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hawkshadowwrites · 10 months

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best thing that’s ever been mine

vegaspete, 2.8k

one shot, complete, rated G

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

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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.

He has a dog now, after all.

/fin

ART BELOW DRAWN BY @kiiyuq !!

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