[ Fighting right up to the last; Vecchio could certainly respect him for that. Armando would too, probably, if he wasn't dead (he hadn't gotten a clear admission out of the FBI as to whether that had been an accident or not, but he suspected the answer was probably not).
He soothes for a moment longer, very aware of the edge of confusion that's slipped in in the meantime. This isn't natural behavior, it's creeping Ray out. Still, outside of that he's panting, gasping, jerking, moaning; a positive wreck. Even if he isn't willing to beg, if he maybe never would be, that's fine with Vecchio, his trembling body is communicating all those things for him.
Releasing his hand, Vecchio reached for the lube, not making a show and dance about it, in fact trying to hold Ray's glare in the meantime so that he didn't see what was happening between their legs. ]
Come on, Ray. Spit in my face and tell me that you love me. They make 'em hard in Chicago, don't they? Hard, hard guys. Yeah, I can see just how hard.
[ And soon enough - too soon and not nearly soon enough - he was nudging just the tip of his cock against Ray, slathered in as much lube as he could get out. Vecchio shifted back, put a little distance between his body and the other man's so that he could look down between them, so that he was far enough away from the detective's teeth that he didn't lose an ear or get his throat ripped out for the invasion. Using his hand to guide himself, he pressed into muscle, breached and slid deeper, guided by the path he'd already beaten into submission with the beads.
He'd expected it to be harder than it was, but that wasn't to say it was easy either. His hand pulled away soon enough though, and while one of his arms was still wrapped around Ray - not that he had anywhere to go - the other flattened itself in the middle of his chest, as though a reminder to himself that he was supposed to keep his distance.
And he watched, positively enraptured - and this at least was probably due to the cocaine - by the sight of his cock disappearing inside, embraced by that wonderful tight heat, that glove of knotted silk that pulled taut around him, working like iron cables snapping in a high wind.
Vecchio fell still, let Ray adjust to the sensation--though not for too long. He didn't want him to think he'd gone soft. He was panting, aching for friction, driven near crazy himself by waiting. ]
no subject
[ Fighting right up to the last; Vecchio could certainly respect him for that. Armando would too, probably, if he wasn't dead (he hadn't gotten a clear admission out of the FBI as to whether that had been an accident or not, but he suspected the answer was probably not).
He soothes for a moment longer, very aware of the edge of confusion that's slipped in in the meantime. This isn't natural behavior, it's creeping Ray out. Still, outside of that he's panting, gasping, jerking, moaning; a positive wreck. Even if he isn't willing to beg, if he maybe never would be, that's fine with Vecchio, his trembling body is communicating all those things for him.
Releasing his hand, Vecchio reached for the lube, not making a show and dance about it, in fact trying to hold Ray's glare in the meantime so that he didn't see what was happening between their legs. ]
Come on, Ray. Spit in my face and tell me that you love me. They make 'em hard in Chicago, don't they? Hard, hard guys. Yeah, I can see just how hard.
[ And soon enough - too soon and not nearly soon enough - he was nudging just the tip of his cock against Ray, slathered in as much lube as he could get out. Vecchio shifted back, put a little distance between his body and the other man's so that he could look down between them, so that he was far enough away from the detective's teeth that he didn't lose an ear or get his throat ripped out for the invasion. Using his hand to guide himself, he pressed into muscle, breached and slid deeper, guided by the path he'd already beaten into submission with the beads.
He'd expected it to be harder than it was, but that wasn't to say it was easy either. His hand pulled away soon enough though, and while one of his arms was still wrapped around Ray - not that he had anywhere to go - the other flattened itself in the middle of his chest, as though a reminder to himself that he was supposed to keep his distance.
And he watched, positively enraptured - and this at least was probably due to the cocaine - by the sight of his cock disappearing inside, embraced by that wonderful tight heat, that glove of knotted silk that pulled taut around him, working like iron cables snapping in a high wind.
Vecchio fell still, let Ray adjust to the sensation--though not for too long. He didn't want him to think he'd gone soft. He was panting, aching for friction, driven near crazy himself by waiting. ]