[ Fight fight fight. Ray would be fine so long as that fight didn't die, so long as he kept growling and struggling and doing everything he could until the bitter end. If he could get a hard kick across Armando's jaw during the process, then that sure as hell would give him some kind of satisfaction, some kind of reassurance that he'd done all he could to defend himself. Oh, he wouldn't ever come back to Vegas, not even for a sure bet. Hell, the sound of slot machines would probably make him inexplicably jumpy hereafter, but physically he'd be alright; physically he'd be in one piece, and only a guy who was in one piece could save Fraser. And only a guy who was beaten down to within an inch of his pride could keep him safe.
Ray snarled up at him, his eyes dark with anger, pain, fear; the bruises to his ego already showing. There was no doubt at all there. Armando didn't need to be able to talk. If need be he could find Fraser another way, he could knock on the door of every hotel room in the city or beg the FBI for help finding him, but he couldn't take this back. He'd bite his lips off, rip his tongue out with his teeth, all without shifting so much as an inch out of the chair, and he'd do it with his teeth bared into a bloodied smirk. That'd sure be one to explain to Si and Mikey and the others--why he'd let a cop bite his face off. ]
Oh no, no. I wasn't born yesterday. I know not to bet against a sure thing.
[ Which had to be a victory for Ray, right? It meant his bark had somehow made contact with him like his fists hadn't been able to, that Armando was actually afraid of doing something to him because Ray still held some element of power, could still defend himself. He'd keep his distance, and that had to be something. ]
But that's good. [ He growled, digging his fingers tighter into Ray's hair, scraping his scalp with his nails. ] I fucking love that. Fight me with everything you've got. C'mon, tough guy, Chicago tough guy, you may be tied down in that chair but you're larger than life. You're not gonna give up the goods that easily.
[ He let him go, peeling back, circling around toward Ray's left, and leaving a nick on his back as he went. That one would look much worse than it felt; there were less nerve endings to cut, and while it was likely to sting, Ray would probably forget all about it quickly enough. He'd appreciate the care he took to layer up the marks later, when he was being escorted off the premises and even his thugs looked at him warily, like all that blood and bruising was the perfect reminder not to fuck with the boss. Ray would at least be walking, though they'd miss that, and the come down from the cocaine would of course make it look a whole lot worse too--they'd miss that. Let them see what they expected to see.
For now, he reached across Ray's lap, knife in hand, hooked it under the leg of his underwear, slicing upward, leaving a slightly deeper gash on Ray's hip as the knife tugged free. Damn. Damn damn damn, that one had been unintentional, and worse still it would be a physical reminder of being stripped, connected inexorably with the physical act. It could take the better part of a month to heal, and even then it'd leave a neat white line for most of the next year. Shit.
This time, reaching across to the other leg, he was a lot more careful, but there was more flexibility in the fabric, too, and the tip of the knife stayed away. It didn't stop him fretting about the blood though, and he pulled Ray's underwear free, rolled it into a ball and jammed it in against his hip. Then, pretending he'd done no such thing, touching the now bloodied flat of his blade to Ray's abdomen, way too close to the base of his cock for any man's comfort. Make him pay attention to that, and he might overlook the act of relative kindness. ]
Just think. [ He murmured, softly. ] If I really wanted to make you remember me this could be a whole lot worse. There's a couple of things around here you could do without. [ And now it was his turn to flash a nasty smirk, before he withdrew both the knife and himself, put the blade down under the chair, out of reach, and walked back across the room to the shelf. He stepped out of his underwear while he was there, shivering despite the intolerable warmth of the room as the brush of silk whispered against is bare thighs. And yes, he was already hard; achingly so. He resisted the urge to touch. It had been way too long.
He turned to look back at Stanley, judging him, then began plucking items off the shelf, among them shackles, a riding crop, lube, latex gloves--pausing after a moment to hold up a string of anal beads. ]
What do you think? Hot or not? Me, I'm not sure. I've never tried them. But let's suppose they do what it says on the box, huh?
[ He had no idea that Ray couldn't see from this distance. Frankly even if he'd known he'd have still done it. He added them to his collection of items and made his way back, putting everything down with a metal clink and clang on the easy to scrub down rubber floor, and staying well clear of those feet in the process. ]
Here we are then, look. [ He held up the little white bag so that Ray could see. ] This is the best stuff, safe as houses, not split with baking soda and fucking ground up aspirin like the shit you get in Chicago. You understand? No one in the right mind would fuck me on this. So. [ He tilted his head. ] You may be thinking "No fucking way", but look at the advantages. No accountability. Not when you get hard, not when you come, not when all that pain goes away. I'm gonna force it on you either way, but it's easier if you cooperate. We've established that much already, haven't we?
[ The gloves went on first, as though he was concerned that traces of the drug would get on his hands - he wasn't, unlike the real Armando he was at no risk of being put away for possession or handling banned substances - and then he was bringing a dose of it to Ray, offering it at head height. It put his hand and wrist very close to those teeth. ]
no subject
Ray snarled up at him, his eyes dark with anger, pain, fear; the bruises to his ego already showing. There was no doubt at all there. Armando didn't need to be able to talk. If need be he could find Fraser another way, he could knock on the door of every hotel room in the city or beg the FBI for help finding him, but he couldn't take this back. He'd bite his lips off, rip his tongue out with his teeth, all without shifting so much as an inch out of the chair, and he'd do it with his teeth bared into a bloodied smirk. That'd sure be one to explain to Si and Mikey and the others--why he'd let a cop bite his face off. ]
Oh no, no. I wasn't born yesterday. I know not to bet against a sure thing.
[ Which had to be a victory for Ray, right? It meant his bark had somehow made contact with him like his fists hadn't been able to, that Armando was actually afraid of doing something to him because Ray still held some element of power, could still defend himself. He'd keep his distance, and that had to be something. ]
But that's good. [ He growled, digging his fingers tighter into Ray's hair, scraping his scalp with his nails. ] I fucking love that. Fight me with everything you've got. C'mon, tough guy, Chicago tough guy, you may be tied down in that chair but you're larger than life. You're not gonna give up the goods that easily.
[ He let him go, peeling back, circling around toward Ray's left, and leaving a nick on his back as he went. That one would look much worse than it felt; there were less nerve endings to cut, and while it was likely to sting, Ray would probably forget all about it quickly enough. He'd appreciate the care he took to layer up the marks later, when he was being escorted off the premises and even his thugs looked at him warily, like all that blood and bruising was the perfect reminder not to fuck with the boss. Ray would at least be walking, though they'd miss that, and the come down from the cocaine would of course make it look a whole lot worse too--they'd miss that. Let them see what they expected to see.
For now, he reached across Ray's lap, knife in hand, hooked it under the leg of his underwear, slicing upward, leaving a slightly deeper gash on Ray's hip as the knife tugged free. Damn. Damn damn damn, that one had been unintentional, and worse still it would be a physical reminder of being stripped, connected inexorably with the physical act. It could take the better part of a month to heal, and even then it'd leave a neat white line for most of the next year. Shit.
This time, reaching across to the other leg, he was a lot more careful, but there was more flexibility in the fabric, too, and the tip of the knife stayed away. It didn't stop him fretting about the blood though, and he pulled Ray's underwear free, rolled it into a ball and jammed it in against his hip. Then, pretending he'd done no such thing, touching the now bloodied flat of his blade to Ray's abdomen, way too close to the base of his cock for any man's comfort. Make him pay attention to that, and he might overlook the act of relative kindness. ]
Just think. [ He murmured, softly. ] If I really wanted to make you remember me this could be a whole lot worse. There's a couple of things around here you could do without. [ And now it was his turn to flash a nasty smirk, before he withdrew both the knife and himself, put the blade down under the chair, out of reach, and walked back across the room to the shelf. He stepped out of his underwear while he was there, shivering despite the intolerable warmth of the room as the brush of silk whispered against is bare thighs. And yes, he was already hard; achingly so. He resisted the urge to touch. It had been way too long.
He turned to look back at Stanley, judging him, then began plucking items off the shelf, among them shackles, a riding crop, lube, latex gloves--pausing after a moment to hold up a string of anal beads. ]
What do you think? Hot or not? Me, I'm not sure. I've never tried them. But let's suppose they do what it says on the box, huh?
[ He had no idea that Ray couldn't see from this distance. Frankly even if he'd known he'd have still done it. He added them to his collection of items and made his way back, putting everything down with a metal clink and clang on the easy to scrub down rubber floor, and staying well clear of those feet in the process. ]
Here we are then, look. [ He held up the little white bag so that Ray could see. ] This is the best stuff, safe as houses, not split with baking soda and fucking ground up aspirin like the shit you get in Chicago. You understand? No one in the right mind would fuck me on this. So. [ He tilted his head. ] You may be thinking "No fucking way", but look at the advantages. No accountability. Not when you get hard, not when you come, not when all that pain goes away. I'm gonna force it on you either way, but it's easier if you cooperate. We've established that much already, haven't we?
[ The gloves went on first, as though he was concerned that traces of the drug would get on his hands - he wasn't, unlike the real Armando he was at no risk of being put away for possession or handling banned substances - and then he was bringing a dose of it to Ray, offering it at head height. It put his hand and wrist very close to those teeth. ]