[ Fraser appreciates the care Ray takes, the attention to detail that ensures that the cuffs aren't closed too tightly, even if Fraser is careful not to wring his wrists in such a way as to cut little handcuff lines into his skin. It's mostly in the interest of not getting asked any uncomfortable questions by his eagle eyed colleagues; a cut lip was one thing, but handcuffs implied arrest. Maybe he could claim to be practicing escaping from them?
There's enough room in the cuffs, at least, for Fraser to comfortably support his own weight - as intended - elbows digging into the couch cushion, wrists hooked over the arm and his head set just underneath them.
He's not even sure what he expects, but it isn't a massage. Ray's hands are blissfully talented, his fingers hardly calloused, with the firm strength of a man whose hands had spent many hours on the gun range. The knots were still there even if Fraser suppressed their overall effect on him - he was human, after all, and the desk had been very hard. Essentially resisting making a sound was already rather difficult, and Ray's breath against his ear compounded matters. But he was keeping control, just like he was meant to. Any sounds he made were painfully bitten down on or buried in his arm before they could so much as fully form.
But he hadn't counted on Ray being able to remember their conversation. Even Fraser had forgotten mentioning his ears. He didn't have enough time to prepare himself. From the pointed comment to the tongue-lashing, Fraser could only hold on tight as the muscles across his back tensed anew. Even so, the cry he made was utterly mute, as though made without air--that was because the real sound came after, as Ray's warm mouth closed about his ear lobe, a deep, appreciate groan that he couldn't hope to silence, not even if he wanted to.
no subject
There's enough room in the cuffs, at least, for Fraser to comfortably support his own weight - as intended - elbows digging into the couch cushion, wrists hooked over the arm and his head set just underneath them.
He's not even sure what he expects, but it isn't a massage. Ray's hands are blissfully talented, his fingers hardly calloused, with the firm strength of a man whose hands had spent many hours on the gun range. The knots were still there even if Fraser suppressed their overall effect on him - he was human, after all, and the desk had been very hard. Essentially resisting making a sound was already rather difficult, and Ray's breath against his ear compounded matters. But he was keeping control, just like he was meant to. Any sounds he made were painfully bitten down on or buried in his arm before they could so much as fully form.
But he hadn't counted on Ray being able to remember their conversation. Even Fraser had forgotten mentioning his ears. He didn't have enough time to prepare himself. From the pointed comment to the tongue-lashing, Fraser could only hold on tight as the muscles across his back tensed anew. Even so, the cry he made was utterly mute, as though made without air--that was because the real sound came after, as Ray's warm mouth closed about his ear lobe, a deep, appreciate groan that he couldn't hope to silence, not even if he wanted to.
Sensitive just wasn't a strong enough word.
And he was already losing this game. ]