FicWad

A/N: This was my very first... scene of this nature, I suppose you could put it. Just a bit of fun.
Disclaimer: I do not pretend to know the personalities, thoughts, or intentions of the men I am writing about. I am only using the idea of them- or people who look like them

ALSO: Please excuse the strange spacing. Unfortunately this story is much too long to go back and fix it now, so... my sincerest apologies.

It was quiet…. too quiet.
It was a silence that under normal circumstances meant the coming of a storm; but one that Geir Zahl could not help but cherish and hope desperately for it to last the night.
He lounged on his couch- red camelback with a microfiber finish- covered in paper piles of song proposals and music scores, nimbly scribbling down the final notes of a composition he anticipated would make it onto their next album. Scrawling a temporary title at the top of the page, he sighed and laid it down on the glass surface of his coffee table.
Pausing a moment, taking in the bliss of his empty apartment, all he could hear was the ticking of a clock and his own easy breathing. It was nice.
Reaching for another sheet somewhere near his feet and out of range, Geir wasn’t expecting the sudden swish and bang of his front door opening and crashing into the wall of the entry way; he jumped, paper spilling everywhere, swaying in the still air and ruffling onto the carpeted ground.
After the initial shock, the irritation of losing his work, and the slowing of his heart, Geir was not entirely surprised to see his friend and colleague doing a decent imitation of the Statue of Liberty at the far end of his living room.
Geir glared, his naturally wide eyes appearing as slits.
“What do you think?” Janove flashed, posing this way and that.
“You look like a heartbreak cowboy.” Geir replied, taking in the plaid shirt, tight pants, high boots and bold scarf.
“I know! You think it’ll impress the ladies?” He was still grinning foolishly, hands now at home on his hips.
“Only if they need relationship advice.”
“What does that mean?” His smile wavered, but not enough to suggest he regretted his new makeover.
Geir turned away from the freshly decorated front man. “It means you look like something out of Brokeback Mountain.” There was silence behind him as he lowered himself to the ground and began gathering the spilled papers from around the couch and coffee table; after a long pause, Geir began to wonder if he had genuinely hurt his enthusiastic friend.
Then, just as an apology was in sight, Geir felt hands on his back, gliding sensually along his ribcage; he shivered unintentionally, squeezing his eyes shut, wondering hysterically what was happening as his brain scrambled for answers.
“Isn’t that what you want?” Janove breathed; warm exhales tickling sensitive skin behind Geir’s left ear; he shivered.
“N-no.” Geir stumbled, fingers finding the soft fabric of the couch. He had not been expecting this, if anything at all, not tonight. It seemed too soon, too sudden, and yet there was a part of him that appeared to think it seemed just right.
Janove’s hand found Geir’s own, pacifying it with gentle touch. “Sh… Daddy’s here; Daddy will take care of you.”
The singer’s calm movements now went beyond hands and waist; they were pulling, leading, lapping over and under clothing that now seemed much too tight.
The silence that had originally consumed the room was now chased out by rapid breathing, which enlaced with desperate whimpers of need and dispute.
Janove’s insistent grasp pulled Geir back up the couch, shoving him into its crimson cushions, all too symbolic of the men’s most recent endeavours.
Geir stared up at the other man, glassy eyes horrified yet filled with errant lust. “Janove, I-“
Janove straddled the hesitant guitarist’s hips, revelling in the hardened burn of their needs contacting through fabric that now seemed all too thin. “Hush. I know you want it. I can feel it.” He ground down harder, painfully so. Geir cried out, head thrown back, half way between pain and pleasure.
Bleary eyed, Geir gazed into Janove’s eyes as the singer rocked him slowly, rhythmically, into the soft pillows.
He released a low groan mingled with a questioning phrase.
Grinning, grabbing hold of Geir’s straying hands and pinning them to the back cushions, he replied hoarsely: “Come on, you’ve practically been begging me to fuck you.”
“What?” Geir cried, baffled and a little bit outraged at the notion, then whined when Janove hit a particularly receptive point of contact.
“Yes. Now shut… up.”
Before Geir could protest, Janove’s mouth sealed possessively over his own. A hot tongue, far more blistering than the building tension below, pushed and prodded, pleading and persuading until the guitarist’s restraint crumbled into a series of moans and whimpers.
Janove pulled back, swollen lips ruby red and glossy from their proceedings, salacious smile overtaking Geir’s vision; he couldn’t help it: Geir beamed, laughing immodestly and lifted his hips to meet Janove’s dominating thrusts, panting with effort and strain.
Then, just as soon as it started, it stopped. The dark haired man slowed his pace, planting a wanton kiss sloppily to the side of Geir’s mouth. He pulled back, releasing Geir’s hands from their hold, and Geir unconsciously followed him as though some invisible force attached them.
Janove gently pushed him back. “Wow, there, baby. Daddy’s not going anywhere.” He began to remove his clothes, teasingly slow. First went the shoes, kicked to the side- worthless in their game- then socks, tossed behind him nearly knocking over a floral vase given to Geir by his mother. Next went the pants, which Geir now noticed were snugly fit to his shape; Janove’s nimble fingers, long a pale, popped the button of his pants, tugging the skin-tight fabric down his jutting hips. Geir’s eyes widened, his breathing increasing to a rapid pace. But as Janove came to the buttons of his shirt, his tongue stuck out in concentration and Geir smiled fondly.
“Here, let me help.” Janove never could get buttons. Silly of him to change his style to one that uses them so often. Geir stood, much clumsier than Janove had, and approached him.
Janove let Geir take control of the unbuttonment of his shirt. “Mm, I like it when you take charge.”
Geir shook his head in disbelief. Janove could take any situation and make it seem right; he still couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.
Shirt off, and completely naked save for his scarf, Janove reached for Geir’s neck and pulled him in for a rough kiss. “Now, it’s your turn.” He gave Geir a good shove and the guitarist fell backwards with a squeak, landing precariously on the couch and narrowly missing the coffee table.
“Janove!” He protested, but was cut off by the front man pouncing and landing on his chest.
“Off!” He started tugging off clothes rapidly, “Off, off, off!” He was having far too much fun.
Janove’s hands roamed far and wide, tracing the paths of skin that Geir’s clothes left in their wake. Fingers found the fly of his jeans, and the next second those jeans were across the room.
“I’m not,” Geir huffed, running his hands along Janove’s back, accepting a run of kisses down his neck, “going to- to find my clothes, if they… fall… that is, I mean…”
“Less talk, more action!” Janove interrupted and grabbed one of Geir’s hands, shoving it down against his dripping cock. He hissed and sought out Geir’s open mouth, messaging it with his own. “Mm, yeah, just like that.” He groaned, thrusting into Geir’s warm hand that instinctually closed around the wet shaft. “That’s it. Oh god, yes!”
Geir could feel his cock throbbing with need as Janove recklessly drove himself through the ring of his friend’s hand. The wet slide chaffed his skin, the thrum of energy radiating from the act encouraging noises of pleasure and amplifying the senses.
Tension- tension so tight both men convulsed and shivered- built upon the proximity of the moment, until finally, at the pinnacle of entreaty, Janove came, crying heavenward, white ribbon bursts decorating Geir’s pre-moistened chest.
Janove collapsed, gasping and spent. He closed his eyes, clasping Geir’s body in a tight embrace. He didn’t seem to realise that Geir was still highly in need. Annoyed, Geir prodded the lax body, heavy as lead, on top of him, nudging and urging more and more insistently for Janove to bring his attentions to Geir’s excruciating erection.
“Janove. Janove, please.” Geir pleaded. “Janove!”
“No,” Janove, after several moments of Geir’s calls.
“Wh-what?” Geir bleated, frustration evident in his hollow brown eyes.
“No.” Geir could almost hear the cheek seeping from Janove’s single word as he lifted himself up from where he had been crushing the guitarist.
“But I just- you can’t just… but I-“ Geir, through the high-strung lust still coursing through his body like bass vibrations, could not believe his friend’s nerve. “You-“
“Say my name.” Janove leaned over the frantic man, dark eyes penetrating as good as any tongue, lapping at his insides making him squirm.
“You’re cracked.” Geir sputtered as he realised what it was the slighter man wanted from him. It was one thing for Janove to say it himself; it was another entirely for Geir to cave into something so unusual.
“You’ve always known that, but that never stopped you from wanting… this.” He ran a teasing hand down, down, down, stopping just shy of Geir’s pulsing member.
“I don’t… know what… you’re talking about.” Geir panted and tried vainly to shift his hips in hope of getting even the most minimal of friction off Janove’s bare leg.
“Uh, uh, uh.” He waggled a galling finger as if at a child, baring his teeth wickedly, knowing now how much power he really had. “You heard me: say… my… name.” As the final word slid through his lips, a single finger slid slowly, deliberately maddening, up the erect cock beneath him while holding steady the body it belonged to. When Geir’s hands flew, from where they had scratched hazardously at the poor fabric of the couch, toward the torturous treatment in meaning of doing something to relieve it, Janove pulled all action and withheld the renegade arms. “Can’t have that, now can we?” Thinking quick- surprisingly fast for the situation at hand- Janove unwound the scarf that had managed to stay in it’s place during the initial heat of the moment, and sat more securely on his partner’s stomach. Humming happily, he pulled together Geir’s fidgeting hands and tied them firmly against one another. Giving an experimental tug, he smiled in satisfaction.
“Now, my friend, where were we?” Janove leaned in so Geir could taste the sweetness of his breath. Despite the almost uncontrollable urge to consume the man above him, Geir glared in defiance. “Ah, now I remember. Well, I see I am going to have to convince you,” he purred, drawing his face nearer to Geir’s body and leisurely began to draw circular motions with his tongue down the hollows of the constrained man’s neck. He hummed, as he had while tightening the scarf bonds, and it resulted in a spasm of sensual manifestations that coursed unburdened from the tips of Geir’s ears down to where they curled his toes and made him squirm in ecstasy.
Geir hadn’t realised how cold the air was without the insulation of his clothes, and, frankly, he didn’t realise it now as the burn of the two men’s recreation supplied an internal heat that clothing never could compare. Just a much, Janove’s tongue was now in range of Geir’s air-hardened nipples and as the sly muscle ran its rounds over the surface of the small nubs; no, Geir most certainly did not feel the cold.
Geir cried out as the tongue did its master’s bidding, searching blindly over the bound man’s body, circulation the salty skin in a way that Geir thought he would never experience again if not for the returning grace of Janove’s hands recovering the wet tracks.
Geir squirmed, twisting, trying with no prevail to knead himself into Janove’s stomach that was now cleverly just out of reach. The frustration overwhelmed him and his moans and cries became entangled with pleas for attention, for release.
Janove, the devil for all he was playing at, only served to go farther down, placing himself snugly on the floor between Geir’s legs, running his hand up and down the thighs as if Geir were nothing more than a lapdog.
“Please, Janove,” Geir whined, tucking his chin towards his tormentor, pleading with dilated eyes a puppy itself could not compete with. But Janove was not swayed. “Janove, I… I can’t-“ Between them, Geir’s problem wept to be touched. It was almost sad, the way it sat there, ignored until a passing remark be granted.
Without saying anything, Janove maintained eye contact as he fleetingly kissed Geir’s inner thigh and then the other, starting near the knees and making his way closer and closer to his cause. Fingers began to tingle along the underside of Geir’s legs, flowing like water, drawing slight whimpers until they found and began to knead gently at where legs met bottom.
Janove paused his action momentarily so as to shift his subject into a clearer position; Geir let his head fall, groaning, almost grateful Janove would not see his face when he inevitably would fall victim to the heat; he had a feeling he would not last much longer.
Now exposed, Geir felt awkward and alone, until the pleasing hands and gratifying kisses returned to their previous activities. Geir almost cried at the reapplication of contact as if he had been waiting years, not seconds, to feel again. Then, just as they had stopped, fingers and lips commenced, digging, gliding, and pleading to be rewarded.
Despite the series of surprises that Geir had experienced in this one abnormal night, the next one shocked a high pitched screech out of him that must not have been very attractive at all, as it only served to make his pursuer laugh: without warning, a single finger went beyond its original placement and managed to slip neatly between his cheeks, stroking the puckered entrance of the inner hole. This, Geir was astonished to find, felt fascinatingly good and he subconsciously pushed into the touch, not minding as the finger slipped fractionally farther into the tight walls.
“Like that?” Janove sounded positively smitten, goading Geir so the guitarist strained against his bindings, coiling against the pressure at his entrance; it felt better that he would ever have thought it would. After much stroking and drawing, the effective finger left the entrance, but before Geir could utter a sound of exasperation, he was called to attention by the confident singer, his voice hoarse with sudden hunger.
“Geir. Look at me. Look at your daddy.”
Geir shut his eyes, ignoring the urge to sob and give in to Janove’s persistent request. No, he could hold. He would not be undervalued. He will not submit to someone he has known for so long, someone he knows he is equal to.
As Geir forced these thoughts to punctuate the devastating impulse of caving in towards his longing, he ignored the niggling voice at the back of his mind that told him he had already done so; he was already playing the other man’s game.
“Geir…”
All Geir heard was the gentle coax before a single finger slithered up his shaft, drawing with it a shuddering moan and a portion of pre-cum seeping from its head. Geir could not help himself; he had to look.
The image of Janove Ottesen kneeling between his legs, naked and debauched, swallowing down a finger of Geir’s own cum, would always be in his memory. The darker man’s expression, the way his eyes glinted as his tongue peaked out from between his lips, pink on white, pale on black. It was all too real, yet the surrealism of the situation was not lost on him. From now on, it would taint every casual thought of his friend, and, he had to admit, that scared him terribly.
Geir must have been gaping for some time, due to the self-satisfied grin coupled with affection plastered to his friend’s face, but the sudden realisation that he could hold out no longer was causing his heart to raise and his cock to throb in absolute unison; he craved the other man’s touch and he found it eating inside him until all but coals burned red hot and deprived.
“Janove, please.” Was all Geir could muster.
“What’s my name?” His hand strayed near his lips where a trace of white still stood against the blush.
Geir swallowed, his body exuding its strain for self-control and moistening his skin. His mind shifted, buzzing with adrenaline and speed. Janove stood in spotlight, a trophy to be won by ecstatic proportions. He had to do this.
His throat clamped around his words, his voice husky in the cloud of the room as he all but bellowed: “Daddy. Daddy, I need you!” Once the words were out they would not stop; it was easier than he thought it would be, just like everything else.
Grinning, Janove let slip a string of saliva- some if it undoubtedly Geir’s well, the guitarist realised- onto his previously used finger. It glistened as he lowered it in the dim light of the room, like something you could not touch, something special. Then, Geir felt it’s tip touch the hole of his entrance, and he gasped. “Good boy,” and it was in, driving passed the tightening walls and searching the cavernous body for a certain spot.
Despite the stimulus is caused before, this felt uncomfortable and invasive. He didn’t like the feeling at all and he couldn’t understand why anyone- any man- would want to do this, nor could he understand why he, only moments before, had craved this to the point of collapse. Geir, however, knew exactly what Janove was looking for; he knew because he’d found it countless times on women, and he knew what it did to them. The only thing he didn’t know was what it would do to him.
But the moment Janove found it, Geir knew; he knew exactly why men do this, and he knew exactly how it felt and what it did to him. Something special was an understatement. In fact, he thought, words weren’t really enough to explain the way it had him writhing with pleasure, crying out to the gods every time his partner’s finger slid in and out with gentle force. It didn’t explain the way it ignited the void in his chest- that had been there so long. God, so long- every time his closest friend stoked his stomach encouragingly, licentiously… lovingly.
Thoughts abandoned him now, left Geir to his own measures as steeping blissful perfection welled and brewed until he wavered on the edge of oblivion. Then, as if it were not enough, a sinful hand took hold of his overflowing cock at it’s base and it was enveloped with care by a zealous warmth that filled the confines of his body till he sweltered in the cool room of the flat. Geir screamed tenderly, if there was any way to truly achieve something so contradicting in nature, and thrust to meet the mouth and drop down only to take the finger.
His emotions were running high, his exclamations becoming strangled and dirtier by the second. “Please, Daddy: more… have more!” With hands fastened at the wrists, Geir latched forwards onto the head of dark hair working on him below, now grateful for the long, peppered strands as they provided a workable angle of getting what he wanted.
Taking lead- Janove surprisingly not seeming to mind, though rather enjoying it- Geir focused his drive into the deepest reaches of his friend’s throat, the squeeze letting loose a series of moans as Janove opened his mouth wider to accommodate the length. Then one, two, three finale thrusts, a last firm bellow of “Daddy!” and the singer was practically swigging a series of long, bittersweet spurts of warm relief.
Chest heaving with exhaustion, unable to quite come to terms with his newly discovered edge, Geir eased into the depths of the couch, trying to ignore the feeling of guilt bubbling to the surface of his reactivated awareness.
Hands now untangled from his friend’s head, he drew them up and covered his reddened face, hiding from the shame of what he had done. Settling for a moment, he could feel the slight tickle of hair that he must have roughly pulled from Janove’s scalp. Another thing he had to apologize for. He groaned, removing his hands from his face and only then realising that Janove’s finger had been removed and the man was lounging out along side him.
“Hey, baby.” Janove grinned hedonistically, rolling back overtop the spent man beside him and closed in farther. Lifting a finger for Geir to see, the same finger he had not so long ago had deep inside the wild guitarist, and inserted it scandalously into his mouth, wiping it clean.
It was more than shock that registered on Geir’s face when next, the dark man pushed up and in for a long and luxurious kiss; Geir couldn’t help it, the thought of where those implements had recently been, sent a rush of excitement straight to his head…
When that all cleared- the lust, the shock, the pleasure- however, Geir played an entirely different tune.
“That’s disgusting.” But it was half hearted, and Janove did not take the comment seriously, and only smiled, satisfied.
“Wait. I have questions.” Geir added, frowning.
“Question away.” He smiled contentedly, eyes shining like diamonds, as he favourably stroked Geir’s sides.
Ignoring the shivers the actions gave him, Geir pushed on.
“First of all, how the hell did you get into my house?”
“Helge gave me your spare key.”
“Traitor.”
“He thought I was saving you from certain death.”
“Really.”
“No, I’m serious! I told him you got a cake from a dearly devoted fan and that I thought you might need a taste tester, just in case.”
“So… he thought you just really wanted cake?”
Janove considered it. “… Yes.” He grinned like a cat that had just found a year’s supply of Yorkshire cream. “Good thing, too. Don’t think I could’ve lasted another day! I though I was going to explode if I didn’t touch you soon.” He wrung one of Geir’s nipples for emphasis.
Geir swatted his hand away from the sensitive area. “Which brings us to my second question: how long have you wanted this?”
Janove looked genuinely confused. “I was going to ask you that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was told by… actually, never you mind who by… that you’ve wanted me for years. I’ve felt the same, so I decided to take the bull by the horns… or horn, really… and do something about it. Are you telling me you didn’t feel… anything?”
“No. But, I mean, not until tonight.” Geir stumbled and tried for a smile; it wavered only slightly and he called this improvement.
Smiling back, much stronger than Geir, Janove seemed to understand, for once, the use of silence, and he lay down, head on Geir’s chest, recommencing the stroking of his hips, waist, and stomach, occasionally sliding onto his chest.
“So… are we good then?” Geir began, tenderly breaking the calm.
“Do you really think I look like a gay cowboy?”
The randomness of the question threw Geir off guard, as did the slight frown he could feel against his upper body.
“You want an honest answer?”
“Yes.” The bathetic singer replied, pouting into Geir’s skin.
“Then, yes. You really do look like a gay cowboy.”
“But… do you like it?” He referred to his assertion at the beginning of the evening where he claimed it was, in fact, privy to Geir’s tastes and expectations.
“Course I do. I like you. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”
As the comment left Geir’s mouth, he could feel a grin beginning to form on the dominant man’s mouth.
Then, in lapsed conversation, peace took over, drawing with it the quiet of the night. But just as the two men, now content with the trials of the night and limp with post-coital fatigue, were on the brink of sleep, a brief and pressing matter arose to the surface of the lower man’s mind.
“Um, Janove? Could you please untie now? Janove? Janove!”
A giggle flattened the darkness, and that was all the response that was given for the rest of the very long night.