I Know Something The Piano Doesn't Know [s/a]
Title: I Know Something The Piano Doesn’t Know
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryden
Summary: Brendon is uninspired. Sex ensues.
Brendon's uninspired. He’s been in his music room for hours, pacing, humming, occasionally sitting down to play a few notes on the piano or guitar, but still, he’s got nothing more than one stupid chord progression.
He flops down on the futon and stares around desperately. The first thing that meets his eyes is a picture of the four of them at the release party for the second album.
He feels a slow smile curl around his lips. He’s got an idea.
He pulls out his cell phone and dials Ryan.
“Hey?”
“Hey, Ry, come over, I’m working on music crap,” he says, doing his best attempt at casual.
“Ten minutes.”
Brendon grins. When the bell rings eleven minutes later, he makes sure everything’s in place, then bounds out to open the door.
“Here, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on,” he says enthusiastically as Ryan throws his jacket over the couch.
“Guitar or piano?”
“Piano. But it’s so easy I bet you could play it. Actually, you totally can, c’mere,” he suggests nonchalantly, gesturing to the piano bench.
“I can’t play when I’m next to you, dumbass,” Ryan laughs, and rolls his eyes.
“Sit on my lap, I’ll show you” Brendon suggests innocently, and there’s a flicker of doubt behind Ryan’s eyes but he perches on Brendon’s thighs anyway.
“Let me show you,” Brendon whispers, and he carefully fits his hands over Ryan’s, finger to finger, his, short and rounded, over Ryan’s, long and thin and graceful. “Like this,” he says, even quieter, turning his head ever so slightly to ghost his breath over Ryan’s neck, and it might be his imagination but it might be that Ryan just shivered. He presses forward so they’re almost cheek-to-cheek.
He guides Ryan’s fingers gently down onto the keys, and Ryan follows easily, so Brendon barely has to concentrate, he just lets himself focus on the breathtaking smell of Ryan’s neck, the warmth of his back pressed against Brendon’s chest, so close Brendon worries that Ryan can feel how fast his heart is beating.
“It’s good, I like it,” says Ryan when they’re done, but Brendon doesn’t move his hands; they’re still resting on top of Ryan’s spidery guitar fingers.
“Thanks,” Brendon whispers, deliberately hoarse.
Ryan doesn’t move.
Brendon glides their still-connected hands up Ryan’s thighs, stopping just high enough to be inappropriate, letting their fingers splay out across Ryan’s thigh. The air hums between them, tense and expectant. Brendon waits.
Ryan turns his head, just an inch. Brendon can see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Brendon skims one hand up farther, slowly, deliberately, until his fingers brush against Ryan’s half-hard cock, and Ryan gasps.
Brendon bites back a smile, cupping his hand softly around the bulge in Ryan’s pants. He waits. After a moment of stillness he feels Ryan rocking his hips ever so slightly, just barely rubbing against him, but it’s enough.
Brendon presses down hard with the heel of his hand, and Ryan lets his head fall back on Brendon’s shoulder, chest heaving.
“You okay there, Ry?” Brendon husks into Ryan’s ear.
“I- I think so,” Ryan stutters.
“Let me make you sure,” Brendon purrs. He stands up and Ryan almost falls off his lap before bracing himself against the piano, and Brendon had been thinking futon but Ryan’s hands on the keys are giving him all sorts of new ideas.
He reaches around to fumble with Ryan’s belt buckle, slipping his hand down Ryan’s boxers to grasp at his cock. Ryan whimpers, delicate and needy, and Brendon smiles triumphantly.
Brendon runs his thumb along the vein on the underside, then swipes it across the head, biting gently into Ryan’s neck as he does so, and Ryan whimpers again, high and broken in the back of his throat. Brendon twists his wrist slightly and can’t help but grind his hips against Ryan’s ass at the resulting sound.
“Fuck, Bren,” Ryan breathes. Brendon spins him around so they’re facing each other, and finally, finally, their lips meet, caution disintegrating rapidly into painful need as Brendon licks hungrily into Ryan’s mouth. The piano keys sound every time Ryan shifts his weight, a perfect counterpoint to the sharp little breaths from Ryan’s throat as Brendon nips at his lower lip.
He works one knee in between Ryan’s thighs, nudging up against his crotch, and Ryan’s hips surge forward and catch Brendon off guard, so he’s suddenly the one gasping. Brendon can feel the blood pounding in his ears, lightheaded with sudden overwhelming want.
“C’mon,” he says roughly.
He kind of rolls onto the futon, pulling Ryan down with him in a confused tangle of limbs, but somehow their mouths end up pressed together again and that’s what matters. He grinds down hard into Ryan, and their hipbones crash together painfully, but Ryan’s whine is the good kind and so Brendon doesn’t care. He pulls Ryan’s shirt over his head, smiling hungrily down at the pale expanse of skin that greets him. He takes his time working down Ryan’s body, sucking across his jaw, biting down his neck, scraping his teeth across a nipple, licking down the planes of Ryan’s stomach to his hips. When he looks up, Ryan’s staring back at him, eyes dark and unfocused, mouth gaping open slightly.
Brendon locks his gaze onto Ryan’s as he curls one finger around Ryan’s waistband, sliding his pants down slowly, teasingly. Ryan bites his lip, raising his hips to make it easier.
Brendon lets the silence stretch for a long moment before he leans down and takes Ryan into his mouth, and the groan that rips from Ryan’s lips is the world’s best reward, even better when it dissolves into a string of meaningless words, “ShitBrenrightthereohgodperfectwantmorepleasefuck.”
He dips his head lower, taking more, sucking down as hard as he can, and from the way Ryan’s writing above him, caught in an endless litany of “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop,” that’s a good thing. He balances on one elbow and reaches up experimentally to roll one of Ryan’s nipples between his fingers, and Ryan whines deep in the back of his throat.
Brendon lets Ryan’s cock fall from his lips with an audible pop, and he pulls off his own shirt before crawling slowly back up Ryan’s body. Ryan whimpers at the loss of contact, pushing his hips up ineffectively, until Brendon latches his teeth into Ryan’s neck and drags his hips slowly up the length of Ryan’s dick, tilting them so he can rock back and forth until Ryan cries out.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Ry,” he asks breathily in Ryan’s ear.
“Yes. Yes,” he chokes back, tangling one hand painfully tight in Brendon’s hair.
Brendon slides his own pants down, kicking them off awkwardly, and then reaches under the pillow to pull out a condom and lube. Ryan’s watching him, eyes wide and hungry, and Brendon holds his gaze as he slicks up his fingers.
He hooks Ryan’s knees over his shoulders to give himself better access before teasing at Ryan’s entrance.
“Please,” Ryan gasps, and Brendon grins smugly as he slips a finger inside.
They’ve only done this a handful of times before, but Brendon remembers well enough to find that spot on the first try, twisting his knuckle up at the perfect angle to make Ryan tremble and throw his head back. Brendon stares hungrily for a moment, heart thudding at the sight of the smooth line of Ryan’s neck, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, faint spots of bruises already starting to emerge on his collarbone.
“Bren, move,” Ryan hisses desperately, and Brendon remembers, right, sex, now. He bends his finger again, pushing up hard into Ryan’s prostate, and Ryan lets out a strangled plea, “More.” Brendon slips in another finger, pushing past the slight resistance to immediately crook his knuckles up again, again and again until Ryan’s arching his back, fingers coiling into Brendon’s hair, lifting his hips off the mattress to press himself harder against Brendon’s fingers. Brendon adds a third finger without warning, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice, just pants Brendon’s name.
Brendon’s breathing hard himself as he pulls his fingers out, rolls on the condom and slicks himself up, and when he first slides in, he can’t fight his moan, but Ryan’s right there with him, letting out a long desperate breath. He finds the right angle after a few thrusts, rolling his hips into Ryan, his eyes falling shut, focusing on the breathy moans from Ryan’s lips and the hot sweet burn of Ryan dragging tight around him.
“Faster, Bren,” Ryan stammers, and Brendon doesn’t need to be told twice, just snaps his hips harder until logic and reality slip away, lost in the chaos.
And Brendon can hear his song being written around him, hear notes rising and falling in the rustle of sheets, the slap of skin on skin, the blood rushing in his ears, the low groan from Ryan’s lips, his own babbled curses, their ragged breathing mingling between their lips, the needy suck of Ryan’s lips on his neck. It’s all whirling, eddying around him, dizzying and devastating.
“Brendon,” Ryan cries, and he’s going under in a downpour of frantic moans and swirling music and a white-hot glow behind his eyes, a fire in his limbs as the tornado of violins and cymbals comes to a crashing finish in one long unbroken moan.
“Shit,” Brendon mumbles into Ryan’s neck when he starts seeing straight again.
“Yeah,” Ryan breathes.
Brendon rolls off, pulls off the condom and tosses it aside.
“Do you usually keep condoms in your music room?” Ryan asks lazily, snuggling deeper into the pillow.
“Nope, I had a feeling this might happen,” Brendon says absently, casting around on the floor for his boxers.
“Come cuddle,” Ryan demands, but Brendon’s already settling down at the piano.
“Can’t,” Brendon says, scowling down at the keys.
“Should I leave?” Ryan asks, confused and a little hurt.
“Nah,” Brendon says, and when he looks up, he’s grinning wolfishly. “I might need some more inspiration.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and settles in for a nap, while Brendon strokes his fingers over the keys and starts to play.
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Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryden
Summary: Brendon is uninspired. Sex ensues.
Brendon's uninspired. He’s been in his music room for hours, pacing, humming, occasionally sitting down to play a few notes on the piano or guitar, but still, he’s got nothing more than one stupid chord progression.
He flops down on the futon and stares around desperately. The first thing that meets his eyes is a picture of the four of them at the release party for the second album.
He feels a slow smile curl around his lips. He’s got an idea.
He pulls out his cell phone and dials Ryan.
“Hey?”
“Hey, Ry, come over, I’m working on music crap,” he says, doing his best attempt at casual.
“Ten minutes.”
Brendon grins. When the bell rings eleven minutes later, he makes sure everything’s in place, then bounds out to open the door.
“Here, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on,” he says enthusiastically as Ryan throws his jacket over the couch.
“Guitar or piano?”
“Piano. But it’s so easy I bet you could play it. Actually, you totally can, c’mere,” he suggests nonchalantly, gesturing to the piano bench.
“I can’t play when I’m next to you, dumbass,” Ryan laughs, and rolls his eyes.
“Sit on my lap, I’ll show you” Brendon suggests innocently, and there’s a flicker of doubt behind Ryan’s eyes but he perches on Brendon’s thighs anyway.
“Let me show you,” Brendon whispers, and he carefully fits his hands over Ryan’s, finger to finger, his, short and rounded, over Ryan’s, long and thin and graceful. “Like this,” he says, even quieter, turning his head ever so slightly to ghost his breath over Ryan’s neck, and it might be his imagination but it might be that Ryan just shivered. He presses forward so they’re almost cheek-to-cheek.
He guides Ryan’s fingers gently down onto the keys, and Ryan follows easily, so Brendon barely has to concentrate, he just lets himself focus on the breathtaking smell of Ryan’s neck, the warmth of his back pressed against Brendon’s chest, so close Brendon worries that Ryan can feel how fast his heart is beating.
“It’s good, I like it,” says Ryan when they’re done, but Brendon doesn’t move his hands; they’re still resting on top of Ryan’s spidery guitar fingers.
“Thanks,” Brendon whispers, deliberately hoarse.
Ryan doesn’t move.
Brendon glides their still-connected hands up Ryan’s thighs, stopping just high enough to be inappropriate, letting their fingers splay out across Ryan’s thigh. The air hums between them, tense and expectant. Brendon waits.
Ryan turns his head, just an inch. Brendon can see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Brendon skims one hand up farther, slowly, deliberately, until his fingers brush against Ryan’s half-hard cock, and Ryan gasps.
Brendon bites back a smile, cupping his hand softly around the bulge in Ryan’s pants. He waits. After a moment of stillness he feels Ryan rocking his hips ever so slightly, just barely rubbing against him, but it’s enough.
Brendon presses down hard with the heel of his hand, and Ryan lets his head fall back on Brendon’s shoulder, chest heaving.
“You okay there, Ry?” Brendon husks into Ryan’s ear.
“I- I think so,” Ryan stutters.
“Let me make you sure,” Brendon purrs. He stands up and Ryan almost falls off his lap before bracing himself against the piano, and Brendon had been thinking futon but Ryan’s hands on the keys are giving him all sorts of new ideas.
He reaches around to fumble with Ryan’s belt buckle, slipping his hand down Ryan’s boxers to grasp at his cock. Ryan whimpers, delicate and needy, and Brendon smiles triumphantly.
Brendon runs his thumb along the vein on the underside, then swipes it across the head, biting gently into Ryan’s neck as he does so, and Ryan whimpers again, high and broken in the back of his throat. Brendon twists his wrist slightly and can’t help but grind his hips against Ryan’s ass at the resulting sound.
“Fuck, Bren,” Ryan breathes. Brendon spins him around so they’re facing each other, and finally, finally, their lips meet, caution disintegrating rapidly into painful need as Brendon licks hungrily into Ryan’s mouth. The piano keys sound every time Ryan shifts his weight, a perfect counterpoint to the sharp little breaths from Ryan’s throat as Brendon nips at his lower lip.
He works one knee in between Ryan’s thighs, nudging up against his crotch, and Ryan’s hips surge forward and catch Brendon off guard, so he’s suddenly the one gasping. Brendon can feel the blood pounding in his ears, lightheaded with sudden overwhelming want.
“C’mon,” he says roughly.
He kind of rolls onto the futon, pulling Ryan down with him in a confused tangle of limbs, but somehow their mouths end up pressed together again and that’s what matters. He grinds down hard into Ryan, and their hipbones crash together painfully, but Ryan’s whine is the good kind and so Brendon doesn’t care. He pulls Ryan’s shirt over his head, smiling hungrily down at the pale expanse of skin that greets him. He takes his time working down Ryan’s body, sucking across his jaw, biting down his neck, scraping his teeth across a nipple, licking down the planes of Ryan’s stomach to his hips. When he looks up, Ryan’s staring back at him, eyes dark and unfocused, mouth gaping open slightly.
Brendon locks his gaze onto Ryan’s as he curls one finger around Ryan’s waistband, sliding his pants down slowly, teasingly. Ryan bites his lip, raising his hips to make it easier.
Brendon lets the silence stretch for a long moment before he leans down and takes Ryan into his mouth, and the groan that rips from Ryan’s lips is the world’s best reward, even better when it dissolves into a string of meaningless words, “ShitBrenrightthereohgodperfectwantmorepleasefuck.”
He dips his head lower, taking more, sucking down as hard as he can, and from the way Ryan’s writing above him, caught in an endless litany of “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop,” that’s a good thing. He balances on one elbow and reaches up experimentally to roll one of Ryan’s nipples between his fingers, and Ryan whines deep in the back of his throat.
Brendon lets Ryan’s cock fall from his lips with an audible pop, and he pulls off his own shirt before crawling slowly back up Ryan’s body. Ryan whimpers at the loss of contact, pushing his hips up ineffectively, until Brendon latches his teeth into Ryan’s neck and drags his hips slowly up the length of Ryan’s dick, tilting them so he can rock back and forth until Ryan cries out.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Ry,” he asks breathily in Ryan’s ear.
“Yes. Yes,” he chokes back, tangling one hand painfully tight in Brendon’s hair.
Brendon slides his own pants down, kicking them off awkwardly, and then reaches under the pillow to pull out a condom and lube. Ryan’s watching him, eyes wide and hungry, and Brendon holds his gaze as he slicks up his fingers.
He hooks Ryan’s knees over his shoulders to give himself better access before teasing at Ryan’s entrance.
“Please,” Ryan gasps, and Brendon grins smugly as he slips a finger inside.
They’ve only done this a handful of times before, but Brendon remembers well enough to find that spot on the first try, twisting his knuckle up at the perfect angle to make Ryan tremble and throw his head back. Brendon stares hungrily for a moment, heart thudding at the sight of the smooth line of Ryan’s neck, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, faint spots of bruises already starting to emerge on his collarbone.
“Bren, move,” Ryan hisses desperately, and Brendon remembers, right, sex, now. He bends his finger again, pushing up hard into Ryan’s prostate, and Ryan lets out a strangled plea, “More.” Brendon slips in another finger, pushing past the slight resistance to immediately crook his knuckles up again, again and again until Ryan’s arching his back, fingers coiling into Brendon’s hair, lifting his hips off the mattress to press himself harder against Brendon’s fingers. Brendon adds a third finger without warning, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice, just pants Brendon’s name.
Brendon’s breathing hard himself as he pulls his fingers out, rolls on the condom and slicks himself up, and when he first slides in, he can’t fight his moan, but Ryan’s right there with him, letting out a long desperate breath. He finds the right angle after a few thrusts, rolling his hips into Ryan, his eyes falling shut, focusing on the breathy moans from Ryan’s lips and the hot sweet burn of Ryan dragging tight around him.
“Faster, Bren,” Ryan stammers, and Brendon doesn’t need to be told twice, just snaps his hips harder until logic and reality slip away, lost in the chaos.
And Brendon can hear his song being written around him, hear notes rising and falling in the rustle of sheets, the slap of skin on skin, the blood rushing in his ears, the low groan from Ryan’s lips, his own babbled curses, their ragged breathing mingling between their lips, the needy suck of Ryan’s lips on his neck. It’s all whirling, eddying around him, dizzying and devastating.
“Brendon,” Ryan cries, and he’s going under in a downpour of frantic moans and swirling music and a white-hot glow behind his eyes, a fire in his limbs as the tornado of violins and cymbals comes to a crashing finish in one long unbroken moan.
“Shit,” Brendon mumbles into Ryan’s neck when he starts seeing straight again.
“Yeah,” Ryan breathes.
Brendon rolls off, pulls off the condom and tosses it aside.
“Do you usually keep condoms in your music room?” Ryan asks lazily, snuggling deeper into the pillow.
“Nope, I had a feeling this might happen,” Brendon says absently, casting around on the floor for his boxers.
“Come cuddle,” Ryan demands, but Brendon’s already settling down at the piano.
“Can’t,” Brendon says, scowling down at the keys.
“Should I leave?” Ryan asks, confused and a little hurt.
“Nah,” Brendon says, and when he looks up, he’s grinning wolfishly. “I might need some more inspiration.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and settles in for a nap, while Brendon strokes his fingers over the keys and starts to play.
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