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Frank is well aware that he’s a little fucked in the head.
He’s not sure what caused him to be this way. Maybe it’s the whole “child of a broken home” thing, or maybe it’s the fact that he was too well acquainted with a whole host of issues at the age of too young. Maybe it’s hereditary, like he’s genetically predisposed to being a fucking weirdo or something.
What he is sure of is that he knows he’s a bit fucked up, crystal clear on it, really, and he does not need anyone to attempt to make him aware of it because he is already aware.
This, apparently, doesn’t stop people from trying.
“I worry about you sometimes,” Mikey says, not looking away from the cabinet he’s rummaging through. He’s looking for a first aid kit, even though Frank insisted it wasn’t necessary, he’s fine, and the cut on his temple isn’t that bad.
Frank, swinging his feet from his spot on the kitchen counter, chooses not to dignify that absurd statement with an answer. He focuses on burning a hole through the back of Mikey’s head with his eyes.
Unfortunately, Mikey seems to have eyes there. He spins around too quickly for Frank to soften his stare. He raises an eyebrow. Frank looks away.
Mikey sighs, first aid kit in hand. “You’re acting like a fucking idiot,” he continues.
“Am not,” Frank says as Mikey approaches.
“You are,” Mikey says. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to figure it the fuck out before you get yourself killed.” He sets the first aid kit on the counter next to Frank and opens it. From it, he grabs an antiseptic wipe, gauze, antibiotic ointment, and two butterfly bandages and sets them on the counter. He’s methodical about it, removing each item from its place in quick succession while barely taking his eyes off Frank, as if he could do it in his sleep. Frank would laugh if Mikey didn’t look so serious.
“I know what my problems are,” Frank says, holding up two fingers. “That dickhead in the bar-” Frank puts a finger down, “and his asshole friend.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mikey sighs. “Yes, those guys who called Gee a fag were assholes, but they were talking to each other, not to us, halfway across the fucking room, on their way out the door, and twice your fucking size! You didn’t have to launch yourself at them.”
“Had to defend Gee’s honor,” Frank says.
Mikey glares at him and presses an antiseptic wipe to his forehead, looking entirely too satisfied about it. “Shut the fuck up,” he says with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Frank hisses.
“You’re mean,” Frank says.
“Pleased to hear it,” Mikey replies. Frank has to look away again.
“You wanted to fight those guys,” Mikey continues as he reaches for the antibiotic cream.
“Yeah, because they were being assholes.”
“No,” Mikey responds, “you’re justifying it with the fact that they were assholes. You wanted to fight them because you wanted to get hurt.”
Frank doesn’t answer.
“Why?” Mikey asks. “Because if you’re, like, fucking suicidal or some shit, stop it.”
“No!” Frank exclaims, looking back at Mikey.
“Let me get the fucking gauze on you,” Mikey hisses, following Frank’s head with his hand. After it’s placed, Frank continues.
“I’m not suicidal,” Frank says. “I’m not trying to die by Drunk Asshole At Bar.”
“You should probably stop whoring around before you catch syphilis if you don’t want to die from getting some drunk asshole at a bar,” Mikey says matter-of-factly.
“Fuck you,” Frank fires back, but he can’t help but laugh.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Mikey says. “Why do you want to get hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Frank admits. “I just know that I like it.”
Mikey hums. He goes quiet for a moment as he peels the backer off the first butterfly bandage.
“That counts as a reason,” he says. “Liking pain doesn’t mean that you, like, want to hurt yourself. Just means that you like hurting.”
“It’s not, like, a sex thing,” Frank says, wishing he didn’t sound so defensive while stating what is absolutely the truth.
“Of course it’s not,” Mikey says, clearly unconvinced. “Still,” he continues before Frank can call him out for being condescending, “you gotta calm down. You will end up dying by a drunk if you keep picking fights with them.”
“Yeah,” Frank says, “probably.”
“I’m serious,” Mikey says.
“I know, ugh.”
“I’m not here to psychoanalyze you, or to lecture you,” Mikey says. “I just need you to find another way to get your fix so that I don’t have to keep doing this. You’re all good, by the way, just don’t take the bandage off until morning and put more Neosporin on it when you do. I’m going to bed.”
True to his word, Mikey walks toward the bunks immediately, looking like he’s rightfully done with Frank’s shit. “Don’t fuck with it,” he calls over his shoulder, as Frank reaches toward his temple to do just that.
***
To his credit, Frank tries his hardest to fight his own worst instincts and he actually does a pretty damn good job of it. He ignores the drunk assholes they meet when they’re out and manages to go five whole days without jumping off the stage. But now, sitting at their so-called kitchen table on day six, he’s ready to fucking explode.
“Dude, stop bouncing your leg,” Gerard says, not taking his eyes off his sketchbook. “It’s fucking me up.”
“Sorry,” Frank says. A few moments pass before he realizes he hasn’t stopped.
“Seriously, can you move or something?”
“Why don’t you move?”
“I need a surface,” Gerard says.
“I’m allowed to take up space,” Frank says. “You told me that.”
“Fuck you,” Gerard responds.
“Yeah? And then what?”
Gerard groans, setting his pencil down and looking up at the ceiling. “You’re such a fucking asshole sometimes.”
“I know,” Frank says, still unable to control his goddamn leg.
Unfortunately, Gerard notices. “Are you good?”
It’s Frank’s turn to groan now. “I’m fine.”
“You sound really defensive, which makes me think you’re not fine,” Gerard says. “And your foot is going to put a hole in the floor with the way you’re bouncing your leg.”
“Seriously,” Frank says, “I’m all good. Just have too much energy or something.”
“If you say so,” Gerard hums, sing-songy, picking up his pencil again.
“I do,” Frank says. “I do say so.”
“Alright,” Gerard answers. Frank waits, staring at him. He doesn’t say anything else.
“I’m going to go bug Ray,” Frank says, standing up.
“Thank God,” the asshole says to Frank’s back.
***
Ray is sitting on the couch in the back lounge with a guitar in his hands, playing something jangly and almost delicate. When Frank walks in, he looks up, but looks a bit like he’s staring through Frank.
“Morning,” Ray says, seemingly on pure instinct.
“Morning,” Frank replies, sitting down on Ray’s left. After a moment, Ray comes back to reality.
“I wanted to show you something,” Ray says. “I came up with it yesterday.” He reaches down to click the overdrive switch on his amp and starts to play. It’s fast, mostly octaves, moving up and down the neck in minor thirds and landing on a major fourth. After playing the same run an octave higher, Ray stops.
“I don’t like it,” Frank says, almost regretting it when Ray’s head snaps up.
“What?” Ray says, sounding almost baffled.
“I don’t like it,” Frank repeats. “It’s too much. Too crunchy, too…metal.”
“It’s not metal at all,” Ray says.
“It’s really metal.”
“It is almost exactly the same as the riff you came up with last week.”
“It’s really not,” Frank says, laughing, and it seems to push Ray from bewilderment to anger.
“It literally fucking is!” Ray says. “Look, it’s- fucking-”
Ray plays a few bars of the part Frank wrote.
If Frank is being honest, he’s fully aware that it is basically the same riff. It's almost the exact same progression, just in a different key.
If Frank’s being really honest, he actually does like the riff.
And if he’s being really, really honest, he’s starting to realize that his mouth is trying to pick a fight without his brain’s permission.
“I don’t see it,” Frank says dumbly. “What I had going on is kinda like a-”
Frank reaches for Ray’s guitar to demonstrate and his stomach lurches when Ray’s hand wraps around his wrist, holding it steady in midair.
“Seriously?” Frank asks, even though his two fully functional eyeballs are telling him that Ray looks dead fucking serious. Ray doesn’t answer.
“Fine,” Frank says, and he reaches his free hand up to grab Ray’s hair.
Ray moves lightning fast, setting his guitar on the floor as he dodges Frank’s hand. When it’s safely out of reach, he rears forward, hitting Frank’s chest with his shoulder and knocking him back on the couch. Maintaining his grip on Frank’s left wrist, Ray goes for his right. He gets it quickly and pins Frank’s hands above his head.
One of Frank’s feet hits the floor as he tries to steady himself. He uses it in an attempt to throw his hips up and knock Ray off the couch, but Ray is one step ahead of him. He pushes Frank’s wrists together and grips them both in one hand with ease, using his now-free hand to grab Frank’s hip and push him down.
Frank moans.
It’s not ridiculously loud, it’s not like it sounds like they’re filming a porno in the lounge, but it’s audible. It’s paired with Frank closing his eyes and throwing his head back, and it is unmistakably a sound of pleasure. He vaguely feels like he might have tried to roll his hips in a search for friction.
Frank’s eyes snap open when he realizes what just happened. Ray’s staring back at him, eyes widening in shock. His grip relaxes a bit, thank God, and Frank wiggles out from under him in an instant. He’s out the door without a word, and in his bunk breathing heavily a moment later.
Across many of the different times that Frank has gotten himself into a physical altercation, he’s had some level of awareness that he’s doing it because he likes it. Sometimes he picks fights that he can win, and sometimes he picks fights that he knows he’s going to lose. Sometimes he doesn’t pick a fight at all, just launches himself at a concrete floor or a metal railing.
And yeah, he’s been vaguely aware that he’s always a bit turned on afterward, but he thought it was just adrenaline.
Now, he’s realizing that he wants to get hurt because he really likes the pain, and it is not a pleasant realization.
Frank forces himself to inhale slowly as he reaches down to squeeze his hard cock. When he presses his hand down, his hips buck forward as if they have a mind of their own.
Against his better judgement, he shakily undoes his button and zipper and reaches into his underwear. He wraps his hand around his cock and gives it a few strokes. In his head, he sees curly hair above him. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar fantasy - try living with a bunch of attractive dudes and not thinking about it once or twice - but he still tries to force the image from his mind.
As Frank is considering pulling his cock out of his underwear, the door between the bunk area and the front lounge slides open. Frank holds his breath as footsteps move past him. Whoever it is goes straight for the back lounge.
“Hey guys, we have a- oh, fuck!” Gerard says. Frank hears the sound of the door slamming. A beat passes, then Gerard cackles. He starts walking back toward the front of the bus, stopping at Frank’s bunk.
“Frankie? You in here?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Frank answers.
“Brian just called to let me know that he got us a hotel for tonight. You’re with Ray.”
Great. “Uh. Cool,” Frank answers.
“Yeah,” Gerard says. “Maybe don’t go in the back for a little while. He was jacking off in there.” Gerard walks back into the front, sliding the door shut behind him.
Frank feels like his heart is about to stop beating. Over the course of fifteen minutes, he’s realized that a.) he picks fights because it gets him hot under the collar, b.) fighting one of his closest friends does not prevent him from getting turned on, c.) he’s pretty sure that he’s so turned on right now because Ray was the one pinning him, and d.) the aforementioned friend is also turned on, apparently. Even one important internal realization is enough to fuck Frank up on a rough day, much less four.
Frank would rather listen to the Misfits than his thoughts.
***
Two hours pass entirely too quickly and it is unfortunately time for soundcheck. Frank stays as close to his amp as possible, staring straight ahead toward the back of the venue the whole time. He does not look to his left in order to sneak some glances at Ray, nor does he suspiciously turn his entire head away as soon as he realizes that Ray is looking at him.
Well, alright, maybe he does.
In the brief glances he got before getting caught, Ray looked anxious. It doesn’t help Frank’s inner turmoil at all. The only saving grace is that Frank is 99% sure that he hasn’t fucked up this whole thing they have going - if Ray is easygoing enough to deal with the massive crush that Gerard had on him for a couple years, he should probably be able to move on from this.
Unfortunately, that 1% of doubt is doing a lot of heavy lifting in Frank’s head right now. Frank sets his guitar on its stand a little too harshly and bolts as soon as he hears the sound guy say I think we’re good, feeling a bit ill. As he rounds the corner into a hallway backstage, he distantly hears Gerard asking is he sick?
If wanting to fight/fuck your bandmate equals sick, which Frank is pretty sure it does, and the symptoms of said illness include mild nausea, shaking of the hands, shortness of breath, and frequent inconvenient erections, then yeah, call the fucking doctor.
Where the hell is he even going? If he goes to the green room, he’ll be joined by the rest of the guys in minutes. He’s pretty sure they have a dressing room that’s separate from the green room, but Gerard would probably find him and harass him about why he’s acting weird. He decides to go smoke outside. Maybe more rooms will magically appear in the six minutes it takes for him to have a cigarette.
Frank’s hands are shaking so badly that he drops his pack twice and needs about five tries to get his lighter to work. He barely has time to fumble both items back into his pocket before the back door swings open and Mikey walks out.
“What the fuck is going on?” Mikey asks.
“Beats me,” Frank replies.
“No it doesn’t, jackass, you’re the one who ran off like someone lit you on fire.” Mikey raises a singular grabby hand in his direction. “Gimme one, I’m out.”
Frank obliges, handing him the pack and lighter. He waits in silence as Mikey, with his goddamn steady hands, brings a cigarette to his mouth and lights it with a level of expertise that implies he could do it in his sleep.
“Seriously,” Mikey says between drags, “what happened?”
“You were right,” Frank answers.
“I’m always right,” Mikey replies. “About what, though?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Frank says.
Mikey waits for a moment, staring at the awning over them. “I was right when I said you were a masochist the other night?”
Frank winces at the word. “You didn’t say that.”
“Fine, I said you like pain, you said it wasn’t a ‘sex thing,’ but it totally is. That’s what I was right about?”
“Yeah,” Frank sighs.
“Cool,” Mikey says. “Did you fuck my brother?”
Frank chokes on the smoke he’s inhaling. He doubles over, wheezing, trying to choke out a no, what the fuck when he realizes that Mikey is laughing hysterically.
“I’m fucking with you, I’m sorry,” Mikey says. “I read something that said you should say something absurd to somebody who’s freaking out because it’ll stop the spiraling.”
“Fuck you,” Frank says, but he’s laughing too. The fact that he does feel better angers him a bit.
“Yeah, yeah. It worked, so fuck you.”
Frank drops his cigarette and grinds it with his heel. Mikey does the same. He reaches for the door handle, but stops before opening it.
“Is that all this is? You’re just freaking out because you finally realized that you like it when somebody hurts you?” he asks.
Frank is quiet for a bit too long. “Yeah,” he says eventually.
“And nothing else happened?”
Frank turns his head to look at Mikey. Mikey’s staring at him with a look that feels weirdly knowing. Like one of those dogs with two different colored eyes, the ones that have a vibe like I know all your sins and I am giving you a chance to tell me the truth.
Frank could tell Mikey what’s on his mind, but speaking it would make it real. He wouldn’t be able to take it back, to ignore it, to just move on.
“Nope,” Frank responds, popping the P. “Nothing at all.”
Mikey hums. “You’re lying, but I’ll allow it.”
“Not lying,” Frank says, because honestly, you could technically put his situation that way.
“Whatever you say,” Mikey says, opening the door. “You coming?”
Frank follows Mikey to the green room without a word. For a while, it’s okay. Gerard immediately asks if he can put some makeup on him, and Frank agrees.
It’s strangely calming to have Gerard working around his eyes with various implements. He goes a little heavier on the eyeshadow than usual, going over his lids with a deep mauve and putting a bright red underneath his eyes. After diligently lining each eye, Gerard steps back to look at him.
“Good,” he says, “but I have an idea. Be right back.”
Gerard has barely been gone for thirty seconds when Ray walks in and Frank’s fight-or-flight reflex activates. Ray shuts the door behind him, turns the lock, and asks, “Can we talk?”
Frank wants to say no. Really, Frank wants to scream and run far, far away, far enough that he wouldn’t ever have to worry about seeing Ray’s beautiful face and broad shoulders and gigantic hands ever again. Alaska far. Instead, he says, “Sure.”
He waits, knowing that it’s kind of a dick move. He feels a little bad about it - Ray looks about as anxious as he did earlier - but what is he supposed to say? Sorry man, roughhousing turns me on?
Ray takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about what happened earlier, but I need you to know that-” he starts before getting hit by the door. Gerard walks in brandishing lipstick. He crosses the room quickly and sits down in front of Frank. “Open your mouth a bit,” he says as he opens the tube.
Ray stares at the door, stiff and bewildered. “I thought I locked that,” he says quietly.
“Hm,” Gerard says. “Lock must not work.”
Ray looks at Frank despondently. “No worries,” he says slowly, holding eye contact.
A million thoughts run through Frank’s head as Ray turns and walks out of the room. He needs me to know what? What I’m thinking about what happened earlier? What the fuck is he thinking?
Gerard taps his cheek. “Stop closing your mouth.”
“Sorry,” Frank says on instinct. After another minute, Gerard seems satisfied. He steps back.
“Ta-da,” he says. Frank turns to check his reflection in the mirror. It does look good - the lipstick is subtle, really just enhancing the natural color of his lips, and it balances out the heavy eyeshadow.
“Looks good,” Frank says. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Gerard says. “Now get out so I can focus on mine. How long do we have?”
Frank checks the clock on the wall. Shit. “Like six minutes,” he answers.
Gerard groans and stands up. “I wanted to do something fun,” he complains.
Someone knocking at the door announces that they have five minutes, get a move on, so they all start to hustle.
As Frank walks on stage to the roars of 2,500 teens and twenty-somethings, he is not thinking about Ray. He is not looking at him; he’s focusing on the rumble that reverberates through the entire stage from Mikey’s amp. He is not thinking about how fucking good Ray must look right now, how good he always looks when he lets loose on stage, shredding and panting and looking at him through the hair that inevitably ends up in his face.
Against his better judgement, Frank sneaks a glance as To The End starts. Ray is standing still as he stretches his fingers so far Frank can only dream of it, facing Frank’s direction but looking down at the fretboard.
For some reason, it pisses Frank off. Maybe his mind is just addled by the relative peace of the last week, but it feels like a challenge.
So send my resignation to the bride and the groom.
He hears his cue and jumps in, still looking at Ray. This song is really just a scale exercise, so he can go completely on autopilot and indulge every rage-fueled thought he has about Ray, who finally looks up to see Frank staring at him.
He’s not around, he’s always looking at men.
Ray, in a way that is probably not noticeable to anyone but Frank, flubs a note. Frank, holding eye contact, leans down on the right side of his mic stand and bites it.
Something almost like fear passes over Ray’s face. Good. Frank darts his tongue out, still staring into Ray’s eyes as he runs it along the mic stand. Ray’s clear discomfort is just feeding his already-too-destructive energy. Something about the way Ray looks like a deer in the headlights makes him feel like a predator, makes him want to push harder and harder until Ray bolts away like Frank did mere hours earlier. He grips the mic stand between his teeth and flings it to the ground.
When Frank looks up, he’s expecting to see Ray looking even more fearful, turning away from Frank, looking anywhere but his face. Instead, he looks up just in time to see Ray’s expression change from nervousness to pure recognition. It’s unmistakable, as if a light bulb has suddenly appeared over his head. Even his posture changes, going from apprehension to confidence in the blink of an eye.
Before Frank can even start to wonder what the fuck is going on, Ray is striding towards him, calmly maneuvering between Gerard and Mikey. He’s smiling in the same way a cartoon wolf might - open-mouthed, panting a bit, and somehow sharp - and the way the stage lights seem to avoid the dark hollows of his eyes makes his face look a bit ghoulish.
Usually, Ray and Frank stay on their respective sides of the stage. On the rare occasion that one of them makes their way over to the other, they stay a respectful distance away. This time, Ray doesn’t stop until he’s about to collide with Frank, leaving just barely enough distance to still play their guitars. Frank has to tilt his head almost all the way back in order to look at Ray’s face, and the physical reminder of their size difference feels like a punch to the gut.
Suddenly, too many things happen entirely too quickly. The song ends, the lights go down for a brief reset, and Ray’s hand is sliding into Frank’s damp hair and wrenching his head back as far as it’ll go. Unable to control his reaction, Frank whines. Ray grins, but it still looks off. It’s not his usual happy-go-lucky Golden Retriever smile - behind his gaze, there’s something demanding, calculating, cruel. Somehow, Frank can still see something like appreciation in his eyes too.
He is the predator, Frank’s inner monologue chimes in unhelpfully. You are the prey.
As if he had heard that thought, Ray shifts his thumb under Frank’s jaw, digging into his jugular while still keeping his other fingers tangled in Frank’s hair.
“Calm the fuck down,” Ray says, inches from Frank’s face, still grinning. He releases his grip and Frank has to throw a foot back to steady himself. When he looks up again, Ray is already stalking back across the stage.
What the fuck?
Theoretically, Frank has another thirty minutes to think about what just happened. Unfortunately, he’s so hard that he’s worried he’ll bore a hole straight through his guitar. Vaguely, he hears Mikey’s voice behind him asking you good? right as the next song starts. He responds with a snarl.
Frank does not calm the fuck down, but he keeps his insanity to himself. He spends the rest of the show screaming into his mic, writhing on his back, and playing so hard he rubs the skin on the side of his hand raw. He’s so hard it hurts, and it takes everything in him to keep himself from rubbing off against his guitar.
He’s booking it off the stage before the words “thank you and goodnight” are fully out of Gerard’s mouth. He hands his guitar to a tech and keeps moving, not knowing where he’s going, but knowing that this is the second time today that he’s sped through these stupid hallways in a panic. Where the fuck is he even going? What’s his plan? Hide in the bathroom and hope that the others forget he exists?
The blood rushing through his ears keeps him unaware of the fact that he’s being followed until he feels a hand gripping his shoulder and yanking him back. On instinct, he shoves a hand out toward whoever just grabbed him, but his weak attempt at a push is stopped by the person’s other hand.
It’s Mikey, and Frank isn’t sure if that’s fortunate or unfortunate.
“Get the fuck off me,” Frank spits. He tries to shift his shoulder out of Mikey’s grip, but fails as Mikey swears and grabs his other shoulder. He’s far from strong, but his height gives him an advantage over Frank.
“Shut the fuck up and listen to me,” Mikey says, and his expression is so serious that it momentarily stuns Frank.
“You need to chill out for ten fucking minutes,” Mikey continues. Frank opens his mouth to protest, but Mikey’s glare silences him. For such a nice guy, he can be terrifying sometimes.
“We are leaving for the hotel in ten minutes. I know that something is going on with you, I know that you don’t want to talk about it, but you will be able to deal with it in ten minutes if you can just fucking hold it together. Can you do that?”
Mikey looks at Frank expectantly. Frank wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole, but he nods. Mikey relaxes his grip.
“If you want to be alone, go sit by the back door. I’ll be there soon,” Mikey says as he walks toward the green room.
Frank hustles toward the back door, simultaneously grateful for and guilty over Mikey’s ability to handle every fucked up situation he finds himself in. Still a man of his word, Mikey rejoins him two minutes later. He silently offers a water bottle, which Frank gladly accepts.
Mikey’s right about the fact that Frank will be able to deal with his shit in a very short time, but it’s not exactly comforting. In a few minutes, he’ll be trapped in a room alone with Ray. Sweet Ray, whose understanding of weird sex things seems to be pretty fucking limited if Frank is judging by the painfully normal magazines in his bunk. What is he even supposed to say? Hey man, sorry I’ve been flickering between avoiding and antagonizing you all day, I’m really pent up and itching to get the shit kicked out of me. And my bad for popping a boner when you pinned my wrists earlier - what’s a guy to do?
Despite his penchant for risky behavior, Frank does like to consider the best and worst possible outcomes of the decisions that he makes. In his current situation - Ray has joined them at the back door and is determinedly staring at the ceiling - the worst case scenario ends with him being kicked out of the band. If he apologizes, it’ll surely come out in the ensuing conversation that he’s a weird pervert lusting over his bandmate. Therefore, the best case scenario that Frank should aim for is, clearly, to never talk about any of today’s events again.
The problem is that Frank isn’t sure if he’ll be able to keep it to himself forever. He’s never been the type to sleep with close friends. He gets around, sure, but with people on the edges of his social circle or strangers he’ll never see again. Now, though, something’s been awakened inside Frank. He’s been sneaking glances at Ray’s arms, chest, god, his big fucking hands ever since this morning and the unfortunate realization that he’s come to is that he definitely does not have enough self control to keep his dirty thoughts to himself forever. He can deal with crushes, but lusting over a guy who sleeps two feet away from him most nights? A guy who he has to spend damn near every second of every day with? A guy who he can hear jacking off sometimes? That's another beast entirely.
“Van’s here, let’s go,” Gerard says. Ray follows him out the door quickly, not looking in Frank’s direction once. After grabbing his duffel, Frank follows the others. Gerard has taken the passenger seat, so he slides into the middle row, next to Mikey and in front of Ray.
Gerard immediately notices that the driver has a Batman charm hanging from the rearview and starts babbling at him about various DC comics. Other than that, the ride passes in silence. Frank is sure that he can feel Ray’s leg bouncing through the floor of the van. It strikes even more shame and fear into him.
Ray stays silent and six feet away from Frank as they check in at the hotel. Gerard doles out the room keys in the elevator, handing Frank the key to his and Ray’s room. When they step off the elevator, Ray remains quiet and follows Frank from several paces behind. He doesn’t even respond when Gerard calls out “goodnight, guys.”
About halfway to their room, Frank sneaks a glance at Ray’s reflection in the glass of a large framed print on the wall. In thirty seconds, Ray’s entire demeanor has changed. In the venue and the elevator, he was hunched in on himself awkwardly, looking like he was praying for nobody to speak a word to him. Now, he’s rolled his shoulders back and has his chin up, jaw set, eyes locked straight ahead. It’s a good look, really good, but fucking terrifying.
When they reach their room, Frank fumbles the door open and enters, trying to ignore the way his hands are shaking. He drops his bag on the floor at the foot of one of the beds, inhales deeply, and starts to speak the casual we’re-not-talking-about-this line that he’s worked so hard to come up with.
“Think there’s anything good on TV-” is all he manages before he’s being dragged backward by his shirt and slammed against the wall.
If Frank’s being honest, he expected this. It’s not like Ray’s some kind of gay-basher, not at all, Frank’s pretty sure he gets around with dudes the same as any of them do, but it has to feel a little violating when one of your closest friends picks a fight with you and then gets hard about it. As long as Frank doesn’t get kicked out of the band, he’s okay with getting beaten up a little bit or-
It takes him a few moments to realize that Ray is kissing him. Clearly a few moments too long, because Ray is already pulling back right as Frank’s brain hits what the fuck?
“Was that okay?” Ray asks, backing up a few steps.
Frank, panting and tense against the wall, can only muster a bewildered “what?”
Ray looks pained. “I- I’m sorry, I thought that this would be okay, that this is what you wanted, but-”
“No!” Frank exclaims. “I mean-” fuck, catch up, god, “Yes, it’s what I- wait, what do you mean?”
Ray closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. When he opens them again, they’re focused on Frank’s with a burning intensity. Not wild and hot like a wildfire, but more like embers - calm, but dangerous.
“Can I kiss you again?” Ray asks, voice low.
Frank answers without giving it a single thought. “Yes.”
“Can I hurt you?”
The question sends all of the blood in Frank’s body directly to his cock. He nods, casting his eyes up toward the ceiling to avert Ray’s gaze.
“Frank,” Ray says. He waits until Frank looks back at him to continue. “I need verbal answers.”
Frank swallows the saliva rapidly pooling in his mouth and musters a weak, needy “please.” It seems to be enough for Ray, whose lips crash into his own so hard their teeth clack together.
Clearly, the best case scenario here is rapidly improving.
Frank doesn’t have time to hold that thought for long because he’s starting to lose the ability to think. Ray is kissing him like he’s starving, pressing him against the wall with his body while gripping his face with both hands. Frank gives back exactly what he’s given, frantically licking into Ray’s mouth with his fingers wrapped around his hips.
Ray pulls back, dipping down to mouth at Frank’s neck, then straightens up. When they’re standing this close together, Ray looms over him. He runs his thumb over Frank’s bottom lip and lets it rest in the corner of his mouth.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Ray says. It makes Frank’s heart skip a beat.
“I thought you said you were going to hurt me,” Frank says, aiming for feigned boredom but sounding embarrassingly desperate.
For a moment, Ray looks a bit startled. Then, he smiles. It’s the same smile from earlier - something devilish, something Frank has never seen before today.
“I didn’t say I would,” Ray says, “I asked if I could.”
What a dick, Frank thinks before he realizes that the back of his knee is being kicked in and he’s tumbling to the floor. Ray is bracing him lightly, one hand spread flat against his chest and the other gripping the back of his jeans. He lands on his palms, but all the air in his lungs gets knocked out of him when Ray forces his head down against the floor and pins him with a knee in the small of his back.
“I will hurt you, though,” Ray says cheerfully. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much?”
“Yeah,” Frank wheezes.
“Good,” Ray praises, yanking Frank’s pants and underwear down to his thighs one-handed. He delivers one hard, startling smack to Frank’s ass, receiving an embarrassingly loud, whiny cry in return.
“Get your ass up,” Ray commands. Frank obeys immediately, shuffling his knees forward awkwardly because his hands are trapped under his chest and Ray is still pressing the side of his face into the rough hotel carpet. Once he’s there, Ray moves to stand up.
“Stay,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
Frank whines, but doesn’t move a muscle. He wants to push Ray, desperately wants to see what’ll happen if he doesn’t stay put. But, weirdly enough, he really wants to obey. It’s not even to see if he’ll be rewarded for remaining immobile and staring at the dust bunnies on the baseboards. He’s finding that it’s calming to just listen and comply.
“So good for me,” Ray says from across the room. Frank jolts, startled, then freezes again.
“That didn’t count,” Frank says in a small voice. Ray laughs, disarmingly warm.
“Of course not,” he says. He returns, kneeling behind Frank. “But I’m making the rules, remember?”
Frank hears the crack of a cap behind him and shivers against his will as Ray runs a lubed finger around his hole. He whines when it slips inside him, long and needy and fucking embarassing. Just one of Ray’s fingers feels like two of his own. Ray works it around, in and out, methodical yet gentle.
After teasing for entirely too long, Ray speaks again. “Think you’re ready for another?”
“I think I’m ready for that whole ‘hurting me’ thing you promised,” Frank replies. He realizes just how bitchy his tone was a moment too late.
In an instant, Ray tangles his fingers in Frank’s hair and forces his face back into the carpet. He uses his hair to drag Frank’s head back and forth a few times, letting him feel the barest beginnings of rug burn. While he’s doing it, he adds a second finger to Frank’s ass, shoving both in as deep as they’ll go and keeping them there. The stretch is amazing, deep and hot with just enough of a sting to make Frank’s cock twitch.
“You’re just trying to make me snap, huh?” Ray says, amusement in his tone. “All fucking day, this is what you wanted, right? You figured out that I can give you what you need?”
“Fuck you,” Frank says, half-muffled by the carpet, but he’s pretty sure that Ray could hear his thoughts if he wanted to.
“I think I need to fuck some respect back into that mouth,” Ray says, keeping his fingers buried inside as he moves up to Frank’s side on his knees. He unzips his fly with his free hand and pulls his cock out. It’s gorgeous, red at the tip and so hard and so fucking big and Frank might be drooling on the carpet a little bit.
“You think so? Think it’ll work?” Ray says, and he shoves his cock into Frank’s mouth just as Frank is about to fire back another snarky response.
Ray moans above him, an octave lower than Frank would’ve expected, as he fucks Frank’s mouth. “I’m sorry sweetheart, were you saying something?” he coos.
He’s taking it easy on Frank. He can tell by the way Ray’s fucking his mouth with just the first few inches of his cock, and he’s grateful for it when Ray starts moving his fingers again, stretching his hole with vigor. He moans when Ray slips a third finger in, and it comes out garbled and pathetic around the cock in his mouth.
“Bet you’d like a cock in your ass right now, yeah?” Ray says, still unbelievably controlled. “Getting fucked from both ends, letting us make a bitch out of you? Letting us use you?”
Fuck. Frank’s never even thought about it before, but god, yeah, he wants it. He tries to say as much before remembering that he can’t, so he nods.
Ray laughs again. This time, it’s colder. He’s laughing at Frank, and it is way too hot. “Such a fucking slut, I knew you’d say yes.” He plunges a little bit further into Frank’s mouth and holds his head down with his free hand, going completely still. Frank has to open his jaw as far as it’ll go to accommodate Ray. He’s filling Frank up completely, pressed against his tongue, his throat, the roof of his mouth.
After a few seconds of cutting off Frank’s breathing, Ray pulls out completely. He pauses for a second, clearly considering something, then smacks his cock against Frank’s face.
It shouldn’t be so fucking hot. Frank shouldn’t be leaking precum all over the carpet just because his bandmate’s has decided to rest his hard, heavy cock on his face while he opens him up. It’s dirty, Frank thinks as he tries to reach Ray’s cock with his tongue.
As soon as he makes contact, Ray moves away from his face. “Did I say you could do that?”
Frank has two options here.
He could submit. He could say no, you didn’t, or apologize, or hide his face in shame, or any combination of the above. He’d probably get some praise for admitting it, and things would progress exactly as they are now - which is, to say, amazingly.
But Frank has seen Ray frustrated many, many times over the few years that they’ve known each other, and he knows that he’s all brute force and clenched fists until he forces some control to flow through his body again. And, despite the pleasure radiating through his body from Ray’s talented fingers and the satisfaction of being pinned to the ground, he needs more.
Frank thinks he knows how to get it.
“Well? Did I?” Ray asks. His fingers go still inside Frank.
Frank speaks slowly. “Did I say you could order me around?”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Yes,” Frank says. He feels Ray tense up and continues before he can have the chance to freak out. “Because I don’t want you to tell me to do things, I want you to make me do them.”
Ray pauses. “Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes,” Frank answers, somehow still able to sound exasperated with his face against the floor and three fingers inside him.
“No, Frank, I- I want you to really think about what you’re asking me for right now,” Ray says. “I’m down, I’m so down, but I need to know that you’re prepared for what’s about to happen. What’s off limits?”
Frank thinks for a moment. “Be careful about my gag reflex, slapping is okay but punching isn’t, go easy on my wrists and hands, and don’t try to get me to call you daddy.”
Ray chuckles. “And what will you do if you want me to stop?”
Frank thinks. As hot as it would be to have Ray ignoring his pleas to stop, it feels a bit early to open that can of worms.
“I’ll just say ‘stop.’ If I can’t speak, I’ll start smacking you.”
“Alright,” Ray answers. Frank hears him take another deep breath. “You ready?”
“Yes, you fucking asshole, I’ve been ready,” Frank tries to say. He doesn’t get too far past the yes, however, because Ray is quickly removing his fingers and smacking Frank’s ass hard.
“I don’t want to have to gag you, but I don’t know how else to keep you from talking back.” Another hit. “I mean, seriously, Frankie, didn’t anyone teach you basic manners?” Smack. “I’m here making you feel so good, and this is the treatment I get?” Smack. “You should be thanking me.”
“Fuck you,” Frank hisses with his last shred of defiance. He’s met with a hit so hard it brings tears to his eyes.
“No one’s getting fucked if you don’t get your attitude straight,” Ray says. He sounds infuriatingly calm, as if he were commenting on the weather. Frank whines in response.
“I’m serious,” Ray continues. “I’ll only fuck you if you thank me. Otherwise, we’re doing this all night.” He punctuates his words with another stinging slap to Frank’s ass.
Frank lets out a shaky breath, but says nothing.
“Alright,” Ray says, “that’s your choice.”
As expected, he starts hitting Frank again. This time, he doesn’t stop. He keeps delivering quick, hard smacks to Frank’s ass, alternating sides and pinning Frank down with a hand spread between his shoulder blades when he instinctively tries to move away from the attack. It keeps building, and building, and building, until Frank’s ass feels like it’s on fire. He’s barely aware of himself anymore - he thinks he might be howling.
After what feels like hours but was probably less than a minute, Ray slows down and lessens his force. Each strike still hurts, but that’s mostly because of the earlier barrage. A single surprisingly hard hit brings Frank out of his trance.
Almost instantaneously, Frank becomes aware of the wet tracks of tears streaming down his face. He realizes that his fingernails are embedded in the carpet. He hears his own wanton, pathetic moans and feels the contrast between his overheating body and the cold air on his exposed ass, and something breaks inside him.
“Thank you,” he chokes out, hoarse. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Ray, please.”
Ray stops immediately, and Frank is almost sad about it.
“Good boy,” Ray praises, rubbing his aching ass. “Was that so hard?” He slips two fingers into Frank’s hole again before Frank can even catch his breath, and laughs when Frank eagerly shoves himself back onto his fingers.
“You want it that badly? Want me to fuck you?”
“Please,” Frank whines, “need it.”
Without responding, Ray stands up. He scoops Frank up off the ground and drops him on the bed unceremoniously.
Finally Frank can see Ray, who’s tearing his shirt over his head with Olympic-worthy speed. His cock is still out, still as hard as it was when it was filling Frank’s mouth, and it should look awkward but it is fucking hot. The lamp next to the bed casts a warm light up on Ray’s face, accentuating his high cheekbones and the dark circles around his eyes.
Frank doesn’t have too much time to think because Ray is rushing him, ripping his shirt and pants off so hard Frank is worried they’ll tear. He’s yanking Frank’s underwear off and slicking up his cock and dragging Frank’s legs apart and finally, finally pressing the head of his cock against Frank’s ass, but then the fucker stops. There’s just enough pressure on Frank’s hole for him to feel the slightest beginning of a stretch, but not enough for Ray to actually enter. He whines and tries to push against Ray’s cock, but Ray is already wrapping his hands around his hips and pushing him down into the bed.
“You’ve behaved pretty badly so far,” Ray says. “I think you should ask me nicely.”
A less desperate Frank - more controlled, more strong willed, maybe the Frank you could’ve met yesterday - would tell Ray that he won’t fucking beg, and maybe go fuck yourself.
“Please,” this Frank sobs instantly, “please, Ray, I need it, need you to fuck me, I’ll do anything, please-” and finally, Ray slides into him.
He slowly gives Frank his entire cock at once, not slamming into him but not stopping even once. The constant press in makes Frank even more aware of the agonizingly long time that he’s being continuously stretched open, further and further, not painful, but so wet and hard and big. Frank doesn’t feel like he’s going to be ripped apart - he feels like his entire body is going to explode, to be filled so deeply that he can’t take it anymore.
Ray stops with his balls pressed firmly against Frank’s ass, arms wrapped underneath his legs and hands still digging into Frank’s hips.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” Frank chokes out, barely able to speak. Ray is kneeling between his legs. Ray’s cock is inside him, fully sheathed, and that sudden realization shatters his entire world. He won’t be able to go a day without thinking about this.
That’s an unfortunate thought. Ray hasn’t even started moving yet and he’s already ruining Frank.
All of a sudden, Ray starts to fuck him. That’s exactly what it is, fucking, animalistic and intoxicating - he’s not exactly nice about it, but there’s no pain in it other than the slightest burn from the stretch. The head of his cock bumps against Frank’s prostate with every thrust, and the bursts of pleasure that he’s receiving make him feel dizzy.
“So tight,” Ray says, and god damn it, he sounds almost as composed as he did earlier. “You’re so fucking small, I feel like I could do whatever I want to you.”
The thought of that is entirely too much for Frank. Strong, quiet, gorgeous Ray, using him, taking whatever he wants from him. He can’t find the words to answer Ray, so he hopes his too-loud-for-a-hotel-room moan conveys his feelings effectively.
“You like that?” Ray continues. “Like you were made for this, made just for me to fuck. Born to be a fucking slut.”
The word rolls off Ray’s tongue with so much venom. It’s disconcerting, so deeply unexpected from Ray, of all people, and it is too much. Frank is going to die, right now, in the middle of getting plowed through the mattress by his bandmate.
“Harder,” Frank gasps.
He’s met with a slap to his cheek.
The pain takes a moment to reach him. For a brief second, the only thing in his mind is shock. He’s distantly aware of the pathetic sound he makes, a cry that feels like it’s been torn from his chest. With wide, red, tear-stained eyes, he looks up at Ray.
Tonight, for the first time in his life, Frank desperately wants to obey. He wants to submit, to be told what to do and to do it, to be punished if he doesn’t. His head feels foggy, like the rest of the world is fading away and leaving only him and Ray, and all he wants to do is be good.
“You’ll take what I give you,” Ray says, cold and matter-of-fact. “You got that?”
“I’m sorry,” Frank gasps. “I’m sorry, please, I just- ah-”
“I know, Frankie,” Ray says, grinding against Frank, rolling his hips while buried as deep as he can go. “I’m just going to have to keep reminding you that you don’t get to tell me what to do.” With that, he rakes a few fingernails straight down Frank’s chest.
The sudden jolt of pain drags a high-pitched whimper from Frank’s throat, and what starts as a smirk on Ray’s face widens into a crooked smile. It’s that same look that Frank has been struggling to recognize, like awe and cruelty and fascination and excitement all in one. Now, with Frank on his back, eyes wide open, staring directly at Ray’s face, he realizes what it is.
The look on Ray’s face is sadistic. It’s the way Frank would imagine a lion playing with a gazelle. Ray is toying with him, seeing how much he can take, taunting while he destroys him. He’s enjoying this, Frank realizes - not just because Frank’s having a good time, but enjoying making him hurt. He’s taking his own pleasure from the pain that he’s giving Frank.
It is potentially the hottest thing that Frank has ever experienced.
When Ray starts fucking him again, it’s rougher. He’s pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in over and over and over again, driving his cock directly into Frank’s prostate each time. Frank can feel every inch of it, the shaft stretching him out, the underside of the head dragging across his sweet spot when Ray pulls back, the tip reaching a spot that no one else has ever touched before, so deep and full and perfect.
There is no way in hell that Frank is going to last.
“Close,” Frank chokes out. “I‘m sorry, I- it’s too much, I’m going to- ah-”
“I know, baby,” Ray answers. His tone is softer now but not kind - condescending, still fucking taunting. Still measured, too, and that’s the most infuriating part. “You must be so worked up. Just let go for me.”
Frank tries to writhe, but is still held in place by Ray’s hand’s pinning him to the mattress. He settles for thrashing his head.
“Please, Ray, please, need more, need it, please, let me, I need-” Frank trails off in a mess of moans as Ray picks up his pace.
“What do you need?” Ray pants.
“Need to come,” Frank manages. “Let me come, please let me come, I need- need it, need to fucking-”
“Do you want me to tell you that you can’t?” Ray asks.
What the fuck?
“‘Cause I was obviously planning on getting you off, but you’re begging me to let you come, and that makes it sound like you want me to say no.”
If Frank were a smarter man, he’d tell Ray no, jackass, make me come. A truly wise man, one who had better control of his mouth and more risk aversion, would have kept his hands to himself and just jacked off in the bathroom. Frank is neither.
He tries to speak, but Ray’s cock is buried inside him to the hilt and each stroke knocks the wind out of him when it brushes against his prostate.
“I’m sorry, am I fucking you so good you can’t think?” Ray asks, smiling down at him. “I just need one word, Frankie. Do you need me to slow down and let you tell me what you want?”
The harsh, aggressive Ray that was just pinning his face to the rough hotel carpet vanished so quickly that it’s making Frank’s head spin. This Ray is more like the relaxed, good-natured guy he knows, but the patronizing edge in his voice feels almost dangerous. It’s as if he’s wearing this sweetness, and the Ray that’s going to fuck him up is simmering beneath the facade. It’s terrifying, but it is so fucking hot.
“Need you to tell me, Frankie” Ray says, a beacon of control as he slows his pace. “Do you want to give that to me too? Let me decide how I’m gonna fuck you, when you come, how many times?”
“Yes,” Frank gasps.
Ray doesn’t waste a second. He buries himself inside Frank and stops, the fucker, while squeezing Frank’s cock hard at the base. A broken noise tears itself straight from Frank’s lungs, somewhere between a sob and a scream. On sheer instinct, he tries to fuck Ray’s hand, but only ends up pressing himself down on the stationary cock inside him.
“Alright,” Ray breathes, eyes already darkening, “you’ll come when I say you can, then.”
With one hand still gripping Frank’s cock so tightly it hurts, he starts fucking Frank again.
It's like nothing else Frank has ever felt. It’s painful, sure, but Frank can really only feel the cloud of pleasure that has suddenly engulfed him. Being unable to come is just amplifying the pleasure of being so close, almost there, kept right at the brink, and it is so good. It highlights the fact that he can’t do anything about his current situation - he can’t touch himself, can’t fuck himself on Ray’s cock, can’t force Ray to let him come, just has to lay there and take it, and Ray is pulling out, what the fuck?
The sudden loss of Ray’s cock elicits a pitiful cry from Frank. Ray has taken his hand off his cock too, choosing to lean down and pin Frank to the bed with one hand splayed across his stomach and the other tightly gripping his shoulder. Ray’s face is inches from his own, long hair tickling Frank’s cheek.
“You’re too worked up,” Ray explains. “You need to come back down if you want this to feel really good.”
Frank whimpers.
“I know, I know, just take a deep breath.”
Frank tries his best to comply, chest heaving. He feels like he’s being weighed down, two tons on top of him, unable to move. After about a minute, he’s relaxed a bit. He’s able to take a full breath, and his hands, which were apparently shaking, start to still. Ray doesn’t break eye contact for a second, watching intently, clearly searching Frank’s face for any hint of displeasure.
He finds none. Frank, despite the absolute torture he’s being put through, just wants more. He knows that it’s obvious - he knows that his mouth is hanging open, face covered in sweat and tears and his own drying spit, eyes wide and shining. His legs are still open, his head cocked back just a little bit, and he knows from all of this exactly what he looks like; he looks desperate, easy, like a fucking whore.
He’s still struggling to process that Ray, his bandmate, his strictly platonic friend, is the one making him feel this way. It feels so wrong, being spread out like a slut for one of his closest friends, but it’s so, so good.
After another deep breath, he nods at Ray.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” Frank answers confidently, “please fuck me, ah-” and he is not getting fucked. Instead, Ray is taking Frank’s cock all the way down in one go, and Frank’s not quite as big as him but he’s far from small, so Ray clearly has some experience in this area. Frank would think about that a bit harder if Ray wasn’t also shoving three fingers inside him, immediately seeking out his prostate and rubbing it over and over again.
Frank cries out and bucks his hips up on instinct. Fear briefly passes through him when Ray pulls off, but he just grabs one of Frank’s hands and places it in his own hair.
“I want you to come for me,” he says, “want to feel it,” and he’s going back down and working Frank’s cock like a fucking porn star. He’s going fucking hard, sucking while he bobs his head from tip to base, pressing his tongue against the underside of Frank’s shaft. He lets Frank tangle both of his hands in his hair, and he lets out the loudest moan that Frank has ever heard from him when he starts fucking his mouth.
Now Ray looks like the whore, spit dripping out of his mouth and collecting at the base of Frank’s cock, moaning around it, letting Frank grab him by the hair and use his throat, but Frank knows that he’s still not the one in control. Ray is letting him have this, which is so kind and benevolent and good that he should be fearing whatever Ray has in store for him next.
With every stroke, Frank either gets his cock deeper in Ray’s throat or his fingers deeper inside him. There’s no escape from the pleasure, the burning feeling in his gut, like a coil being compressed further and further until it’s about to pop.
“Close,” Frank warns, expecting Ray to pull away from him, but Ray just wraps his free hand around the back of Frank’s hip and pulls him in further, looking up at him with a pleading look in his eye, and Frank is gone. As he comes down Ray’s throat, it feels like there’s nothing else in the whole world. His vision whites out and all he can feel is the pleasure of his release. His orgasm feels like it’s being ripped from him by Ray’s tongue curling up to rub that little spot on the underside of his tip and his fingers still attacking Frank’s prostate.
When the last drop has escaped his cock, Ray pulls off, and the white-hot feeling…doesn’t stop? Ray doesn’t stop moving his fingers as he gets back up on his knees and spreads Frank’s legs so wide that he might protest if he wasn’t made of noodles right now. He doesn’t stop until he takes them out to line up his cock and Frank finally, finally has a brief respite, but he doesn’t, because Ray is replacing his fingers with his cock and fucking pounding him.
“I knew you’d look so pretty when you come,” Ray says. “Now I have to see it again.”
Of all people, Frank really did not expect that Ray Toro would be the death of him.
Ray has his hands wrapped around each of Frank’s legs, holding them up and open so that he can get as deep as possible. It’s so good and so terrible and just too much. Frank is distantly aware that he’s wailing. There are tears streaming down his face, and he’s thrashing around like a wild animal as Ray slams into him.
Ray didn’t even give him enough time for his cock to start to soften. He’s still hard, so hard, still riding the high of his orgasm. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, like he’s being tossed around by a hurricane. He feels like he’s been killed.
Ray could kill him, honestly, and just that fucked-up thought is enough to make Frank’s cock start to leak again. Physically, he’s fully overpowered. The unstoppable waves of pleasure that are battering his whole body have left him weak and unaware. Fucked stupid. Like a toy. If Ray just moved his hand a couple inches to the left, he could actually, literally end Frank’s life, and Frank would probably thank him for it.
“Hey,” Frank hears from above, “stay with me.”
It’s an order, but Frank can’t follow it. Frank’s not with him. Frank’s being held hostage by orgasmic pleasure. Leave a message and he’ll call you back.
“Frankie, you okay?”
He’s really not sure what okay is anymore, because he thought he knew what good and great felt like until he got his soul fucked and sucked out of him, and now he has to redo his entire feelings ranking. At this point, all that he knows is that he’d like to stay like this forever.
“Frankie, come on, come back to me,” Ray says. Frank registers that, even though Ray is frantically tapping his cheek and asking if he’s okay, he doesn’t sound concerned. He sounds…sweet. Caring, attentive, loving, even a little awed.
Ray’s sliding all the way in and rocking against Frank, rolling his hips gently and leaning down. He slips a hand into Frank’s hair and cups the nape of his neck as he catches his mouth in a slow, wet, insistent kiss. When Ray’s torso comes down on his cock, Frank instinctively tilts his hips up to chase the friction.
Ray huffs a laugh against Frank’s mouth and pins his hips down, denying Frank the ability to rut against him but making sure his cock is still being touched. It’s just enough pressure to drive him fucking crazy.
“Desperate,” Ray says. He pushes in as deep as he can go, still grazing Frank’s cock and forcing a breathy moan from him, and stills again.
“Have you ever done this before? Keep going after you come?” Ray asks.
Frank shakes his head, and Ray harshly digs his fingernails into Frank’s hips before he even realizes he’s doing it.
“Use your words,” Ray says.
“No,” Frank gasps.
Ray hums, rubbing gentle circles over the fingernail marks he’s left on Frank’s hips. “Feels good,” he says, almost a whisper.
Frank’s not sure if it’s a question or not. It doesn’t feel like one - it doesn’t even feel like a statement, really, it feels more like Ray isn’t even aware that it slipped out of his mouth. He still nods, responding with a choked-off “yeah” as Ray pulls back and slowly begins to move again.
“Feels like you’re losing your mind, right?” Ray asks, more intention behind his words now. “Like you can’t think about anything else, just this.” He gives Frank a deep, rolling thrust, angling his hips up to hit his prostate dead on. Frank lets out another sob.
“I know, baby, I know what it’s like,” Ray soothes. “Have you forgotten your own name yet?” He keeps rolling his hips, steadily speeding up a little bit at a time.
Frank is pretty sure he hasn’t. If Ray would just slow down and let him think about it for a second, he’d totally be able to remember it. Unfortunately, all he’s able to think about at the moment is the way Ray’s cock is driving into him and the feeling of his needy cock brushing against his own skin.
Ray smiles, keeping the brutal pace that he’s reached. “What about mine?”
“Ray,” Frank gasps immediately, tears streaming down his face again. “Ray, please, Ray, fuck me, I wanna- ah- wanna come for you, please, fucking- I’m yours, Ray, please.”
A moan escapes from Ray as he tilts his head down to hide his face. Frank realizes two things immediately: that what he’s just said is definitely doing something for Ray, and that he is completely, totally fucked.
Ray wraps the hand that’s not pinning him down around his cock. The sudden burst of sensation makes Frank cry out. He’s not sure if it’s from pleasure or agony.
“Fucking pathetic,” Ray spits. The constant pinballing between cruel and authoritative and kind is really fucking with Frank’s head. “You’re such a fucking whore, Frankie, letting me make a fucking mess of you like this.”
A sob escapes from somewhere deep in Frank’s chest.
“Fuck,” Ray groans, “yeah, cry for me, Frankie, come on-”
On the next upstroke, Frank is gone.
Since his last orgasm, everything has felt like a complete out-of-body experience. Frank knows that he’s been thrashing around, shaking, grinding his head against the mattress, but he couldn’t really feel any of it over the unrelenting waves of euphoria. He was floating, letting the pleasure take him somewhere far away.
Now, though, he’s fully tethered. He’s tethered to Ray, by Ray’s cock, by Ray’s hand, by the fucking power that he exudes as he brings Frank over the edge again. He feels everything, painfully aware of every sensation, from his twitching cock to the scratchy hotel comforter against his back.
After he’s fully spent, spread out limp and loose, the pleasure dulls despite the fact that Ray is still fucking him. It’s almost as if his brain is blocking the stimulation, like he’s felt too much already and needs to be protected from it. Right now, he’s just content - content to be used, to lie still in the fog, to take whatever Ray gives him.
Frank hears Ray murmuring above him - so good, so good for me, come on, just fucking take it - and decides that he needs to see this. He opens his eyes, and it’s a struggle but it is so worth it.
Ray’s gripping his hips with both hands and curling in on himself, head tilted down. His hair hangs down around him, obscuring most of his face except for his open mouth. He’s whispering sweet nothings between short, gasping breaths, things Frank can’t really make out. He catches the word beautiful a few times.
Honestly, Frank’s sure he does look pretty good. He knows exactly how amazing it is to have a blissed-out body writhing underneath him, grabbing at the sheets and making him worry about getting noise complaints.
The problem is that seeing Ray frantically chase an orgasm just makes him want to see Ray as broken as he is right now, and that need absolutely shatters the fog clouding his brain.
“Fucking- ah- close, Frankie, can I come in you?” Ray gasps.
“Yeah, come on, come in me, please, Ray, wanna feel it.”
Ray fucking whines, high and pretty. Frank needs to hear that sound again.
With great effort, Frank brings his legs up to wrap them around Ray, crossing his ankles together and pulling him in.
“Making me feel so fuckin’ good, Ray, wanna make you come.” Frank continues. “Need it, please, need you to come inside me, make me remember that it’s you that made me feel this way, think of you every time it drips out.”
Ray has curled in on himself even tighter now, and Frank can see the way his eyes are screwed shut as his rhythm starts to falter. He stretches one hand up to brace himself against the headboard and places the other over Ray’s.
“Look at me,” Frank says, “look at what you fucking did to me.”
Ray comes as soon as he opens his eyes.
The sight of it is gorgeous. His grip weakens and his broad shoulders collapse as he fucks into Frank with short, aborted thrusts. He’s still letting out beautifully soft whimpers and staring at Frank like he’s his lifeline, which would feel a bit ironic if it wasn’t so hot.
Ray doesn’t pull out as soon as he’s finished. He stays inside Frank as his cock starts to soften, rubbing affectionate circles over his hips again, still looking into his eyes.
The look on his face is…pretty unnerving. It’s unreadable, and Frank doesn’t love not being able to gauge a situation. And Ray is still silently staring at him after what feels like an eternity, so Frank bites first.
“Don’t tell me we’re going again.”
Ray startles a bit, then laughs. “If you’re still able to be snarky like that, I didn’t do my job right.”
“No, you did,” Frank responds, trying to roll the tightness out of his neck and shoulders. “I came back to Earth just to watch you get off, Toro.”
“I lost first name privileges that quickly?”
“It’ll take more than one lay to earn that.”
“How about getting a washcloth for you?”
Frank hums. “Maybe.”
Frank is left with a feeling of uncomfortable emptiness as Ray slowly pulls out and walks to the bathroom. Even so, the afterglow is amazing. He relaxes into the bed, stretching his arms over his head as he lets his face fall against the pillow. It takes a few minutes for Ray to return, just long enough for Frank to worry that he might fall asleep. When he does, he’s carrying two washcloths, Neosporin, a small packet, and a bottle of lotion.
He sets the items down on the bed and brings the first washcloth to Frank’s face. It’s warm. Nice. Frank lets his eyes fall shut as Ray gently wipes his entire face to get rid of the dried spit, tears, and the remnants of his makeup. A small whine escapes from his mouth when Ray pulls away.
“Doing okay?” Ray asks.
“Yeah,” Frank replies. “Just felt nice.”
Ray laughs under his breath. He uses the second washcloth, warmer and wetter than the first, to gently wipe around Frank’s hole. It should be so weird, but Frank feels strangely at ease. He hears Ray open the packet.
“This might sting,” Ray says apologetically.
The fuck- ugh. Ray’s taking an alcohol wipe to him, drawing a hiss from Frank. He must have broken skin when he was digging his fingers into Frank’s hips.
The pain subsides when Ray starts to rub the Neosporin into his hips. It’s painfully reminiscent of Frank’s many nights spent with Mikey patching him up after fights, the last time not even a week ago. Frank can’t help but laugh a little.
“What?” Ray asks.
“Nothing, just…feels weird.”
Ray makes a sympathetic noise. “Yeah, Mikey said you usually top, but I wasn’t sure if this would be, like, totally new for you.” Frank hears him unsnap the cap of the lotion bottle.
“No, I meant that it’s weird that it feels familiar, because it really shouldn’t,” Frank explains.
He braces himself for the feeling of cold lotion on his ass, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes, actually - Ray’s not touching him, not rubbing the lotion between his hands, not moving at all. Frank can’t even hear his breathing. Huh?
Frank opens his eyes. Ray is staring back at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He looks somewhat like he’s being held at gunpoint. The fuck-
Wait.
“Mikey said what?”
Ray grimaces. He doesn’t answer.
“When the fuck did Mikey tell you that?”
Ray takes a deep breath and looks away. “Few days ago,” he exhales, “when he told me that I should make a move on you.”
…
That fucking bastard.
A million thoughts fly through Frank’s head at once. Ray and Mikey talked about this? Mikey told Ray about Frank’s sexual proclivities? Mikey told Ray to ‘make a move’ on him?
Frank realizes how long he’s been staring in silence when Ray cautiously looks into his eyes again.
“You need to tell me what, exactly, the fuck you mean.”
“I know,” Ray sighs. “Mikey and I were hanging out the other night when you guys were asleep. He knows about my…interests, and he was telling me that he was pretty sure you were into me, and that you, like, needed something like this or else you would ‘go get yourself killed by some drunk psychopath.’” He emphasizes Mikey’s words with air quotes.
It answers exactly zero of Frank’s questions. If anything, it confuses him more.
“So, lemme get this straight - Mikey told you that you should come fuck me, and you just…did?” Frank asks, incredulous.
“No!” Ray rushes. “No, I- ugh.” He runs both hands through his hair, clearly anxious. He’s also clearly forgotten that he still has lotion in his hands.
“It’s just- I didn’t think that I would be able to just do this once, so I’ve been debating whether I should even try or not,” Ray admits. “I don’t need, like, commitment or anything, I just mean that I would never be able to forget this or just move on after finally getting to have you. I couldn’t have a one-time hookup with somebody I see every day.”
Hm. Frank’s the same way. It does make him feel better.
Ray continues. “That’s why I freaked out on you this morning. I had been agonizing over what to do for days, and I just…took that out on you.”
“You could definitely do that again,” Frank says, deadpan. “If you wanted to.”
Ray stares at him confusedly for a moment, then smiles. “That’s what made me go for it, actually. You were staring at me earlier, when we were in the lounge and on stage, not like you just wanted to be pushed around but like you wanted me to be the one doing it, and it just made me fucking snap. I could barely keep it together.”
Frank laughs, not meaning to. He had almost forgotten. “Gee said you were jacking off back there.”
Ray grins, looking down and letting his hair hide his face. “Take it as a compliment?”
“Oh, believe me, Toro, I do,” Frank replies. As he relaxes, he realizes how cold he’s getting. “Get that lotion on me so we can get in bed?”
“Oh, fuck, I forgot. Yeah, sorry,” Ray says, squirting more lotion into his hands and rubbing them together. It’s still a little cold when Ray rubs it into Frank’s ass, but it’s a really interesting feeling on top of the lingering burn.
Ray stands, making Frank scoot over so that he can pull down the sheets, then helping him get under the covers. After Frank is settled, he stands by the edge of the bed awkwardly.
“Coming?” Frank asks.
Visible relief washes over Ray. “Yeah,” he responds, sliding into the bed. He moves a hand toward Frank, then stops as if he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.
Frank scoots toward him, pulling Ray’s arm around him and resting his head on Ray’s shoulder. He can hear how fast Ray’s pulse is, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
“What do you mean ‘finally?’” Frank asks. “You said ‘finally’ getting to have me.”
Ray exhales shakily, looking over at Frank and offering a weak smile. “I keep putting my fucking foot in my mouth, huh?”
Frank rolls his eyes, gently jabbing his elbow into Ray’s ribs. “Been thinking about this for a while?”
“Yeah,” Ray says quietly. “Have you?”
Honestly? A few hours ago, Frank would’ve said no. But now, as he racks his brain, he realizes that he’s pretty sure he has. He thinks of the tall, faceless body he imagines pinning him down and fucking him when he’s drunk and sleep-deprived with a hand down his pants, the way that he actively refuses to think about those fantasies when he’s sober, the tall, curly-headed one-night-stands he gravitates toward.
“I think so,” Frank replies after a moment, “like, subconsciously. But earlier today was the first time that I actually realized it.”
Ray hums. “So…do you want to keep doing this?”
His tone is casual, but the way his shoulders tense up like he’s steeling himself for a no betrays his nervousness.
“Yeah,” Frank says. “I do.”
Ray relaxes instantly, releasing the breath he’s been holding. “I do too.”
“Can we, like…” Frank starts. He pauses. “I don’t wanna use the word exclusive, but I can’t think of anything else.”
“Can we only fuck each other for the rest of the tour?” Ray offers.
“Yeah, that. Can we do that?”
“Yeah, I’m down.” Ray says. After a brief pause, he snorts. “Thank God, I didn’t want to be the one to ask.”
Frank snorts too. “Oh yeah, Toro, we can go steady. Wanna take me out after the pep rally? We can share a milkshake.”
“Fuck you,” Ray laughs.
“You’ll get plenty of chances,” Frank says, angling his head up to give Ray the sleaziest grin he can conjure. “Can you turn the light off?”
Ray does, wrapping his other arm around Frank when he lies down again. “Goodnight, Frankie,” he murmurs against Frank’s neck.
“Goodnight, Ray.”
They wake up way too hot, sweaty and stuck together, and laugh about it as Ray gets up to start the shower. When they join the rest of the guys at breakfast, Frank makes a beeline for Mikey, who’s standing at the waffle station. He shoulder-checks Mikey as hard as he can, then punches his arm for good measure.
“If you ever pull that shit again, I’ll fucking kill you,” Frank says.
Mikey calmly looks down at Frank, then turns around, searching the room. Frank follows his eyes. His gaze lands on Ray, who’s standing at their table, talking to Gerard but looking directly at Frank, soft admiration in his stare. When he notices that they’re both looking at him, he turns away, trying and failing to suppress a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Mikey turns back to Frank and shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Whatever.”