his two feet, a shadow looming over Pete, grabbing his hips firmly to drag him closer to the edge of the bed.

His rough and large hands stripped off what was left of Pete's clothes— his Nutella-stained shirt flew in the air like it was nothing, and in a blink of an eye, he was there, laying down, naked, vulnerable, his burning skin exposed to the cool air of the room. But it did nothing at all to calm the raging fire that had begun to burn everything on its path. Vegas quickly took off his own clothes, his eyes never leaving Pete the entire time, filled with that unrestrained hunger Pete used to see every time he was there under him.

Pete couldn't look away—didn't want to look away. He was captivated, mesmerized even, as Vegas stood at the edge of their bed, naked and powerful, and downright beautiful. Every inch of him demanding attention, every inch of him commanding Pete's devotion. Like he was meant to be there just for Vegas to admire.