[ All of his ducks were falling just where he wanted them to; Fraser was being good, using that wonderful mouth of his to turn Kowalski into goo, and Kowalski was fighting back with his usual futile grace, pinned to the wall like a butterfly and flopping helplessly, groaning out his bitter appreciation. Poor guy, he really did get shafted - literally - and now even Fraser seemed to be picking up on that fact. Dangerous, that, letting the Mountie with the clever mouth know his weaknesses so early in the game.
Ray follows as Stanley slips several inches down the wall, careful to maintain just the same amount of pressure on his hair. As mean as he might be with his bite, this is all still playing - it always has been - and it would be a problem if he ended up with a handful of dark blonde hair and no freak detective.
But even the best laid plans, right?
Unlike his curly haired companion, Ray heard the bleating request under Kowalski's desire: Help me, he said, and so Ray chuckled out a laugh against his throat--and then Fraser was falling against him, and Stanley was kicking helplessly and everything almost went very, very awry. He stumbled back, yanking on Stanley's hair as he went, but managing to loosen his jaw enough to not rip out his throat at the same time. By some miracle - probably Fraser's quick thinking - they all managed to stay on their feet. But then things very quickly got worse. Fraser was wriggling free, and he couldn't pull his hand away from Stanley's when he tried to reach for him, and...
That cheating, lying, traitorous Canadian bastard!
Vecchio snarled, fighting viciously against his restraint, but it was already far too late. Fraser's arms were locked, snapped like vices pinning his own. His hands had none of Kowalski to hold onto, and now it was his turn to make one desperate, helpless kick, as though by doing so he could somehow wrench himself to freedom. The kick only made him slip a little further into Fraser's arms, embraced against the full length of his back by the strong, bare chest behind him. It was like lying on a gas-lit range.
Traitor. This is what he gets for saving a guy's life more times than he could count? For losing winning lottery tickets and taking bullets and exploding his own beloved cars? This is what he gets? This is-- ]
H-holy Christ, Fraser.
[ Fight it, Ray. Kick him in the balls, the knee--anything. No, no thank you. He couldn't move his legs, that would require blood, and sorry, the rest of his body would have to do without that because there were hands inside his slacks, inside his underwear, stroking and kneading, and just for a second his vision tunneled out completely, his heart racing. He couldn't take it. He was going to have a goddamn heart attack. Was that his arm tingling? Fuck. What was he supposed to be doing again? ]
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Ray follows as Stanley slips several inches down the wall, careful to maintain just the same amount of pressure on his hair. As mean as he might be with his bite, this is all still playing - it always has been - and it would be a problem if he ended up with a handful of dark blonde hair and no freak detective.
But even the best laid plans, right?
Unlike his curly haired companion, Ray heard the bleating request under Kowalski's desire: Help me, he said, and so Ray chuckled out a laugh against his throat--and then Fraser was falling against him, and Stanley was kicking helplessly and everything almost went very, very awry. He stumbled back, yanking on Stanley's hair as he went, but managing to loosen his jaw enough to not rip out his throat at the same time. By some miracle - probably Fraser's quick thinking - they all managed to stay on their feet. But then things very quickly got worse. Fraser was wriggling free, and he couldn't pull his hand away from Stanley's when he tried to reach for him, and...
That cheating, lying, traitorous Canadian bastard!
Vecchio snarled, fighting viciously against his restraint, but it was already far too late. Fraser's arms were locked, snapped like vices pinning his own. His hands had none of Kowalski to hold onto, and now it was his turn to make one desperate, helpless kick, as though by doing so he could somehow wrench himself to freedom. The kick only made him slip a little further into Fraser's arms, embraced against the full length of his back by the strong, bare chest behind him. It was like lying on a gas-lit range.
Traitor. This is what he gets for saving a guy's life more times than he could count? For losing winning lottery tickets and taking bullets and exploding his own beloved cars? This is what he gets? This is-- ]
H-holy Christ, Fraser.
[ Fight it, Ray. Kick him in the balls, the knee--anything. No, no thank you. He couldn't move his legs, that would require blood, and sorry, the rest of his body would have to do without that because there were hands inside his slacks, inside his underwear, stroking and kneading, and just for a second his vision tunneled out completely, his heart racing. He couldn't take it. He was going to have a goddamn heart attack. Was that his arm tingling? Fuck. What was he supposed to be doing again? ]