[ He'd known it would hurt, the punch, and that's good. He went for causing vibrant bruising, and that would come with pain, and blood, and swelling. With another couple of hours for that to work itself to the surface, Ray would be looking real pretty by the time his guys came to pick him up. Maybe he'd backhand him later, make it look a little better, but even without it the pattern of bruises and cuts and smudged blood was starting to come together. Vecchio had seen enough pictures of Armando's "supposed" former victims, people who were too afraid to say a word against him and spat at the FBI's idea of protection, and he knew it was all just a matter of building up layers. The effect was largely cumulative, and it generally looked worse than it was. Apart from that guy who'd been run over twice.
Still, at the end of the day he really had needed to assert control again. Having the imposter fighting him back was all well and good, made him feel like he wasn't getting it so easy (and why should he get it easy, said his cop psyche; he was rooting for Ray as though he were fighting off a real mobster) but at the end of the day he had to dominate this, show real strength, shake this guy down to his core. It needed to really take something from him, so that his pride couldn't afford to take another blow, but more importantly that comment about Fraser would remind him that the Mountie really was better off anywhere in the world but Vegas. Ray would live through this, but even if he was all fight, was willing to come back just to tear Armando's throat out himself, he would never put Fraser at risk by letting him within a thousand miles of the desert again.
He knew he had him when - even panting for breath - Ray's indomitable glare was still cutting the air between them like a knife. Hate is good. Hate is better than breaking. This guy can and should hate him, it'll help him survive. Of course then he spits his gum right in Armando's face even as he spreads his legs, and Vecchio is torn between going ahead with that backhander and jamming the glob of spittle covered gum right up Ray's nose.
He does neither, lets it glance off him physically and emotionally, and he leans into Ray, lathes his tongue against his throat, draws back up to face him, back between his legs now. He was close enough to Ray's face to bite, to kiss, but he liked to think he'd frightened him enough to get past that risk. None the less, he still hovered back slightly as he found the lube between them, ignoring the device to instead spread a healthy amount over his fingers. The good old fashioned way. It was more intimate this way--it was a debate which was more humiliating, but at least it let him get real close.
Reaching for that spot again, unimpeded this time, he pushed one finger up to the second joint--drew it out and pushed in again, further, and hissed at the clutching, tight heat that pulsed around him. Even here he could feel the dull vibration. No wonder it was driving him crazy. ]
How's it feeling? You want I should turn it off? Beg me. Beg me, Ray, I'll turn it off. All you gotta do is be real polite. Say please.
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Still, at the end of the day he really had needed to assert control again. Having the imposter fighting him back was all well and good, made him feel like he wasn't getting it so easy (and why should he get it easy, said his cop psyche; he was rooting for Ray as though he were fighting off a real mobster) but at the end of the day he had to dominate this, show real strength, shake this guy down to his core. It needed to really take something from him, so that his pride couldn't afford to take another blow, but more importantly that comment about Fraser would remind him that the Mountie really was better off anywhere in the world but Vegas. Ray would live through this, but even if he was all fight, was willing to come back just to tear Armando's throat out himself, he would never put Fraser at risk by letting him within a thousand miles of the desert again.
He knew he had him when - even panting for breath - Ray's indomitable glare was still cutting the air between them like a knife. Hate is good. Hate is better than breaking. This guy can and should hate him, it'll help him survive. Of course then he spits his gum right in Armando's face even as he spreads his legs, and Vecchio is torn between going ahead with that backhander and jamming the glob of spittle covered gum right up Ray's nose.
He does neither, lets it glance off him physically and emotionally, and he leans into Ray, lathes his tongue against his throat, draws back up to face him, back between his legs now. He was close enough to Ray's face to bite, to kiss, but he liked to think he'd frightened him enough to get past that risk. None the less, he still hovered back slightly as he found the lube between them, ignoring the device to instead spread a healthy amount over his fingers. The good old fashioned way. It was more intimate this way--it was a debate which was more humiliating, but at least it let him get real close.
Reaching for that spot again, unimpeded this time, he pushed one finger up to the second joint--drew it out and pushed in again, further, and hissed at the clutching, tight heat that pulsed around him. Even here he could feel the dull vibration. No wonder it was driving him crazy. ]
How's it feeling? You want I should turn it off? Beg me. Beg me, Ray, I'll turn it off. All you gotta do is be real polite. Say please.