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Idle Hands

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Frank's flipping through a Fender gear catalog in a side room, cool as you please. What he did burns in the back of his head, stings a little under his skin. Maybe it's better than Ray won't find out until tomorrow. Maybe it's worse. But they've quit for the day, and either way, Frank's ready to put his feet up away from the studio for a couple hours.

The door slams open, and Frank jumps, but he settles back quickly and keeps his eyes fixed on the pictures in front of him.

"You. Broke. My. Strobe light."

Frank turns a page, trying to ignore his pounding heart. Ray was supposed to find out tomorrow, but he can work with this. "I told you it gave me a headache."

The catalog disappears from his hands in a flash. Ray lays it carefully on the coffee table beside them.

Frank looks up through his eyelashes at Ray, who's nothing more than a dark silhouette looming in front of the light. "You didn't fucking listen to me."

"I need that light. You didn't have to stick around."

Usually, Gerard's the one who's up in arms about creative conditions and flow. But Gerard's the one who wanted the album reboot, Gerard's the one working cheerfully like it's no big deal, and Ray's left bouncing in a recording room with a strobe light pulsing around him. Frank wants to ralph every time he sees it, but the thought of leaving Ray alone with the screwed-up looks on his face is worse.

"What are you going to do about it?" Frank tilts his head and spreads his legs like he already knows the answer.

Ray's hands flex and ball into fists. He gets like this sometimes, more frequently now than he used to, and while nobody's better than Frank at being a little shit, he can never quite get Ray to a peak. And it grates at Frank. Not just because it would make Ray feel a hell of a lot better. It's a point of fucking pride that Frank is the one to lance the wound, and that he loves what happens when he pulls it off.

He almost can't believe it when Ray grits out, "Safeword", not like it's a question. Ray can't crack over something stupid like this.

But hey, Frank's willing to find out. "Gouda."

A moment passes, enough for Ray to take a long, loud breath, and then Frank's up in the air, Ray's hands fisted into the collar of his hoodie. Frank slaps at Ray's arms a little - not hard, just enough to register protest - but it's no use; Ray slams him up against the wall, and Frank can feel it buckle behind him. Normally, he might worry about the plaster, but fuck it. He's too jazzed this is actually happening to care.

Not that Frank will take any of it without a fight.

He loops an arm around Ray's neck and twists, wrenching his hoodie out of Ray's grasp. Ray shakes free pretty quickly - he and Mikey aren't wrestling junkies for nothing - but Frank has actual fight experience. He dodges Ray's grasp twice, and then he steps down hard on Ray's foot. Not enough to permanently hurt him. Just enough to get Ray to back off.

That's the kind of place these brawls have ended before. Actually, earlier: grunts in the house making Ray afraid of bothering the neighbors, the sound of skin slapping skin making Ray cringe, an accidental cut drawing blood. And Frank gets it...respects it, even. Ray has limits just like Frank does. Doesn't stop the itch under his skin, though.

Apparently, it isn't enough for Ray this time, either. Ray kicks aside the coffee table, and then he grabs Frank in a headlock and forces him down face-first onto the carpet. The carpet smells like cleaner, not like any of the nasty shit Frank's smelled when he ate carpet in other fights, but what the fuck ever. His hard-on's getting decent pressure with Ray pinning him down, and the friction of the carpet on his cheek is just making it worse.

"Apologize," Ray says through grit teeth, his thighs pinning down Frank's legs so well he can hardly wriggle.

Frank makes a spitting noise. He doesn't actually spit because he's not that much of an asshole, but it's a useful enough gesture. "Fuck. You."

His wrists were pinned in one of Ray's hands - one of Ray's huge, strong fucking hands - but Frank relaxes his wrists for a second, and he gets enough space to wriggle free and slap out. The side of his hand glances against Ray's cheek. It's totally in their preestablished rules that slapping's okay, but Frank feels a little bad.

For about thirty seconds. It's the time it takes Ray to twist Frank's arms behind his back again, take his hand off Frank's head, and smack his fingers on Frank's cheek enough to sting.

Frank's dazed like Ray full-on backhanded him, or like he got a series of good spankings. Ray's winning. And he's shoving down the back of Frank's jeans like he's taking the spoils. Frank groans, full-throated, and wriggles as the air cools his ass. Not to fight back. He just can't stay still when he's that turned on.

He hears the rustle of fabric, and then he feels Ray's big cock settling between his crack. Ray's weight settles down heavy on top of Frank in general, and he shifts Frank's hands so they're spread in front of him, handholds for Ray to use as he fucks against Frank. Frank rocks back, rocks forward, rocks any direction he fucking can. But he's pinned, and he can't get enough leverage to tip him over the edge. Fuck, he's so fucking close, too. He squeezes his eyes shut like it'll help, and it does a little, feeling all of Ray around him, his fingers pressing into the skin of Frank's wrists, his breath on Frank's neck, the scrape of Ray's jeans on the back of his thighs.

Ray comes first, hot and stinging wet onto Frank's ass. But he isn't done. He leans up, shifting his hands to Frank's shoulders, and rubs the come in Frank's skin for a second. It's only when he scrapes it off on the back of Frank's hoodie that he realizes he's cleaning Frank off. But for what?

Smack. Frank's vision goes red.

"Fuck," he groans.

"Say you're sorry," Ray says, and yeah, the edge is gone. He sounds low, intense, but not brittle. "Or you don't get to finish."

He spanks Frank hard two more times before Frank can so much as breathe, like he's giving him a taste of what he'll miss if he doesn't, and then stops.

"I'm sorry," Frank says.

Bam. Even harder. "Louder."

"S-sorry." Frank's ass is starting to burn, and he's getting close again. "Fuck, I-I'm so sorry, fuck, Ray..."

Ray keeps going even when Frank loses the ability to speak. He loses everything but the burning pain, the throbbing of his cock, the stinging of tears on his cheeks, and the thought, so distant in his head that it's barely there, that maybe Ray wasn't the only one who needed to do this.

Frank comes back to himself slowly. He didn't feel the orgasm that probably tore through him, but he feels the aftermath of it and everything else as Ray scoops him into his lap. His limbs all ache, and he'll probably have all kinds of visible bruises later. His briefs are sticky; Ray didn't shove them down all the way when he took down his jeans, and that's probably for the best. Nobody likes a stained carpet.

Ray's hands, previously so hard and fast, brush lightly across the top of Frank's hair. Frank hums and presses back into Ray, eyes half open.

"You're a fucking animal," Frank says, and Ray laughs. Probably because Frank has never said anything in such a dreamy voice in his life.

"Yeah." Ray kisses the top of Frank's head. "You too."