Work Text:
The crackling television washed the blacked-out basement in color, splashing shades of blue and yellow across Øystein’s rosy cheeks. Biting his lip, his eyes locked on the bulbous screen, where a hooker in shiny, lycra shorts struggled against her assailant. He tried to focus on the hands around her throat, the wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression on her face, the limpness of her body when it finally gave out — but the miniature scenes reflecting off his glasses didn't reach his eyes.
When Pelle invited him down to the basement to watch a movie together, grinning wildly and waggling a videotape in the air, Øystein had stupidly thought they were actually going to watch the movie. That proved difficult when he was speared on Pelle’s dick and not allowed to move.
His pants lay in a rumpled heap on the floor, along with Pelle's, but his t-shirt stayed on. It fell just short of covering his overgrown bush, leaving his vulva exposed. With his asshole stretched wide around Pelle's cock, his unused cunt was free to drip all over Pelle's lap — pale thighs and ratty couch cushions soaked in his arousal.
He longed to move — to feel the slide of Pelle’s cock thrusting in and out of him — but ten spindly fingers gripped his waist, holding him firmly down. They weren’t even that far into the movie — fifteen minutes at most — but the unwavering fullness in Øystein's guts made time crawl by at a snail's pace.
When the killer started scalping the prostitute, spilling bright red blood down her lifeless face as he peeled the flesh from her skull, Øystein's own cock throbbed. He reached down between his legs and used his index finger to pull back the hood which concealed his most sensitive bundle of nerves. With his middle finger, he pressed directly on the slick, swollen nub, sending a little jolt through his body.
Pelle noticed.
“No touching.” He smacked Øystein's hand away, denying him even the smallest morsel of relief. “Watch the movie.”
“I am watching.” Øystein's voice trembled with frustration. A draft nipped at his bare legs, the cold air ghosting over his cunt and chilling the slickness between his thighs. He felt so vulnerable with his legs spread like this — as if his slimy, pink innards were on display.
“You're getting so hairy, down here.” Pelle mused, occupying himself with the soft curls on Øystein's inner thigh — twirling the strands around his finger, dragging his thumb over the slick skin, and pinching at the layer of fat beneath.
Øystein had been growing hair in a lot of places lately. The hair on his legs and underarms had grown thicker and darker, and some wisps had started coming in on his chest and below his navel. He'd begun to grow a mustache, and though it was patchy, and a little stupid looking, he refused to shave off his biggest point of pride — especially now that his hairline was receding. Pelle didn't seem to mind. If his actions were to be believed, the changes to Øystein's body only served to make him horny.
“Wonder what it'd be like to peel your skin off like that — wear you like you're mine.” Lust made Pelle creepy, flaying Øystein alive being one of the tamer desires he'd vocalized.
Øystein, being something of a creep himself, was rather unfortunately aroused by Pelle’s lack of filter. A rare and elusive sense of intimacy shrouded his vision whenever Pelle described killing him — a satisfaction in knowing Pelle longed for him so intensely that ripping him open and taking his life would be the only way to prove it.
His glasses slipped down his sweaty nose, and he pushed them back up, trying to mask how insanely he was into him — trying to distract himself from his own girlishly sentimental thoughts.
I am yours.
Who else would be allowed to do this to him? Who else would be allowed to see him like this? — all spread out and on display. Who else would be allowed to touch him like this? — licking his pulse and groping at his baby fat. It could only ever be Pelle. Only Pelle's body could fit so perfectly against his own. Only Pelle’s mind could truly comprehend all of the dark and disgusting parts of him. Only Pelle's unshowered body odor could make him salivate–
Sharp teeth sank into the tender flesh of Øystein's shoulder, and he yelped, clenching down on the intrusion inside him. “I thought you wanted to watch the movie.” He whined, thighs quaking beneath Pelle's touch.
“I want you to watch the movie.” Pelle pressed his lips right to Øystein's ear, hot breath sending a shiver down his spine. “I wanna watch you squirm.”
Øystein sighed, “Fuck you.” His knees hurt from being folded for so long. He ached to raise himself up a little bit, just to relieve the tingling in his toes, but to do so would be admitting defeat.
He could take it.
Whatever Pelle wanted, no matter how weird or sinister, he could take it. He wasn't going to pussy out and start begging — not when it would be so much more satisfying to make Pelle break first.
“Would you do that, too?” He asked, jutting his chin toward the television, causing his glasses to slip back down his nose.
In the movie, the man had taken the hooker's bloody scalp back to his apartment, and was nailing it onto the bald head of a mannequin dressed in her shiny, lycra shorts.
“No. I'd keep your whole body.” Pelle's fingers had found themselves creeping beneath Øystein's shirt, tracing circles around his navel and stroking the thin trail of hair leading downward. “Maybe not in one piece,” he hummed, “but I'd keep the whole thing.” His hands continued upward until he was cupping Øystein’s chest, kneading the soft breast tissue beneath his palms. Somewhat thoughtfully, he paused. “Except these. I'll get rid of these for you.”
Øystein rolled his eyes. Empty promises of a post-mortem mastectomy didn't make Pelle fondling him any less awkward. His chest and nipples had never been particularly sensitive, and he derived no pleasure from them being touched, but as long as his shirt stayed on — as long as he couldn’t see — he could ignore it. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when Pelle's hands dropped back down to his stomach.
The movie slogged on, taking its sweet time getting around to the next kill, and Øystein's abdominal muscles rippled beneath the tickle of Pelle’s fingers ghosting featherlight over his skin. Heat pooled in his core, and he felt his vaginal walls fluttering against his will, leaking more fluid from between his legs. His cock ached for attention — just the slightest bit of friction to relieve some of the tension winding in his gut.
Sinking his teeth into his knuckles to muffle a series of garbled, mortifying sounds, Øystein methodically flexed each and every pelvic muscle he could control, one by one, trying to find a combination of pulses that would do something — anything.
It was evidently doing a number on Pelle, because he smacked Øystein sharply on the thigh. “Knock it off.”
“Come on, give me something.”
Øystein gasped as Pelle lowered a hand to his cunt, dragging his middle finger through the slick folds. He stroked and prodded, smearing the wetness around haphazardly in a blind search. Øystein gave him a minute to try figuring it out for himself and, when that proved fruitless, he even tried offering a little guidance — “Up. Up more. Now left. No– no, back a little. Down.” — but after a while of fumbling around, one of Pelle's jagged fingernails scratched painfully at his inner labia, and he snapped.
“Ow! Do you even know what the fuck you're doing?” In theory, Pelle should've been well versed in the geography of his nether regions, with how often he was reluctantly permitted to take a stab at them. In practice, however, his growing confidence outpaced his actual level of expertise. Frankly, he was lucky that Øystein was so enamored with whatever the fuck was wrong with him — he'd have died a thousand gory deaths by now, otherwise.
“Well, maybe if you didn't have such a tiny dick, I'd be able to find it.” The retort, though made with humorous intentions, struck a nerve deep in Øystein's chest.
A curtain of ebony hair smacked Pelle in the face as Øystein whipped his head around, craning his neck to face him. A bitter venom brewed on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down, fearing its potency if injected into Pelle’s bloodstream. Neither a kiss nor anti-venom would cure the things he wanted to say to him — the way he wanted to tear him apart, and remind him of every miniscule transgression he still held against him. Instead, his fury came across in his eyes, staring daggers into Pelle’s rotten core, with his mouth screwed up like he'd tasted something sour.
“The only reason you still have a dick is ‘cause I don't bite it the fuck off whenever you jam it down my fucking throat.” It was supposed to sound threatening, but it didn't land as intended. An unfortunate side effect of Øystein's rage — it turned Pelle on like crazy. He tried so hard to look menacing, furrowing his brow and flaring his nostrils, but with Pelle's dick still sheathed inside him, he wasn't frightening in the slightest.
“Oh, I'm shaking in my boots.” Eyes flickering with delight, the corner of Pelle’s mouth twitched upward. He stroked the prickly splinters of Øystein’s mustache with his thumb, and pecked him on the lips.
Øystein wasn't amused, and he glared like a starving animal about to pounce. “Fuck you. You think I like scraping your dick cheese off the back of my teeth?”
Pelle chuckled. “Well, don't scrape it off, then.”
Øystein was going to fucking kill him. He wanted to wring his neck and punch the smirk right off his stupid, annoying face. Just as he opened his mouth to unleash the wrath of Hell, he was silenced by a gunshot.
Both men snapped their attention back to the television. A motorist's head blown to red mist with a shotgun, the barrel was now trained on the motorist’s girlfriend in a lingering camera shot.
Øystein revelled in her frozen terror. If Pelle thought this was all a joke, that this was funny, that he wasn’t a man to be feared — then Øystein could imagine himself behind the first-person shot. He could pretend it was his own finger on the trigger, unleash a spray of buckshot, and blow a big hole right through some snivelling, nameless whore. She would be afraid of him — and it would be the last thing she ever did.
The practical effects were pretty good, but the blood didn’t look real in the slightest. Its arterial, candy-apple hue was sugary and fake — lacking the darker, almost black, tones which should've been present in the venous blood — looking instead like sweet, artificially dyed fruit punch. Even so, the very idea of blood was enough to put Øystein somewhat back in the mood. He was still fuming, but when torn between spending his energy chasing climax and wasting it on an ill-fated argument, he chose the one that ended in orgasm.
“You can finger me if you’re gonna do it right,” he huffed.
Sick of Pelle breathing down his neck and wanting this to be over, already — Øystein took his hand, and coaxed his fingers to the right spot. It still wasn’t perfect — Pelle gravitated toward slow, circular motions, whereas Øystein preferred the rough rub and tug of a quick and simple up-and-down — but a handy was a handy. It was better than the clumsy attempt prior, anyway.
At least Pelle seemed to have given up on the whole movie-watching ruse. He didn't care much to make Øystein look at the screen when the little gasps and moans he let out were far more entertaining. Fingernails digging mercilessly into Pelle's knees to prevent him from losing balance, Øystein bit his lip to stifle a whimper.
He needed Pelle to fuck him. Now. The rim of his stretched hole burned in want of friction, and the head of Pelle's dick was pushing against something that felt really good. Between his legs, an embarrassing amount of fluid squelched audibly around Pelle’s fingers.
“You're so wet for me. You want it bad, don't you?” All he got in response was a weak, jerky nod.
In a long awaited act of mercy, Pelle bucked his hips, sending a violent wave of pleasure surging through Øystein’s body.
“Fuck!” He cried, screwing his eyes shut and tightening his grip on Pelle’s knees, scared to fall forward and smash his teeth in on the coffee table.
Joints throbbing in protest of the sudden motion, Øystein gave as good as he got, bouncing on Pelle’s cock as it slammed into him, rapidly gaining pace. His organs yielded to Pelle, shifting out of the way to accommodate him, and accepting him inside of his body with a velvety embrace. The pressure on his bladder felt so good, and Pelle's hand pressing on his abdomen intensified the feeling, making his toes curl, but it wasn't enough.
In the midst of their frantic rutting, Pelle's fingers slipped off target, and Øystein wiggled his hips, desperately trying to recapture the stimulation. When that didn't work, he tried to bat Pelle's hand away from his crotch and take over the job himself, but he was met with resistance. They tussled a little, smacking and grabbing at each other in a struggle for dominance, until Pelle accidentally jabbed hard enough to feel solid bone beneath his fingers.
“Motherfucker!”
Øystein doubled over. The stars in his vision were not the good kind.
Smart enough, at least, to realize how badly he fucked up, Pelle went still as a statue.
The explosion of pain brought a tear to Øystein's eye, and he thought he had to be bleeding, but when he slapped Pelle's hand away to examine himself, searching through his own folds for any visible sign of injury, he found none.
“Sorry.” Pelle grumbled, accepting that he'd just lost fingering privileges — probably for the foreseeable future.
“Whatever… Just–” Øystein hissed, rubbing away the soreness, and taking his ecstasy into his own hands. “Keep going.”
Pelle obeyed, building back the rhythm they'd lost, and keeping far away from Øystein's junk. He occupied his hands instead with groping Øystein's waist, and pulling his hair to make him gasp. It was the least he could do to make it up to him.
Another woman met her bloody fate on the television screen, but the clapping of their sweaty skin drowned out her dying screams. Neither of them were paying attention anymore, anyway.
“You feel so good. Fuck–” Pelle’s head tipped back in pleasure, and he pulled Øystein to his chest, showering him in apologetic praise as he slammed into him with a pained look on his face. “So tight. Oh fuck, Øystein, your body…”
Holding him close and tight, Pelle grew overzealous, and planted his feet firmly on the cold cement floor for leverage. His thrusts gained force, driving his cock deeper and deeper into Øystein’s ass. Too deep. The head of his cock battered against something inside Øystein, and it hurt like getting hit with a hammer in his gut.
“Fuck!” He tried to wiggle away from the source of the pain, but Pelle — mistaking his cry for pleasure — held him down.
Grunting and groaning like a feral hog, Øystein reached back to grab a fistful of blond hair, yanking it for petty revenge while his other hand kept busy between his legs. The cramping in his wrist and the aching in his joints only made him grit his teeth, and flick his fingers even faster, rutting desperately against his own hand as Pelle's cock drove mercilessly into him.
The sensation suddenly took on a sharper edge — not a painful one, this time, but an indication that they were finally nearing the end. It felt as if his very nerve endings were exposed and stripped of their myelin, his wrinkled fingertips dragging over the raw axons — but the sensation plateaued just on the brink of meridian. He tried to force it by holding his breath, only taking in tiny sips of air when the edges of his vision darkened, but the finish line kept moving, remaining three paces ahead at all times.
His glasses were near to slipping off his nose entirely, the force of Pelle’s thrusts causing the nose pads to jump and slide over the sweaty skin. The curve of the arms clutched his ears for dear life, threatening to clatter to the floor at any moment.
Bodies pressed close enough to fuse, Pelle covered Øystein's bared trachea with his palm, wrapping his fingers around the column of his throat and curling them into his throbbing pulse. The looming threat that Pelle could strangle him just like that hooker, with her gorgeous ass in those sexy little lycra shorts, provided just enough of a boost to nudge him over the edge.
His orgasm wasn't explosive — no fireworks, or loud cries of ecstasy, no spontaneous declarations that ought to remain unsaid. There was a brief mounting of pleasure, followed by melancholy release — dull and heavy with shame. A shaky exhale purged the carbon dioxide built up in his lungs, his spasming diaphragm begging for more oxygen than he took in.
No mountains moved. The earth didn't shake. At most, a stone plunked to the bottom of a lake, shattering the mirror surface and sending ripples wide, shrinking as they rolled through the water until they lapped at the shore, where they died on the sand.
The residual and uncontrollable fluttering of his holes made Pelle come soon after, squeezing his body so tight, Øystein thought his ribs would snap like kindling. The force of gravity sent his come leaking right back out, gushing around the base of his cock as he gave a few poignant, final thrusts.
“Fuck.” He sighed into Øystein's hair, the strands clinging to his sweaty skin as he pulled away. “That was good.”
“Mhm, yeah.” Øystein cringed, clenching his teeth as he unskewered himself.
With his guts starting to cramp, and his dick and asshole chafed raw, his conscious mind wanted Pelle out, but that wasn't fully in his control. The texture of his walls gripped Pelle's cock like spear hooks, and his rim clamped down, unwilling to let go as Øystein mentally tallied his own body's many betrayals against him.
After ripping off the band-aid, he flopped down on the couch, laying on his back with his legs thrown over Pelle's lap, his softening cock pinned beneath one of Øystein's thighs. Too hot to tolerate being covered, his clammy skin erupted with goose bumps as the sheen of sweat over his body cooled. The gross, sticky feeling between his legs only grew worse as more of Pelle’s come slowly oozed from inside him. His chest heaved, and with each breath the television seemed to grow louder, the dull pain in his skull growing sharper.
Pelle had noticed his curt response, and furrowed his brows, staring off into space for a long moment before he blinked, wide-eyed, as if realizing he'd forgotten something important. “You came, right?”
Øystein rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“Okay, good.”
Pelle’s shoulders lowered and he settled into the couch, mindlessly carding through Øystein’s leg hair as his main focus shifted back to the movie. The tenderness revealed by the unconscious gesture tugged at Øystein's gnarled heartstrings, pulling him up and freeing him from the pitfall of dissatisfaction. Eyes glazed over, entranced by the violence, Pelle appeared otherworldly in the television's glow. It cast the features of his profile in an ethereal, blue light that flickered on and on, brighter and brighter.
The ghost of a long lost smile grazed Øystein's lips. That was it — the reason he put up with Pelle — with the dead animals, the hunger strikes, the mediocre sex. It was counterintuitive, and it took effort, but the payoff came in quiet moments like this, when the world felt so simple.
No matter how much he grew to hate him, he would tolerate anything just to keep Pelle around. He would lend him his time and ear, tend his wounds, wash his hair, and spread his legs — whatever was necessary to keep Pelle's eyes, and voice, and convoluted mind in his life.
He was so damn lucky that Øystein loved whatever was wrong with him.