My Chemical Romance Fanfiction

Palm of Your Hand

Riley, Smut, 1,438 words
By: somethingradiates

Mikey realizes around the middle of July that he might have kind of a problem.

They’ve been on Warped for a little more than a month, and he’s been pretty content with, you know, not getting laid and stuff—because Pete has apparently finally figured out the Patrick thing and Bill is hung up on Travie and fucking really, okay, he’s celibate for a while. Whatever. No big. Frank is celibate all the time, since Mikey is pretty sure he’d rather chew off his own hand than cheat on Jamia, which is totally admirable and shit and Mikey really wants to ask him for tips. Like, how does a twenty-something dude go through life without getting laid?

And that, he’s pretty sure, is why he starts noticing one of his best friend’s hands.

Like, he’s noticed Toro’s hands before. He’s a guitarist, hands are pretty important for guitarists, and Frank has bitched about how fucking unfair it is that he’s got little stubby hands while Toro’s been blessed with long fingers. Only it’s not just that they’re long. They’re long and strong and callused and he’s got wide, square palms and strong flexible wrists and Mikey’s half hard watching him play their four o’clock show.

Once Mikey notices them—once he has that conscious thought: wow, Ray’s hands are sexy—he can’t stopnoticing. He watches Ray’s hands all the time for the next two weeks, when he can get away with it, and sometimes when he can’t: when Ray is tuning his guitar, or playing around with something new that he thought up (because his fingers are stretched in ways that shouldn’t be possible, except it’s completely possible with him because he’s so used to it), or when he’s texting (because his fingers are curled around the back of his phone and he looks so concentrated and—) or even when he’s just holding a fucking bottle of beer like he is now.

“Hey,” Ray says, and raises his eyebrows. “Earth to Mikey.”

Mikey realizes that he was staring and looks away, towards the bonfire. He’s got no idea where anybody got wood to burn, since he thinks they’re outside of Phoenix, or Denver, or maybe Salt Lake City. Regardless, there’s a fuck-ton there, and the bonfire is currently absolutely huge. There are a lot of people out here. He’s pretty sure Gerard’s already slipped off with Adam or Bert and Frank and Bob are doing kegstands. Well, Frank’s doing kegstands, Bob is watching and shaking his head like a dad.

“Hi,” he says.

“What were you looking at?” Ray’s holding up his beer bottle, like he’s trying to figure out if something’s wrong with it. Mikey realizes that Ray thinks he was staring at the bottle. Oh, God, if Ray ever figures this out Mikey is going to die of embarrassment. He is going to blush to death. It’ll be in record books.

“Nothing,” he lies, and watches Ray take a drink. His hand is wrapped all the way around the beer bottle, and when Mikey’s gaze shifts from his hand to his throat, watching as he swallows, it hits him that maybe it’s not just his hands anymore, although his fucking hands could do it all by themselves. Jesus Christ, Mikey thinks, and crosses his legs at the knee.

Ray nods, and after a few minutes—some people come by to talk to them, and Pete walks by once, looks them over, and nods approvingly, like the total, total fucking weirdo he is—stands up from his perch on the sand. Sand, right, they’re sitting on sand, so. Probably Phoenix.

“I’m gonna head back to the bus,” he says, then adds, completely nonchalant, “you should come with.”

“Oh,” Mikey says, and blinks. He leaves his beer in the sand when he gets up.

Ray holds the door open for him and Mikey pointedly does not stare, even though Ray’s left hand is right at eye level and Mikey does glance for just a second, fuck, he’s like a badly-trained dog. Jesus.

“So,” he says, once he hears the door shut, and just as his eyes start adjusting to the unlit bus, he feels a pair of strong hands around his hips.

Oh, he says, and feels himself being backed up, right up against the wall, and Ray says, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” against his neck. Mikey shudders and moans and says yeah—yes, fuck, and his hips arch forward of their own accord.

“You should work on being less obvious if you’re gonna make a habit of staring at people,” Ray says, and Mikey is pretty sure he has a thing for Ray’s mouth now, too, if the way his cock is reacting is any indication. His hands are under Ray’s shirt already, splayed possessively against warm bare skin, nails digging in, and Ray makes a noise in his throat when Mikey scratches, just a little—when he kisses him, it’s not anything like Mikey would have imagined, because for some reason he always imagined (and it’s pointless to pretend he hasn’t been thinking about it lately) that Ray would be patient and gentle and—and that makes this unabashed roughness so much fucking better. Ray bites his bottom lip before the kiss breaks and Mikey’s hips tilt forward, one of his legs already winding around Ray’s calves.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. Ray winds one hand in his hair to pull his head back, mouthing hot and demanding at his neck, biting at the spot underneath his jaw, and Mikey realizes halfway through that he’s sucking a mark into his skin. The younger man moans out loud at that, dragging his nails down Ray’s back. Finally Ray kisses him again—it’s what Mikey’s sort of been waiting for—and Mikey takes that chance to lace his fingers in Ray’s thick hair and pull a little roughly until the angle suits him, and Ray makes a satisfied noise in his throat, the hand still on his hip moving up to tug at his belt buckle. He’s apparently got much better motor coordination than Mikey, because he gets it done in about two seconds and pops open the button of his jeans right after, breaks the kiss for a second to mumble of all the nights to wear fucking button-fly jeans, stifles Mikey’s breathless laugh with another hard kiss—

And Mikey moans into his mouth, because it’s a little too rough, a little too insistent but it’s exactly what he wants—

“Is this what you thought about,” Ray murmurs, breath hot over the machine-gun beat of Mikey’s pulse, “every time you were staring at my hands—”

“Fuck,” Mikey says intelligently, and has enough awareness to be vaguely embarrassed by the amount of noise he’s making. His hips keep rolling into Ray’s hand, and—it’s tight and fast, exactly how he does it himself but a million times better because this is what he thinks about when he does it, only his imagination is unfortunately not vivid enough to come up with this, being pinned against a wall by Ray Toro in fucking Phoenix, being able to feel where Ray’s heart is beating because they’re pressed so close together—

Or maybe that’s his own—he can’t think about it now, can’t think about anything other than yes and God andRay, please—and he says that out loud, and the world goes white and staticky for just a second, and he can’t think at all. He’s aware of Ray kissing underneath his jaw, the spot that aches vaguely like a blooming bruise, and aware of Ray stepping away for a moment to wipe his hand off on something that looks a lot like one of Frank’s shirts.

“Ray,” Mikey says, a little bit weakly, and does up his jeans, foregoing the belt.

“I’m gonna go hang out in the studio,” Ray says, glancing at him, and there’s a definite grin hovering around his—oh, God, his mouth, Jesus, Mikey is doomed. “With, you know, the couch and stuff. You should come with.”

Mikey is never, ever going to say no to ‘you should come with’ again.

--

“Ray,” Gerard says. It’s late the next morning, ten or eleven, and Ray and Mikey have both finally come staggering into the bus. “What the fuck happened to your neck?”

There’s a pause. Frank and Bob both turn to look. Ray reaches up, running the pads of his first three fingers over four long, evenly spaced scratches on the right side of his neck.

And Frank crows.

“Toro finally figured it out,” he says. “Cough the fuck up, Bryar.”