One More Time [standalone]
Title: One More Time
Author: cassie_roulette
Pairing: Ray/Frank
Rating: NC-17 for SEX
POV: Third, heavy emphasis on Ray
Summary: He wondered how many more nights they'd cave into each other before finally putting a leash on it.
Disclaimer: Faker than Gerard's hair color. OH SNAP.
Author Notes: I should have gone to bed. Instead I wrote some filthy porn. FOR YOU.
Dedications: jettabug, my constant source of inspiration and hawt Australian muse. fredlero, who comes as close as humanely possible to understanding my Ray fetish and is also très rad. And pandagore, for being awesome and a million other reasons that I can't think of right now because it's 6am.
Warnings: Gratuitous, plotless mansex. HOTDAMN.
Wordcount: 1,661
"Frank," he whispered, ragged breath coming hot and desperate against his ear. "Frank... stop me..."
It was a strange kind of guilt that sung through Ray's veins, like a thick film over the heat of the moment, tainting what should have been enjoyment.
Frank's fingers were digging into his shoulder blades, clawing at the material of his jacket. His breath was hitched and when Ray reached between their bodies to shove a hand between the other man's legs, Frank's teeth came down hard at the junction of neck and collarbone, stifling his sounds of need.
The wall of the poorly lit bathroom flickered; fluorescent, painfully false whiteness. The roar of the crowd and the reverb still rung in Ray's ears. Sweet, intoxicating disorientation.
He didn't remember who had grabbed whom; whose steamy, heavy browed stare of post-show lust had sparked the scrambling for the nearest closed door. It didn't matter.
Didn't matter that there was the unspoken agreement that it needed to stop.
Didn't matter that this wasn't the fucking Warped Tour anymore, a living, breathing, hedonistic machine made of beer and sweat and mind-blowing sex against some other band's bus in the middle of the afternoon where anyone could see.
Insert cliché.
Because all that mattered was Frank's filthy, goading commentary in his ear, intensified by the needy panting and the audible pulse that filled the walls around them.
"Fuck me Ray, you son of a bitch," he hissed. Wicked, deft, inked fingers twining into the taller man's belt loops to give his hips a good yank of emphasis.
Ray's blood sang to the challenge, riled beyond his usual character of peaceful modesty and video game magazines. Only Frank Iero possessed the knowledge it took to flip that switch inside him and bring out the predatory creature that ground the shorter man up against the wall with the force of his lower body alone.
The one that had every intention of wiping the smirk off that hyperactive bastard's face.
Oh yes, he would fuck Frank all right.
Just like he did every time, in spite of his intention to stop. One last time, he'd tell himself, derailed by the stare of the rhythm guitarist that could seduce a nun. Those haunted, amber eyes that melted his bones and left him panting like a bitch in heat.
Just one more time.
The arena tour brought the money, and the road crew was staggering. Twelve buses and a handful of label-paid trailers. Techs everywhere. Managers and their assistants and their assistants. Far cry from the five losers from Jersey who thought a good turnout meant anything more than a homeless guy and the other band's girlfriends.
More people. More cameras.
More chances that one day someone would see the two guitarists from My Chemical Romance fucking in a bathroom with their pants around their ankles.
Kerrang would have a field day.
Frank's teeth sunk good and hard into Ray's shoulder, wrenching him back to the present, that painful here and now that manifested in the form of a dull throb in his overly tight black jeans.
Maybe that was it.
The hurried costume change between sets, the stolen glances over shoulders where only a thin curtain spared the crowd from watching the circus of it all. Frank's animalistic gaze from stage right that sent Ray back to the days of the high school locker room, rooting him to the spot when all he wanted to do was get out of his damn pants and into another, tighter pair.
It was almost like a race, really.
Gerard usually lost.
Vain bastard.
"Goddammit Toro, do something!" he growled, shoving at the sleeves of the taller man's jacket, wanting skin, wanting contact.
Too much control made him cocky.
And Ray knew that deep down, all Frank wanted was a nice, hard screw against the wall.
"Get down," Ray muttered roughly, taking a half step back and shoving at the top of Frank's shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Clever, practiced fingers opened the fly of his jeans, pushed them down just to the top of his thighs, enough to free his aching cock to the open air.
Frank's eyes widened in unmasked hunger, hesitating for that one crucial moment to lift those big, pouty eyes to the lead guitarist. One moment of silence and not-movement.
One moment too long that had Ray's hand threading into Frank's hair, pulling him forward with a hissed order of "Suck it".
Frank had been growing his hair longer as of late. Ray silently guessed that it was for the same reason that he'd wait, pause, linger without action.
Because he wanted Ray to grab it roughly and tug on it and demand his mouth.
Wanted it.
Frank gasped at the harsh tug to his roots, whimpered at the pain that Ray knew felt better than the ache between his legs. His lips parted and he welcomed the heat of Ray's length, bent to tease, practically giggling in that maniacal, girly manner of his when Ray grunted in frustration.
"Fuck," he hissed out into the empty bathroom, his free hand bracing palm-flat against the cool, painted concrete wall. Head hung low. Sweaty, heavy curls obscuring his vision of the over-zealous manifestation of living, breathing sex kneeling in front of him, doing his best to suck him into oblivion.
Too soon for comfort Ray could feel that tingling from the four corners of his body, inching inward like a backwards burst of light. The fire ran up his legs and pooled in his gut, uncurling and powerful and he had to stop. Too soon. And Frank was still on his knees instead of against the fucking wall.
Little regard was given to the other man's comfort as the fingers in his hair tightened and pulled him away with a dull, wet 'pop', clearly catching Frank by surprise from the way he gaped upwards, struggling for breath and his bearings.
Taking advantage of the rare moment when Frank Iero was thrown off guard, Ray gripped him by the front of his shirt, twisting in the material, wrenching him to his feet. With a breathless gasp heard from the shorter man, Ray shoved him around and yanked his pants down, kicking his legs apart.
"You want this?" he hissed in Frank's ear, wrapping a muscular arm around his waist, pulling him back against his spit-slickened arousal.
Frank just nodded, still dizzy from the transition, having enough of a sense of equilibrium to brace his feet firm and plant his palms on the wall in front of his face.
Ray, modesty and social awkwardness aside, was no fool when it came to what he was sporting between his legs. And if past instances hadn't told him otherwise, he might have felt hesitant, even unwilling to thrust his impressive member into Frank's body with only the shorter man's spit as lube.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ray, just fuck me already."
Past instances overrode his courtesy.
Raising a hand to clamp his palm firmly over Frank's mouth, Ray tightened his grip around Frank's waist and drove forward hard, chin resting on his shoulder, wanting to hear the muffled scream behind his hand; the steady moaning that even stifled, could probably be heard from the hall.
"Is this was you want, you fucking whore?" Ray hissed against Frank's ear, his own voice rough and dripping with lust as he rode out his pleasures into the other man's body. The moment and the heat and the impossible tightness were wrenching these filthy words from his lips, demanding answers of the younger band member that would have been lost to senseless moaning even if his mouth weren't covered by Ray's large, callused hand.
It was the secret dynamic between them; the passionate, intimate roles that took over behind closed doors. When the louder, crazier punk kid braced his hands against the wall and thrust back onto the quiet, genial man's cock like a harlot.
Giving Frank's midsection a hard pull backwards, Ray shifted his angle, reading Frank's body language like his second nature. Just a slight shift and Frank was biting Ray's hand as he screamed, writhing in his grip. The sudden and unrelenting pressure to his prostate was too much to stand, and yet Ray wouldn't let him squirm away from it, forcing him to endure the mind-numbing pleasure that overrode his senses and had him coming hard up against his stomach before he even realized he was close.
Frank's body was like a vise around Ray's throbbing length and his jerking, desperate backwards thrusts of climax forced his eyes closed. He was wincing in pleasure, brow knitted tight as he fought against it as long as he could, balancing on the edge of orgasm. It was only after Frank went limp in his arms and breathed his name on a reverent whisper that Ray finally lost it.
Something about driving forward into the other man's already spent body - of using him as a means to get off - just made him come harder, biting into the inked design of scissors and ribbon to stifle his own cries.
The world went white and then black, silence and nothing that reality slowly bled back into. The hum of the overhead light matched the ringing in his ears.
Frank shifted in his arms with a breathless stare to give him one bruising kiss followed by an arrogant, lopsided grin that remained plastered to his face as he hiked his pants back up and wiped the stain of his come against the bathroom wall.
"I think we're supposed to do an interview," he whispered in Ray's ear as he strode past him and out the door, swishing his hips in his careless manner, as if he weren't perfectly aware that he radiated sexuality.
Catching his own breath and having the courtesy to at least remove any bodily fluids with a paper towel, Ray couldn't help but smile. He caught his own reflection in the mirror before he left the bathroom himself, giving his hair a good shake to fluff some of the life back into it as his sweat dried.
He wondered how many more nights they'd cave into each other before finally putting a leash on it.
By his counting, at least one more time.
Author: cassie_roulette
Pairing: Ray/Frank
Rating: NC-17 for SEX
POV: Third, heavy emphasis on Ray
Summary: He wondered how many more nights they'd cave into each other before finally putting a leash on it.
Disclaimer: Faker than Gerard's hair color. OH SNAP.
Author Notes: I should have gone to bed. Instead I wrote some filthy porn. FOR YOU.
Dedications: jettabug, my constant source of inspiration and hawt Australian muse. fredlero, who comes as close as humanely possible to understanding my Ray fetish and is also très rad. And pandagore, for being awesome and a million other reasons that I can't think of right now because it's 6am.
Warnings: Gratuitous, plotless mansex. HOTDAMN.
Wordcount: 1,661
"Frank," he whispered, ragged breath coming hot and desperate against his ear. "Frank... stop me..."
It was a strange kind of guilt that sung through Ray's veins, like a thick film over the heat of the moment, tainting what should have been enjoyment.
Frank's fingers were digging into his shoulder blades, clawing at the material of his jacket. His breath was hitched and when Ray reached between their bodies to shove a hand between the other man's legs, Frank's teeth came down hard at the junction of neck and collarbone, stifling his sounds of need.
The wall of the poorly lit bathroom flickered; fluorescent, painfully false whiteness. The roar of the crowd and the reverb still rung in Ray's ears. Sweet, intoxicating disorientation.
He didn't remember who had grabbed whom; whose steamy, heavy browed stare of post-show lust had sparked the scrambling for the nearest closed door. It didn't matter.
Didn't matter that there was the unspoken agreement that it needed to stop.
Didn't matter that this wasn't the fucking Warped Tour anymore, a living, breathing, hedonistic machine made of beer and sweat and mind-blowing sex against some other band's bus in the middle of the afternoon where anyone could see.
Insert cliché.
Because all that mattered was Frank's filthy, goading commentary in his ear, intensified by the needy panting and the audible pulse that filled the walls around them.
"Fuck me Ray, you son of a bitch," he hissed. Wicked, deft, inked fingers twining into the taller man's belt loops to give his hips a good yank of emphasis.
Ray's blood sang to the challenge, riled beyond his usual character of peaceful modesty and video game magazines. Only Frank Iero possessed the knowledge it took to flip that switch inside him and bring out the predatory creature that ground the shorter man up against the wall with the force of his lower body alone.
The one that had every intention of wiping the smirk off that hyperactive bastard's face.
Oh yes, he would fuck Frank all right.
Just like he did every time, in spite of his intention to stop. One last time, he'd tell himself, derailed by the stare of the rhythm guitarist that could seduce a nun. Those haunted, amber eyes that melted his bones and left him panting like a bitch in heat.
Just one more time.
The arena tour brought the money, and the road crew was staggering. Twelve buses and a handful of label-paid trailers. Techs everywhere. Managers and their assistants and their assistants. Far cry from the five losers from Jersey who thought a good turnout meant anything more than a homeless guy and the other band's girlfriends.
More people. More cameras.
More chances that one day someone would see the two guitarists from My Chemical Romance fucking in a bathroom with their pants around their ankles.
Kerrang would have a field day.
Frank's teeth sunk good and hard into Ray's shoulder, wrenching him back to the present, that painful here and now that manifested in the form of a dull throb in his overly tight black jeans.
Maybe that was it.
The hurried costume change between sets, the stolen glances over shoulders where only a thin curtain spared the crowd from watching the circus of it all. Frank's animalistic gaze from stage right that sent Ray back to the days of the high school locker room, rooting him to the spot when all he wanted to do was get out of his damn pants and into another, tighter pair.
It was almost like a race, really.
Gerard usually lost.
Vain bastard.
"Goddammit Toro, do something!" he growled, shoving at the sleeves of the taller man's jacket, wanting skin, wanting contact.
Too much control made him cocky.
And Ray knew that deep down, all Frank wanted was a nice, hard screw against the wall.
"Get down," Ray muttered roughly, taking a half step back and shoving at the top of Frank's shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Clever, practiced fingers opened the fly of his jeans, pushed them down just to the top of his thighs, enough to free his aching cock to the open air.
Frank's eyes widened in unmasked hunger, hesitating for that one crucial moment to lift those big, pouty eyes to the lead guitarist. One moment of silence and not-movement.
One moment too long that had Ray's hand threading into Frank's hair, pulling him forward with a hissed order of "Suck it".
Frank had been growing his hair longer as of late. Ray silently guessed that it was for the same reason that he'd wait, pause, linger without action.
Because he wanted Ray to grab it roughly and tug on it and demand his mouth.
Wanted it.
Frank gasped at the harsh tug to his roots, whimpered at the pain that Ray knew felt better than the ache between his legs. His lips parted and he welcomed the heat of Ray's length, bent to tease, practically giggling in that maniacal, girly manner of his when Ray grunted in frustration.
"Fuck," he hissed out into the empty bathroom, his free hand bracing palm-flat against the cool, painted concrete wall. Head hung low. Sweaty, heavy curls obscuring his vision of the over-zealous manifestation of living, breathing sex kneeling in front of him, doing his best to suck him into oblivion.
Too soon for comfort Ray could feel that tingling from the four corners of his body, inching inward like a backwards burst of light. The fire ran up his legs and pooled in his gut, uncurling and powerful and he had to stop. Too soon. And Frank was still on his knees instead of against the fucking wall.
Little regard was given to the other man's comfort as the fingers in his hair tightened and pulled him away with a dull, wet 'pop', clearly catching Frank by surprise from the way he gaped upwards, struggling for breath and his bearings.
Taking advantage of the rare moment when Frank Iero was thrown off guard, Ray gripped him by the front of his shirt, twisting in the material, wrenching him to his feet. With a breathless gasp heard from the shorter man, Ray shoved him around and yanked his pants down, kicking his legs apart.
"You want this?" he hissed in Frank's ear, wrapping a muscular arm around his waist, pulling him back against his spit-slickened arousal.
Frank just nodded, still dizzy from the transition, having enough of a sense of equilibrium to brace his feet firm and plant his palms on the wall in front of his face.
Ray, modesty and social awkwardness aside, was no fool when it came to what he was sporting between his legs. And if past instances hadn't told him otherwise, he might have felt hesitant, even unwilling to thrust his impressive member into Frank's body with only the shorter man's spit as lube.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ray, just fuck me already."
Past instances overrode his courtesy.
Raising a hand to clamp his palm firmly over Frank's mouth, Ray tightened his grip around Frank's waist and drove forward hard, chin resting on his shoulder, wanting to hear the muffled scream behind his hand; the steady moaning that even stifled, could probably be heard from the hall.
"Is this was you want, you fucking whore?" Ray hissed against Frank's ear, his own voice rough and dripping with lust as he rode out his pleasures into the other man's body. The moment and the heat and the impossible tightness were wrenching these filthy words from his lips, demanding answers of the younger band member that would have been lost to senseless moaning even if his mouth weren't covered by Ray's large, callused hand.
It was the secret dynamic between them; the passionate, intimate roles that took over behind closed doors. When the louder, crazier punk kid braced his hands against the wall and thrust back onto the quiet, genial man's cock like a harlot.
Giving Frank's midsection a hard pull backwards, Ray shifted his angle, reading Frank's body language like his second nature. Just a slight shift and Frank was biting Ray's hand as he screamed, writhing in his grip. The sudden and unrelenting pressure to his prostate was too much to stand, and yet Ray wouldn't let him squirm away from it, forcing him to endure the mind-numbing pleasure that overrode his senses and had him coming hard up against his stomach before he even realized he was close.
Frank's body was like a vise around Ray's throbbing length and his jerking, desperate backwards thrusts of climax forced his eyes closed. He was wincing in pleasure, brow knitted tight as he fought against it as long as he could, balancing on the edge of orgasm. It was only after Frank went limp in his arms and breathed his name on a reverent whisper that Ray finally lost it.
Something about driving forward into the other man's already spent body - of using him as a means to get off - just made him come harder, biting into the inked design of scissors and ribbon to stifle his own cries.
The world went white and then black, silence and nothing that reality slowly bled back into. The hum of the overhead light matched the ringing in his ears.
Frank shifted in his arms with a breathless stare to give him one bruising kiss followed by an arrogant, lopsided grin that remained plastered to his face as he hiked his pants back up and wiped the stain of his come against the bathroom wall.
"I think we're supposed to do an interview," he whispered in Ray's ear as he strode past him and out the door, swishing his hips in his careless manner, as if he weren't perfectly aware that he radiated sexuality.
Catching his own breath and having the courtesy to at least remove any bodily fluids with a paper towel, Ray couldn't help but smile. He caught his own reflection in the mirror before he left the bathroom himself, giving his hair a good shake to fluff some of the life back into it as his sweat dried.
He wondered how many more nights they'd cave into each other before finally putting a leash on it.
By his counting, at least one more time.