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Øystein's palms are warm on his stomach, hands curling around his sides now and again. Pelle cannot say he is surprised that the man is so touchy when things redden in hue — he is cuddly and handsy at baseline, aggressively needy for touch — but he feels shy nonetheless, his wandering hands never having had the same intentions before. Even as he tilts his head back and feels the stinging of his neck being bitten, Øystein's hands rubbing the notches of his ribs are what makes his mind numb.
He grunts when he bites too hard, earning an apologetic kiss to the bruise. More befall him from his collarbone to behind his ear, Øystein nosing it. Having so much fun atop me, Pelle thinks, turning to nip below his ear as if to realign the power between them, Øystein whining about having to wear a turtleneck as he leaves more bites down his neck.
For each pathetically pleasant noise, he sucks harder on the skin, hiding his own sounds in it as Øystein's hands wander his chest and grab his sides and knead at his hips; he sighs a baby as Pelle leaves a particularly nasty bruise, through the purpling of which no dot of pretty pale skin will surely show. Feeling proud of himself, he lets the other man have his turn, hand coming under Pelle's jaw to, undoubtedly, explore a thing he had admitted with some reluctance days ago.
He had never thought he'd really have to say he liked to be choked, liked the pressure around his throat, liked the rush of endorphins right after air came back — but Øystein is just so stupid that it took him all this time to realize why he had been shooed out so quickly after he walked in on Pelle with his studded belt around his neck, and came forward intending to play hero. Quite the opposite of wanting to die, was that moment, until Øystein had come in without knocking and Pelle felt his face color profoundly, much unlike how he expected himself to react if his roommate ever stumbled upon him like this. Then he had wanted nothing more than to die in a hole, in the passing sense that embarrassment sparks.
Even now, his cheeks color, knowing just how Øystein knows he likes this, knows he wanted to feel his thumb cutting off his airway while his mouth cuts off his breath, his nose smooshing his and leaving him little escape from suffocation as his head begins to feel dense and heavy. Pelle's hands curl into balls in the sleeves of Øystein's sweater and he lets go, moving swiftly to kiss where he had grabbed his throat, as if to apologize to all the oxygen he had blocked. Pelle gasps in air and is met with only Øystein's scent, his hands coming to grip his shoulders, his mouth moving with a mind of its own to ask him to do it again, longer. He obeys, hesitant to hurt him but wanting more to please and impress him, something that Øystein has never said outright but Pelle knows to be quite true.
As his teeth begin to buzz, unbothered even by Øystein's clinking them, he tugs on his shirt and sucks in breath once more. Øystein's hand is warm and solid on his neck, his thumb rubbing his throat affectionately as alert eyes run over his face and the heaving of his chest. He mutters something Pelle isn't there enough yet to hear, something about him and how he is pretty, something that makes Øystein's cheeks rosy to admit.
And then he rolls onto his back and tugs Pelle along, the blonde woozy with the quick movement but pleased all the same to collapse onto Øystein as he recovers. Maybe it was a little too long, but it felt so good and his cock stirred with each flicker of his vision and that is all that matters now, all that he gives a shit about as Øystein's grabby hands find his hair and he writhes beneath him readily.
Pelle pushes up his shirt to his neck and peppers kisses across his chest, delighting in how he grunts as he presses his tongue to his nipple, playing with the hardening spot. The pink skin around it is dappled with bumps as he does. And then he takes his teeth gently, carefully to it and Øystein hisses, pushing his chest up, the suddenness making Pelle bite down harder and the short cry it earns is so sweet and unbridled that he feels his blood heat in his veins. It isn't pained, moreso pleasured, and he does it again to earn a groan and fingers tugging at his hair.
"Bite me more," Øystein says quietly, as if it will hide the shakiness in his voice.
It does not.
Pelle obliges without taunting him for it. Øystein swallows audily as he nips at the thin skin of his chest, targeting his pecs where there is at least some softness and curve to sink his teeth into. Steadily, his hand trails downward, nails digging in now and then to his flesh, since Øystein seems to like the stings of pain so well. Pelle will tease him later for his little fetish, when he isn't enjoying it so much himself.
When his hand reaches his belt, Pelle flattens it on his tummy, knowing he would only be pushed away if he tried to sneak under his jeans now. For being so handsy, Øystein gets timid when Pelle wants to be the one who touches.
He is happy enough to be rid of his shirt, though, putty in Pelle's hands when he slips them under his shoulders and buries his face into the crook of his neck. They enjoy a brief moment of holding one another, until Øystein asks softly if Pelle will take off his shirt. The Sodom longsleeve joins Øystein's plain black tee on the floor.
And his hands are upon him again, running over his back, fingering dips of old scars, tracing the bones and muscles and then grabbing what softness he can to knead between his fingers. Øystein kisses him needily as he wanders, teeth slipping into lips and tongues feeling teeth and hair getting caught in spit on cheeks. Pelle can hear his breath heavy, feel its heat on his chin and philtrum.
He does not know who moves first. He would like to think it was himself; of course Pelle should be the one to initiate the next step, to grind his hips into Øystein's and begin to rut. But truthfully, he does not know — is too taken with the achingly fleeting sensation of their jeans scratching one another, of the growing outline of Øystein's cock against his own. He drops his head to Øystein's shoulder and draws in a deep breath, smelling skin and inklings of sweat, hiding his noises in open mouthed kisses to his collarbone. Øystein's go into the crown of his head, but it is little use for him; he mewls as Pelle's hand slips between them and they both attack it with the force that comes only from novelty, from inexperience and naïvety and newfound want. He squeezes Øystein now and then, covertly as he can so as not to startle him into withdrawing, and earns a keen each time.
"Baby," he says. It comes breathless and needy. "Baby, c'mon, take off— get these off me." Pelle nips his collarbone. "Please," he adds, having learned so quickly what Pelle wants to hear.
"Good boy," he murmurs into his skin, but he isn't sure Øystein can hear him, if not for how quiet he is then for how the blood is surely rushing in his ears, too.
Pelle fumbles with his buckle and button and fly, shoving his jeans down his legs. It is almost too slow for Øystein, it seems, whose greedy hands come to the back of his head and nudge it down, begging silently to be adored. Pelle does; he lays down kisses on his thighs, on his hip bones slung low, on the skin he exposes slowly as he draws down his boxers. Øystein's breathing grows strained as he kisses the base of his cock and then, with a glance for reassurance to his face, draws them up his shaft. His chest expands and caves in more than Pelle thinks he has ever seen it expand and cave in, even more than when he chased him through the trees and they had a long discussion about how smokes and beer certainly aren't doing his athleticism any favors nowadays.
Experimentally, Pelle darts his tongue out to lick over his tip.
Øystein tenses, then his fingers curl in his hair and he begs, "Oh, shit, please." Pelle's next kiss to him is wet, sloppier, pushing his lip to his nose. He moves to tuck his hair behind his ears, wanting to look up at him and finding only rosy cheeks and clouded eyes and brows furrowed gently with need. Øystein reads his face and his voice seems deeper. "Do you want to—?"
Pelle nods, bottom lip catching his cock from how close he has stayed. Øystein looks ready to cry, but he assents, almost nudging Pelle down again although it may have just been a nervous twitch of the hands. His own jeans feel tight enough as he returns to kissing his cock, drawing his tongue along the veins, hearing Øystein's grunts and panting as he works his way up to taking the rosy tip between his lips, and then into his mouth, uncertain.
All he knows, really, is that he shouldn't let his teeth touch it. It is an awkward enough task to accomplish, and he hopes his hair hides how unflattering it must be to his looks. Maybe it is vain — or maybe it is simply foolish to assume that Øystein could ever think he is ugly.
He gives an uncertain suck, and Øystein's hips raise a little, nudging him further into his mouth. Pelle feels his cheeks, hollow, color. They color more when, desperate not to bite him reflexively, he pads his lower teeth with his tongue and Øystein outright moans. Even if it is soft, even if it is gentle, the sound goes straight through Pelle and he holds Øystein's hips in a death grip. More lovely sounds come as he moves his tongue, coming away only to catch his breath and then taking more of him. All the while, fingers tangle and pull at his hair, sending pleasant tingles of pain across his scalp and down his spine.
A muffled noise leaves Pelle while he tries to take more of him — somewhere between a grunt and a huff, the tip of his cock hitting the roof of his mouth. Øystein shudders and his cock twitches, and he begs for Pelle to stop or he will come, tells him how handsome he is like this, how much he wants him; Pelle has no choice but to oblige, really, leaning away and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, a simple thing that seems to bother Øystein impossibly so.
He supposes, if it were Øystein looking up at him, he'd be just as worse for wear — and swallows, kissing his boyfriend's hips as if to get the image from his mind, knowing full well the thought of his half lidded, always sleepy looking eyes gazing up at him from his middle will haunt many nights to come.
Finally, it seems, his own jeans are off. Øystein had done the honors, his hands shaking a little as he undid his belt buckle. If Pelle understands what he's shared before, it was the first time anyone had ever done that to him; he, admittedly, feels a spark down his body at the thought of being Øystein's first. It washes over him any time they are close, from the first time they kissed until now, all the little firsts that Pelle has given him and could so easily deny him, too.
He pushes Øystein down to the bed by his shoulders, relatively kind but just as domineering as a hard shove. The other man responds by curling briefly, slightly — his knees bend, and he draws his hands up beside him on the bed — and then he stretches out, taking Pelle's wrists and tugging him down to him again.
He obeys when Pelle asks him to turn over, if shyly. Øystein's bare back is smooth, unlike his own, and he splays his hands greedily on his skin, rubbing up and down his spine, dragging his nails against his sides to make him squirm. And then he lifts his hips up, and moves to press kisses to his ass.
Soft, full, Pelle loves it, loves to dig his hands into the softness of his asscheeks and knead, to draw mewls from him, to watch his shoulders hunch timidly at being fondled so outright. Pelle does not care if he seems perverse — Øystein has known him to be such for a long, long time, and his doting on his ass is the least of the offenses he's been subject to. He nips and Øystein pushes back into his hands until Pelle bites down, hard, surely enough to bruise. It earns a loud sigh and Øystein reaches back to grip one of his wrists, not pulling it away but keeping his hand on him.
Pelle laughs at it fondly. "So needy, söta," he coos. "Can't stand the thought of me," — he lifts his palms, not far enough away to miss the heat coming from them but enough that their pressure is gone — "Stepping away?"
"Stop," Øystein says, almost whines. He sounds sweeter than ever. "Please, baby."
"Please what?" Pelle tests, lightly returning his fingertips, stroking him.
"Please fuck me," he replies, not missing a beat but quieter.
It is enough for Pelle, who rises to give him what he wants — needs, at this point. He presses to him and Øystein, the fucking son of a bitch, moves his hips against him eagerly. His hands now fist in the blanket near his shoulders, his face obscured by hair but surely smiling as Pelle hisses and grinds against him, selfishly getting all the stimulation he can before he must go slow.
But Øystein whines and, again, he has no choice but to listen. He sinks into him slow, careful, rubbing his hips all the while. It is tight and then only hot, and Pelle might close his eyes to enjoy it more if the sight of his cock buried in his ass weren't so nice on its own.
He finds himself obsessed with it, even more when he begins to move and Øystein's hips seem to bounce off his, subtly at first and then more. Pelle digs his nails into his sides and then grabs feebly at his back and shoulders, until Øystein's pale skin is marred with irritated pink scratches.
"Make me bleed," Øystein says, and breathes a please to go with it.
Pelle's breath dies in his throat. He digs his nails into his shoulder blades and the cry Øystein makes, the arch of his back as the skin breaks, makes his cock twitch inside of him. He pants, shivering, and Pelle leaves more tears down his pretty back, earns more pleasantly pained moans and eager writhing. He finds himself taken with the sight of sanguine droplets welling to the little wounds, mouth opening to speak and only heavy breath coming out.
Overwhelmed, he closes his eyes and is met with no less stimulation; the blood drying under his fingernails, the pleasant squeeze on his cock as he moves, the lovely sounds that waft to his ears. Øystein moans once more, before he begins to ramble and beg for Pelle to fuck him harder, faster, to make him hurt just like the scratches had.
It seems they both have fetishes to explain.
Pelle is in no mood to question it, obliging him and meeting his appreciative groans and keens with adoration. One praise only makes him beg for two more, and soon Øystein is babbling incoherently, only pausing to listen to Pelle coo sugary words to him that make him visibly shudder. He is so sweet, so in love, that it makes Pelle sick.
They both come soon after, Pelle brought to the end by Øystein's keening and simpering and Øystein apparently bothered enough by the feeling of cum dripping out as Pelle tried his best to let him finish, too, hips trembling with overstimulation, breath shaking just as bad. The tightness that comes with Øystein's orgasm will never fail to blindside Pelle, already sweating with the effort of rocking into him still, let alone with tight squeezing on his cock, pulsing, nice to feel and better to watch if he still has the mind to look and see anything at all. He whimpers, and then flushes red at the pathetic noise that left him.
Tiredly, as he slips out, Pelle leans over Øystein's back. His arms tremble, trying to hold him up; Øystein has already collapsed to the bed except for his hips, avoiding the stain he's made. Pelle noses his shoulder and then rolls over, sighing loudly, accepting him gladly when Øystein more or less drapes himself atop him, leg hugging his side and hand resting on his chest, head nuzzling his.
"Your back," Pelle says, slowly, sounding as if he may fall asleep at any moment. His body was heavy and he feels that he might.
"It's okay," Øystein mumbles. If he were more alert, he may not have misinterpreted Pelle's words as an attempt to apologize — but both are tired and leave it at that, Pelle stroking over his already clotted scratches soothingly, earning twitches of his shoulder and nose but no protest. If anything, Øystein purrs contentedly, and becomes even heavier.