"We are talking about anger here, Fraser, a human emotion. Are you human? Because if you are, human beings feel things. Okay? They feel anger. They feel love. They feel lust and fear. And sometimes, I know you don't want to hear this, sometimes they even cry."
[Uncomfortable or not, Ray was panting and groaning his way through this. Slumping further into chair as his head rolls back, eyes glazed and staring at the mirrored ceiling to watch their reflections. It was an odd sight, to watch another man drive into him as he stared back at himself, bloodied, wired and ragged, sneering at each jerk of the hips. Armando had the control with his hands at Ray's sides, power to fight against the tightened leg around him, even if it's attempts at stilling him are half-assed and more like an embrace than a resistance. It was hard to fight back like this, when his body is exhausted yet desperate, restrained from too much action by his own hand.
If he could just get an arm free, just to jerk himself off and tug that ring off. If only. Maybe after that he could use that free hand to actually escape, but right now he can't focus on anything but blowing his load. Priorities are difficult to get in order when all the blood he's got has rushed to his swollen cock or is coating himself and the floor, and the coke has got him seeking a constant high no matter what the costs. Sure, coming sounds like a great idea, even if it does mean doing so while he's being quite literally fucked by some Vegas gangster. Come now, worry about the consequences later. If he could just get through this, it might get easier. He hopes it's be easier.
His grunts mingle with throaty moans after each thrust drives into him, hitting deep inside and causing his already shivering muscles to twitch and jerk against his restraints. He can tell Armando's not far from it, not after spending all this time rock hard and ready and only just getting his fill, and yet still the cocksucker is trying to get some level of obedience, even now he's trying to get Ray pleading. And Ray's not far from it at this rate, not when he feels like his cock might explode if he doesn't.
The slick, too hot touch of that hand at the tip of his cock has Ray whining out a frustrated noise, unable to help trying to roll himself up into that touch and then- because he's pissed off and desperate for some sort of satisfaction- grinding down and into those thrusting hips, rolling slightly against them.]
Just- hnn- take it off. I need to...
Fuckin' do it! Asshole!
[It's painful how much he wants it, teased for too long beforehand. He's probably a freak for wanting to come at a time like this, for getting turned on at it all, but right now he doesn't give a shit.]
[ He could pretend 'Asshole' was the word he'd been waiting for, but fuck it, Ray's put himself in this position now. He'd been given the opportunity--do what he's told and he could come. He'd disobeyed. So this is what he gets: he gets to wait, wait and wait, and maybe if he was lucky Armando would take pity on him.
But Christ, to look at him now. Sweating with exertion and need, thrumming with it like the vibrator was still turned on, because - Vecchio knew - he was hitting that spot inside him that made sparks fly, and Ray probably didn't even know why it was happening. He jerked with every snap of Vecchio's hips, tugged and twisted against the restraints like he was desperate for purchase, or to get his hand free. His hair was plastered to his forehead now, his lips swollen and red, and the noises--god, the noises...
He couldn't identify his own, but he knew he wasn't making most of them, mostly because he was still much more in control, less out of it thanks to his longer term exposure to the drugs. Control was life out here in the desert, and Vecchio couldn't afford to let that one slip. So those deep growling moans were his own. They were rhythmic and steady, animalistic, possessive.
The other noises were all Ray. Whimpering, grunting and moaning almost on every thrust, his breathing beautifully ragged. He was coming undone, and the thrill of victory was pushing in on Vecchio now: he'd set out to make Ray come, make him delirious with it, and that was what he'd achieved. All he had to do was take that ring off.
Delirious with it, yes--delirious enough that he was rising into his hand, thrusting down into the pounding jerk of his hips, reciprocating despite himself, out of his mind with it. Good. Good, there was no way in hell he'd think this was him. Only the drugs could have made him do this; only the drugs could have made him into this panting, broken wreck for the cock of a made man, someone who had beaten and humiliated him. There was no other explanation.
Ray stopped being so pretty, or rather Vecchio stopped noticing, because as he came closer, climbing toward that summit, all the reason for him being here sort of bloomed into one blurry mess. All he knew, all that mattered, was that he was going to come, and he had to throw himself into his own ragged, exhausted thrusting, take this welcoming anonymous body under him for all it was worth. His muscles were burning like he'd run a marathon, aching, and yet he kept just ahead of the pain, reaching for the taste of pleasure that was just over the next hill.
He clawed Ray's hip, inadvertently digging his fingertips into the deep cut he'd made there, and then he was reaching bloodied hands for the tie on Ray's left hand, yanking the knot open.
Oh, he was going to lose it--he was going to-- That glorious, overwhelming burn of friction spread out, overwhelmed him, swept rushing into his ears, and Vecchio kept pounding, thrusting, out of his mind with the full width of orgasms edge as pleasure snapped around him, tightening, insistent--yes, yes, yes. And he didn't care. He'd let Ray's hand go, but he didn't care what he did with it.
And then he was coming, coming and coming, it felt like forever, driving just as deep as he could as he spilled hot into that clamping tightness. His exhausted muscles gave way as he strained for just one more thrust, and he found himself falling into blackness and heat, and fuck it, he was probably going to get a knife in the throat but he couldn't move. ]
[So those weren't the words Armando had been looking for. Ray already knew that. He also knew that a simple moment of politeness might have got him coming already rather than stuck with blue balls and frustration as he gets slammed into over and over. But this was all about enduring, lasting until the very end without every giving up, no matter what that asshole had in store. Granted, Ray had initially expected something a little more torturous to his physicality and involving much less sex, but this was still something he wouldn't forget in a hurry, something he'd need to rest and recover from, and it was definitely a successful deterrent, perhaps even more so than any physical beatings.
Ray's overcome with it all, at least self aware enough to realise he was writhing and bucking into this, and aware enough to be entirely ashamed at himself. But he can't help it. Every part of him was tingling like static, shivering violently despite the heat in the room, and craving more of that amazing sensation of just being touched.
It wasn't his fault that he needed more. It wasn't. The drug had fogged his mind and his senses, had wired and wound him up until he needed to bounce off the walls. But left bound and stuck where he was, he was trying to lose that excess steam by writhing and grinding against the body before him. If only he could have some form of release, just once, right now.
There's fingers in that slice against his hip and Ray's hissing his discomfort, jerking away from the hand even as it moves towards his left hand and-- yes, yes, yes. Even with the obvious sight of the knot tugged free, Ray's mind takes a second or two to catch up, distracted as he was by that incessant pounding of hips.
But then he catches on. Then he realises that he's free! Or one hand is, even if he still had the weight of Armando to deal with and his other bound hand. This was a start, this could work, this could get him out of here... except... except his left hand shoots straight for his own cock, thumbing at the ring in the desperation. It's not an easy thing to get off when he's as swollen as he is, but with a final grunt of pain, he flicks it free and immediately curls his fist around his erection.
Armando's still thrusting away, even in the height of his orgasm, and Ray uses that movement to bring himself along, grimacing against the hot spill pushed deep inside. He's been so close for so long that it only takes a few rough jerks to push himself over he edge, hips suddenly jerking sharply into his own hand as comes over himself. He arches and groans his way through it, eyes snapping shut to avoid having to look at himself in that mirror ceiling, and muscles clamping tightly underneath Armando and around him. But Ray doesn't have the liberty of collapsing into a boneless heap at the end of it all, not if he wants out. So, still on the last few twitches of pleasure, he reluctantly releases his grip, drawing his hand back and trying to drive that still stickied fist into the side of Armando's skull. And again. Two swings that don't have Ray's full weight behind them, but make up for it in determination.
With those attempted he's quickly scrambling for the other tie, trying to one handedly get his right arm loose so he can do something. Maybe throw himself at the guy. Whatever, he's not really thinking about what he's going to do, just focused on freedom. Freedom first and then assault or murder or whatever he could get away with.]
[ Okay. So blearily, in the back of his mind, he'd known this was a really fucking bad idea, but he'd been completely out of his head at the time, riding that wave, Ray's muscular body squeezing, squeezing it out of him until the very last, until they're both just covered in blood and come and sweat, and the world is still spinning sidewards thanks to the pure pleasurable agony of release.
He should have been the one paying attention, but instead he'd gotten cocky, figured he'd fought and fucked Ray out, beaten him into groggy submission. Forgot he'd gotten him high too. Wham, and then again, and maybe they weren't prize fighter blows to the head considering Ray had been straining against him for most of the last hour and had the disadvantage of Armando's closeness to contend with, but they were a good effort anyway. They made his head spin, gave him enough of an incentive to pull back, staggering, his legs wobbly underneath him.
Two ways out of this. Get the knife, and probably end up stabbing him in a fight - not what he wanted - or get control of the situation. He got himself more distance first, even though that would let Ray get up, and did a mental assessment of the room. The door, up the stairs, was too far to bolt, and besides it'd leave Ray down here with dozens of lethal weapons not limited to but including his gun. Guns. He'd put them into his jacket pocket, and that was in the neat pile of clothes he'd left when he'd changed into the kimono. Quick thinking, good thinking. Now if only his legs would cooperate enough to keep him steady, crossing the room and digging his hand into the inside of his jacket.
Ray would get free, but he wouldn't go far, he reassured himself, and Vecchio didn't hesitate this time, threw off the safety and brought up the muzzle of the gun. He fired, shot Kowalski's sidearm at him, embedding a bullet in the wall, fracturing mirror glass so that it fell in a rain on the floor behind the torture chair, and then he tried to hold steady with both hands on the gun and his spent cock still half hard between his legs, tried to unleash some kind of level of intimidation even so. ]
Just you fucking freeze, o ti ammazzo tu cretino cazzo di merde! Che cazzo fai, asshole!? The hell d'you think you're doing!? There's no fucking way outta here but through me.
[ His throat felt ragged. Maybe that added to the effect, because he was snarling, blurring into fast Italian he hadn't used between childhood and Vegas and spitting everything he had out in an effort to slow Kowalski down. He'd shoot him if he had to, to save his own life, but fuck. Fuck, he was an idiot. He should have known better.
The gunshot was still ringing in his ears. In the relatively small, enclosed space of the dungeon - even with its soundproofing - it was like being punched in the head all over again. ]
[This wasn't either of their finest moments, they could both admit that. Armando was a fool for releasing Ray without some sort of precaution in place, and Ray... well, he was stupid for even attempting this in the first place. Even if he got himself free, then what? He'd already mentally been through this a hundred times; he didn't know where he was, he was naked, there were probably cameras and goons everywhere and he still didn't have any solid method for getting Fraser back beyond threatening the Feds until something happened. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't resist the opportunity to get out of those bounds that had kept him down for so long, and certainly couldn't resist socking that mafioso in the head.
In one move, or technically two punches, he'd managed to possibly screw it all up, but that still didn't stop him from fumbling with the other tie as Armando staggers back. All through the fiddling of the knot his gaze flicks back and forth, switching between the task and whatever the mobster is up to. He can do this, he's got this, he can still take this guy down, escape the mansion and get back to Fraser. It'd be easy. He was better than this guy and-- shit, he was going to die. Or Fraser was. The coke was wearing far too thin to install the sort of confidence he had at the start of all this, leaving him panting and exhausted as covered in blood, even as he manages to release his right hand and drag himself to his feet.
His legs feel weak, almost collapsing under him for a second as he stumbles forward a step, but then he sees Armando grappling for his jacket and the last thing Ray needs is that dick raising an alarm or getting his hands on a weapon. And so he sucks it up, forgets the pain and exhaustion to try and charge forward, hoping to clear the space and get on top of the other. Except he only manages a few charging steps forward before Bam, his ear drums feel like they've exploded and there's a shattering behind him.
Ray freezes, stopping dead the moment his mind processes that it's a bullet that was just fired, and for a panicked second he has to look down at himself as though he's not quite sure if he's been shot. There's blood everywhere, it's virtually impossible to tell, but no, there's no pain beyond the numbness of those old cuts, and at this range he would have felt the full force of that gun, even with it's size.
Armando knows how to handle a firearm, he already knew that. That shot wasn't a miss, but merely a warning, and it worked. Ray knew better than to argue with a coke fuelled mobster with a gun. One twitch and he could get it.]
Easy, scumbag. You wanted Chicago hard guy. I was just givin' it to you.
[Ray sounds raw, his throat dry from too much growling and coke. His hands lift just above his hips, tiredly weighted in the air, which is a ridiculous gesture in hindsight because he's naked. There's no hidden gun he'll be reaching for in a hurry, but it's an ingrained movement, one that somehow makes him feel safer, like he can tame a beast just by a few carefully placed hand movements.]
[ He felt stupid, his pride hurt, but the stupidness was mostly exhaustion because this whole situation was insane. Maybe if he was the cop he could swim through it on autopilot, but he was trying to use intelligence circuits that at the moment he just didn't possess, and it had been amazing he'd managed to remember the gun let alone use it to stop Ray's attack.
Armando. He had to be Armando. God, Armando would shoot him in the belly and call his guys to take him out to the desert. He couldn't be Armando. He had to be sharper about this, had to get his mind back in the game and stop thinking about how hard it was to hold his shooting stance when his aching legs wanted to collapse underneath him.
But the sense is coming back now. He can see it in Ray's face too, in his submission: he realises what a dumb fucking move he's made. Good. Fuck. God, that had been amazing, amazing sex, nevermind that one of them hadn't wanted it. He hated himself for it, but that orgasm... If only he'd been able to enjoy it for a few seconds longer.
He jerked the gun up carefully, maintaining his control, keeping his finger off the trigger since he was trembling and didn't want to set it off accidentally. The last thing he wanted right now was to shoot Ray by accident. ]
Yeah, sure that's what it is. Not you wanting to rip my cock out through my throat and fuck me with it. Not that at all.
[ He shuddered. It was taking everything he had to keep his arm up, but little by little the wakeful feeling and surging adrenaline of almost getting beaten to death with the nearest object was giving him back all the feeling in his limbs, letting his racing heart return to normal. The music was still playing. ]
Listen. This can be over; done; you and me. We both know beating isn't gonna fuck you up more than you already are, and there's enough surface scratches to make you look real good for Mikey too, so how about you be a good little piece of ass and get in that cage. [ He cocked his head over to one side, indicating it. ] We can have a little chat about how this rescue is going to go down and then I leave you be, let you sleep it off, shower your come off me and maybe even give you back your clothes.
[ Maybe it was too lenient considering the attack on his person, but Ray was exhausted and Armando was too. He could pull it off as mercy. ]
Then you leave. You get to tell a nice story about how I tortured you for three hours and you didn't break, I get to tell my guys how I fucked you with an Italian sausage and then fed it to the state's attorney. Cause the alternative, right now, is I shoot you and leave you to bleed to death. I can't deny I'm thinking about it.
[Armando's trembling, but so is Ray. It's nothing to do with fear (although he won't deny a certain amount of self-preservation shivering through him), but the cumulation of the exhausting hour they've just had, mixing itself with coke and adrenaline were making his senses go haywire. It really didn't help that Ray was an anxious enough guy as it is. Yeah, nerves. He gets them a lot. Especially when bleeding and exhausted in some mafia sex dungeon with a gun pointed at him after he's just decked the guy in the head. Twice. The coke was starting to have the opposite effect from earlier, or maybe that's just sheer tiredness on his behalf, but right now all he wanted to do was lay down and give up.
Just do what you want, just make sure to tuck him into bed afterwards.
He's half expecting some drastic ultimatum or a bullet to some not immediately lethal part of his body, but it never quite comes, and he knows he should probably consider himself lucky that he's not already writhing around on the ground with a shattered knee joint or some such, but he can't help the roll of his eyes as the negotiating happens. Well, hardly negotiating considering Armando has the upper hand in all of this, which is why this still seems a little too surprising that Ray isn't already dead or seriously injured.
But he'll go with it. He'll stand there on jittering legs as he doggedly tries to ignored all the blood and come stuck to his body, and the far too discomforting feeling of that same sticky warmth dribbling down the inside of his thigh. He'll forget all that for the sake of keeping the rest of himself intact and bullet free, and assume this Armando guy must really, really want Fraser out of the picture with Ray's aid.]
The cage?
[Oh, so not only does he have to endure being cut, fucked and objectified as a 'piece of ass', he now has to sit in some cage that looks like it belongs in a kinky strip club. But hell, who is he to argue with a guy who's got a gun shakily pointed at him? Perhaps the next shot from it won't be a miss.
So that obedience creeps back into him, still an obvious reluctance even as he tiredly moves towards the mass of bars, placing himself inside and shutting the door behind him. It's okay, he can cope with this. No different than catching some Z's in the slammer, even if this was much more confined than that.]
Just don't expect any dancin', cause you can go fuck yourself with that.
[Mumbled, like he'd rather be asleep right now, but that might just be humiliation as much as anything. He already hates himself enough as it is, he'd just really rather chick his clothes back on and crawl into a corner somewhere. He needs to forget this, put it out of his mind and focus on why he originally came.]
[ Down sucked. Down was awful. Down was paranoia and pain and the detailed world getting all crummy round the edges. It was exhaustion as the adrenaline wore off and a sick queasy feeling, but that was what the buttermilk was for. When the cage clinked shut, the electronic lock automatically activating, he allowed himself to relax, and his body did the rest. His legs folded underneath him, and he sat on the floor, the gun on the ground in front of him, and just for a moment demonstrated he was human, exhaling tension, running his hands back through his almost-hair. ]
Other than blue balls? You really know how to ruin an orgasm, huh?
[ He was almost too tired to be a smartass, let alone a wise guy, but there was business to do, and he scrubbed all the feeling back into his eyeballs, then dropped his hands onto his knees, looking back at Ray through the bars. ]
The FBI run out of the Royale. They have a thing where they look the other way or something, don't ask me what it is, but they operate out of Vegas, so they're going to put up somewhere, and they switch it up sometimes, pretend they keep us on our toes. Idiots. If they were real smart they'd get on the housing market, there's a boom going on in these parts. Land; they ain't making any more of it.
[ He scrubbed at his nose. It was running, but when was that ever a surprise? Really, this job had its perks but it was ruining him for being a regular human being. ]
They have him in 1507. That's up on the penthouse level--which is actually three penthouse levels, because people come to Vegas to hemorrhage money, and they start on the hotel room. Now they have two guys guarding it; they take turns, but your guy is real regular about sleeping. There's at least one more works at the front desk, but their operatives are out working most of the day, following us around town wasting government money.
So that's where I come in. Me and a couple of mine, we'll go shake up the guys at the Royale, make a scene. It's a big deal to the Feds, and if something goes down they'll want all hands on deck. They won't be thinking of your cooperative Mountie friend. Joe Casey or whoever it is gets called off guard duty, and you slip in, open the door, and then you get right out of town; they won't even know you were there.
Now you can do that, right? Cause if I have to disappear him it's gonna be less pretty.
[ It was a simple plan, really. Couldn't go wrong. So long as Ray didn't bring Fraser back through the lobby as he was escaping. He wouldn't be that dumb, though; that'd mean having to slip him out right under the noses of the FBI. Fraser, though--well, Fraser was that dumb. He was the loose cannon in all this. ]
You got any questions? And if you say "what does Langoustini mean" I'm gonna keep your tongue as a fucking souvenir.
[Down was exactly where Ray was headed, and that really didn't seem like a great place to be when locked in a cage in a dark and dreary dungeon with stifling heat and blood congealing all over him. If paranoia was going to hit him, then he'd get hit with it hard. He gets nervous, that can't be helped, but it's just nerves and anxiety didn't always mix great with drugs, especially the after effects of them. Shit, as if things weren't bad enough already.
As the door clangs shut behind him, and he watches Armando drop to the floor almost immediately following it, Ray considers that to be a pretty good idea. He's weak and exhausted, especially with the added bonus of the kick of adrenaline slowly leaving his body, so he finds the furtherest 'corner' away from the gangster that he can and settles down into it heavily.
Despite the heat he's shivering, staring reluctantly back at the other as he listens to the proposed plan. It's not something he can argue with. This guy already had it planned out and he knows it far better than Ray ever could. Ray doesn't know Vegas or the Vegas Feds.
He'd just have to suck it up and go along with it for Fraser's sake. Anything to get the Mountie back to Chicago and out of the hair of both the Feds and all the Vegas families, because of course Benton had managed to stir up trouble here, of course he had. That's what he does wherever he goes. Nothing is ever simple when Benton Fraser was involved.]
I got it. Go have yer fuckin' shower and leave me in peace.
[Because right now Ray just wants to curl up in a ball and preferably sleep. Or just ride out the downer that could be days. It's going to be weeks before he's right again, and that's not even counting mentally.
The curling up happens, the sleep? Well, that might come. Or he might just lay there for the next few hours and wait.]
[ Vecchio pauses, droopy eyed, watching for just a few moments as Ray curls up in the back of the cage, and he feels a stab of pity for the guy. Hard as he might be, this is just another thing he's going to be carrying around with him, a scar that nobody would ever see, that he'd never talk about or confront. Just for a second he looked really broken, and Ray had to worry that he'd done too much, pushed too far. As he stood, he looked down at him quietly, and for a moment - since Ray was curled up tight - he let his expression become unguarded.
Fraser would help. He didn't know how, but Fraser would notice something had changed. He could be a pain in the ass sometimes, he could suck when a friend was hurting just as much as he could step in to be strong for them, but he was at least perceptive, and hell, maybe he knew this guy better than Vecchio had let Fraser know him. His replacement did seem to wear his emotions on his sleeve, no matter his efforts to hide them. If anything, his hard guy act only made his soft side easier to see through to.
He scrubbed at his neck, then became aware of his throbbing, aching hand, and decided to go ahead and get out of there. A shower would be a good start. He'd call his doctor first, clean off the filth and then get his hand seen to and stitched up while the pain was still all numbed out.
He saw to it, turned off the music on his way out so that Ray might stand a chance of sleeping, and two hours later was escorting his guys into the pool room, sharing stories with them, laughing and mocking the ravaged cop in the downstairs dungeon. At last he gathered up Ray's clothes, waving his hand for them to stay. ]
Nah, enjoy your drinks, I'll deal with this.
[ And he slipped back downstairs, heading over to the cage and dropping the clothes in through the bars. He fetched a washcloth too. ]
Wash the come off, leave the blood. And when you come out keep your head down, don't try and hide how much it hurts. It's in your best interests if they think I'm the baddest, meanest mafankulo you've ever had the displeasure of meeting. I don't want to have to strip you down and do it again in front of them just to make my point.
[ He reached in through the cage bars, brushed his good hand briefly through Ray's hair and just as quickly snatched it away. ]
They'll drive you out and put you on the side of the road somewhere, you'll have your firearm returned to you. As for your friend, watch the lobby tomorrow morning. Alright.
[ He swung open the cage door and backed up a step. He wasn't armed, not this time, except with a sausage, but then he didn't need to be. There were guys waiting upstairs, and Ray really needed his cooperation now. With the drugs at least worn off, he oughtn't to be wired enough to attack just for the sake of it. ]
Come on. Sooner you get out of here, sooner I can get back to making money. Oh, and hold this. [ He passed him the sausage. ] When we get upstairs throw it to the short shifty looking one, make sure he catches it. I'm gonna tell him I fucked you with it.
[ He really hated that little bastard; it'd be worth it. ]
[Once on that flat surface, Ray didn't move. Didn't even care what Armando was up to behind him or whether he was tempted to approach yet again. If that cage door opened, he may well try his luck one last time, but for now, curled up in a ball on the floor seemed like the most comfortable and irresistible spot in the world. His ears are still perked, listening for movement, but there's no reaction as Armando, and only the vaguest lifts of his head as he hears footsteps retreat upstairs, only to check he was left alone, head dropping heavily back down the moment he's assured he's alone. There could be cameras, he doesn't discount that, but it doesn't really matter when he's not going to fucking move no matter what.
Briefly he considers checking over his wounds, but the lighting wasn't good enough for it and there was no point agitating wounds that were already sealing themselves up quite effectively. Moving was just going to aggravate them. Might as well just lay still.
There's nothing to register how long he's been there, or if he even fell asleep, but after Armando leaves, the next thing he recalls is him arriving again amidst a distant murmur of voices. Ray doesn't move at first, teeth gritted as he half expects something to happen, skin cringing just slightly as he hears the rustle of fabric pushed through the bars but staying unmoving until that brush of a touch through his hair.
He wishes he'd been ready for it, really, just to be able to sink his teeth into a hand again, but instead he's left slowly uncurling and pushing himself to his feet just in time to witness the cage opening. Freedom. A chance to escape. But what the fuck was the point in 'escape' now when he was being released anyway? The worst of it had already come, and if they did intend to kill him on the drive back... well he could sort that out when it came, but it seemed counter productive considering Armando's need to get rid of the Mountie.
After staggering on his feet for a second and trying to readjust his bearings to being vertical again, Ray slowly reaches for the wash cloth and then his clothing, dabbing himself slightly cleaner and then dressing himself with all the delicacy of someone who's got plenty of injuries to show for themselves. He avoids bending down when he can and refuses to face the other as he moves to hide any obvious instinctual flinches or winces. He's fine. He's good. He'd heal, but that mobster had a point. No point trying to act the hard guy in front of those men if the entire point was to portray three hours of agony.
Slowly he steps out of the cage, grunting as he moves his arm just a little too quickly to catch the thrown item, and then pausing to look down at it and register just what the point of it is.]
You're a sick fuck.
[But whatever, he's moving for the stairs, heading up them with some obvious stiffness that only increases as he approaches the top, just to give the goons a show. There's already blood seeping through his relatively thin shirt, but that couldn't be helped, it'd help add to the sight of him being bruised and battered. By the time he's out of that basement, he's staggering to the nearest wall while flinging that sausage at what looked to be the smallest member. Armando better fucking appreciate the play along, Ray's only doing it for the sake of easy cooperation to get the fuck out of this place.]
[ They emerged back into the bright Vegas afternoon, so little changed from where they'd gone below ground into the depths of sweaty hell. Back in the cool embrace of the Adobe built house with its naturally cooling walls and the blessed reprieve that was central air, Ray let himself exhale some of the tension he'd been feeling. The ordeal really was over. This guy would be taken safely away, his reputation would benefit from the experience, and more importantly he'd sleep well tonight knowing that in the morning Fraser would be leaving Vegas forever.
Ray played along, a real demonstration of cooperation considering where they'd started, and he'd use it as reference later on. Cowed him into submission, terrified of him, and who could really blame the guy? He'd gone in kicking and spitting and screaming, and now here he was following orders like all the other good little Vegas piggies.
The started goon who'd caught the sausage now stared at it, then back at Armando, and Vecchio poured off another stream of clipped Italian and laughed, but the poor guy didn't understand. At last, completing the joke, the older guy - Si - provided a translation in English, and the young man flipped the sausage into the air and jumped six feet away from it. There were laughs all around then, except for from Armando who now looked deadly still and serious. ]
Hey, pick that up. There's little kids starving to death and you're wasting food? For shame. Besides, the States Attorney is coming for dinner and you know how he likes his pork sausage. Kitchen. [ He gestured. ] Then have the driver get the car running.
He's a hothead. [ He went on, when the younger man had left with the sausage in hand. ] I want you with him. Cop's no good to me dead now, I put too much work into him. So you make sure he gets put out on the patrol route. Leave him water and give him his shit back, and make sure that little cocksucker doesn't think he's doing me any smart favors. I need this guy.
[ Si nodded, then stepped out after the other guy, leaving Armando with two nameless thugs he could care less about. He turned back to Ray, stepping back over toward him and clasping his head in both hands, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. It was more menacing than remotely sexual. Like it said "I could kill you right now but I choose not to."
He looked him square in the eye, still holding Ray's head. ]
If all goes well, Detective, we'll never see each other again. If it doesn't--well, you'll visit that room once more, and the last thing you'll see is the vultures picking out your friend's eyes right before they peck out your own. You take care now, Ray.
And yet dealing with humiliation was almost as difficult as anything that had come before. Ray hated it. He hated being seen as incapable. Hated having those scumbags laughing and joking about it all.
It was for the best that he was exhausted and stuck on a downer. He could fight this but it felt like far too much effort and something he was barely capable of right now. It'd be a waste anyway. Trying to lash out at this lot now would make the last few hours completely useless. He'd cooperated because he knew it was one of the only ways to get Fraser back to Chicago, and he'd continue to cooperate until that happened.
The vague cooperation didn't stop his lips curling into a tired snarl as Armando got near, teeth clenched at that press of lips, amazed at his own self-restraint. The fact he resists hitting that guy is a miracle, but it's all for Fraser.]
Be seein' you, scumbag.
[He mutters back, barely audible but showing enough physical compliance that he manages to make it look more like a vague agreement than any threat to the audience. Let those idiots think what they will, Armando knows that Ray would rip his head off right now if it weren't for that fucking Mountie.
And it's that fucking Mountie that has Kowalski willingly led away by Si, hunched and suitably injured for the sake of the viewers, but still ready to spring into self defence at a moments notice. There's that temptation to think about shooting the guys the second his gun is returned, or even attacking with fists if it's returned bulletless, but yet again: that fucking Mountie.
Fuck it, he'd stand on some dusty Vegas road and flag down cars if he needed to, all far the sake of Fraser.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
If he could just get an arm free, just to jerk himself off and tug that ring off. If only. Maybe after that he could use that free hand to actually escape, but right now he can't focus on anything but blowing his load. Priorities are difficult to get in order when all the blood he's got has rushed to his swollen cock or is coating himself and the floor, and the coke has got him seeking a constant high no matter what the costs. Sure, coming sounds like a great idea, even if it does mean doing so while he's being quite literally fucked by some Vegas gangster. Come now, worry about the consequences later. If he could just get through this, it might get easier. He hopes it's be easier.
His grunts mingle with throaty moans after each thrust drives into him, hitting deep inside and causing his already shivering muscles to twitch and jerk against his restraints. He can tell Armando's not far from it, not after spending all this time rock hard and ready and only just getting his fill, and yet still the cocksucker is trying to get some level of obedience, even now he's trying to get Ray pleading. And Ray's not far from it at this rate, not when he feels like his cock might explode if he doesn't.
The slick, too hot touch of that hand at the tip of his cock has Ray whining out a frustrated noise, unable to help trying to roll himself up into that touch and then- because he's pissed off and desperate for some sort of satisfaction- grinding down and into those thrusting hips, rolling slightly against them.]
Just- hnn- take it off. I need to...
Fuckin' do it! Asshole!
[It's painful how much he wants it, teased for too long beforehand. He's probably a freak for wanting to come at a time like this, for getting turned on at it all, but right now he doesn't give a shit.]
no subject
But Christ, to look at him now. Sweating with exertion and need, thrumming with it like the vibrator was still turned on, because - Vecchio knew - he was hitting that spot inside him that made sparks fly, and Ray probably didn't even know why it was happening. He jerked with every snap of Vecchio's hips, tugged and twisted against the restraints like he was desperate for purchase, or to get his hand free. His hair was plastered to his forehead now, his lips swollen and red, and the noises--god, the noises...
He couldn't identify his own, but he knew he wasn't making most of them, mostly because he was still much more in control, less out of it thanks to his longer term exposure to the drugs. Control was life out here in the desert, and Vecchio couldn't afford to let that one slip. So those deep growling moans were his own. They were rhythmic and steady, animalistic, possessive.
The other noises were all Ray. Whimpering, grunting and moaning almost on every thrust, his breathing beautifully ragged. He was coming undone, and the thrill of victory was pushing in on Vecchio now: he'd set out to make Ray come, make him delirious with it, and that was what he'd achieved. All he had to do was take that ring off.
Delirious with it, yes--delirious enough that he was rising into his hand, thrusting down into the pounding jerk of his hips, reciprocating despite himself, out of his mind with it. Good. Good, there was no way in hell he'd think this was him. Only the drugs could have made him do this; only the drugs could have made him into this panting, broken wreck for the cock of a made man, someone who had beaten and humiliated him. There was no other explanation.
Ray stopped being so pretty, or rather Vecchio stopped noticing, because as he came closer, climbing toward that summit, all the reason for him being here sort of bloomed into one blurry mess. All he knew, all that mattered, was that he was going to come, and he had to throw himself into his own ragged, exhausted thrusting, take this welcoming anonymous body under him for all it was worth. His muscles were burning like he'd run a marathon, aching, and yet he kept just ahead of the pain, reaching for the taste of pleasure that was just over the next hill.
He clawed Ray's hip, inadvertently digging his fingertips into the deep cut he'd made there, and then he was reaching bloodied hands for the tie on Ray's left hand, yanking the knot open.
Oh, he was going to lose it--he was going to-- That glorious, overwhelming burn of friction spread out, overwhelmed him, swept rushing into his ears, and Vecchio kept pounding, thrusting, out of his mind with the full width of orgasms edge as pleasure snapped around him, tightening, insistent--yes, yes, yes. And he didn't care. He'd let Ray's hand go, but he didn't care what he did with it.
And then he was coming, coming and coming, it felt like forever, driving just as deep as he could as he spilled hot into that clamping tightness. His exhausted muscles gave way as he strained for just one more thrust, and he found himself falling into blackness and heat, and fuck it, he was probably going to get a knife in the throat but he couldn't move. ]
no subject
Ray's overcome with it all, at least self aware enough to realise he was writhing and bucking into this, and aware enough to be entirely ashamed at himself. But he can't help it. Every part of him was tingling like static, shivering violently despite the heat in the room, and craving more of that amazing sensation of just being touched.
It wasn't his fault that he needed more. It wasn't. The drug had fogged his mind and his senses, had wired and wound him up until he needed to bounce off the walls. But left bound and stuck where he was, he was trying to lose that excess steam by writhing and grinding against the body before him. If only he could have some form of release, just once, right now.
There's fingers in that slice against his hip and Ray's hissing his discomfort, jerking away from the hand even as it moves towards his left hand and-- yes, yes, yes. Even with the obvious sight of the knot tugged free, Ray's mind takes a second or two to catch up, distracted as he was by that incessant pounding of hips.
But then he catches on. Then he realises that he's free! Or one hand is, even if he still had the weight of Armando to deal with and his other bound hand. This was a start, this could work, this could get him out of here... except... except his left hand shoots straight for his own cock, thumbing at the ring in the desperation. It's not an easy thing to get off when he's as swollen as he is, but with a final grunt of pain, he flicks it free and immediately curls his fist around his erection.
Armando's still thrusting away, even in the height of his orgasm, and Ray uses that movement to bring himself along, grimacing against the hot spill pushed deep inside. He's been so close for so long that it only takes a few rough jerks to push himself over he edge, hips suddenly jerking sharply into his own hand as comes over himself. He arches and groans his way through it, eyes snapping shut to avoid having to look at himself in that mirror ceiling, and muscles clamping tightly underneath Armando and around him. But Ray doesn't have the liberty of collapsing into a boneless heap at the end of it all, not if he wants out. So, still on the last few twitches of pleasure, he reluctantly releases his grip, drawing his hand back and trying to drive that still stickied fist into the side of Armando's skull. And again. Two swings that don't have Ray's full weight behind them, but make up for it in determination.
With those attempted he's quickly scrambling for the other tie, trying to one handedly get his right arm loose so he can do something. Maybe throw himself at the guy. Whatever, he's not really thinking about what he's going to do, just focused on freedom. Freedom first and then assault or murder or whatever he could get away with.]
no subject
He should have been the one paying attention, but instead he'd gotten cocky, figured he'd fought and fucked Ray out, beaten him into groggy submission. Forgot he'd gotten him high too. Wham, and then again, and maybe they weren't prize fighter blows to the head considering Ray had been straining against him for most of the last hour and had the disadvantage of Armando's closeness to contend with, but they were a good effort anyway. They made his head spin, gave him enough of an incentive to pull back, staggering, his legs wobbly underneath him.
Two ways out of this. Get the knife, and probably end up stabbing him in a fight - not what he wanted - or get control of the situation. He got himself more distance first, even though that would let Ray get up, and did a mental assessment of the room. The door, up the stairs, was too far to bolt, and besides it'd leave Ray down here with dozens of lethal weapons not limited to but including his gun. Guns. He'd put them into his jacket pocket, and that was in the neat pile of clothes he'd left when he'd changed into the kimono. Quick thinking, good thinking. Now if only his legs would cooperate enough to keep him steady, crossing the room and digging his hand into the inside of his jacket.
Ray would get free, but he wouldn't go far, he reassured himself, and Vecchio didn't hesitate this time, threw off the safety and brought up the muzzle of the gun. He fired, shot Kowalski's sidearm at him, embedding a bullet in the wall, fracturing mirror glass so that it fell in a rain on the floor behind the torture chair, and then he tried to hold steady with both hands on the gun and his spent cock still half hard between his legs, tried to unleash some kind of level of intimidation even so. ]
Just you fucking freeze, o ti ammazzo tu cretino cazzo di merde! Che cazzo fai, asshole!? The hell d'you think you're doing!? There's no fucking way outta here but through me.
[ His throat felt ragged. Maybe that added to the effect, because he was snarling, blurring into fast Italian he hadn't used between childhood and Vegas and spitting everything he had out in an effort to slow Kowalski down. He'd shoot him if he had to, to save his own life, but fuck. Fuck, he was an idiot. He should have known better.
The gunshot was still ringing in his ears. In the relatively small, enclosed space of the dungeon - even with its soundproofing - it was like being punched in the head all over again. ]
no subject
In one move, or technically two punches, he'd managed to possibly screw it all up, but that still didn't stop him from fumbling with the other tie as Armando staggers back. All through the fiddling of the knot his gaze flicks back and forth, switching between the task and whatever the mobster is up to. He can do this, he's got this, he can still take this guy down, escape the mansion and get back to Fraser. It'd be easy. He was better than this guy and-- shit, he was going to die. Or Fraser was. The coke was wearing far too thin to install the sort of confidence he had at the start of all this, leaving him panting and exhausted as covered in blood, even as he manages to release his right hand and drag himself to his feet.
His legs feel weak, almost collapsing under him for a second as he stumbles forward a step, but then he sees Armando grappling for his jacket and the last thing Ray needs is that dick raising an alarm or getting his hands on a weapon. And so he sucks it up, forgets the pain and exhaustion to try and charge forward, hoping to clear the space and get on top of the other. Except he only manages a few charging steps forward before Bam, his ear drums feel like they've exploded and there's a shattering behind him.
Ray freezes, stopping dead the moment his mind processes that it's a bullet that was just fired, and for a panicked second he has to look down at himself as though he's not quite sure if he's been shot. There's blood everywhere, it's virtually impossible to tell, but no, there's no pain beyond the numbness of those old cuts, and at this range he would have felt the full force of that gun, even with it's size.
Armando knows how to handle a firearm, he already knew that. That shot wasn't a miss, but merely a warning, and it worked. Ray knew better than to argue with a coke fuelled mobster with a gun. One twitch and he could get it.]
Easy, scumbag. You wanted Chicago hard guy. I was just givin' it to you.
[Ray sounds raw, his throat dry from too much growling and coke. His hands lift just above his hips, tiredly weighted in the air, which is a ridiculous gesture in hindsight because he's naked. There's no hidden gun he'll be reaching for in a hurry, but it's an ingrained movement, one that somehow makes him feel safer, like he can tame a beast just by a few carefully placed hand movements.]
no subject
Armando. He had to be Armando. God, Armando would shoot him in the belly and call his guys to take him out to the desert. He couldn't be Armando. He had to be sharper about this, had to get his mind back in the game and stop thinking about how hard it was to hold his shooting stance when his aching legs wanted to collapse underneath him.
But the sense is coming back now. He can see it in Ray's face too, in his submission: he realises what a dumb fucking move he's made. Good. Fuck. God, that had been amazing, amazing sex, nevermind that one of them hadn't wanted it. He hated himself for it, but that orgasm... If only he'd been able to enjoy it for a few seconds longer.
He jerked the gun up carefully, maintaining his control, keeping his finger off the trigger since he was trembling and didn't want to set it off accidentally. The last thing he wanted right now was to shoot Ray by accident. ]
Yeah, sure that's what it is. Not you wanting to rip my cock out through my throat and fuck me with it. Not that at all.
[ He shuddered. It was taking everything he had to keep his arm up, but little by little the wakeful feeling and surging adrenaline of almost getting beaten to death with the nearest object was giving him back all the feeling in his limbs, letting his racing heart return to normal. The music was still playing. ]
Listen. This can be over; done; you and me. We both know beating isn't gonna fuck you up more than you already are, and there's enough surface scratches to make you look real good for Mikey too, so how about you be a good little piece of ass and get in that cage. [ He cocked his head over to one side, indicating it. ] We can have a little chat about how this rescue is going to go down and then I leave you be, let you sleep it off, shower your come off me and maybe even give you back your clothes.
[ Maybe it was too lenient considering the attack on his person, but Ray was exhausted and Armando was too. He could pull it off as mercy. ]
Then you leave. You get to tell a nice story about how I tortured you for three hours and you didn't break, I get to tell my guys how I fucked you with an Italian sausage and then fed it to the state's attorney. Cause the alternative, right now, is I shoot you and leave you to bleed to death. I can't deny I'm thinking about it.
So do we have a deal or not?
no subject
Just do what you want, just make sure to tuck him into bed afterwards.
He's half expecting some drastic ultimatum or a bullet to some not immediately lethal part of his body, but it never quite comes, and he knows he should probably consider himself lucky that he's not already writhing around on the ground with a shattered knee joint or some such, but he can't help the roll of his eyes as the negotiating happens. Well, hardly negotiating considering Armando has the upper hand in all of this, which is why this still seems a little too surprising that Ray isn't already dead or seriously injured.
But he'll go with it. He'll stand there on jittering legs as he doggedly tries to ignored all the blood and come stuck to his body, and the far too discomforting feeling of that same sticky warmth dribbling down the inside of his thigh. He'll forget all that for the sake of keeping the rest of himself intact and bullet free, and assume this Armando guy must really, really want Fraser out of the picture with Ray's aid.]
The cage?
[Oh, so not only does he have to endure being cut, fucked and objectified as a 'piece of ass', he now has to sit in some cage that looks like it belongs in a kinky strip club. But hell, who is he to argue with a guy who's got a gun shakily pointed at him? Perhaps the next shot from it won't be a miss.
So that obedience creeps back into him, still an obvious reluctance even as he tiredly moves towards the mass of bars, placing himself inside and shutting the door behind him. It's okay, he can cope with this. No different than catching some Z's in the slammer, even if this was much more confined than that.]
Just don't expect any dancin', cause you can go fuck yourself with that.
[Mumbled, like he'd rather be asleep right now, but that might just be humiliation as much as anything. He already hates himself enough as it is, he'd just really rather chick his clothes back on and crawl into a corner somewhere. He needs to forget this, put it out of his mind and focus on why he originally came.]
So what you got, asshole?
no subject
Other than blue balls? You really know how to ruin an orgasm, huh?
[ He was almost too tired to be a smartass, let alone a wise guy, but there was business to do, and he scrubbed all the feeling back into his eyeballs, then dropped his hands onto his knees, looking back at Ray through the bars. ]
The FBI run out of the Royale. They have a thing where they look the other way or something, don't ask me what it is, but they operate out of Vegas, so they're going to put up somewhere, and they switch it up sometimes, pretend they keep us on our toes. Idiots. If they were real smart they'd get on the housing market, there's a boom going on in these parts. Land; they ain't making any more of it.
[ He scrubbed at his nose. It was running, but when was that ever a surprise? Really, this job had its perks but it was ruining him for being a regular human being. ]
They have him in 1507. That's up on the penthouse level--which is actually three penthouse levels, because people come to Vegas to hemorrhage money, and they start on the hotel room. Now they have two guys guarding it; they take turns, but your guy is real regular about sleeping. There's at least one more works at the front desk, but their operatives are out working most of the day, following us around town wasting government money.
So that's where I come in. Me and a couple of mine, we'll go shake up the guys at the Royale, make a scene. It's a big deal to the Feds, and if something goes down they'll want all hands on deck. They won't be thinking of your cooperative Mountie friend. Joe Casey or whoever it is gets called off guard duty, and you slip in, open the door, and then you get right out of town; they won't even know you were there.
Now you can do that, right? Cause if I have to disappear him it's gonna be less pretty.
[ It was a simple plan, really. Couldn't go wrong. So long as Ray didn't bring Fraser back through the lobby as he was escaping. He wouldn't be that dumb, though; that'd mean having to slip him out right under the noses of the FBI. Fraser, though--well, Fraser was that dumb. He was the loose cannon in all this. ]
You got any questions? And if you say "what does Langoustini mean" I'm gonna keep your tongue as a fucking souvenir.
no subject
As the door clangs shut behind him, and he watches Armando drop to the floor almost immediately following it, Ray considers that to be a pretty good idea. He's weak and exhausted, especially with the added bonus of the kick of adrenaline slowly leaving his body, so he finds the furtherest 'corner' away from the gangster that he can and settles down into it heavily.
Despite the heat he's shivering, staring reluctantly back at the other as he listens to the proposed plan. It's not something he can argue with. This guy already had it planned out and he knows it far better than Ray ever could. Ray doesn't know Vegas or the Vegas Feds.
He'd just have to suck it up and go along with it for Fraser's sake. Anything to get the Mountie back to Chicago and out of the hair of both the Feds and all the Vegas families, because of course Benton had managed to stir up trouble here, of course he had. That's what he does wherever he goes. Nothing is ever simple when Benton Fraser was involved.]
I got it. Go have yer fuckin' shower and leave me in peace.
[Because right now Ray just wants to curl up in a ball and preferably sleep. Or just ride out the downer that could be days. It's going to be weeks before he's right again, and that's not even counting mentally.
The curling up happens, the sleep? Well, that might come. Or he might just lay there for the next few hours and wait.]
no subject
Fraser would help. He didn't know how, but Fraser would notice something had changed. He could be a pain in the ass sometimes, he could suck when a friend was hurting just as much as he could step in to be strong for them, but he was at least perceptive, and hell, maybe he knew this guy better than Vecchio had let Fraser know him. His replacement did seem to wear his emotions on his sleeve, no matter his efforts to hide them. If anything, his hard guy act only made his soft side easier to see through to.
He scrubbed at his neck, then became aware of his throbbing, aching hand, and decided to go ahead and get out of there. A shower would be a good start. He'd call his doctor first, clean off the filth and then get his hand seen to and stitched up while the pain was still all numbed out.
He saw to it, turned off the music on his way out so that Ray might stand a chance of sleeping, and two hours later was escorting his guys into the pool room, sharing stories with them, laughing and mocking the ravaged cop in the downstairs dungeon. At last he gathered up Ray's clothes, waving his hand for them to stay. ]
Nah, enjoy your drinks, I'll deal with this.
[ And he slipped back downstairs, heading over to the cage and dropping the clothes in through the bars. He fetched a washcloth too. ]
Wash the come off, leave the blood. And when you come out keep your head down, don't try and hide how much it hurts. It's in your best interests if they think I'm the baddest, meanest mafankulo you've ever had the displeasure of meeting. I don't want to have to strip you down and do it again in front of them just to make my point.
[ He reached in through the cage bars, brushed his good hand briefly through Ray's hair and just as quickly snatched it away. ]
They'll drive you out and put you on the side of the road somewhere, you'll have your firearm returned to you. As for your friend, watch the lobby tomorrow morning. Alright.
[ He swung open the cage door and backed up a step. He wasn't armed, not this time, except with a sausage, but then he didn't need to be. There were guys waiting upstairs, and Ray really needed his cooperation now. With the drugs at least worn off, he oughtn't to be wired enough to attack just for the sake of it. ]
Come on. Sooner you get out of here, sooner I can get back to making money. Oh, and hold this. [ He passed him the sausage. ] When we get upstairs throw it to the short shifty looking one, make sure he catches it. I'm gonna tell him I fucked you with it.
[ He really hated that little bastard; it'd be worth it. ]
no subject
Briefly he considers checking over his wounds, but the lighting wasn't good enough for it and there was no point agitating wounds that were already sealing themselves up quite effectively. Moving was just going to aggravate them. Might as well just lay still.
There's nothing to register how long he's been there, or if he even fell asleep, but after Armando leaves, the next thing he recalls is him arriving again amidst a distant murmur of voices. Ray doesn't move at first, teeth gritted as he half expects something to happen, skin cringing just slightly as he hears the rustle of fabric pushed through the bars but staying unmoving until that brush of a touch through his hair.
He wishes he'd been ready for it, really, just to be able to sink his teeth into a hand again, but instead he's left slowly uncurling and pushing himself to his feet just in time to witness the cage opening. Freedom. A chance to escape. But what the fuck was the point in 'escape' now when he was being released anyway? The worst of it had already come, and if they did intend to kill him on the drive back... well he could sort that out when it came, but it seemed counter productive considering Armando's need to get rid of the Mountie.
After staggering on his feet for a second and trying to readjust his bearings to being vertical again, Ray slowly reaches for the wash cloth and then his clothing, dabbing himself slightly cleaner and then dressing himself with all the delicacy of someone who's got plenty of injuries to show for themselves. He avoids bending down when he can and refuses to face the other as he moves to hide any obvious instinctual flinches or winces. He's fine. He's good. He'd heal, but that mobster had a point. No point trying to act the hard guy in front of those men if the entire point was to portray three hours of agony.
Slowly he steps out of the cage, grunting as he moves his arm just a little too quickly to catch the thrown item, and then pausing to look down at it and register just what the point of it is.]
You're a sick fuck.
[But whatever, he's moving for the stairs, heading up them with some obvious stiffness that only increases as he approaches the top, just to give the goons a show. There's already blood seeping through his relatively thin shirt, but that couldn't be helped, it'd help add to the sight of him being bruised and battered. By the time he's out of that basement, he's staggering to the nearest wall while flinging that sausage at what looked to be the smallest member. Armando better fucking appreciate the play along, Ray's only doing it for the sake of easy cooperation to get the fuck out of this place.]
no subject
[ They emerged back into the bright Vegas afternoon, so little changed from where they'd gone below ground into the depths of sweaty hell. Back in the cool embrace of the Adobe built house with its naturally cooling walls and the blessed reprieve that was central air, Ray let himself exhale some of the tension he'd been feeling. The ordeal really was over. This guy would be taken safely away, his reputation would benefit from the experience, and more importantly he'd sleep well tonight knowing that in the morning Fraser would be leaving Vegas forever.
Ray played along, a real demonstration of cooperation considering where they'd started, and he'd use it as reference later on. Cowed him into submission, terrified of him, and who could really blame the guy? He'd gone in kicking and spitting and screaming, and now here he was following orders like all the other good little Vegas piggies.
The started goon who'd caught the sausage now stared at it, then back at Armando, and Vecchio poured off another stream of clipped Italian and laughed, but the poor guy didn't understand. At last, completing the joke, the older guy - Si - provided a translation in English, and the young man flipped the sausage into the air and jumped six feet away from it. There were laughs all around then, except for from Armando who now looked deadly still and serious. ]
Hey, pick that up. There's little kids starving to death and you're wasting food? For shame. Besides, the States Attorney is coming for dinner and you know how he likes his pork sausage. Kitchen. [ He gestured. ] Then have the driver get the car running.
He's a hothead. [ He went on, when the younger man had left with the sausage in hand. ] I want you with him. Cop's no good to me dead now, I put too much work into him. So you make sure he gets put out on the patrol route. Leave him water and give him his shit back, and make sure that little cocksucker doesn't think he's doing me any smart favors. I need this guy.
[ Si nodded, then stepped out after the other guy, leaving Armando with two nameless thugs he could care less about. He turned back to Ray, stepping back over toward him and clasping his head in both hands, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. It was more menacing than remotely sexual. Like it said "I could kill you right now but I choose not to."
He looked him square in the eye, still holding Ray's head. ]
If all goes well, Detective, we'll never see each other again. If it doesn't--well, you'll visit that room once more, and the last thing you'll see is the vultures picking out your friend's eyes right before they peck out your own. You take care now, Ray.
no subject
The worst was over.
And yet dealing with humiliation was almost as difficult as anything that had come before. Ray hated it. He hated being seen as incapable. Hated having those scumbags laughing and joking about it all.
It was for the best that he was exhausted and stuck on a downer. He could fight this but it felt like far too much effort and something he was barely capable of right now. It'd be a waste anyway. Trying to lash out at this lot now would make the last few hours completely useless. He'd cooperated because he knew it was one of the only ways to get Fraser back to Chicago, and he'd continue to cooperate until that happened.
The vague cooperation didn't stop his lips curling into a tired snarl as Armando got near, teeth clenched at that press of lips, amazed at his own self-restraint. The fact he resists hitting that guy is a miracle, but it's all for Fraser.]
Be seein' you, scumbag.
[He mutters back, barely audible but showing enough physical compliance that he manages to make it look more like a vague agreement than any threat to the audience. Let those idiots think what they will, Armando knows that Ray would rip his head off right now if it weren't for that fucking Mountie.
And it's that fucking Mountie that has Kowalski willingly led away by Si, hunched and suitably injured for the sake of the viewers, but still ready to spring into self defence at a moments notice. There's that temptation to think about shooting the guys the second his gun is returned, or even attacking with fists if it's returned bulletless, but yet again: that fucking Mountie.
Fuck it, he'd stand on some dusty Vegas road and flag down cars if he needed to, all far the sake of Fraser.
The Mountie better appreciate this.]