Tanned Leather & White Lace [+18]

6

As he opens his eyes, he doesn't immediately realize where he is. It feels like there's a weight pressing down on his shoulders, and his head is buzzing with a sound that seems to echo only in his mind.

His eyelids flutter open to a dim light, and as faint as it is, it is still stinging his eyes until his vision eventually adjusts, the blurry lines and shapes finally materializing.

The flickering flame of torches lined against the stone walls. Candles scatter on the floor and on the furniture seem to have been burning for a while now.

Pete's gaze shifts slowly, everything still a blur, enveloped in a hazy mist that clouds his mind. Yet, he tries to scan his surroundings. It's his job; he has to know where he is, he has to at least be able to locate and identify if he has to prepare himself for a fight.

In one corner, there's a table with things Pete's never seen before, but he's pretty sure he recognizes chains and ropes. Shadows are dancing on the walls, and there's this wooden cross in the middle of the room, casting this huge shadow across the rough surface where he's kneeling.

Pete shifts nervously, looking around, searching for something, someone that could anchor him to where he is, bringing him back to a reality he wanted to escape.

He is sorry. He is scared.

He is aware that he is naked, kneeling on the cold, hard floor in the middle of this room, his hands tied behind his back. The only thing covering him is the delicate lace panty hugging his hips, a gift from the man who's been haunting his mind.

Out of nowhere, a scent fills his nostrils, and he instinctively takes a sniff. Cigarette smoke, incense... musk, and perhaps... leather? He's not entirely certain, but the aromas linger in the air until suddenly, another unmistakable scent wafts in. Cologne, oud wood—the familiar fragrance rushes through him like a high-speed train, instantly transporting him back somewhere that feels like home.

Pete's eyes widen as he lifts his gaze enough to finally stop on a figure—a dark human silhouette a few meters ahead of him, swallowed by the darkness.

It looks like the shape of a man standing there, half-wrapped in shadow and half-bathed in the flickering light of those torches that cast intriguing and dancing patterns across the stone walls.

His figure seems to blur the lines between darkness and illumination, but Pete can now distinctly see the amber glow of a cigarette progressively intensifying as the man takes a drag.

Pete's breath catches in his throat as he stares at the figure before him, unsure of what or who he's looking at. Pete can't make out the man's eyes—they're too far away, too engulfed in darkness.

It's just a sense of something, of someone lurking in the shadows, hovering over him, over his soul, his skin, his pathetic being caught between light and darkness.

The man breathes out loudly, the smoke escaping from his lips and swirling around him. Pete gazes up at what he's certain is a man now, standing before him—tall, muscular, with broad shoulders and that black shirt clinging to his arms, open partially to reveal his skin. Too much skin or not enough, but Pete is staring, and his gaze follows down until the man eventually takes one deliberate, slow step forward, then another, each one echoing like clockwork ticking.

The man's eyes pierce through the darkness, glowing with an intensity Pete isn't sure he's prepared to face. He's caught under the gaze of that once mysterious figure, now unveiling himself as the keeper of Pete's darkest desires.

Vegas.

And Pete notices it—the smirk gradually curling up the corner of Vegas' lips as he realizes that Pete understood who he was kneeling in front of.