The first of a collection

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Click.

 

“Do it again.”

 

A few scattered notes and off-beat buzzes sounded through the room as the talk-back mic turned off with a quiet ‘click’. Burning the Littlest Cancer Patient stared out of the large recording booth with varying levels of disbelief. “What was wrong with that one!?” growled the singer, slightly gnarled fingers clutching at his microphone stand. 

 

“ “We’ve done it three times already, it can only get worse!” “ the guitarists echoed together.

 

“Mine strings has… broke.” the violinist mumbled, pulling horse-hairs from his bow.

 

“Who’s idea was it to put a full session on every album!? If we can’t rely on each other for one song why are we even together!?” The bassist looked almost ready to pull his already thinning hair out. 

 

Only the drummer was silent, his gaze reproachful as he glared over his instruments.

 

Another click. “The drums are too quiet. This is metal, do not strike them softly.”

 

All of the reproachful looks turned backwards, glaring at the percussionist who could only direct his burning eyes to his snare. “My arms are tired.” 

 

Click “Why be so strong if you can’t hit a still target? Do it again.” 

 

A mumbled curse before he hammered out the intro to Rapist Vagabond. the rest of the band hurried to their positions, coming in at just the right moment.

 

Behind the glass green eyes roamed the room, watching them play even as his ears processed every note. The producer caught everything happening within the fish tank and did not miss the way the drummer’s muscles twitched with effort. His gaze was cool and unflinching until the last note petered out through the recorder and he at last stood, unlocking the door. He drank in the look of desperate joy on their faces as he stood on the doorway, wearing a small and cool smile. “That was perfect, very good. We can start to be doing recordings alone now, or we can break for dinner.”

 

They barely paused to disentangle themselves from their instruments as they broke for the door. He stepped aside, watching in amusement as they ran from the studio with great cries of joy. A large and calloused hand touched his elbow, and he turned back to look at the drummer. 

 

“Are you not going eating with them?” He raised his eyebrows, eyes half lidded as he looked down at the young musician. At only twenty seven he was the youngest of the band, but the most talented in terms of being the song writer and the major speaker. 

 

The look he received was venomous. “Why were you so hard on me!?” he demanded, ice-blue eyes looking up at him beseechingly. “You know why I was slow, why would you make them angry with me!?”

 

“Because you were slow. I am your producer, I wont record a bad song so that you can rest.” He reached out, tapping his fingers lightly on the young man’s cheek. It was a fond gesture and if one looked hard at the lines of his face you could almost imagine something kind there. “I want to show your music the way you want it seen.”

 

The drummer’s gaze was still irritated but complimenting his music was a sure-fire way to his good side. He reached out, flicking the taller man on the nose before shoving him into the room. Ingvar allowed himself to be pushed, his nearly imperceptible smile growing. Despite his tall and firm build he preferred to be controlled, and when the young Norwegian yanked their bodies together he almost purred. 

 

“You’re seriously going to stand there and act like you aren’t the one fucking up my songs?” Ebbe growled, though it was more husky than angry, cold blue eyes glinting as he looked up at the Swede. He pushed his hips foreword, his quickly stirring erection poking into his partners thigh while his rock-hard stomach rolled against the man front. “Keeping me up all fucking night and then showing up like you were sleeping? What the fuck are you up to, Ingvar?”

 

“You’re getting old.” he leaned foreword, hunching slightly and bending at the knees to nip the younger man’s neck, enjoying the goose bumps they produced. His long, large hands gripped the firm backside, pulling him up slightly so they’re hips could mesh. A long and bristly goatee tickled his shoulder as a mouth started to lick and suck at his neck seriously. “Were you angry for real? You feel excited now.”

 

“Your Norwegian is awful.” It wasn’t true but he had to react somehow to the blunt teeth that suddenly found his neck. He was standing on his tiptoes so that their hips could grind together and his aggravation was showing through at the position of power the taller man was in. 

 

“Don’t complain,” he smirked, pulling back so that his neck was out of the shorter man’s reach, pressing the pale face into his own chest as he forced their hips together.  The drummer let out an irritated groan, biting his shirt as he reached around him, sliding a hand down his pants. Ingvar smirked before suddenly shoving the man off of him and onto the floor, fisting a hand in his hair as he smirked. “I’m tired of you talking.”

 

“Dick.” He growled, but his hands were almost greedy as they pulled at the zipper in front of him. 

 

Ingvar let out a pleased hum as the younger man got to work, eyeing the bobbing black hair appreciatively for a moment before he turned is gaze away, staring blindly at the clean glass of the booth. He moved slowly into the hot mouth, relishing in the low noise of protest --

 

He lifted a foot, shoving the younger man off of him and against the door with a thump. He put himself away before the Norwegian could even protest, leaning casually against a mic.

 

Click “Why in studio!? We eat restaurant! Come now!” 

 

“I’ll meet you there, yes?” Ingvar’s smile was perfectly composed, though his form was slightly hunched in an attempt to gather the loose material of his shirt around his groin.

 

Click “Do you know restaurant we eat?” 

 

“It’s always the same? I’ll go. Please leave.” 

 

 The Finnish man glared at him, eyes cutting to the side as he looked around the small room. He clicked the button again, switching to Swedish. “Is your.. Drum.. … here?”

 

“Drummer.” He purred, smirking cockily at the Finn. “Yes, he’s hiding in the corner. It’s rude to interrupt you know, jerk.” 

 

Click. “Rude to what?”

 

Ingvar hummed lightly in thought. “End it? Stop me?” 

 

Click “You two come now. Eat Restaurant, they send me.” With that the Finn turned away from the switchboard, presumably headed to the van to wait for them. 

 

The Norwegian looked at Ingvar in horror before he stood up, edging to the side to look out at the recording room. “Two?! Did you tell him I was in here!? What were you two talking about!?”

 

Ingvar rolled his eyes, moving foreword to wrap his arms around the young man’s torso, fingers sliding over his abs. “He wants me to find you and go to the car. His Swedish is better than his Norwegian.”

 

“Oh, well fuck then.” he made to pull away but Ingvar held him tight, smirking as he leaned over slightly. 

 

“I found you.” he purred, nipping lightly at the boy’s ear. “I was very fast. I think we have some time?”

 

“No, come on, they know where we are and they’re waiting!” hissed the man, trying to pull away, but Ingvar held him fast, grinding his still-hard dick against his back.

 

“Ebbe,” he purred into his ear, enjoying the shudder that ran through him. Ingvar was notoriously bad with names and could easily lead one to believe that he didn't know it at all. He the times he called Ebbe by name were so few and far between that when he actually spoke it was like coating him in a layer of pure lust. “We will be fast.”

 

Against his better judgment Ebbe turned, pressing their lips together in a heated kiss before dropping to the floor again, taking the older man out of his pants almost desperately, taking it into his mouth in one fell swoop.

 

Ebbe was well taught, and it wasn't long before they joined the band in the driveway, none but the Finn any the wiser.