Work Text:
For the first few days after Fraser gets a haircut, the skin on the back of his neck is as sensitive as the skin just under the head of his cock. When Ray's got nothing better to do during staff meetings, he imagines making Fraser come in public just by stroking the back of Fraser's neck, very lightly, with the callused tips of his fingers.
Ray knows he can't actually do what he's thinking about here, more's the pity. For one thing, staff meetings? Boring, but not ultimately super-sexy. Kind of the opposite, all things considered. For another - well, Jesus, Ray thinks, could anyone come with Dewey that close - and wearing that jacket? Plus there's the fact that Ray has not quite - not quite - gotten Fraser to the point where the man can let go of the rod up his ass enough to actually come ("have an orgasm, Ray") when he thinks anyone else is watching.
And Ray's tried. Believe you me, he's tried.
He's gotten pretty fucking close, too, between the time in the Chicago Art Museum stairwell (thank God for those handy "Wet Floor" whatsits) and the time up against an El support, trash at their feet and Fraser's groans muffled by Ray's palm slapped hastily over his mouth, and the time at that bar where they were gonna bust Rashid and his boys, only their information was bad and the night was young and the alley was empty and, well, y'know, alleys.
And then that time - that time in the GTO, in the overflow underground parking lot the 2-7 shares with a bunch of other local businesses, except for where that time it was Fraser's hand stripping Ray's cock and Fraser's calluses rubbing Ray's sweet spot (one of 'em, anyways) and Fraser's voice, deep and hoarse, whispering hotter, dirtier stuff in Ray's ear than Ray'd even figured Fraser knew about, and...well. That's the closest they've gotten to that particular fantasy of Ray's, and somehow Ray can't bring himself to care that he wound up on the receiving end. That time.
But on haircut days, he still has a tough time keeping his hands to himself.