[By the end of this Ray knew he'd be battered and bleeding. He already was, and by the end of these few hours half of his face would be bruising up to show signs of that hefty punch. Punches are fine. He can explain those away easy enough as an eager day in the boxing ring. Cuts are less easy to get away with, but those can be hidden. Hell, he could even excuse his inability to walk properly if it comes to that.
What he can't get rid of is the memory of this. Sure, he'd do his best to shove it right to the back, lock it away, but this is the sort of thing that fucks you over years later, creeping in dreams when least expected. This is the sort of thing people should see their therapists for, but this is the sort of thing that Ray will never see a therapist for in a million years. He can never mention it or discuss it to anyone, not even the guy in front of him right now.
But this was for Fraser, as so much of the problems he'd got into over the last year had been. Fraser dragged him into danger over and over again and now he's managed it without even being here to share the pain. That smug asshole better appreciate Ray's rescue when it comes.
As Armando draws in closer, Ray doesn't counter it, suitably cowed for the moment by threats on his friend, although still full of sneers and glares and that general aura of hatred he manages to emit. He's still shuddering lightly, never seeming to stop, even at the lick to his throat. He can't stop. Between anxiety and coke he's got perpetual jittering that he's long ago stopped noticing, what with more important things on his mind.
Confidence or not, this felt like a heavy defeat, his allowance of this to even happen agitating him enough to growl heavily as he feels the pressure of that first slick finger. This was happening. Actually happening. Oh, he'd fought against it, but he wouldn't even be here if he'd thought of something more intelligent than throwing himself at the first mobster he could. This was a huge fucking failure, even with the possibility of getting Fraser at the end of it all, and he hated every last bit of it. And yet... and yet still his cock stayed hard.
Even as that finger pushed deeper, even as his muscles locked in around it in a desperate attempt to get rid of the intrusion. Still he was hard and straining. That fucking ring.]
Do I look fff- hngh- ffuckin' Canadian to you?
[Who says please while they're being fingered by some ego tripping mafioso? Canadians, that's who. Only Canadians.]
Turn it offff. [That quiet buzz is enough to drive him mad as it consistently drove deep into him, thrumming a tight grip around him the whole time, while giving him absolutely no sense of true satisfaction.]
no subject
What he can't get rid of is the memory of this. Sure, he'd do his best to shove it right to the back, lock it away, but this is the sort of thing that fucks you over years later, creeping in dreams when least expected. This is the sort of thing people should see their therapists for, but this is the sort of thing that Ray will never see a therapist for in a million years. He can never mention it or discuss it to anyone, not even the guy in front of him right now.
But this was for Fraser, as so much of the problems he'd got into over the last year had been. Fraser dragged him into danger over and over again and now he's managed it without even being here to share the pain. That smug asshole better appreciate Ray's rescue when it comes.
As Armando draws in closer, Ray doesn't counter it, suitably cowed for the moment by threats on his friend, although still full of sneers and glares and that general aura of hatred he manages to emit. He's still shuddering lightly, never seeming to stop, even at the lick to his throat. He can't stop. Between anxiety and coke he's got perpetual jittering that he's long ago stopped noticing, what with more important things on his mind.
Confidence or not, this felt like a heavy defeat, his allowance of this to even happen agitating him enough to growl heavily as he feels the pressure of that first slick finger. This was happening. Actually happening. Oh, he'd fought against it, but he wouldn't even be here if he'd thought of something more intelligent than throwing himself at the first mobster he could. This was a huge fucking failure, even with the possibility of getting Fraser at the end of it all, and he hated every last bit of it. And yet... and yet still his cock stayed hard.
Even as that finger pushed deeper, even as his muscles locked in around it in a desperate attempt to get rid of the intrusion. Still he was hard and straining. That fucking ring.]
Do I look fff- hngh- ffuckin' Canadian to you?
[Who says please while they're being fingered by some ego tripping mafioso? Canadians, that's who. Only Canadians.]
Turn it offff. [That quiet buzz is enough to drive him mad as it consistently drove deep into him, thrumming a tight grip around him the whole time, while giving him absolutely no sense of true satisfaction.]