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haywire-hetfield · 2 months

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Can u write Dead/Euronymous smutfic? I really like ur writing and it's obvious ur really talented :]

Aw, thank you! And of course 🫰

Summary: It wasn’t the first time Øystein had imagined Pelle after his death. He’d caught flashes of him everywhere off and on, mostly looking at placing Pelle used to frequent and sometimes still seeing him there. Out in the forest, it would be like nothing had changed. He’d imagine Pelle darting through the trees, chasing after God knew what, only catching glimpses of blonde hair through the greens and browns of the forest.

Warnings: Past character death, ambiguity, hand jobs

Words: 2,550

“I’m sorry about all the blood,” Øystein wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the words at first. The voice was unmistakably Pelle’s, but that was hard to accept given the fact that the last time Øystein had seen Pelle, he’d been cleaning the blonde’s brain off of the wall.

There was a presence behind Øystein, almost as though someone had climbed into bed with him and slid close to his back. Arms wrapped around his waist and a body cuddled against him.

It wasn’t the first time Øystein had imagined Pelle after his death. He’d caught flashes of him everywhere off and on, mostly looking at placing Pelle used to frequent and sometimes still seeing him there. Out in the forest, it would be like nothing had changed. He’d imagine Pelle darting through the trees, chasing after God knew what, only catching glimpses of blonde hair through the greens and browns of the forest.

Sometimes, he’d even hear Pelle moving through the house. Øystein had never realized how distinctive Pelle’s footsteps were during life, but he knew they were his when he’d hear them. But none of that was as tangible as this. He’d never felt Pelle even reaching out, let alone actually touching him.

His hands were cold as they slipped around Øystein’s waist, settling beneath his jacket and pressing against bare skin. They’d always been cold, though. The man had always seemed dead long before his time and Øystein had once joked that Pelle dying as a child had left residual effects on him, but that didn’t feel as funny now as it once had.

“You’re not real,” Øystein whispered out into the darkness of his room, unsure of what else to say. If he needed to say anything at all, he wasn’t sure what the social etiquette here was.

Pelle’s hands pressed against the skin of his stomach more firmly, fighting the allegation. It all seemed so real, so tangible. He couldn’t fathom how his brain and body was conjuring this up if Pelle wasn’t actually there, but he also couldn’t believe he was. Maybe his brain needed him to believe this wasn’t real.

“Does it matter?” Pelle asked him in return, voice just above a whisper.

Øystein stayed silent for a moment, unsure of how to answer that. He didn’t know if it did and he honestly didn’t think he was ready to think too deeply on that. Maybe he could just let this happen, letting this section of time exist as it was. Until he was ready to examine it, maybe it truly didn’t matter if Pelle was real or not. That was a problem that he could sort out at a later date.

“I don’t think Varg will work out,” Øystein told him, breaking the silence and opting for a subject change. Pelle let out a noise of acknowledgement, staying quiet. By now, Øystein could imagine that Pelle knew when he had more to say on a subject and knew when to stay silent to let him continue. “He’s just so…He isn’t you. You weren’t even you sometimes,” He continued, opening up more than he usually could.

He thought it was perhaps a bit depressing that the only person he could open up to was a dead person. He’d always had issues communicating, especially when it came to being vulnerable. It made sense that he was opening up to the imagination of Pelle now, he’d always been the one he felt safest with in life.

“I was always me,” Pelle said and that was what truly scared Øystein.

It was more distressing for Øystein to view Pelle as a multidimensional person. He preferred to pick what parts he liked of Pelle and regard that as Pelle’s “true” self. Anything outside of it wasn’t him being himself, it was someone else entirely. But Pelle brought up the terrifying prospect that his view on things wasn’t accurate and he was inclined to believe him.

Maybe every time he’d lie in bed, unmoving and unspeaking for hours, that was a part of Pelle. Each time he would do something that was enough to even disturb Øystein and then just stared at him, a vacant look in his eyes as though he was somewhere else entirely, that was Pelle. Every conversation they would have that led to him talking about how he felt like a corpse that was still able to walk around and Øystein could just sense how genuine he was being, that was Pelle.

“No,” Øystein said suddenly. “You weren’t always you,” His tone was decisive, leaving no room for an argument about it. Pelle sighed as though it was a great burden to not push back against the notion, but he did thankfully let the topic drop.

There was a long period where neither said anything. The silence grew uncomfortable very quickly, feeling too cold and eerie. It reminded Øystein of the day he’d found Pelle’s body, the total silence that he’d never experienced before that day. Death carried a certain stillness that made him sick to his stomach. It had been as though the air in Pelle’s room was stagnant, not moving one way or another.

“Do you think Varg hates me?” Øystein asked after a few seconds, deciding to default back into the previous conversation. Lately, his mind had been very narrow. If he wasn’t thinking about Pelle, he was usually thinking about Varg in some capacity. Pelle made a noise that was hard to decipher, one Øystein wasn’t sure he’d ever heard him make. Not that Pelle was very easy to read normally, but he was even more difficult now.

“Why are you so obsessed with him?” Pelle questioned and Øystein immediately felt himself tensing up. The accusation set beneath his skin in an unpleasant way and the fact it came from Pelle made it worse.

“I am not obsessed with him,” Øystein told him simply and hoped that would be the end of the conversation. Pelle had always been good at reading when he didn’t want to talk about something and mostly respected his wishes. This would hopefully be one of those times where he just let it go.

Øystein turned over, dislodging the arms from his waist. He halfway expected Pelle to disappear when he moved, to vanish into the air or for his body to wake up. He wasn’t sure what state he was in now. If Pelle was another hallucination or a dream. Hell, maybe he was a ghost that had come back to haunt him. It wouldn’t surprise him, given how Pelle had been plaguing every facet of his life in some way.

Pelle remained as Øystein flipped over to face him, though. His look was exactly how Øystein remembered him to be in life. His blonde hair was partially obscuring his face and the way the moonlight hit his skin made it look impossibly paler, almost translucent. He didn’t look real, although he hadn’t looked real even when he was. When their eyes met, Pelle’s chapped lips curled into a small smile.

“Would you like me to take your mind off of him?” Pelle asked, putting on the same coy voice Øystein was so familiar with. They’d done this a few times before and Øystein didn’t need him to elaborate to know what he was getting at. He had to consider it this time around, though.

He had his own reservations about sleeping with another man when Pelle was alive, the fact he was a ghost or some variation of ‘very not real’ only complicated things further. He’d also heard a story about a guy who caught a rare disease from fucking a corpse. He didn’t know if that was even real or if he could catch that from whatever state Pelle was currently in, but he ultimately decided he’d take the risk.

“Fuck it. Yeah. Take my mind off of it,” Øystein told him, purposefully calling the situation an ‘it’ rather than ‘him.’ He couldn’t admit Pelle was right and that his mind was caught up on Varg. Pelle didn’t call him out on it, he just smiled and gave a small nod of his head.

“Get on your back,” Pelle advised gently and Øystein went willingly. He’d just accepted his situation by now, deciding not to stress about it too much right now. In the morning, he’d be better equipped to deal with whatever he was experiencing now. This could be a weird dream and there was no sense in worrying over dreams.

Øystein watched Pelle as he shifted closer to his side, reaching beneath the blankets to rub at him through his boxers. His hands had always felt nice, long and skilled at whatever he was doing at any given moment. He curled his bony fingers around Øystein’s cock through the fabric, stroking along the skin. It was teasing, just enough to rile Øystein up and get him hard, but not enough to actually get him off.

Øystein was patient. He knew Pelle had always followed through and he didn’t see any reason why he’d stop now. He could feel himself hardening beneath the touch, cock beginning to leak precum into his boxers. It made the fabric stick and drag along his skin, applying an amount of friction that was bordering on painful. As if Pelle could read his mind, he pulled his hand away.

“Take them off,” Pelle encouraged. Øystein moved to comply embarrassingly fast, but he chose to ignore the giggle it drew from Pelle. It wasn’t like he could share the experience with Øystein to anyone and laugh about it, and Øystein honestly didn’t care if Pelle judged him. He focused on kicking his boxers off, not caring about where they landed. His legs spread easily, giving himself more space.

Pelle seemed to take this as an invitation, moving to settle himself in between Øystein’s legs. He fit between them easily and watched Øystein for a moment. Øystein peered back at him through the darkness, noting how similar and different he looked from Øystein’s usual conquests.

He was pretty enough in the face and his long hair made him look more like a girl. Øystein had slept with women who were far less pretty and feminine in the face than Pelle was. His body was less impressive. He lacked any soft curves, body flat in some places and bones jutting out in others. Scars littered his body, all of varying depths and shapes. Most were lines, although very shaky ones, all a bit jagged. He looked like a corpse that had risen from the grave, eyes sunken and unfocused.

It was an odd mixture. He was both beautiful and horrific, and Øystein found himself wishing to stare at him for the rest of the night.

Pelle distracted him a few seconds later, though. His hand reached back out to Øystein and wrapped around his cock once more, touching bare skin this time. At first, he just focused on the head and spreading the precum that gathered there. Once he seemed satisfied with the slickness on Øystein’s skin, he began stroking. He started slowly at first, although his movements didn’t seem unsure or nervous.

In fact, he never had seemed unsure or nervous about this in the entire time that Øystein had known him. He wondered if Pelle had experience before him. Surely, he must have. Nobody was that confident without trying it at least a few times. He’d honestly expected Pelle to be a virgin in general and he wasn’t sure the man had ever gone beyond touching, maybe he never had at all before his death. He might have died a virgin in that regard, he considered.

“Does that feel good?” Pelle asked him. Øystein gave a small nod, but his breathing caught in his throat and his hips jerked when Pelle rubbed a finger over the sensitive head. “You’re still so responsive,” Pelle noted with a smile. Øystein decided to just close his eyes and to try to focus on the pleasure.

Pelle tried out a few different speeds and levels of tightness before he found one he deemed correct. Occasionally, his hand would twist slightly once he got closer to the head and it made Øystein’s toes curl each time. He lost track of how long things went on like that, finding it easy to lose himself in the feeling and maybe this was exactly what he’d needed. If Pelle was a figment of his own mind, it made sense that he was giving him what he actually needed.

“You’re warm,” Pelle murmured to him through the darkness. A moment later, Pelle’s free hand reached out to play with his balls. The sudden coldness was a shock to his system and made him squirm, but Pelle’s hand quickly warmed up against him. He wanted to point out he wasn’t actually particularly warm, Pelle had simply always felt like a corpse. He kept the thought to himself.

“Just keep going,” Øystein encouraged instead. “I’m close,” And that seemed to be enough to distract Pelle, giving him something else to focus on. Both hands applied a bit more pressure and he was unsure of how Pelle was so able to focus his hands on two separate tasks.

The hand on his balls was a bit uncoordinated at first, but quickly adapted. Both hands moved smoothly over his skin, enhancing the experience. The final straw was when Pelle began messing with his frenulum, thumb rubbing over it with every other stroke.

It was the most sensitive spot on him and he found himself getting closer. He let out an embarrassing noise that he’d deny making later on, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at that moment. All his brain was focused on was making sure the pleasure never stopped until he was done. Luckily, Pelle didn’t make any signs of stopping or even slowing down, moving faster if anything.

“Fuck,” Øystein whispered out into the darkness, feeling himself being pushed over the edge. At the first realization that Øystein was coming, Pelle slowed his hand down to avoid overstimulating him. It reminded Øystein of just how much Pelle had come to know his body during life. He knew exactly what he needed and when, and gave it to him without even hesitating.

He stroked him through it, ignoring the mess on his hand. He’d never minded things feeling sticky or gross and Øystein was suddenly grateful for it. His hand only moved away from him once he knew Øystein was completely done, letting go of him carefully.

Øystein felt boneless as he laid in bed. His body tingled in some places, nerves alive and overwhelmed. He was even more tired than he had been before, feeling as though he’d run a mile. Pelle was quiet as he moved to lay down next to him again and Øystein stuck out one arm easily.

Pelle laid himself close, resting his head on Øystein’s arm and they were both silent outside of Øystein trying to catch his breath. Øystein was once again struck with the problem of not knowing what to say to Pelle, nothing seemed like the appropriate thing. Instead of risking saying the wrong thing, he chose to say nothing at all. And in the morning, Pelle was gone again.

#eurodead #smut #nsft #lords of chaos #mayhem #rpf #euronymous x dead #dead x euronymous #pelle ohlin #euronymous #Øystein Aarseth #oystein aarseth #asks

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