[ Every single vitriolic word is like a pulse of pleasure in itself, and he shouldn't find it so good, but Vegas had obviously fucked up more than his sense of perspective if the last hour was anything to go by. It's like it reaches in and twangs some part of him that needs to be punished too, that's desperate for some sort of retribution where this is concerned because he's just such a deplorable human being.
And yet it is sort of like that. It's like he's taking this out on himself, because this guy is Ray Vecchio in a manner of speaking. He's his replacement, the stand-in; he has to take whatever shit Ray Vecchio would take in the same situation, and right now Ray Vecchio deserves, more than anything, to be punished, beaten, pushed beyond the brink for what he was doing.
It was messed up, but he was messed up. He couldn't be blamed for a little of that after everything he'd been put through out here in the desert.
So he held still once he was inside for a little longer than he meant to, and tried to pay attention, but ended up not flinching as Ray tried to take a bite out of his arm or something. It ended up paying off, making him look invulnerable rather than just stoned, and that was fine too. The bite to Ray's lip, that would work out, would swell like a balloon by the time his guys came back. All of this, all of it, was working out better than he'd thought.
So what if he was unwilling, if this was all yet another part of the Armando mask that was infecting Ray? He was hot and horny and high, and the world, and this cop detective, were his for the taking if he wanted it. He was a nasty mobster, an all around bad guy. He could have anything and anyone he wanted and he knew it. He didn't owe the world anything, he just steadily fucked it and laughed while it bled. He was Armando Langoustini, cruel consigliere, ruthless killer, insane and beautiful and--
Bleeding, he was bleeding into it--
Ray was trying to hold him still with his leg, but he couldn't keep him there forever, although Vecchio changed his grip first, moving both hands down to grip the other man's hips. He held him as he pulled out, then wrenched hard down on them, tugged Ray's hips toward his own and pushed back into him. Again.
God, he didn't care any more. He'd done everything he could to make sure it wouldn't hurt, and if Ray wanted to keep it up then so be it, he didn't give a shit if he was walking round sore for weeks after. If he tore something. It wasn't his concern any more--all he wanted, all he cared about was that glorious friction, the heat, the racing of his own pulse, and the flat out vicious race to orgasm.
It had been much more than a year, and he was high, and turned on from the verbal jousting and what equated to gangster foreplay. He wasn't going to last long. But that was fine, neither was Ray. Huffing, his breath ragged pants, but none the less keeping his moans restrained to low throaty noises that gargled in his chest, he kept moving, a slow but rough pace now. He unclamped one hand back from ray's hip, gliding it - still wet with lube - over the head of his restrained cock. ]
Say the word. You know the one I want. Say the word and you can come.
[ Single syllables were so much more functional when it came to restraining his own moans. He couldn't afford to break the illusion now. ]
no subject
And yet it is sort of like that. It's like he's taking this out on himself, because this guy is Ray Vecchio in a manner of speaking. He's his replacement, the stand-in; he has to take whatever shit Ray Vecchio would take in the same situation, and right now Ray Vecchio deserves, more than anything, to be punished, beaten, pushed beyond the brink for what he was doing.
It was messed up, but he was messed up. He couldn't be blamed for a little of that after everything he'd been put through out here in the desert.
So he held still once he was inside for a little longer than he meant to, and tried to pay attention, but ended up not flinching as Ray tried to take a bite out of his arm or something. It ended up paying off, making him look invulnerable rather than just stoned, and that was fine too. The bite to Ray's lip, that would work out, would swell like a balloon by the time his guys came back. All of this, all of it, was working out better than he'd thought.
So what if he was unwilling, if this was all yet another part of the Armando mask that was infecting Ray? He was hot and horny and high, and the world, and this cop detective, were his for the taking if he wanted it. He was a nasty mobster, an all around bad guy. He could have anything and anyone he wanted and he knew it. He didn't owe the world anything, he just steadily fucked it and laughed while it bled. He was Armando Langoustini, cruel consigliere, ruthless killer, insane and beautiful and--
Bleeding, he was bleeding into it--
Ray was trying to hold him still with his leg, but he couldn't keep him there forever, although Vecchio changed his grip first, moving both hands down to grip the other man's hips. He held him as he pulled out, then wrenched hard down on them, tugged Ray's hips toward his own and pushed back into him. Again.
God, he didn't care any more. He'd done everything he could to make sure it wouldn't hurt, and if Ray wanted to keep it up then so be it, he didn't give a shit if he was walking round sore for weeks after. If he tore something. It wasn't his concern any more--all he wanted, all he cared about was that glorious friction, the heat, the racing of his own pulse, and the flat out vicious race to orgasm.
It had been much more than a year, and he was high, and turned on from the verbal jousting and what equated to gangster foreplay. He wasn't going to last long. But that was fine, neither was Ray. Huffing, his breath ragged pants, but none the less keeping his moans restrained to low throaty noises that gargled in his chest, he kept moving, a slow but rough pace now. He unclamped one hand back from ray's hip, gliding it - still wet with lube - over the head of his restrained cock. ]
Say the word. You know the one I want. Say the word and you can come.
[ Single syllables were so much more functional when it came to restraining his own moans. He couldn't afford to break the illusion now. ]