Fic: Smoke and Mirrors (Bob/Ray, NC-17)
Title : Smoke and Mirrors
Author : Arlyn Jayde (atomichatred82)
E-mail : atomichatred82@lycos.com
Rating : NC-17
Pairing : Bob/Ray (MCR)
Word Count : 5,723
Warnings : None
Disclaimer : Here be lies, untruths, and reckless imagination.
Summary : I will not say 'I suck at summaries'. I will say, 'Here! Have some PORN!' instead.
Author's Note : Loosely written for this prompt on we_are_cities.
January 31st 2008
Jakarta, Indonesia
They've been watching Mother Nature's lightshow all the way from the venue to the hotel, a short ride made longer by traffic and security checks, Frank and Mikey with their heads pressed against the bus window and staring in awe at the inky black clouds that hung low enough to blanket some of the skyscrapers. The city is idiosyncratic enough in its planning (or lack thereof) that there are patches of clear sky in between the tall buildings, giving them clear view of the lightning strikes, one after another, a ceaseless cacophony of light and noise, like a war of the gods.
Ray sighs quietly as another bolt of lightning, angry-white and jagged, cuts through the night and vanishes. He doesn't have his camera.
It's nearly midnight when the skies finally open up, like ripping from the sheer weight of the clouds, and then it was just water everywhere, falling in fat drops and pooling in the streets, obscuring everything outside the bus into a blur of tail lights and rubbery wiper scratches. A tropical rainstorm, that's what it is, coming and going on a whim, sometimes without warning, finishing off what was an exceptionally hot and humid day. They've all experienced bad weather of course but this is truly something, the sheer amount of water falling from the sky like a sheet, not even bothering to start with a slow trickle, just falling and falling and falling.
They get to the hotel, past the marbled lobby and the white-gloved busboys who bow and smile, still, even at this hour. Not the regimented, ceremonial bows of the Japanese but smaller, shorter. These guys and girls in their uniforms with golden nameplates, dark-skinned and jewel-eyed, and Ray wants to get them all in a picture, all of a sudden, shuffling trays on carts, folding sheets and laying out tables. He hasn't taken that many pictures here--their schedule is ironclad and didn't allow for much sightseeing, and he's tired of all the still life he's been taking to get accustomed to his new camera.
In Hong Kong he took more than a hundred shots of Chinese lanterns dangling from wires strung between lampposts and buildings, the first of the Lunar New Year decorations. There's fifty-seven shots of the hotel corridor in Manila, to go with the thirty-odd shots of Bob's drumsticks--which he got to borrow for an hour in exchange for a promise not to try and sneak a picture of Bob for the rest of the tour.
Ray kept his promise for all of three days. It's not his fault that Bob tends to sleep with his mouth half-open and his hair tousled against the pillow, dirty blonde curls in messy lumps against his freckled nose.
It's a good look on him.
Up in their rooms on the 17th floor, the height of kestrel nests, Bob goes for a shower while Ray stands near the windows, finally with his camera in hand but not sure of what he wants to shoot. Not the water itself--the light is too weak and he's too much of an amateur, so he just unscrews the lenscap and switches on the viewfinder. There's not much to see, just blurry shapes and moving streaks of wetness, and he settles for a few quick shots of the curtain swaying against the windowframe, dappled by raindrops reflected on the glass.
"Got anything good?" Bob calls out from behind, and Ray can hear his bare feet shuffling against the carpet.
"No, it's too dark out there."
"Well, fucking turn the lights on, then, before I trip over your goddamn guitar case again,"
Ray laughs, but complies and goes over to flick the switch. Bob's got a pair of boxers on and a towel slung around his neck, hair wet and his eyes bleary as it looks over Ray's shoulder and out the window.
"Still raining, huh?"
"Yeah," Ray nods. "Doesn't look like it's gonna let up anytime soon."
And it doesn't, in fact, just pours and pours well into midnight and creeping into the early hours of the next day. Neither of them sleep, Bob flicking through the strange local channels on the TV while Ray sits in the armchair with his feet up on one of the beds, getting his circulation back. There are three mostly-empty bottles of beer on the table, and Bob compensates not being able to smoke out of the windows by declaring their well-appointed but ridiculously tiny bathroom as the new Marlboro country, going in and out of it with a frequency that's beginning to make Ray restless, until he actually considers making some bad joke about geriatrics with bladder problems, however inappropriate it is because fuck, Ray's the old man in this room and he knows Bob will call him on his bullshit, blowing plumes of thick white smoke into his face.
Smoke.
Well, that's an idea.
Ray grabs his camera and goes into the bathroom, finding Bob sitting on the closed toilet with one foot resting on the edge of the bathtub. Fuck, the bathroom on their tourbus felt bigger than this.
"Jesus, Toro! Can't you knock?" Bob snarls.
"Door wasn't even closed," Ray says. "And you're not, like, doing anything private in here, are you?"
"Might've been thinking it," Bob says, still scowling. It's a schoolboy kind of scowl, exaggerated lips and bright blue eyes, and Ray finds it oddly attractive. "Thanks for killing the mood, though."
"Pre-emptive strike," Ray says haughtily.
Bob looks down to the camera in Ray's hands, and his eyes narrow. "What's that thing doing here, and why are you pointing it at me?"
"Bob, I thought we had this conversation before," Ray says. "Cameras are nice things. Nice, nice camera. Here, try and pet it if you want."
"You're a nutcase," Bob says. "Get that thing out of here."
"What, you're staking some kind of territorial claim here? Bob's World, no cameras allowed?"
"Ray..." Bob's voice changes, just enough to let Ray know he's done with the joking around.
"Look, I was just wondering if I could take pictures of...you know," Ray fumbles with the lenscap.
"My dick? You're going to miss it so much you need to preserve it in digital form?"
"Oh, fuck you," Ray snaps back, albeit half-heartedly. "The smoke, Bob. I wanna see what kind of pictures I can take of it. So you just sit there, be a good boy and blow some smoke, and I'm gonna take a few shots and try not to get, oh, your fucking fingers in the frame, okay?"
Bob seems to consider this for a bit, worrying his lip ring between his teeth in a way that still makes Ray wince inwardly, like how the fuck does he sleep with that thing on, not that Ray doesn't approve of it, especially when the lips attached to it are getting acquainted with Ray’s dick.
"Sure, whatever," Bob says finally. "Always glad to help you and your lofty artistic pursuits,"
"My, those are big words from such a little boy," Ray says as he dials the camera into manual exposure.
"Fuck you," Bob says.
"Maybe later," Ray mumbles casually.
Bob actually has the gall to look thoughtful at that, then humphs quietly and proceeds to blow an impressive succession of smoke rings.
Ray mumbles "Show off," and hoists his camera. He's tempted to press the shutter right there, capture the perfect curve of Bob's lips and the ring piercing it, shrouded in hazy smoke, but that probably won’t sit well with Bob and there isn’t enough alcohol in Ray’s system yet to feign drunken ignorance.
He shoots fast, and in quick succession, sometimes not bothering to focus. The wispy tendrils of smoke curve in and out of the viewfinder, changing shape constantly, and he knows he’ll have to color-adjust the heck out of them once he gets them on his computer. The bathroom has a single halogen bulb set in a recess in the ceiling, and everything glows yellow-white, a little harsh, but the smoke diffuses it somewhat.
It’s different, at least, he has no illusion of producing something that’ll someday hang in galleries and be talked about in manners of composition and light, but just like any avid photographer splurging on their first DSLR with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Ray just wants to take good pictures. He knows jackshit about framing, shoots on gut feelings and innate curiosity, shoots the things he thinks he’ll want to look at and remember, especially when the rest of his world, their world, is going by so fast.
“Still raining out there?” Bob says, the cigarette in his hand nearly burnt through.
Ray nods. “You gonna light up another?”
Bob stubs out his cigarette on the fancy cut-glass ashtray with the hotel logo. “You gonna go get me another beer?”
Ray scowls, but puts his camera on standby and sets it down carefully on the sink counter. “Fair enough,”
Indonesia’s local beer comes in large green bottles, really old school, with a bare-bones pilsener taste that Bob really likes and Ray kind of doesn’t, but they have very little alcohol in them compared to other brands available through room service and that makes them the sensible choice. They’re boarding a plane home tomorrow and the last thing Ray wants, especially with the weather acting up like this, is to have to buckle in for a trans-Pacific flight with his head in the throes of a hangover. The buzz is negligible, at the most it just makes them pee a lot. Probably another reason Bob keeps going back to the can.
When Ray returns to the bathroom, Bob is on his feet and perusing through the images on Ray’s camera, unlit cigarette between his lips. Ray almost drops the beer.
Bob looks up, the expression on his face hovering somewhere between questioning and homicidal, and Ray struggles to hold his gaze. He doesn’t even have to look at the camera to know which images Bob's been looking at.
“You...uh, you wanna explain this?”
Something in Bob’s voice makes him sound hesitant, as if he’s still undecided on whether he should kick Ray’s ass or not, and it gives Ray a glimmer of hope that he might yet make it out of this alive. Still, he plays along and takes the camera out of Bob’s hand, looking down at the display.
Really, it’s a rather nice image.
He can’t remember if this is from Manila or Hong Kong, same generic white hotel sheets don’t really give it away, but he remembers waking up early with pale yellow sunlight streaming into the room, remembers looking over to where Bob was still sleeping, remembers getting out of bed as quietly as possible and grabbing his camera, like if he stopped to second-guess himself he’d probably lose his nerve.
Ray sighs, shuffling through the next few images. Bob, asleep, mouth half-open against the white pillowcase, his long hair falling in all sorts of messy tangles around his face, closeups of the stubble on his chin, the slim silver chain around his neck, the line of his bare shoulders backlit against the window. There’s nothing seedy or voyeuristic about them--okay, aside from the fact that he took them without permission--it’s just a series of pictures of a sleeping man, Ray’s not going to claim that he was in any way objective when he took them, but he wasn’t prying, wasn’t poking at places nobody’s seen before. That would’ve been...well, he would never do that. Bob should know.
“What do you want me to say?” he looks up at his drummer, who fixes him with a cold stare.
“Ray, you promised--”
“I know,” Ray cut him off. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Bob doesn’t even sound all that angry, just confused and a little...hurt? Upset?
“Okay, maybe not so much,” Ray concedes. “Sorry I took them without permission. Not so sorry seeing how they turned up.”
Bob moves an inch closer. “You...fuck, Toro, if anyone else ever sees these--”
“If--what? Dude, are you insane?” Ray stares back sharply. “You think I’d do that?”
There’s a moment where Ray can swear Bob almost loses his nerve, almost slips back into indifference and mutter something along the lines of ‘forget it’ and stalk out of the bathroom. He doesn’t, though, just chews his bottom lip as he mutters out, “I don’t know, I mean if your camera’s ever stolen or some shit…”
“I transfer everything to my laptop and empty out my memory card every week, you know that,” Ray says calmly. “Or are you worried about my laptop getting stolen, too?”
“I just…” Bob huffs, looking exasperated. “You know, if this were anyone but you…”
“You’d have knocked them out cold,” Ray says. “Believe me, I know.” When Bob doesn’t look like he’s about to rest the issue, Ray sighs quietly and says, “Look, would it make you feel better if I got rid of them? I don’t want to, I rather like them….” he looks down at the image again. He really does like them. “But if you want me to delete them, I’ll do it right now.”
Bob manages a small, still not-yet-relaxed smile. “You’d just sneak another picture of me sleeping some other time,”
“I probably would,” Ray says. “What can I say? You make it kinda hard not to,”
“Don’t fucking kid me, Toro.”
“Who says I’m kidding?” Ray shuts off his camera and puts it back down on the counter. “Here, drink this.”
Bob takes the beer and sits down heavily on the edge of the tub. “Trying to loosen me up enough so I’d let you take more pictures?”
“Hey, you asked for the beer,” Ray counters. “That thing barely has alcohol in it. Tastes like piss, too.”
Bob quirks an eyebrow. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”
“Shut up and drink, Bryar.”
Bob does, and it’s Ray who lights up a cigarette this time, leaning back against the counter to dispel some of the tension that has crept into his shoulders, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. In the silence, they can hear the rain that’s still battering the hotel windows.
“We should sleep,” Ray says after he finishes the cigarette and the beer in Bob’s hand is almost empty. “Early flight tomorrow.”
Bob gives him the barest of nods, but doesn’t make any move to stand up. “Can I ask you something?”
Ray shrugs. “Sure, man.”
Bob’s sloshing the remaining beer around in his bottle, not really looking at Ray. “If I’d let you...I mean, let’s say you get me drunk enough to actually let you take all the fucking pictures you want…”
Ray’s breath hitches a little bit at that. “Yeah?”
“How would you…” Bob looks up, fringes of blonde falling across his eyes. “I mean, what would they be? The pictures, if I let you--” he stammers, chews his lip some more, and Ray’s already thinking of a thousand different shots in his head, everything he’s ever wanted, every angle, every closeup, every tint and hue.
“You really want to know?” Ray pushes off the sink and stands in front of Bob, the air in the tiny bathroom thick with smoke and his own barely-concealed excitement. “Want me to tell you?”
Bob looks up, the muscles of his neck stretched taut as he meets Ray’s gaze. “Yeah…”
Ray makes up his mind then, a near-audible click as he takes the bottle from Bob’s hand and puts it aside. His other hand reaches for Bob’s chin, tilting it gently upwards even more. Bob’s blue eyes widen at the contact, but he doesn’t flinch or pull away.
“I’d take every kind of picture I can get,” Ray says, thumb stroking circles on Bob’s jaw. “Every fucking kind, Bob.”
Bob shivers noticeably.
“I won’t tell you to ‘do this’ or ‘do that’ or pose like a fucking model or anything, I’d just follow you around all day taking pictures, like when you’re setting up your drums and warming up, or brushing your teeth in the morning…”
“Ray…” Bob mutters, but his tone isn’t one of displeasure.
“Oh, and I’d take a shitload more pictures of you like the ones you saw…” Ray tightens his hand slightly, feeling Bob tense up as he does so. “I kinda like you like that, you know? You probably won’t believe it, but I really do.”
Bob’s eyes fall shut for a moment before he opens them again. “Really?”
He sounds so fucking earnest, so genuinely surprised that Ray wants to pull him to the floor and fuck him right then and there, on the cold tile floor of this bathroom, and he knows his boner is just about rubbing against Bob’s chest now.
“I’d keep it all to myself, too.” he continues. “Won’t show it to anyone...why would I?”
Bob’s hand moves up to join Ray’s, just resting against his wrist. “You can be selfish sometimes, you know?”
“Yeah,” Ray smiles as his other hand grabs Bob’s forearm and pulls him up. "I know."
Bob wobbles a little, unprepared for the sudden movement, but Ray is and he holds Bob steady with both arms and finds Bob’s mouth easily with his own. Bob kisses back eagerly, hands tangling up in Ray’s hair, and Ray bites lightly at his lower lip, licking over the ring, before pulling back and holding Bob’s face a breath away from his.
“Shit, Bryar...you could’ve just asked me to fuck you,” he chuckles at Bob’s flushed cheeks, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue but still alert.
“You could’ve just asked me to take those pictures,” Bob says flatly. “I would’ve let you.”
Ray presses their hips together, the words going through him like fire. “Really?”
“Only you, though.” Bob adds quickly, voice wavering. “I don’t...I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”
“I know,” Ray says, thumb rubbing against Bob’s lip ring. “I get it.”
And he does, really, he’s known Bob long enough now to understand that it’s not the cameras so much as the people holding them that puts Bob on edge, the sketchy looks he keeps giving photographers at every shoot and every interview, like he’s afraid every click of the shutter is going to reveal something he might not be ready to show. Ray would never betray that kind of trust--for someone like Bob, it’s like trusting you with his life.
He doesn’t need a camera to see that.
They somehow make it from the bathroom back to the bed without incident, and before long Ray’s flat on his back with his fingers in Bob’s hair and Bob’s got his lips wrapped around the head of Ray’s dick and making wet, slurping noises that’s loud enough to hear over the rainstorm outside. Ray doesn’t even remember how they got naked but he’s glad that they are, because he has a feeling that this is going to get spectacularly messy.
His camera has somehow made the trip back too, resting beside the pillow, and Ray would kill for a tripod right now because this is a fucking Kodak moment if ever there was one, Bob with his head between Ray’s thighs and his enthusiastic, no-nonsense sucking, and he’s letting Ray push up into his mouth, fuck it deep, Ray’s hand firm at the back of his neck.
“Fuck…” Ray hisses as Bob’s teeth grazes his cock unintentionally. Bob looks up, apologetic, but Ray shakes his head and pushes him back down, rougher than he normally would, but Bob is letting him get away with all kinds of things tonight and Ray’s...well, he’s not about to pass up that kind of invitation.
Bob’s not the smoothest cocksucker Ray’s ever encountered, pausing frequently to take deep breaths and struggling not to gag, but it just makes Ray even crazier for him, how he just pushes on and doesn’t even take a break, just closes his eyes and goes back down as deep as he can, like his life depends on it. Watching Bob like this, his shoulders shaking and his mouth making soft, muffled noises around Ray’s dick, is almost unbearable. Ray takes hold of Bob’s chin and pulls him of with a wet pop, gripping him by the jaw.
“Fuck, Bob…” he says as he looks down. Bob’s lips are hanging open, swollen and wet with Ray’s pre-come, and there’s a thick trail of saliva hanging precariously between them and the tip of Ray’s cock. It’s fucking obscene, like every wet dream Ray’s ever had of Bob all rolled into one, and he knows he’s going to just explode if he lets Bob go on any longer.
“I could take a picture of you right now,” he says between gritted teeth. “Just like this, no lights or flash, just like this.”
Bob licks his lips. “Ray…”
“It’d probably come out dark, so dark you can barely see anything, but when I look at it I’ll know exactly where you are,” Ray tugs at Bob’s chin, urging him to crawl up the mattress. “I’ll remember exactly what you look like.”
He pulls Bob onto him for another kiss, wet and sloppy just like they both like it, Bob’s weight resting on him as Ray’s hands travel across Bob’s back and down towards his ass, taking one cheek in each hand and pulling them apart. Bob makes a choked noise into Ray’s mouth and spreads his legs obediently, like he’s been wanting this all along, and Ray teases him with a finger rubbing outside his hole for a few long moments while his other hand reaches desperately for the bedside table, his mouth keeping Bob’s busy and blissfully distracted. Ray’s not the smoothest man in bed, either, but he likes to think that he can make it worth it, give Bob exactly what he needs, what he’d never ask from anyone else and never give in return. If this is the only place and time to have it, well so be it.
Bob takes his mouth off Ray’s to take a breath, and that’s when Ray jams two lube-slicked fingers up his hole, confident that they’ve done this enough times before to not cause too much damage. Bob gasps, his head falling on Ray’s shoulder, sweaty hair obscuring his face.
“Oh, fuck…” he hisses against Ray’s ear as the fingers inside him twist, opening him up for Ray’s cock. Ray tilts his head sideways and kisses Bob’s temple, soothing him, his free hand stroking up and down Bob’s back.
“You trust me, right?” Ray whispers into the damp curtain of hair resting next to his face.
“Uh-huh…” Bob grunts.
“Trust me enough to let me do this?” he pushes his fingers deeper inside Bob, as deep as the angle will let him, as his other hand grabs his camera. Bob lifts his head at the sound of the lenscap coming loose, eyes hazy and breathing uneven, and rocks his ass back onto Ray’s fingers as Ray fumbles with the dials--DSLRs aren’t exactly designed for one-handed operation, especially when your other hand is covered in lube and buried up another guy’s ass.
Bob lifts up onto his elbows, trapping his and Ray’s cocks against each other between their bodies, and Ray holds the camera steady against his chest.
“You want…” Bob says. “Like this?”
“Yes,” Ray says, scissoring his fingers for emphasis.
Bob squeezes his eyes shut, but his lips fall open and he mumbles a soft, quivering “Okay.”
“We can always delete it later,” Ray assures him, but Bob shakes his head.
“Just fucking do it before I change my mind, Toro.”
Ray smiles, pulling Bob’s face down for a kiss, and while their mouths are tangled he holds the camera at arm’s length and presses the shutter. Bob flinches a bit at the sound, but he doesn’t break the kiss. Ray doesn’t even know if he’s pointing the camera right, if there’s even enough light to see anything, but he doesn’t care. What matters is the way Bob feels right now, on top of him, fucking himself on Ray’s fingers and shuddering with each click of the camera, giving himself up little by little, and the knowledge that he’s the only one Bob would ever do this with makes Ray’s head swim a little. He’s never thought of himself as getting turned on by power trips, but it’s Bob fucking Bryar who’s squirming on top of him and choking his name out between each thrust of Ray’s fingers and well, that’s enough to make anyone have a power trip even without the camera.
“Get on your stomach, come on,” Ray says as he pulls his fingers out of Bob.
Bob moans at the loss but complies, resting his head on the pillow. Ray drags the camera along the mattress with him--he’s not cruel enough to point it directly at Bob’s face or anything, and lets it rest beside them as he kneels behind Bob and nudges Bob’s knees apart. He wants nothing more than to just grab Bob’s hips and yank him back onto his dick, fuck him so hard he’s gonna feel it for days, but Ray holds back, thumb pressing against Bob’s entrance and rubbing lazy circles around it.
“Ray…” Bob sounds desperate, throaty. He’s trying to rub against the mattress, trying to get some friction, anything.
“Don’t touch your cock,” Ray says firmly. “I’ll take care of it.”
Bob goes still, his back arching as he pushes his ass back at Ray ever-so-subtly. “Ray, fuck it, come on…” he grits out, hands fisting into the sheets.
Ray holds Bob’s hip firmly with one hand and takes his camera with the other. The lens whirs furiously as it struggles to focus in the weak light, Ray’s finger half-pressing into button, and the noise makes Bob lift his head and strain his neck to look back over his shoulder, eyes looking directly into the camera.
“Ray, what--”
Ray presses the shutter then, capturing the arch of Bob’s back and the damp hair framing his face, eyes wide and mouth agape, vulnerable and unguarded. The resulting image shows up on the display a mere two seconds later, and Ray mutters out “Perfect,” before pushing forward into Bob’s body, his cock sinking almost all the way in on the first thrust.
Bob’s head drops and his entire body shudders, so much that Ray has to put the camera down and hold him with both hands so he won’t slide off, a stream of profanities coming muffled from the pillow Bob’s stuffed his face into. He’s slick and hot inside, well-prepared but still so unbelievably tight, and Ray grips Bob’s hips hard enough to bruise.
“Perfect…” Ray says again, wanting Bob to hear it, wanting Bob to know that this means just as much to him, that this is theirs and theirs alone. “Fuck, Bob…” he thrusts harder, picking up rhythm, hips snapping in counterpoint to his hands pulling at Bob’s hips.
He’s not going to last long, neither of them are, they’ve been dancing around each other like fools since they got back from the venue, bodies tense and aching from the show but wanting nothing but to cap the night off with a good long fuck, and Ray will probably regret this in the morning when every bone in his body is protesting and he remembers that he’s not so young anymore, but it’s going to be so fucking worth it.
“Ray…” Bob groans out, shoulders limp on the mattress. He’s not even meeting Ray’s thrusts anymore, just holding himself up (barely) by his knees and letting Ray dictate the pace, rocking him forward until he almost bumps his head against the headboard. Ray’s kind of glad there’s a rainstorm raging outside because otherwise the ruckus they’re causing would probably have the people on the floor below calling up the front desk.
“Come on,” Ray says as he reaches around and finds Bob’s leaking dick, stroking lazily. “Come on, Bob…”
Bob tenses, and Ray can see him biting the pillowcase as Ray runs his thumb over the slit and that’s it, Bob’s gone, he comes in thick spurts over Ray’s hand and the sheets below, and Ray can feel him shudder all the way down to his fucking toes, like a quake spreading out from its epicenter, and he holds himself still to let Bob ride it out, barely able to control himself as he feels Bob’s ass clenching around him, pushing him closer.
When Ray lets go of Bob’s dick he literally falls onto the mattress, slumps like all of his bones have turned to liquid, nearly taking Ray down with him. “Fuuuuck…” Bob moans weakly as Ray resumes pumping into him, slower and more deliberate, rubbing his come-slick hand over Bob’s lower back, Bob dutifully keeping his ass up even as his knees continue to buckle with aftershocks. He’s such a good boy, Ray thinks, so eager to please, sometimes to the point of blind selflessness, giving himself up like this, trusting without suspicion, letting himself be used like this even when he’s nearly spent, and it’s these thoughts that finally push Ray over the edge, his orgasm wrenched from him and into Bob, and he flops onto Bob’s back when it’s over, delicious tingle of afterglow prickling all over his body. Bob lets him stay there for as long as Ray needs to, his dick softening inside Bob’s body, until Ray finally has to push up on his arms and pull out, both of them groaning at the loss of contact.
Ray rubs at Bob’s moist, well-fucked hole gently with one hand. “Sorry,” he says, and he means it this time.
“S’okay,” Bob mutters sleepily.
“Wanna go clean up a bit?” Ray offers.
“M’gonna sleep like the dead,” Bob says, still not moving from the position he fell into, post-orgasm. “You wanna take pictures, still? Go ahead.”
Ray chuckles, picking up his camera and placing it carefully on the bedside table after turning it off. “I think I have enough,” he says as he lays down beside Bob, gathering the drummer’s limp body into his arms. “Hey, c’mere…”
Bob manages to inch closer, his head nestling comfortably against the crook of Ray’s shoulder, and Ray has just enough strength and coordination left in his legs to pull the covers up by his toes, draping the fleece-like material over Bob’s shoulders and his own. Bob’s still shaking a little, minuscule twitches all over his body that Ray tries to smooth over with his fingers stroking through Bob’s hair, pressing kisses against his forehead. He waits until Bob’s breathing evens out, waits a little longer to make sure Bob’s fallen asleep, then he lets his own eyes fall shut with just a hint of a satisfied smile on his lips.
Outside, it’s still raining.
---
“That was Brian,” Ray says as he puts the phone receiver back down.
“Hmmm…?” Bob blinks sleepily, hair spectacularly tousled in the weak morning light coming in from the window. The rain has scaled back to a light drizzle, and there are faint noises of traffic coming from the roads below.
“Brian,” Ray repeats. “He says we’re gonna have to stay here a little longer. Airport’s been shut down because of the weather--and apparently the main access road leading to it’s been flooded over.”
“Oh,” Bob says, looking around as if he’s trying to remember where he is.
“Brian talked to one of the promoters--apparently they get floods like this every year, this city. Bad drainage and shit, he says this isn’t half as bad as last year.”
“Yeah, one of the merch kids at the venue said so as well,” Bob says. “Must be a bummer, though.”
“They get by,” Ray says as he looks out the window. There are clouds hanging low and bleak over the top of the buildings, and everything looks like it’s been painted a shade of grey. It makes him all the more reluctant to get out of bed, really.
“We...we’re not gonna miss anything, are we?”
“No…” Ray says. Last night was their last show of the Asian leg, and they’re not due to start the South American leg for another two weeks. “The whole city’s been deadlocked by floods, though, so we’ll just have to stay here.”
“Hmm….” Bob drags his stubbled chin across Ray’s chest. “Bet you’ll want to take your camera down there, see it for yourself, shoot all that water and the cars going through the puddles.”
“Maybe,” Ray presses his nose into Bob’s hair. “Or maybe I’ve got far more interesting things to shoot up here,”
He can feel Bob’s smile blossoming against his chest. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”
“Yeah?” Ray reaches over for the camera resting on the bedside table. “Let’s see what I can do to make it even better.”
--FIN--
Note: The morning of February 1st, 2008 in Jakarta was indeed marked by floodings so severe that the Soekarno-Hatta International Airport had to be shut down as the main highway leading to it was inaccessible. Areas most badly affected were North Jakarta, West Jakarta, and Central Jakarta. I do not know whether this affected My Chemical Romance's departure from Indonesia, all I know is that it's a convenient excuse to write some porn. *g*
Author : Arlyn Jayde (atomichatred82)
E-mail : atomichatred82@lycos.com
Rating : NC-17
Pairing : Bob/Ray (MCR)
Word Count : 5,723
Warnings : None
Disclaimer : Here be lies, untruths, and reckless imagination.
Summary : I will not say 'I suck at summaries'. I will say, 'Here! Have some PORN!' instead.
Author's Note : Loosely written for this prompt on we_are_cities.
January 31st 2008
Jakarta, Indonesia
They've been watching Mother Nature's lightshow all the way from the venue to the hotel, a short ride made longer by traffic and security checks, Frank and Mikey with their heads pressed against the bus window and staring in awe at the inky black clouds that hung low enough to blanket some of the skyscrapers. The city is idiosyncratic enough in its planning (or lack thereof) that there are patches of clear sky in between the tall buildings, giving them clear view of the lightning strikes, one after another, a ceaseless cacophony of light and noise, like a war of the gods.
Ray sighs quietly as another bolt of lightning, angry-white and jagged, cuts through the night and vanishes. He doesn't have his camera.
It's nearly midnight when the skies finally open up, like ripping from the sheer weight of the clouds, and then it was just water everywhere, falling in fat drops and pooling in the streets, obscuring everything outside the bus into a blur of tail lights and rubbery wiper scratches. A tropical rainstorm, that's what it is, coming and going on a whim, sometimes without warning, finishing off what was an exceptionally hot and humid day. They've all experienced bad weather of course but this is truly something, the sheer amount of water falling from the sky like a sheet, not even bothering to start with a slow trickle, just falling and falling and falling.
They get to the hotel, past the marbled lobby and the white-gloved busboys who bow and smile, still, even at this hour. Not the regimented, ceremonial bows of the Japanese but smaller, shorter. These guys and girls in their uniforms with golden nameplates, dark-skinned and jewel-eyed, and Ray wants to get them all in a picture, all of a sudden, shuffling trays on carts, folding sheets and laying out tables. He hasn't taken that many pictures here--their schedule is ironclad and didn't allow for much sightseeing, and he's tired of all the still life he's been taking to get accustomed to his new camera.
In Hong Kong he took more than a hundred shots of Chinese lanterns dangling from wires strung between lampposts and buildings, the first of the Lunar New Year decorations. There's fifty-seven shots of the hotel corridor in Manila, to go with the thirty-odd shots of Bob's drumsticks--which he got to borrow for an hour in exchange for a promise not to try and sneak a picture of Bob for the rest of the tour.
Ray kept his promise for all of three days. It's not his fault that Bob tends to sleep with his mouth half-open and his hair tousled against the pillow, dirty blonde curls in messy lumps against his freckled nose.
It's a good look on him.
Up in their rooms on the 17th floor, the height of kestrel nests, Bob goes for a shower while Ray stands near the windows, finally with his camera in hand but not sure of what he wants to shoot. Not the water itself--the light is too weak and he's too much of an amateur, so he just unscrews the lenscap and switches on the viewfinder. There's not much to see, just blurry shapes and moving streaks of wetness, and he settles for a few quick shots of the curtain swaying against the windowframe, dappled by raindrops reflected on the glass.
"Got anything good?" Bob calls out from behind, and Ray can hear his bare feet shuffling against the carpet.
"No, it's too dark out there."
"Well, fucking turn the lights on, then, before I trip over your goddamn guitar case again,"
Ray laughs, but complies and goes over to flick the switch. Bob's got a pair of boxers on and a towel slung around his neck, hair wet and his eyes bleary as it looks over Ray's shoulder and out the window.
"Still raining, huh?"
"Yeah," Ray nods. "Doesn't look like it's gonna let up anytime soon."
And it doesn't, in fact, just pours and pours well into midnight and creeping into the early hours of the next day. Neither of them sleep, Bob flicking through the strange local channels on the TV while Ray sits in the armchair with his feet up on one of the beds, getting his circulation back. There are three mostly-empty bottles of beer on the table, and Bob compensates not being able to smoke out of the windows by declaring their well-appointed but ridiculously tiny bathroom as the new Marlboro country, going in and out of it with a frequency that's beginning to make Ray restless, until he actually considers making some bad joke about geriatrics with bladder problems, however inappropriate it is because fuck, Ray's the old man in this room and he knows Bob will call him on his bullshit, blowing plumes of thick white smoke into his face.
Smoke.
Well, that's an idea.
Ray grabs his camera and goes into the bathroom, finding Bob sitting on the closed toilet with one foot resting on the edge of the bathtub. Fuck, the bathroom on their tourbus felt bigger than this.
"Jesus, Toro! Can't you knock?" Bob snarls.
"Door wasn't even closed," Ray says. "And you're not, like, doing anything private in here, are you?"
"Might've been thinking it," Bob says, still scowling. It's a schoolboy kind of scowl, exaggerated lips and bright blue eyes, and Ray finds it oddly attractive. "Thanks for killing the mood, though."
"Pre-emptive strike," Ray says haughtily.
Bob looks down to the camera in Ray's hands, and his eyes narrow. "What's that thing doing here, and why are you pointing it at me?"
"Bob, I thought we had this conversation before," Ray says. "Cameras are nice things. Nice, nice camera. Here, try and pet it if you want."
"You're a nutcase," Bob says. "Get that thing out of here."
"What, you're staking some kind of territorial claim here? Bob's World, no cameras allowed?"
"Ray..." Bob's voice changes, just enough to let Ray know he's done with the joking around.
"Look, I was just wondering if I could take pictures of...you know," Ray fumbles with the lenscap.
"My dick? You're going to miss it so much you need to preserve it in digital form?"
"Oh, fuck you," Ray snaps back, albeit half-heartedly. "The smoke, Bob. I wanna see what kind of pictures I can take of it. So you just sit there, be a good boy and blow some smoke, and I'm gonna take a few shots and try not to get, oh, your fucking fingers in the frame, okay?"
Bob seems to consider this for a bit, worrying his lip ring between his teeth in a way that still makes Ray wince inwardly, like how the fuck does he sleep with that thing on, not that Ray doesn't approve of it, especially when the lips attached to it are getting acquainted with Ray’s dick.
"Sure, whatever," Bob says finally. "Always glad to help you and your lofty artistic pursuits,"
"My, those are big words from such a little boy," Ray says as he dials the camera into manual exposure.
"Fuck you," Bob says.
"Maybe later," Ray mumbles casually.
Bob actually has the gall to look thoughtful at that, then humphs quietly and proceeds to blow an impressive succession of smoke rings.
Ray mumbles "Show off," and hoists his camera. He's tempted to press the shutter right there, capture the perfect curve of Bob's lips and the ring piercing it, shrouded in hazy smoke, but that probably won’t sit well with Bob and there isn’t enough alcohol in Ray’s system yet to feign drunken ignorance.
He shoots fast, and in quick succession, sometimes not bothering to focus. The wispy tendrils of smoke curve in and out of the viewfinder, changing shape constantly, and he knows he’ll have to color-adjust the heck out of them once he gets them on his computer. The bathroom has a single halogen bulb set in a recess in the ceiling, and everything glows yellow-white, a little harsh, but the smoke diffuses it somewhat.
It’s different, at least, he has no illusion of producing something that’ll someday hang in galleries and be talked about in manners of composition and light, but just like any avid photographer splurging on their first DSLR with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Ray just wants to take good pictures. He knows jackshit about framing, shoots on gut feelings and innate curiosity, shoots the things he thinks he’ll want to look at and remember, especially when the rest of his world, their world, is going by so fast.
“Still raining out there?” Bob says, the cigarette in his hand nearly burnt through.
Ray nods. “You gonna light up another?”
Bob stubs out his cigarette on the fancy cut-glass ashtray with the hotel logo. “You gonna go get me another beer?”
Ray scowls, but puts his camera on standby and sets it down carefully on the sink counter. “Fair enough,”
Indonesia’s local beer comes in large green bottles, really old school, with a bare-bones pilsener taste that Bob really likes and Ray kind of doesn’t, but they have very little alcohol in them compared to other brands available through room service and that makes them the sensible choice. They’re boarding a plane home tomorrow and the last thing Ray wants, especially with the weather acting up like this, is to have to buckle in for a trans-Pacific flight with his head in the throes of a hangover. The buzz is negligible, at the most it just makes them pee a lot. Probably another reason Bob keeps going back to the can.
When Ray returns to the bathroom, Bob is on his feet and perusing through the images on Ray’s camera, unlit cigarette between his lips. Ray almost drops the beer.
Bob looks up, the expression on his face hovering somewhere between questioning and homicidal, and Ray struggles to hold his gaze. He doesn’t even have to look at the camera to know which images Bob's been looking at.
“You...uh, you wanna explain this?”
Something in Bob’s voice makes him sound hesitant, as if he’s still undecided on whether he should kick Ray’s ass or not, and it gives Ray a glimmer of hope that he might yet make it out of this alive. Still, he plays along and takes the camera out of Bob’s hand, looking down at the display.
Really, it’s a rather nice image.
He can’t remember if this is from Manila or Hong Kong, same generic white hotel sheets don’t really give it away, but he remembers waking up early with pale yellow sunlight streaming into the room, remembers looking over to where Bob was still sleeping, remembers getting out of bed as quietly as possible and grabbing his camera, like if he stopped to second-guess himself he’d probably lose his nerve.
Ray sighs, shuffling through the next few images. Bob, asleep, mouth half-open against the white pillowcase, his long hair falling in all sorts of messy tangles around his face, closeups of the stubble on his chin, the slim silver chain around his neck, the line of his bare shoulders backlit against the window. There’s nothing seedy or voyeuristic about them--okay, aside from the fact that he took them without permission--it’s just a series of pictures of a sleeping man, Ray’s not going to claim that he was in any way objective when he took them, but he wasn’t prying, wasn’t poking at places nobody’s seen before. That would’ve been...well, he would never do that. Bob should know.
“What do you want me to say?” he looks up at his drummer, who fixes him with a cold stare.
“Ray, you promised--”
“I know,” Ray cut him off. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Bob doesn’t even sound all that angry, just confused and a little...hurt? Upset?
“Okay, maybe not so much,” Ray concedes. “Sorry I took them without permission. Not so sorry seeing how they turned up.”
Bob moves an inch closer. “You...fuck, Toro, if anyone else ever sees these--”
“If--what? Dude, are you insane?” Ray stares back sharply. “You think I’d do that?”
There’s a moment where Ray can swear Bob almost loses his nerve, almost slips back into indifference and mutter something along the lines of ‘forget it’ and stalk out of the bathroom. He doesn’t, though, just chews his bottom lip as he mutters out, “I don’t know, I mean if your camera’s ever stolen or some shit…”
“I transfer everything to my laptop and empty out my memory card every week, you know that,” Ray says calmly. “Or are you worried about my laptop getting stolen, too?”
“I just…” Bob huffs, looking exasperated. “You know, if this were anyone but you…”
“You’d have knocked them out cold,” Ray says. “Believe me, I know.” When Bob doesn’t look like he’s about to rest the issue, Ray sighs quietly and says, “Look, would it make you feel better if I got rid of them? I don’t want to, I rather like them….” he looks down at the image again. He really does like them. “But if you want me to delete them, I’ll do it right now.”
Bob manages a small, still not-yet-relaxed smile. “You’d just sneak another picture of me sleeping some other time,”
“I probably would,” Ray says. “What can I say? You make it kinda hard not to,”
“Don’t fucking kid me, Toro.”
“Who says I’m kidding?” Ray shuts off his camera and puts it back down on the counter. “Here, drink this.”
Bob takes the beer and sits down heavily on the edge of the tub. “Trying to loosen me up enough so I’d let you take more pictures?”
“Hey, you asked for the beer,” Ray counters. “That thing barely has alcohol in it. Tastes like piss, too.”
Bob quirks an eyebrow. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”
“Shut up and drink, Bryar.”
Bob does, and it’s Ray who lights up a cigarette this time, leaning back against the counter to dispel some of the tension that has crept into his shoulders, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. In the silence, they can hear the rain that’s still battering the hotel windows.
“We should sleep,” Ray says after he finishes the cigarette and the beer in Bob’s hand is almost empty. “Early flight tomorrow.”
Bob gives him the barest of nods, but doesn’t make any move to stand up. “Can I ask you something?”
Ray shrugs. “Sure, man.”
Bob’s sloshing the remaining beer around in his bottle, not really looking at Ray. “If I’d let you...I mean, let’s say you get me drunk enough to actually let you take all the fucking pictures you want…”
Ray’s breath hitches a little bit at that. “Yeah?”
“How would you…” Bob looks up, fringes of blonde falling across his eyes. “I mean, what would they be? The pictures, if I let you--” he stammers, chews his lip some more, and Ray’s already thinking of a thousand different shots in his head, everything he’s ever wanted, every angle, every closeup, every tint and hue.
“You really want to know?” Ray pushes off the sink and stands in front of Bob, the air in the tiny bathroom thick with smoke and his own barely-concealed excitement. “Want me to tell you?”
Bob looks up, the muscles of his neck stretched taut as he meets Ray’s gaze. “Yeah…”
Ray makes up his mind then, a near-audible click as he takes the bottle from Bob’s hand and puts it aside. His other hand reaches for Bob’s chin, tilting it gently upwards even more. Bob’s blue eyes widen at the contact, but he doesn’t flinch or pull away.
“I’d take every kind of picture I can get,” Ray says, thumb stroking circles on Bob’s jaw. “Every fucking kind, Bob.”
Bob shivers noticeably.
“I won’t tell you to ‘do this’ or ‘do that’ or pose like a fucking model or anything, I’d just follow you around all day taking pictures, like when you’re setting up your drums and warming up, or brushing your teeth in the morning…”
“Ray…” Bob mutters, but his tone isn’t one of displeasure.
“Oh, and I’d take a shitload more pictures of you like the ones you saw…” Ray tightens his hand slightly, feeling Bob tense up as he does so. “I kinda like you like that, you know? You probably won’t believe it, but I really do.”
Bob’s eyes fall shut for a moment before he opens them again. “Really?”
He sounds so fucking earnest, so genuinely surprised that Ray wants to pull him to the floor and fuck him right then and there, on the cold tile floor of this bathroom, and he knows his boner is just about rubbing against Bob’s chest now.
“I’d keep it all to myself, too.” he continues. “Won’t show it to anyone...why would I?”
Bob’s hand moves up to join Ray’s, just resting against his wrist. “You can be selfish sometimes, you know?”
“Yeah,” Ray smiles as his other hand grabs Bob’s forearm and pulls him up. "I know."
Bob wobbles a little, unprepared for the sudden movement, but Ray is and he holds Bob steady with both arms and finds Bob’s mouth easily with his own. Bob kisses back eagerly, hands tangling up in Ray’s hair, and Ray bites lightly at his lower lip, licking over the ring, before pulling back and holding Bob’s face a breath away from his.
“Shit, Bryar...you could’ve just asked me to fuck you,” he chuckles at Bob’s flushed cheeks, his eyes bloodshot with fatigue but still alert.
“You could’ve just asked me to take those pictures,” Bob says flatly. “I would’ve let you.”
Ray presses their hips together, the words going through him like fire. “Really?”
“Only you, though.” Bob adds quickly, voice wavering. “I don’t...I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”
“I know,” Ray says, thumb rubbing against Bob’s lip ring. “I get it.”
And he does, really, he’s known Bob long enough now to understand that it’s not the cameras so much as the people holding them that puts Bob on edge, the sketchy looks he keeps giving photographers at every shoot and every interview, like he’s afraid every click of the shutter is going to reveal something he might not be ready to show. Ray would never betray that kind of trust--for someone like Bob, it’s like trusting you with his life.
He doesn’t need a camera to see that.
They somehow make it from the bathroom back to the bed without incident, and before long Ray’s flat on his back with his fingers in Bob’s hair and Bob’s got his lips wrapped around the head of Ray’s dick and making wet, slurping noises that’s loud enough to hear over the rainstorm outside. Ray doesn’t even remember how they got naked but he’s glad that they are, because he has a feeling that this is going to get spectacularly messy.
His camera has somehow made the trip back too, resting beside the pillow, and Ray would kill for a tripod right now because this is a fucking Kodak moment if ever there was one, Bob with his head between Ray’s thighs and his enthusiastic, no-nonsense sucking, and he’s letting Ray push up into his mouth, fuck it deep, Ray’s hand firm at the back of his neck.
“Fuck…” Ray hisses as Bob’s teeth grazes his cock unintentionally. Bob looks up, apologetic, but Ray shakes his head and pushes him back down, rougher than he normally would, but Bob is letting him get away with all kinds of things tonight and Ray’s...well, he’s not about to pass up that kind of invitation.
Bob’s not the smoothest cocksucker Ray’s ever encountered, pausing frequently to take deep breaths and struggling not to gag, but it just makes Ray even crazier for him, how he just pushes on and doesn’t even take a break, just closes his eyes and goes back down as deep as he can, like his life depends on it. Watching Bob like this, his shoulders shaking and his mouth making soft, muffled noises around Ray’s dick, is almost unbearable. Ray takes hold of Bob’s chin and pulls him of with a wet pop, gripping him by the jaw.
“Fuck, Bob…” he says as he looks down. Bob’s lips are hanging open, swollen and wet with Ray’s pre-come, and there’s a thick trail of saliva hanging precariously between them and the tip of Ray’s cock. It’s fucking obscene, like every wet dream Ray’s ever had of Bob all rolled into one, and he knows he’s going to just explode if he lets Bob go on any longer.
“I could take a picture of you right now,” he says between gritted teeth. “Just like this, no lights or flash, just like this.”
Bob licks his lips. “Ray…”
“It’d probably come out dark, so dark you can barely see anything, but when I look at it I’ll know exactly where you are,” Ray tugs at Bob’s chin, urging him to crawl up the mattress. “I’ll remember exactly what you look like.”
He pulls Bob onto him for another kiss, wet and sloppy just like they both like it, Bob’s weight resting on him as Ray’s hands travel across Bob’s back and down towards his ass, taking one cheek in each hand and pulling them apart. Bob makes a choked noise into Ray’s mouth and spreads his legs obediently, like he’s been wanting this all along, and Ray teases him with a finger rubbing outside his hole for a few long moments while his other hand reaches desperately for the bedside table, his mouth keeping Bob’s busy and blissfully distracted. Ray’s not the smoothest man in bed, either, but he likes to think that he can make it worth it, give Bob exactly what he needs, what he’d never ask from anyone else and never give in return. If this is the only place and time to have it, well so be it.
Bob takes his mouth off Ray’s to take a breath, and that’s when Ray jams two lube-slicked fingers up his hole, confident that they’ve done this enough times before to not cause too much damage. Bob gasps, his head falling on Ray’s shoulder, sweaty hair obscuring his face.
“Oh, fuck…” he hisses against Ray’s ear as the fingers inside him twist, opening him up for Ray’s cock. Ray tilts his head sideways and kisses Bob’s temple, soothing him, his free hand stroking up and down Bob’s back.
“You trust me, right?” Ray whispers into the damp curtain of hair resting next to his face.
“Uh-huh…” Bob grunts.
“Trust me enough to let me do this?” he pushes his fingers deeper inside Bob, as deep as the angle will let him, as his other hand grabs his camera. Bob lifts his head at the sound of the lenscap coming loose, eyes hazy and breathing uneven, and rocks his ass back onto Ray’s fingers as Ray fumbles with the dials--DSLRs aren’t exactly designed for one-handed operation, especially when your other hand is covered in lube and buried up another guy’s ass.
Bob lifts up onto his elbows, trapping his and Ray’s cocks against each other between their bodies, and Ray holds the camera steady against his chest.
“You want…” Bob says. “Like this?”
“Yes,” Ray says, scissoring his fingers for emphasis.
Bob squeezes his eyes shut, but his lips fall open and he mumbles a soft, quivering “Okay.”
“We can always delete it later,” Ray assures him, but Bob shakes his head.
“Just fucking do it before I change my mind, Toro.”
Ray smiles, pulling Bob’s face down for a kiss, and while their mouths are tangled he holds the camera at arm’s length and presses the shutter. Bob flinches a bit at the sound, but he doesn’t break the kiss. Ray doesn’t even know if he’s pointing the camera right, if there’s even enough light to see anything, but he doesn’t care. What matters is the way Bob feels right now, on top of him, fucking himself on Ray’s fingers and shuddering with each click of the camera, giving himself up little by little, and the knowledge that he’s the only one Bob would ever do this with makes Ray’s head swim a little. He’s never thought of himself as getting turned on by power trips, but it’s Bob fucking Bryar who’s squirming on top of him and choking his name out between each thrust of Ray’s fingers and well, that’s enough to make anyone have a power trip even without the camera.
“Get on your stomach, come on,” Ray says as he pulls his fingers out of Bob.
Bob moans at the loss but complies, resting his head on the pillow. Ray drags the camera along the mattress with him--he’s not cruel enough to point it directly at Bob’s face or anything, and lets it rest beside them as he kneels behind Bob and nudges Bob’s knees apart. He wants nothing more than to just grab Bob’s hips and yank him back onto his dick, fuck him so hard he’s gonna feel it for days, but Ray holds back, thumb pressing against Bob’s entrance and rubbing lazy circles around it.
“Ray…” Bob sounds desperate, throaty. He’s trying to rub against the mattress, trying to get some friction, anything.
“Don’t touch your cock,” Ray says firmly. “I’ll take care of it.”
Bob goes still, his back arching as he pushes his ass back at Ray ever-so-subtly. “Ray, fuck it, come on…” he grits out, hands fisting into the sheets.
Ray holds Bob’s hip firmly with one hand and takes his camera with the other. The lens whirs furiously as it struggles to focus in the weak light, Ray’s finger half-pressing into button, and the noise makes Bob lift his head and strain his neck to look back over his shoulder, eyes looking directly into the camera.
“Ray, what--”
Ray presses the shutter then, capturing the arch of Bob’s back and the damp hair framing his face, eyes wide and mouth agape, vulnerable and unguarded. The resulting image shows up on the display a mere two seconds later, and Ray mutters out “Perfect,” before pushing forward into Bob’s body, his cock sinking almost all the way in on the first thrust.
Bob’s head drops and his entire body shudders, so much that Ray has to put the camera down and hold him with both hands so he won’t slide off, a stream of profanities coming muffled from the pillow Bob’s stuffed his face into. He’s slick and hot inside, well-prepared but still so unbelievably tight, and Ray grips Bob’s hips hard enough to bruise.
“Perfect…” Ray says again, wanting Bob to hear it, wanting Bob to know that this means just as much to him, that this is theirs and theirs alone. “Fuck, Bob…” he thrusts harder, picking up rhythm, hips snapping in counterpoint to his hands pulling at Bob’s hips.
He’s not going to last long, neither of them are, they’ve been dancing around each other like fools since they got back from the venue, bodies tense and aching from the show but wanting nothing but to cap the night off with a good long fuck, and Ray will probably regret this in the morning when every bone in his body is protesting and he remembers that he’s not so young anymore, but it’s going to be so fucking worth it.
“Ray…” Bob groans out, shoulders limp on the mattress. He’s not even meeting Ray’s thrusts anymore, just holding himself up (barely) by his knees and letting Ray dictate the pace, rocking him forward until he almost bumps his head against the headboard. Ray’s kind of glad there’s a rainstorm raging outside because otherwise the ruckus they’re causing would probably have the people on the floor below calling up the front desk.
“Come on,” Ray says as he reaches around and finds Bob’s leaking dick, stroking lazily. “Come on, Bob…”
Bob tenses, and Ray can see him biting the pillowcase as Ray runs his thumb over the slit and that’s it, Bob’s gone, he comes in thick spurts over Ray’s hand and the sheets below, and Ray can feel him shudder all the way down to his fucking toes, like a quake spreading out from its epicenter, and he holds himself still to let Bob ride it out, barely able to control himself as he feels Bob’s ass clenching around him, pushing him closer.
When Ray lets go of Bob’s dick he literally falls onto the mattress, slumps like all of his bones have turned to liquid, nearly taking Ray down with him. “Fuuuuck…” Bob moans weakly as Ray resumes pumping into him, slower and more deliberate, rubbing his come-slick hand over Bob’s lower back, Bob dutifully keeping his ass up even as his knees continue to buckle with aftershocks. He’s such a good boy, Ray thinks, so eager to please, sometimes to the point of blind selflessness, giving himself up like this, trusting without suspicion, letting himself be used like this even when he’s nearly spent, and it’s these thoughts that finally push Ray over the edge, his orgasm wrenched from him and into Bob, and he flops onto Bob’s back when it’s over, delicious tingle of afterglow prickling all over his body. Bob lets him stay there for as long as Ray needs to, his dick softening inside Bob’s body, until Ray finally has to push up on his arms and pull out, both of them groaning at the loss of contact.
Ray rubs at Bob’s moist, well-fucked hole gently with one hand. “Sorry,” he says, and he means it this time.
“S’okay,” Bob mutters sleepily.
“Wanna go clean up a bit?” Ray offers.
“M’gonna sleep like the dead,” Bob says, still not moving from the position he fell into, post-orgasm. “You wanna take pictures, still? Go ahead.”
Ray chuckles, picking up his camera and placing it carefully on the bedside table after turning it off. “I think I have enough,” he says as he lays down beside Bob, gathering the drummer’s limp body into his arms. “Hey, c’mere…”
Bob manages to inch closer, his head nestling comfortably against the crook of Ray’s shoulder, and Ray has just enough strength and coordination left in his legs to pull the covers up by his toes, draping the fleece-like material over Bob’s shoulders and his own. Bob’s still shaking a little, minuscule twitches all over his body that Ray tries to smooth over with his fingers stroking through Bob’s hair, pressing kisses against his forehead. He waits until Bob’s breathing evens out, waits a little longer to make sure Bob’s fallen asleep, then he lets his own eyes fall shut with just a hint of a satisfied smile on his lips.
Outside, it’s still raining.
---
“That was Brian,” Ray says as he puts the phone receiver back down.
“Hmmm…?” Bob blinks sleepily, hair spectacularly tousled in the weak morning light coming in from the window. The rain has scaled back to a light drizzle, and there are faint noises of traffic coming from the roads below.
“Brian,” Ray repeats. “He says we’re gonna have to stay here a little longer. Airport’s been shut down because of the weather--and apparently the main access road leading to it’s been flooded over.”
“Oh,” Bob says, looking around as if he’s trying to remember where he is.
“Brian talked to one of the promoters--apparently they get floods like this every year, this city. Bad drainage and shit, he says this isn’t half as bad as last year.”
“Yeah, one of the merch kids at the venue said so as well,” Bob says. “Must be a bummer, though.”
“They get by,” Ray says as he looks out the window. There are clouds hanging low and bleak over the top of the buildings, and everything looks like it’s been painted a shade of grey. It makes him all the more reluctant to get out of bed, really.
“We...we’re not gonna miss anything, are we?”
“No…” Ray says. Last night was their last show of the Asian leg, and they’re not due to start the South American leg for another two weeks. “The whole city’s been deadlocked by floods, though, so we’ll just have to stay here.”
“Hmm….” Bob drags his stubbled chin across Ray’s chest. “Bet you’ll want to take your camera down there, see it for yourself, shoot all that water and the cars going through the puddles.”
“Maybe,” Ray presses his nose into Bob’s hair. “Or maybe I’ve got far more interesting things to shoot up here,”
He can feel Bob’s smile blossoming against his chest. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”
“Yeah?” Ray reaches over for the camera resting on the bedside table. “Let’s see what I can do to make it even better.”
--FIN--
Note: The morning of February 1st, 2008 in Jakarta was indeed marked by floodings so severe that the Soekarno-Hatta International Airport had to be shut down as the main highway leading to it was inaccessible. Areas most badly affected were North Jakarta, West Jakarta, and Central Jakarta. I do not know whether this affected My Chemical Romance's departure from Indonesia, all I know is that it's a convenient excuse to write some porn. *g*