#eurodead fanfic

[diediegamchicothdie]

AND SORROW, AGAIN

Yo, escribí un fanfic one short después de ser baneada de Wattpad y de este sitio justamente por el tipo de fanfics que solía escribir????? Si PQ no (más notas al final de esta oda a la literatura)

Su cabeza daba vueltas, levemente, como un efecto parecido al  narcótico, como una calada de yerba, un viaje que terminaba en pesadilla, pocas cosas lo llevaban a ese estado en sobriedad, había estado pensando, pensando demasiado en el sueco, en su nariz prominente, los ojos muertos y los dientes amarillentos, no pensaba en el cómo lo solía hacer, alardeando de su "dead", el hombre más brutal que podrías encontrar, no, esta vez no, porque la noche del 89 era larga, la entidad del caos se dejaba caer, desvelado por las cortinas del temor se habrían ante los intensos ojos de Øystein que no podían parar de observar a Per, desear du piel, desde el cabello rubio platino hasta sus huesudos, su sangre, las manos con uñas mordidas, dedos cortados, piel levantada, su carne, el aroma de snus putrefacto, carne descarnada de animales muertos que colgaban orgullos en el techo como el cuerpo rígido cubierto de pelo espeso que se ocultaba dentro de la funda de la almohada que desprendía los dulces susurros hasta su cerebro, como envidiaba el no poder meterse entre sus sueños y morder su cerebro. Pensaba en sus vueltas por el bosque, los pies descalzos llenos de tierra, su pecho lampiño que subía y bajaba cada vez que le miraba, ahogándose en el oxígeno frío del bosque que rodeaba aquel granero, pensaba en Per, sus ojos emocionados cuando le prometía la gloria, sus delgados labios que le sonreían con los ojos cerrados, como quien se aferra a su última esperanza. Pensaba en Per, en Pelle, en Yngve, en Ohlin como suyo, y eso para sí era de por sí un pecado.  

A Øystein nunca le había importado parecer un marica, eso lo hacía más desafiante bajo su mirada, quizás las personas de todo tipo se escandalizaban al ver decencia básica, y claro, asustar a los viejos siendo un adorador de Satán es una cosa bastante sencilla, desconcertar a tus compañeros de culto al tratar a una chica como un ser humano o no odiar a los de otra etnia porque si es una cosa totalmente distinta, quizás era muy satanista para los puristas, muy bien santo para los satánicos, pero, el problema real  venía cuando el jugueteo entre la actitud maricona y la realidad palpable de serlo se volvían una línea difusa, porque por los labios de su amigo no le importaría borrarla por completo, tampoco es como si fuera un homosexual al cien por ciento del tiempo, para nada, que fuera discreto no lo volvía un virgen y mucho menos un santo, había tenido muchas experiencias a lo largo de su corta vida, ya conocía el sabor de la boca femenina, con labios suaves, abultados, que se sentían gentiles y llenos sin importar que fueran delgados. En sus primeros años de adolescencia solía refugiarse en la casa de sus amigas, dulces chicas que no les importaba la guerra entre el trve y el poser, donde se sentía más libre ante sus propios gustos y deseos, así fue, en la casa de Lena, medio borracho donde se ofreció como ofrenda para practicar besos con las chicas, dejo sus labios a la merced del placer, sin sentimientos profundos, solo la diversión, el cosquilleo de la adrenalina que bajaba desde su espina hasta su verga; pero, no era completamente un perro, había sentido algo por la chica a la cual llevo a la graduación del colegio, y como todo en su vida, sus convicciones se basaban en la política, quizás prefería creer que cuando se rompe una relación era mejor olvidar por el honor de su pareja, ni siquiera se dignaba a recordar su nombre, pero en noches largas y heladas no podía evitar recordar, no por deseo, para nada, con ella conoció los encantos carnales de las mujeres, los senos suaves, el olor dulce, los muslos carnosos y húmedos, toda la dulzura de las flores de abril, Pelle no sería así.

Lo sabía perfectamente bien, el cuerpo de Pelle era rígido, duro, con sus huesos angulosos cuya piel abrazaba, como la funda de un puñal, aperlado, inmaculado a pesar de sus heridas, el pensar en su cuerpo, la anatomía de un desnutrido hombre adulto mal formado lo llevaban a morder su labio inferior hasta sangrar, solo criatura maligna como Pelle hacían las manos del gran Euronymous temblar mientras redactaba su quinto intento de una carta decente, porque estaba ciego y necesitaba alguien que le tomara de la mano ante las dudas que picaban el lóbulo frontal, como la maldita larva mental, necesitaba piedad aunque la respuesta misericordiosa tardará semanas aterrizar en su herida morada, con la larva mental recorriendo su cuerpo, la picazón recorriendo desde el labio hasta sus manos, la piel era insoportable sus dientes rápidos mordieron su dedo pulgar mientras las letras se volvían un revoltijo frente a su aturdido rostro, las palabras danzaban burlonas como si la última frase escrita no fuera más que un sin sentido, idiotas en el papel se apreciaba aquel "Mauricio, ¿Cómo se siente besar a un hombre?", ¿era bastante buena la introducción del tema homosexual en la conversación?, ¿acaso se sentía natural la transición entre sus habituales cuestionamientos de su vida, el estado de masacre y los planes de colaborar algún día y confesarle que estaba pensando insistentemente en la verga de otro hombre? Quería vomitar, prefería que su mente divagara a otros lugares de su consciente, de su memoria, él por su parte, ya sabía perfectamente de la orientación de su amigo de correspondencia, es más, fue una de las primeras cosas que Mauricio se atrevió a compartirle tan abiertamente, en lo personal no tenía ningún problema con los putos maricones, para nada, quizás hasta un poco de envidia porque ya se habían ganado el infierno solo por nacer bajo su condición, quizás a Satanás le agradaban los maricas, a lo mejor caían bajo su gracia y el infierno era como las zonas rosas de la ciudad donde se había obligado a ir para conseguir unos buenos pantalones de cuero, un gran boulevard degenerado ambientado con música de Cher y Madonna donde no sabias de que género era quien pero todos lucían extrañamente... Bien, es decir “no me molestaría meter mi pene ahí”, ese era su pensamiento recurrente cada vez que visitaba las calles donde viven los depravados, por otro lado la confesión de su amigo latino le llego de sorpresa, en su momento aunque impactante no le dio mayor relevancia pero ahora su cabeza parecía sacudida por el peso de su propia sexualidad, quizás Mauricio solo había confiado en él, tal vez el peso de su homosexualidad era una verdad asfixiante en un país homofóbico como Colombia y atrapado en el ambiente machista del metal no tenía un momento para respirar entonces vio en el un salvavidas en forma de un noruego comunista que nunca había visto y al final daba un poco igual si lo sabía, o, quizás, solo quizás, en el hipotético mundo de los tal vez… Mauricio sospechaba de él. ¿Pueden los homosexuales detectarse entre sí como viles perros olfateando sus traseros? No quería saberlo.

Conocía de su rareza, de su particularidad, el temor era de que se notara, si lo sabía uno, lo podían saber muchos, y eso no lo permitiría, era cuidadoso, lo más que su cerebro comandado de glucosa de coca cola se lo permitía, era perspicaz lo más que su cerebro lleno de canciones de venom y panfletos de Trotsky se lo permitía, no lo habían captado con ninguna de sus noviecillas, ellas no merecían verse involucradas en la mierda que estuviera sucediendo en la escena (a menos que tuvieran un proyecto musical y/o colaboraran con uno, en ese caso si lo merecían) su yo protector no permitiría que alguien que estimaba tanto terminara perjudicado por su yo estúpido, malvado, terrible, anarcosatanicocomunistaateoodiardordeLavey único padrino fundador del black metal Euronymous; Pelle, también era gay.

Bueno, Pelle era gay, tan gay como podía ser un hombre que hablar con tantas pasión sobre las tetas al punto de hacer una canción una y exclusiva acerca de emborracharse y finalmente ser digno de poder jugar con un par de lindos senos naturales, sin letra, obviamente��� ya sería demasiado escribir una melodía pensado en el busto femenino, se excedería si contara lo que realmente quería hacerles, pero a pesar de todo el deseo expresado, de las veces que en confianza admitió estar desesperado por el tacto de una mujer, sus fantasías continuas acerca de tener sexo asqueroso, sangriento, brutal, digno de película de serie B, como su primera paja fue con las nativas de Holocausto Caníbal y como envidia al investigador por poder bañarse con ellas en el Amazonas, claro, Pelle era sucio y sin filtros cuando se le daba la confianza total de expresar sus sentimientos, como su diatriba en defensa del incesto, sin embargo, en el fondo de su alma y sus viseras Øystein lo sabía, porque la manera en que acariciaba el dorso de su mano con su pulgar, como jugueteaba con su cabello enrollándolo en sus dedos tan delgados como garras, la forma en que apoyaba su larguirucho cuerpo sobre el suyo, buscando su mirada y el, por su parte, haría lo mismo, no había ningún momento al cual podría referirse como explícitamente romántico, no lo necesitaban debido a la naturaleza de su relación, la confianza profunda pervertida en la obsesión mutua no dejaba tema a discusión, podría pasar horas hablando de la genialidad de su vocalista, de su “dead”, de su talento, la morbosidad de su esencia, su rango vocal, su compromiso con la banda y el metal en general, que no era como otros falsos glamers suecos que se van por Estocolmo con su ropa ridícula de brillos, estampados de animal y maquillaje afeminado, claro, no en nombre de la escena, jamás declararía en voz alta que podía pasar horas observando al sueco haciendo nada, caminar por el bosque, escuchar música, hablar de como evildead era una de las obras maestras del ultimo siglo o si los lobos le ganaban a los vampiros pero él mismo se identificaba como vampiro, así que no podía perder, especialmente le agradaba verlo tumbado en la cama, ya sea la propia en su cuarto con olor a muerte, snus, y flores podridas, era un poco voyerista, adoraba ver su cuerpo relajado, totalmente, como una especie de espectro donde sus leves respiraciones harían una ilusión como si estuviera flotando, no necesitaban decir nada, el leería cartas que respondería tomando las miradas de Pelle como aprobación, negación y sugerencias, había algo relajante, casi erótico bajo su mirar en ver a su vocalista reposar, frágil como una bomba.

Pelle era precioso, diría que sus cuidados eran de mayor importancia, no podía permitirse exhibirlo, ya lidiaba con mucho, con su mente, cuerpo, y alma, si le ponía otro peso al revelar su asunto no podía siquiera imaginar como reaccionaria si los demás supieran que llevaban un poco más de seis meses acurrucándose cada vez que podían, la imagen cómicamente ridícula de Pelle subiendo sus piernas encima de su regazo, y por su parte, correspondería poniendo sus manos en aquellos delicados muslos de fiambre subiendo, bajando, dando círculos con las yemas de sus dedos alrededor de su carne cubierta de la sucia mezclilla, no se hablarían, tampoco se mirarían a los ojos, mucho menos conversarían del tema, ¿con qué fin?, sus cuerpos se reconocían al igual que sus mentes que viajaban a un estado apagado de conciencia, un lugar donde no se iban a cuestionar los porque de su placer al contacto de otro macho, solo lo disfrutarían, se relajarían en las respiraciones mutuas y mantendrían en su memoria el trazo del cuerpo y la fragancia del otro; nadie podía ver a Per así todo el derecho, honor, y gloria de ver al rubio en su estado mas puro era él quien conocía perfectamente cada parte de su cuerpo, quien lo había bañado, alimentado y abrigado en las terribles noches de intenso invierno, quien le curaba las heridas, las besaba, se las lamia como un viejo perro a su amo, quien desafío a sus padres y termino alquilando una casa para que este ya no durmiera en un destartalado auto en alguna calle olvidada a merced de los vientos mortales del norte, él era quien le daría su alma si se lo pidiera, su cuerpo si lo requería, y su sangre si lo ameritaba, no lo podría hacer sufrir, estaría dispuesto a mantener su relación ambigua conteniendo todos sus deseos en el aire, en su mente, y especialmente en sus caricias tímidamente coquetas, por eso su consulta, solo quería fantasear, Per no era como un hombre común pero al final era uno como todos, él sabia que si el sueco lo besaba caería a su pies y se rendiría a su voluntad, pero si el tomara el cuerpo muerto como suyo… no lo sabía, el universo podría explotar.

Al final de la carta, donde sus manos danzaron abriendo su corazón y su mente, todos los pensamientos que llegaron, los recuerdos esparcidos, la explicación de su historia, los miedos, las dudas y la ferviente pasión que crecía entre ambos, todos sus secretos expuestos en un penoso inglés, ansiosamente redactado, mareado como si le hubieran dado una paliza, leyó las últimas palabras con recelo. En su total intimidad, se sentía con millones de ojos acosando sus letras, hurgando en su desprolija redacción, murmurando mierda acerca de sus sentimientos, pero el texto solo se reía de él.

“No estás en obligación de decirlo; si lo quieres mantener en secreto, lo entiendo completamente, pero te agradecería si me compartieras la experiencia. Realmente estoy perdido, no sé a qué punto he llegado en esta situación, no sé cómo partir desde aquí o si mi actuar me llevará a algún lugar. Solo espero tu respuesta, algún punto de donde partir, de donde guiarme. Solo espero que, por nuestra amistad, puedas concederme dos caprichos. El primero: no me juzgues tan fuertemente por mi actuar. Yo estoy tan confundido como tú, como Pelle o como cualquier otro que se enterara de nuestro asunto. Por favor, si llegas a tener un juicio, no me lo hagas saber; la verdad, no necesito otro verdugo. Mi sentido común está haciendo un trabajo más que excepcional manteniéndome despierto por la noche. Mi segunda petición es un poco más severa. Sea cual sea la conclusión, te pido que, por piedad, quemes esta carta, no dejes que nadie la mire, quédate con el secreto y, como en señal de nuestra hermandad, yo haré lo mismo con la tuya. No me falles”.

La carta había terminado, solo la podía admirar solemne su obra de mierda, solo un suspiro y la firmo finalmente derrotado, si un marica no lo podía ayudar ni Dios ni Satán podrían, ya no se sentía derrotado, solo con una resaca de realidad, lamio sus labios haciendo tontos garabatos antes de firmas, lentamente la doblo en tres partes iguales, jugueteo con el papel antes de meterla en el sobre, como un actos de sacrificio, y puso una de las costosas estampillas al otro lado del mundo, como quien pone una carta en una botella para tirarla al mar abierto, la pesadez en el aire parecía un olor a muerte, no solo por sus músculos entumecidos, Pelle ya había llegado junto la mañana, como el sol que se alza sobre toda penumbra mental, entro dueño del lugar, caminando directamente a la cama donde se hizo un nido, sus ojos pálidos como el cielo de verano lo miraron expectantes, ordenando sin hablar que fuera a su lado, se levanto dejando su postura de camarón y fue directamente a su diestra, volviendo enroscarse pero esta vez absorbiendo su cuerpo como si fuera un agujero negro, alimentándose de su falsa luz.

— ¿No dormiste anoche?

Cuestiono mientras sus dedos se encontraban con la raíz rubia grasosa del noruego, quien solo pudo asentir.

— No pude; preferí responder cartas y eso, cosas administrativas aburridas. Eres mucho mejor con lo creativo, mejor quédate en esa parte.

—Me voy a pegar un tiro si vuelvo a ser consultado acerca de si algo es black metal o no. Si no lo saben, no lo hagan — amenazó el sueco, jugando a enredar el cabello de su guitarrista para luego continuar con su charla de ideas sueltas — Anoche, soñé algo que podría ir bien para la banda, no sé, como que va con todo.

—¿Qué es?

—Soñé que las hadas me pedían que me suicidara.

Ha pasado un largo tiempo desde que no escribía, simplemente no tenía la motivación para hacerlo, pero al parecer chadpelle ya se cansó de escribir fanfics y ahora me debo alimentar por mi cuenta, como sea, dudo que lo traduzca en inglés ya que no soy muy buena escribiendo en ese idioma, necesitaría ayuda para adaptar algunos conceptos o al menos empezar mi clase de literatura inglesa (lol), como sea, espero seguir escribiendo en el futuro. Si les gusto digan algo carajo, empiecen a escribir!!!

[princess-lvcifer]

new year's eve

euro/dead • +4K • CW: smut (T!P x B!Ø), emotional hurt/comfort, implied alcohol and self-harm 🇪🇸 ao3

It had been a couple of hours since New Year's Eve, and Øystein was lying in a bed that wasn't his trying to process everything: the year, the night, his feelings for the person next to him trying to sleep in handcuffs... He didn't want the feeling to go any further, but he didn't want him to go away from him in any way. He wanted the year that had just arrived to be a good one and not to take him away from him, and to be with him for many more.

"I'm cold," the blond beside him said annoyed, snapping him out of his thoughts and making him turn his neck to his right to look at him, though he could barely see anything.

"You're Swedish," he said as he noticed him turn to his side and curl into a ball, face to face in the dark.

"And you're Norwegian, so?" This amused the guitarist, eliciting a sly grin and a snort through his nose as he turned to get into the same position. "Go ask for another blanket."

"Metalion will be asleep by now, I don't want to wake him," he replied.

"Then there's nothing left to do but pull your insides out to warm you up like in The Empire strikes back," Pelle joked not knowing that the guitarist wouldn't mind being destroyed by him in any way he could, just to make him happy.

"What if I just hug you?" he asked moving closer, putting his arm under his head so that he could use it as a pillow while he used his own hand. With his other arm he put his arm around him and even dared to stroke his back a little.

Pelle was a little surprised by such a gesture, almost freezing for a few seconds trying to process the moment because he wasn't used to physical contact, but it felt good and less cold, so he let it be and even made himself comfortable by intertwining their legs. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. The blond's nose brushed against his neck, and he could feel his breath. He wasn't the only one who could feel something, as Pelle could feel his heartbeat against his hands, close to his chest without being able to take them anywhere else.

But the heat was warming them both up, and the night and the alcohol didn't help because it made everyone feel too warm and secure.

"Øystein," he whispered to check if he was still awake after a few minutes.

"Mm?"

"Can I bite your neck? I want to know what it feels like," he added quickly not wanting to sound too weird, but he felt he was being provoked by having his neck so close. If the guitarist expressed discomfort in any way he would excuse himself by saying he was joking, lying.

For a second Øystein thought he was dreaming, that maybe he didn't remember that he'd had too much to drink and had ended up in a drunken coma. It all seemed too good to be true, he couldn't believe it. It was surreal enough that he'd ended up sharing a tiny bed with him, and that they'd ended up cuddling in the cold, without adding that to it. He knew there was most likely no ulterior motive behind such a request, and that maybe he should stop it as he wasn't quite himself because of the alcohol and blood loss from the cuts he'd given himself earlier, but he'd been drinking alcohol too, so he couldn't help but be equally sincere.

"Yes," he answered quickly but trying as hard as he could to hide the fact that he wanted that and much more, "but don't hurt me," he added knowing how his friend was fascinated by blood, not wanting to get hurt and above all not wanting to stain more sheets with blood.

"Relax, I'll be gentle," he said as he brought his hands wrapped around the collar of his shirt before slowly planting small kisses on his neck, testing the ground before deciding where to bite him.

At those words and such an action Øystein couldn't help but blush, opening his eyes like vinyl records and staring into the dark nothingness as he noticed his lips up and down, and he could even swear he could notice a small smile. Then, at last, Pelle opened his mouth and dug his teeth into his flesh. At first he did it with no force and he could even feel his tongue retract, but then he pressed harder and caused the guitarist to let out a small moan that embarrassed him, but to his luck Pelle ignored it. What he didn't know was that he liked that and it provoked him even more, causing him to bite him on other parts of his neck.

The atmosphere warmed up, the cold was long gone. They were too excited and both could feel it, in their own bodies and in each other's bodies. Needing more and almost without thinking Øystein put his hands on the blond's cheeks and bent down to kiss him now, on the lips. At first it was a shy and awkward peak as it was the Swede's first kiss and it caught him by surprise, but he quickly gave him to understand that he didn't dislike it and played along until their tongues were deep inside each other. When they broke apart for lack of air Pelle bit him and stretched his lip, teasing him but making him laugh quietly.

Then the guitarist got up and sat on his crotch, and though he could barely see anything, he could swear Pelle smiled — or at least he wanted to believe he smiled, the same way he did. He leaned over him as he rested his hands on his chest and slid them down to his shoulders, bringing their torsos and crotches together to kiss him on the lips and neck as the blond had done to him earlier.

If he hadn't been handcuffed he probably would have grabbed his hips or buttocks, he had to settle for draping his arms over his head. The guitarist felt the cold metal chain of the handcuffs on the back of his neck, pushing him down, but he didn't care because he didn't want to be separated from the vocalist's lips, who was trying to move his hips to brush against his erect crotch. Well pleased, Øystein decided to whisper in his ear:

"Can I touch you?" he asked, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I promise I'll make you feel very good."

"Yeah," he answered quickly, and as needy as he was.

He sat back up and adjusted himself, pulling down both their trousers and pants. He warmed his hand by rubbing them together and spitting saliva into his dominant hand before he began to massage his member, feeling it so close for the first time — feeling even his veins as he massaged it from bottom to top slowly at first, and tightening his grip when he reached its tip.

But masturbating is as boring as it is tiring, and Øystein also needed satisfaction and rubbing, so he settled back to sitting on top of his crotch, bringing their penises together at the bottom of both of them, the most sensitive part. He put his hands on his abdomen, grabbing his shirt; and then he began to move his hips rhythmically.

"You look like a dog in heat, rubbing yourself against me like that," he said with a certain mocking tone, but not maliciously.

"Better than a cat, isn't it?" he asked playfully.

He wished they were with the light on so he could see Pelle's facial expression, so he could know if he was doing it right and behold his beauty. And he wished they were alone so they could make noise and try to go further.

"Fuck, I want your hands on me and to feel you from the inside..." He dared to moan in a whisper, and to his surprise, the Swede brought his cuffed hands over his and said:

"There is a way you can feel me from the inside" and he was right. He didn't want to let go of his hands, but he wanted to satisfy him and time was rewarding, so he let go and slid back into the sheets.

He grabbed his cock again and masturbated it a little as he wet his lips with his tongue, still not processing what he was about to do once and for all. He had imagined it many times, and didn't think he'd ever get to do it for real at some point. With the tip of his tongue he brushed from the lowest to the highest, causing the blond to shiver and his breathing to quicken even more. When he reached the tip he sucked it like a lollipop, causing the blond to stifle a moan at such pleasure he had never felt before and bringing his hands to the brunet's head, grabbing his hair and pushing his head down wanting to feel more. That satisfied Øystein as it showed he was liking what he was doing to him, but he also felt nervous as he didn't know if his mouth was big enough to fit his entire member inside him. Putting that aside, he dropped saliva which he collected in his mouth to moisten it, so that his lips would slide in better. When he opened his mouth he slowly pushed his member in, and Pelle clung tighter to him. He tried to give him as much pleasure as he could with everything his mouth had to offer, except his teeth. When he got tired, which was often due to lack of practice, he went back to massaging it with his hand.

"I'm going to cum Øystein," he moaned clutching his hair even tighter as he was giving him oral sex again. That was music to the Norwegian's ears, his new favourite style of music now that he had finally heard it.

"Cum in my mouth," he said at one point pulling his member out of his mouth as he masturbated him, wanting to answer him as he didn't want to stain the sheets leaving evidence of what they had done — but for better or worse, Pelle couldn't help but cum before he could merge their bodies back together (though technically he did cum in his mouth as some of his semen jumped to his lips, and he wiped it off by running his tongue over it). Wanting to avoid staining the sheets but still wanting to satisfy him, he just kept masturbating his tip with his hand, capturing his cum inside his palm as he listened to him sigh deeply.

When the room fell silent again he knew he was done. Wanting to clean himself up and finish satisfying himself, he clumsily climbed out of bed. When he landed his feet on the floor his legs trembled a little, from the change of position and the fatigue of sitting spread-eagled. He pulled up his pants and trousers, went to the door and opened it slowly and quietly, opening it a little to peek in and see if anyone was there: as he suspected, there was no one in the hallway and no light was coming from the other rooms. He went to the bathroom on the floor he was in, using his left arm as a blind man's stick, and when he got there he locked himself in without turning on the light, not wanting to attract anyone's attention or disturb his eyes.

Once there he pulled down his pants and trousers again, carefully took toilet paper and still with his dominant hand full of his Swedish friend's semen he started to masturbate himself in the same way he masturbated him, imagining he was doing it until he cummed on the paper which he threw in the trash. He would have preferred to flush it down the toilet and flush it away for good and leave no evidence, but he preferred not to make any noise if it wasn't absolutely necessary, and probably neither Metalion nor his parents would be looking at the little bin in that bathroom with a magnifying glass. Then he poured soap on his hands and turned on the tap, running a thin trickle of water to wash them, then wiped them on the hand towel and finally went back into the room.

"Did I do well?" he asked once he was back in bed, with both of them staring at the dark ceiling.

"You ask as if I were an expert."

"Right," laughed Øystein quietly, and also very tired. How could he not be tired at that time of the morning and after drinking alcohol, having sex and cumming?

They cuddled up again and there wasn't much more to say. They didn't have time to process what they had just done either, as they were so exhausted that they fell asleep quickly, not noticing how their eyes were closing.

The next morning it was the guitarist who woke up first. He was bored and wanted to eat breakfast and take an Ibuprofen for the hangover, but he didn't want to wake Pelle up so he just stared at his back in silence (as there was finally some light in the room, coming in through the window), waiting patiently for him to wake up while he remembered what happened the night before and wondered what his relationship with him would be like from then on. He couldn't help but get a little excited.

Figuring out that Pelle had woken up wasn't difficult, his breathing changed a lot but he still looked like he was sleeping because he acted like he was. Øystein thought that maybe he acted like that thinking he was sleeping and not wanting to wake him up if he was, like him.

"Good morning," he said daring to hug him from behind, even though he was smaller.

"Good morning," he replied as he pulled away from him and got out of bed to go to the door, not even looking at him for a second.

Øystein was a bit puzzled, but thought that maybe it was just his imagination, that he was simply in a hurry to go to the bathroom to relieve himself and/or have breakfast. He followed, there was no point in staying in bed alone.

When they went down to the first floor of the house they saw that they weren't the only ones awake and they all had breakfast together around the living room table with the TV on (although without paying much attention to it because they were just awake and hungover). Metalion handed out Ibuprofen like bingo cards and they waited for it to take effect as quickly as the coffees they drank. Øystein thought he might have to help Pelle eat breakfast, considering his hands were cuffed, but he managed fine on his own. What he did help him with was changing the bandages on his arms and re-disinfecting his cuts in the bathroom while the others cleaned the house.

"Yeah, yeah," the guitarist whispered after the vocalist winced and grunted in annoyance at the stinging the Betadine was causing in his wounds, trying to calm him down and let him see that he understood it wasn't a pleasant sensation. The scene was not pleasant for him either, and it was worse to see him self-harming.

He silently bandaged his arms with great care, as if they were made of porcelain and about to break. When he was done Pelle whispered a small "Thank you" and there was nothing more to say, like last night. The Swede was the first to leave the bathroom, almost seeming to be in a hurry. At no point in the morning did he look him in the face, and though he knew he was shy and found it hard to do such a thing, it didn't happen with him being close. He knew he was tense, and that he was running away from him for some reason. Øystein looked at himself in the mirror, searching for evidence of the crime on his neck — luckily for him there was none as Pelle didn't bite him too hard the night before, the only evidence he had was his memories and his groin pain.

When they left they didn't go straight to their house, they went to a police station to have the handcuffs removed, as they didn't have a key. Luckily they didn't have to wait long to be attended to, nor did they have to give many detailed explanations, nor did the policemen see the state of Pelle's arms as he was wearing a black leather jacket.

The car rides were silent, oblivious to the metal music playing in the background while Øystein drove and Pelle looked out of the passenger seat window, fist to his cheek.

And then they finally arrived home. No one was there, they were alone at last, but still the Swede locked himself in his room. The Norwegian didn't want to take it personally, he knew that after being surrounded by people he needed to recharge his social battery by being alone and that he was probably still tired. He locked himself in his room to write letters and a few hours later Jan and Jørn arrived.

Although he didn't want to accept it because he was very positive as the hours passed and the more they were forced to interact by living together, he realised that he was probably the problem, and that made him nervous and desperate. He didn't know what he had done to make him uncomfortable, he didn't know what was the straw that broke the camel's back — he didn't know what was going through the Swede's mind, he didn't know what he thought of him or whether he was angry or disappointed.

On the evening of the second day of January all the members of Mayhem were in the living room, relaxing watching a movie on TV after eating leftovers they had brought home for dinner, and the moment that made them both most uncomfortable came: a sex scene, and to top it off, it was between a blond boy being mounted by a girl with long black hair.

"I want your hands on me," moaned the girl in the film as she grabbed the boy's hands and put them on her breasts.

"You're fucking joking," thought Øystein as he swallowed nervously, but a sudden movement he saw out of the corner of his eye caught his attention as well as an all too familiar voice.

"Good night," said Pelle as he got up from the sofa and headed for his bedroom.

"Enjoy the handjob," Jan said matter-of-factly, not taking his eyes off the screen.

He sighed deeply as he watched the Swede's back as he headed for the stairs to the first floor, knowing that he didn't want to keep things so tense with him and that he had to do something about it. If Pelle wouldn't go to him, he would have to go to Pelle. And that's what he did as soon as the two of them were alone in the house.

As soon as he approached the open door of his room he saw him lying on his bed (or rather, filthy mattress) staring at a fixed point on the ceiling, though he wasn't disassociating with a blank stare. He knocked on the door to let him know he was there, and with permission to enter.

"We need to talk," he said approaching him, ignoring the mess that was in many ways the room — he was used to that and many other things. Pelle didn't answer, didn't even look at him and tried to ignore him as he took the liberty of sitting cross-legged in front of the mattress to the right of his head. "I know you're uncomfortable," he began to speak crestfallen and looking at the floor, this time he was the one avoiding eye contact, "and I know I'm to blame..." He paused and sighed deeply, trying to find the right words even though he thought about it time before, but with his nerves they left his mind. "I don't know what made you uncomfortable but I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention. I don't want to make excuses but I was drunk and horny, and I like you," Pelle finally reacted the instant he heard that confession opening his eyes like vinyl records, turning his neck to his right to look at him and getting up to sit in the same position as the guitarist, "so I got too excited, I'm really sorry."

"Do you like me?" He asked surprised as well as confused as soon as he had the chance to speak, and Øystein finally looked up to look at him, but the look only lasted a second as he turned his eyes away nervously, his heart pounding. Again he couldn't believe what he was experiencing.

"Yeah, I know it's probably a little weird and I'm sorry if I'm grossing you out and making you uncomfortable..." He shrugged apologetically.

"No, it's not that," he hastened to correct him. "It's just that I don't understand why..."

"Fuck, Pelle," he said reattaching his eyes, now longer, "how can I not like you?" he subtly shook his head, letting hin know that he didn't understand. Øystein swallowed and looked away for a second, searching for the right words and realizing that he finally had the chance to express everything he really felt for him — which he wanted to do but at the same time he was afraid to open up so much. But one thing was for sure — Øystein was brave, and it was that moment or never, so he got emboldened and looked back into those blue eyes he loved so much. "You are authentic, unique, interesting, funny, attractive, passionate and talented in all the art you create. We have tastes in common and you take the band as seriously as I do. We've known each other for a long time and we've been through a lot together. I like being around you, and I miss you even when you're by my side without talking to me. Touch makes affection, I guess," he added with a shrug.

"Of course," he said holding back his laughter, referring to what happened between them in Metalion's bed, but without malice. He simply wanted to defuse the tension with humour, and luckily for both of them it worked, for it made his friend laugh quietly, and he looked away, blushing and shaking his head.

But when the humour passed he looked down again as he fiddled nervously with his hands, silently searching his mind for something to add, and mostly processing what he had just admitted out loud — no, he just didn't like him, he was in love with him.

"Thank you," the blond whispered grabbing his hands in an attempt to calm him down and show him how grateful he really was, and making him raise his head to look at him in surprise. They both looked at each other directly and fixedly, though Øystein couldn't help but look at his lips for a microsecond, and when he looked back at him his eyes began to water with nervousness. "I have to..." Now it was Pelle who looked away, as if he was going to find the words he found by looking around the dark-haired man, "think and assimilate a lot of things, really. That's why I've been so distant these days, not because of anything you've done," he said shaking his head subtly, making his long and beautiful blond hair move, "but I want you to know that you don't disgust me and I appreciate your feelings a lot," he said tightening his grip, "I appreciate you," he said now, nodding.

Øystein smiled with a warm and relieved smile. He had gotten what he wanted, which was to clear up doubts and get back to normality between them. He hadn't asked him any questions, so he didn't expect any answers from the Swede. It is one thing to confess what you feel and another thing to ask someone to be your partner — they are two different things, not to be confused although most people do. Luckily for him Pelle understood him in many ways, and that was another thing he liked about him. He didn't want to burden him with such a request. If Pelle wanted to be with him, he would leave it up to him to decide when to start a romantic relationship if he felt ready for it — although he would settle for being friends, flatmates and bandmates.

[nottesfera]

Love/Paranoia - zeromechanism - Mayhem (Band) [Archive of Our Own]

Never thought about using tumblr to share my fics before, but I figured that would be a great thing to out myself as a fanfic writer lol

I'm writing this thing!

Let me know if you read it and what you think about it, I'll keep you informed when I update. It usually takes a while but I promise I'll do my best <3

[evelina18-6-blog]

I have a lot of unfinished drawings, this will be the next one. But I want to make a EuroDead drawing in LoC version, I also wish to illustrate a couple of fanfics but first I must consult the authors... And I must continue my own fic 😵

[plusvanity]

Do you have any tips for writing? I just started reading your story on ao3 and holy shit you're an amazing writer! So yeah I thought maybe you got some advice for me, cause I wanna start writing a Mayhem fanfic myself but I don't really have any experience lmfao.

Damn. Thank you very much if you think that about me! 🖤

Writing should come naturally. You can tell when someone is forcing themselves to write something, so firstly, I'd suggest you take your time to think in-depth about the story and its plot. Try to visualise it in your mind. It's easier to write a scene once you have a full comprehension of it. It's also easier to describe the environment and create a matching atmosphere once you see it clearly.

Try to imagine a dialogue between characters and make them different (based on their personalities) voices. Many people make the mistake of writing two characters in 'the same voice' so to speak, when they should be two separate individuals existing simultaneously.

If you have random moments of 'inspiration', take full advantage of them. Make notes on your phone with random fragments of your story that you want to include at some point in the future. Sometimes you need to write down an idea/ scenario/ dialogue right away because you know that when you'll think about it later, you'll miss on a lot of initial effectiveness.

I'd suggest making a bit of research on Øystein and Pelle (I suppose you want to write eurodead) because they get misinterpreted a lot. You don't have to be big into psychoanalysis to write their personas the right way, but you have to be careful to keep them 'in character'.

I don't know what else to say, unless you want to ask something more specific.

Writing should be fun and entertaining, so don't be too hard on yourself and enjoy the process! 🖤

[princess-lvcifer]

[princess-lvcifer]

te iubesc

eurodead • 2K • viking AU • fluff

"Dear friend," said the count rising from his seat at the long wooden table and raising his tankard, looking at his guest and the reason for the evening's banquet, "it has been a pleasure to meet you and learn from you. It fills me with sadness that you are leaving, it seems like only yesterday that you arrived and I assure you that you will be missed here. May your exploration in Vinland be prosperous and may the Gods assist you," he nodded with understanding and gratitude for his words. "To Øystein the Fortunate, son of Aarseth!" he shouted raising his mug even higher, and all present except the aforementioned mimicked him in saying the same. Then they all raised their mugs to their lips.

As he took a sip from his tankard Øystein looked straight ahead, where sat his good shaman friend, a Romanian once enslaved and freed by him, with blue eyes like his own and long blond hair. Realising that he was looking at him he looked at him too, connecting their eyes in a quick glance. They acted expressionless, but both understood each other: they were holding back laughter.

They had been at the court of Count Greifi Grishnakh for some time, at his request. And who were they to refuse an invitation from a count? He claimed to practice sorcery and divination and admitted to defeating his enemies by magic, which many considered an act of cowardice and dishonesty. The count was dishonest, not because he used magic to defeat his enemies but because it was obvious to someone like Pelle, the shaman of Øystein, that he didn't really have such powers. They quickly realised that he was a poser, in many ways. He imitated Øystein and Pelle alike, and it seems that the only one who didn't realise how ridiculous he was was himself. So insecure that he always wore his crown on his head to remind people of who he was, along with his long braids. He was a two-faced man with no clear ideas, bloodthirsty for no reason and eager for attention and approval, especially from Øystein, whom he admired because he wanted to be like him — a man who actually did something interesting and worthwhile with his life by exploring unknown lands, courageous and determined, loved and respected by all his servants for his intelligence and kindness. A good leader, a good man.

Unlike him, Øystein was no fool and even if he didn't think well of him, he knew that Greifi was a man best to have on his side. He would smile at him whenever he had to, and this was one of those times.

"Thank you very much Your Highness, you are very kind," he said raising his mug. "You move me with your words. We will miss you too," a tap on his foot caught his attention and he couldn't help but smile even wider, holding back his laughter as he tapped the man opposite him in return.

The next day he sailed back to his homeland, where the following day he would disembark with Aarseth, Pelle and a crew of 35 men he had assembled to sail on a ship he had bought. The voyage was to be an expedition to Vinland, a land his father had discovered long ago. In the end his father gave up the idea of accompanying him after he fell off his horse on the way to the harbour, an incident he interpreted as a bad omen.

"Everything will be fine," Pelle assured Øystein in a confident and reassuring tone when he asked if he should abandon the idea of going to Vinland. And while in a way Pelle made him lose his mind, he also helped him come to his senses when he needed it most.

At the port they said goodbye to their loved ones: parents, sisters, wives, children... Pelle couldn't say goodbye to anyone, not because he was far from his homeland but because all his loved ones were on the ship, accompanying him. He wasn't married and said he was quite sure that he didn't even have any bastard children. He was aware that in that society, a rural and agricultural culture, it was necessary to have offspring to secure his future, but that mattered little to him: now that he was free at last to live his life as he wished he would never be with someone he didn't love, he wanted no children, he didn't mind dying (which would make him a great viking if he had the right physique) and if he needed someone to look after him it would be someone from the community, probably a daughter of his beloved Øystein, or even himself.

Following his father's route, they docked first at a rocky and desolate place his father called Helluland. Then he docked a second time at a wooded place his father called Markland. After two more days at sea, he landed on an island to the north, and later they finally disembarked at their destination, in a green area with a mild climate and abundant salmon stocks.

They were completely alone, there were no other humans in the area and Pelle said there were no spirits either, and they found wheat that they planted themselves and maple trees with blood-red leaves, among other foods that mother nature had to offer. When they returned to Norway they would load their ship with samples of these newly found goods.

When the crew disembarked and explored the area, it didn't take them long to find the settlement his father had built years before with his men: damp, dusty huts. They tidied them up and cleaned them until they were habitable again.

Este din nou noapte

Noapte, tu frumoasă

Îmi satisfac foamea

Pe oamenii vii

Noapte de foame

Urmează-i chemarea

Urmează luna înghețată

It was a full moon night and Pelle was sitting cross-legged by the fireplace in the little hut he lived in with Øystein, singing in whispers in his native language while he watched the dancing flames with rapt attention and stroked Øystein's head, who was lying on the floor with his eyes closed and using his legs as a pillow. He couldn't be more relaxed, couldn't be better, couldn't be happier.

When he opened his eyes he leaned his neck a little to get a better look at his friend, who had fallen silent, probably tired of singing. Though upside down, he looked at his beautiful face illuminated by the flames and raised his dominant hand to caress his cheek, drawing his attention.

"You have bewitched me," Øystein said quietly. And he wasn't the only one in their circle who ever thought of it. Pelle might have done it to earn his freedom long ago, but what sense would it make to do such a thing to stay with his former master?

"I have done no such thing," he said confidently, smiling though a little confused at such a sudden comment, placing his hands on his cheeks and leaning back to get close to his face, brushing it with the tips of his golden hair, "why would I do that?" he asked as Øystein removed his hand from his cheek, placing it back on the ground.

"I don't know, but I don't care. I'm grateful, even," Pelle laughed and Øystein smiled even wider as he locked his eyes on the shaman's smiling lips.

He knew he could look as long as he didn't touch, but he wanted nothing more than to merge his body with his, even if it was just a short kiss. Even though he knew it was impossible because of the position they were in, he forced his forearms and leaned his back, shoulders and neck to get even closer to him, brushing the tips of their noses together.

"How do you say 'I love you' in your language?" asked the scout, now in a more serious tone that infected the shaman. "Tell me," he begged.

"...Te iubesc."

"Te iubesc," he repeated.

Pelle released his face and slid his legs back, getting up as he said they should go to sleep now. Øystein dropped to the floor, slumped but happy, savouring the moment as he brought one of his forearms to his forehead, staring at the ceiling. The shaman went to a small wooden table they had to get a vase of water and pour some on the fire, putting it out.

As winter was approaching, Øystein decided to camp there for a few months and sent out parties to explore the country. He divided his men into two parties, who took turns exploring the surrounding area. He warned that they should stick together and return when the sun went down to sleep in their settlement.

"Where is Pelle?" Øystein asked puzzled and worried, when half his men returned to the settlement after dark.

"He's not here?" Jørn asked him, just as surprised and worried.

"No," he answered, as cold and dry as the weather. There was no time to ask for explanations or look for culprits to be angry with, what he had to look for was his friend. "Grab some torches, we're going in search of him."

He knew it was unlikely in many ways, but the thought of Pelle running away from him terrified him. He could have done so long ago, when he had set him free; but he didn't, he stayed by his side.

With an Øystein deeply dismayed, twelve men divided into small groups of three went in search of him. He chose to be accompanied by Bård and Vegard. They split off in various directions in the direction they had scouted during the day, but not far from each other. With the torches they kept in visual contact.

They had not gone far when they came across the Romanian, who was heading towards the settlement very excited, gesticulating wildly, and evidently drunk.

When Øystein saw him he handed his torch to Bård and ran towards him, almost stumbling. He couldn't help but hug him, glad to find him. Bård and Vegard looked at each other in silence, with understanding at such a heartfelt reunion.

It was an open secret that Pelle wasn't normal in many ways. It was typical of his profession, which was mostly practised by women — and in the few male cases they were usually effeminate men, with mannerisms, little strength and little or no interest in women. Being like him wasn't considered a bad thing, although it wasn't considered a good thing either. Some people used ergi as an insult, but not to Pelle because he was respected and loved by all — he didn't use his magic to defeat his enemies, which made him in everyone's eyes brave, fair and honest. He was endowed with supernatural powers and they believed that by being close to him you'll get good luck, as he contained the two essences of the human being: both masculinity and femininity, with both roles in one being. He also helped them to be in touch with the Gods, he was a healer, and most important of all, Øystein clearly had a devotion to him. It was obvious the affection, respect and admiration they had for each other. And everyone knew that they slept together in the same bed when they went out to explore the world, but no one knew if they ever had sex, let alone what each other's role was in it.

Vegard alerted the others that they had found him, and they all went over to meet.

"Why, my friend," asked Øystein with his hands on his cheeks, scanning him up and down and down and up as he parted from him, "have you come so late? What made you leave your companions?!"

"Mă știți, îmi place să mă mă plimb singur și să caut animale și plante moarte" Pelle, in his state, answered unwittingly in Romanian. "Am dat peste un ciorchine de struguri, am început să mă mănânc și am pierdut noțiunea timpului, îmi pare rău."

His companions understood nothing and Øystein a little, for in the course of their friendship he had learned a few words in his language, but he didn't know enough to understand it fully, let alone being clearly intoxicated, stammering rapidly.

"Pelle, we don't understand you. Speak in our language, please," he said, clutching his hands tightly.

"Oh, right!" He laughed. "I have not gone far," he said in their language; "I have some news for you. I have discovered vines laden with grapes."

"Are you telling the truth, my friend?" Øystein exclaimed.

"I'm sure I'm telling the truth," answered Pelle, "for in my native land there were vineyards in abundance."

"All right, I believe you," he said letting go of him and wrapping one of the blond's languid arms around his shoulders, wanting to help him walk, "but now let's go home. You must rest. Fenriz, help me with him," he said, and he obeyed.

They were about to reach the settlement when Pelle threw up everything he had taken. He would be weaker than usual because of it, which Øystein was worried about, but he knew it was best to flush everything toxic out of his body.

"Let this be the last time you scare me like this, please," he said sitting down on the floor beside his bed after lighting the fireplace in his cabin. He had his right arm resting on the bed, resting his head on his fist, and with his other hand he grabbed Pelle's right hand, which was hanging down, brushing against the wooden floor.

"Sorry," he said laughing weakly, exhausted from being out all day and from the vomit he had thrown up earlier.

"I'm not laughing, you idiot," he said half jokingly, half seriously. The shock still lingered in his body, but he was glad to have found him and that he was well (as well as a thin man like him could be, after grape poisoning and a bout of vomiting).

Still holding his hand he lifted it to his lips, planting a sweet kiss on it. Pelle's smile didn't fade, and his cheeks were red though probably from the grapes.

"Come here," the shaman said as he rolled onto his side, and he obeyed lying down beside him. To his surprise Pelle curled up next to him, burying his face in his neck and using his arm as a pillow. He had his arms across their torsos, and with Øystein's free hand he decided to brush his hair away from his face and caress his cheek and chin.

"Te iubesc," Pelle whispered into his neck, almost tickling him. Øystein froze on hearing such Romanian words — he stopped caressing him, his eyes became as round as the moon and his heart raced even faster.

"Are you serious?" he asked astonished, pulling back to look at him to observe his facial expression.

"They are just words, carried away by the wind. They leave no mark."

"They leave a mark on my heart," he said taking his hand again and bringing it to his chest so that he could feel the quickening of his heartbeat.

The dark-haired man's eyes fell to his lips, and he began to move slowly towards them, but Pelle stopped him speaking and now he was the one moving backwards.

"That is no longer words Øystein, that is an act. We must not."

"No one will know. And I've done my duty anyway," he said referring to his children thousands of miles away. And he was right — homosexuality was best accepted after the men had formed a family, once the social obligation to contribute children to the community had been fulfilled.

"Once we start we can't stop," he said referring to penetration. It was thought that a man who submitted sexually to another man would do the same in other areas, that he would be a follower rather than a leader, or be on a lower social position than the other. He didn't want the status and honour of either to be tarnished.

"I do not wish to subjugate you, and I hope you do not wish to subjugate me. Even if you were still a slave, I would never force you into anything. Te iubesc."

"All right," Pelle said smiling.

"Then can I kiss you?" asked Øystein excitedly.

"You can," he answered, and as soon as he said that he brought his hand to his cheek and moved back to his lips, finally merging them after years of daydreaming and sleeping about it, proving and sealing their love once and for all.

"You were right, everything went well."

A/N: Crosspoted on my AO3.

Second part: 𖤐

[princess-lvcifer]

Do you write Pelle being top and Euro bottom? If you are, write E rated story about them on that new year when they slept together 😈

I've never written that before but yes! I see them as versatile. Thanks for the idea! 👀 I'll try my best! 🫡 (But don't expect it soon because I have another WIPs to finish and I have my driving test next month 😔)

[princess-lvcifer]

a crown for a king

second part of te iubesc • drabble

This time it wasn't Pelle who was singing, but the birds around him. It was a sunny day, less cold than the previous ones because spring had just arrived. Øystein gave everyone free rein to do what they wanted that day, and he went with Pelle to a clearing in the forest near the settlement, full of flowers. And as always, he rested his head on his legs while resting his eyes, with his eyes closed and his hands on his abdomen.

"I could get used to this," Øystein said with a certain melancholic tone, nostalgic for a moment he was still living.

"Don't you miss your family?" Pelle asked, even though he sensed the answer correctly.

"Yes, but I don't love them like I love you, not even my wife..." he said opening his eyes to look up at the clear sky, as blue as their eyes. "We won't be able to be as close when we go back to Norway, in many ways. I wish we could stay here, forever."

"The rest would lose their heads without women," he said mockingly.

"They'd end up fucking each other and blame it on you," Øystein added and they both laughed. Wanting to change the subject and curious, he craned his neck to get a better look at what the shaman was doing — he had been plucking flowers around him for a while. "What are you doing?" he asked unable to observe what his lover was doing with his hands.

"A crown for those who truly deserve it," he said still with a sly smile as Øystein dug his elbows into the ground, lifting his torso to turn his neck to better observe what he was doing, checking what he was saying. It was true, he was making a crown with the flowers. "For a moment I thought about stealing Greifi's crown to give it to you," he said as the brunet lay down again, "but since he wouldn't even take it off to take a shit, it was impossible," and they both laughed again, but the melancholy was still in Øystein's heart.

"Can you tell if we'll be together in other lives?" he asked.

"You know what my visions are like," images without context, based on hunches and guesses. He didn't consider himself capable of seeing the future because he couldn't find out anything for sure.

"Still," he replied.

"I did one day, recently in fact," he reported, and instantly Øystein jumped up and sat down across from him.

"What did you see?" he asked anxiously.

"I saw you sitting on a throne," he replied quietly as he remained crestfallen, intertwining the flowers, "you wore a crown full of jewels... and luxurious, clean clothes. To your right was me and to your left was Greifi," he said as Øystein looked at him in confusion.

"Greifi?" he asked in surprise, but the shaman shrugged his shoulders.

"I know what you know," he said in his defence. "Are you more surprised by Greifi's presence than by the fact that you will probably be king?" he asked looking up to give him a quick glance, confused as well as smiling.

"I don't care about that," he said, gesturing with his hand. "And what else?" he asked anxiously again.

"Then I saw you playing some kind of black, metallic lute in front of a crowd, and you had make-up on your face, you looked like a raccoon," he said smiling while remembering the image, which he found ridiculous and therefore funny, but the smile was short-lived. "And then I saw you hugging me while you were crying, younger than you are now."

"I don't know what to think about it..." He said crestfallen, trying to take it all in as he stared at the freshly finished crown.

"Me either, but I'm calm," he said placing the crown he had just made him on his head. "Let's live in the present," he said, placing his hands on his cheeks and leaning in to kiss him.

A/N: English isn't my first language, sorry if something's weird expressed. And this is crossposted on my AO3.

Pelle in this drabble:

[princess-lvcifer]

a zombie in love with a ghost

eurodead • +1K • hurt no comfort

summary: øystein's mental state after pelle's death

TW: depression and suicidal thoughts

"I love you," the blond whispered behind him. He couldn't see him, but he felt him — he was using his bony arm as a pillow, and the other was hugging him from behind.

This caught the receiver of the message by surprise — Pelle wasn't usually very expressive or affectionate with words. He couldn't help blushing and smiling like the idiot in love that he was, but he didn't want to overwhelm him with the happiness he felt and all the love he felt for him, which was no small thing, so he was glad he was behind him.

"I love you too," he said looking off into nothingness, smiling now with a melancholic smile, missing a moment he was still living. Because of the Swede's suicidal behaviour, he couldn't help but have a bittersweet feeling whenever he was with him, especially when sharing such intimate and beautiful moments — he knew that the anxiety of seeing him in a bad way and losing him forever would return soon, unfortunately. And he was aware that Pelle was dragging him into a bottomless pit, but he didn't care because he loved him so much that with him he would have gladly gone to hell itself holding hands if he had asked him to.

Still, Øystein was a positive person and thought it was a temporary thing, he wanted to believe that sooner or later Pelle would feel better, and therefore he would. But he didn't.

He could almost feel his back against his chest, fitting together perfectly like two Lego pieces — but it was really the back of the chair he was sitting on. It might have looked like Øystein was in his usual kebab shop having dinner with his friends, staring blankly at nothing when he was talking to no one and no one was talking to him, unknowingly bringing his dominant hand to the collar around his neck to stroke it for comfort. But in reality he was travelling in time and space — he was lying with him on the mattress in the cabin where they lived together. He couldn't help it, no matter what he did, where he was and with whom he always thought of him. He heard many voices around him going in one ear and out the other, but he would never hear the one voice he wanted to hear again. Despite being surrounded by people, he felt alone there and in the world.

What is more important in the long run, the beginning or the end? Both are important, but at the end of the day, one remembers more the ending of a film — it's what leaves the best or worst taste in the mouth, no matter if something starts very well or very badly. And does a love film become a horror film if it ends suddenly in blood? Øystein loved horror films, but he didn't want to experience them in real life. Pelle stabbed Oystein's chest with a knife that was both beautiful and sharp, ripped out his heart and ran off with it without looking back.

Sometimes he felt inadequate and horrible because he didn't know how to help him feel better, and because the love Pelle felt for him and the happiness he gave him apparently wasn't enough to keep him in that world. He was never completely his, he never was and he was gone.

He was in love with a ghost, in love with a memory of someone who no longer existed and would never come back. He saw him everywhere, he was everywhere. But at the same time he wasn't there, no matter where he looked. He looked for him everywhere, he looked for someone who spoke the same language he taught him, and he saw similar colours but they weren't the same. He only saw and heard him in his dreams, he only wanted to sleep to be able to meet him again but he hardly slept a wink. His body was heavy, even his soul was heavy. The simple fact of lying in bed exhausted too much energy. He expelled the little liquid he had drunk in days through his eyes, crying as if he was being tortured.

And he was dead in life, he felt like a zombie with one leg missing. He couldn't walk without it and therefore couldn't move forward. He just wanted to go back in time, he didn't want to forget him, he wanted to remember him. He just wanted to hold his hand, to watch him wake up and curl up next to him again, but it was asking too much. He lived years without him, but when he left it was like being born again. He felt awkward walking through life alone, everything was new. Who was he before him? He didn't remember. And who was he now? He didn't know. He thought so much about the past that he didn't live in the present and didn't focus on the future.

People are like songs, you listen to a lot of them but you become obsessed with only a few. He had never connected so well with anyone in every way, and he felt he would never experience anything like that, although he didn't want to if it wasn't with him. Pelle was everything to him, and now he had to live as if he was nothing. He had never felt so much pain because he had never felt so much love before. He discovered that to love was to suffer, and what doesn't kill you makes you want to kill yourself. He would be lying if he said that for a moment he didn't think about ending the suffering caused by his absence, but as always his positivism stopped him: unlike the Swede, he didn't believe in the afterlife and wanted to think that one day he would learn to live with that pain, and that if he died, the sweet Pelle of his memories would also die, the one that only he knew and that he wanted to keep alive in them. That pain was proof of his love.

The year would end soon and there wasn't a day in the whole year that he hadn't thought about him, and he knew that he would start the next one the same way: still in love with him, and missing him. He knew it was time to turn the page, but the pages of that book were glued together and it was hard to separate them — he knew he had to do it slowly so as not to tear them, he knew that was the only way. He had to be patient and careful, whether he liked it or not.

Bård had noticed how he was absent mentally and sometimes even physically, and he also noticed his change in attitude, how he became thinner, his dark circles under his eyes and his hair thinning, how he drank more alcohol, and how he tensed up and his face darkened when someone mentioned Pelle.

As he sat to his left he tapped him on the knee with his own, trying to bring him back to reality and distract him a little from his thoughts with the conversation the rest were having. He didn't quite know what was going through his mind because Øystein kept his secret well and tried to play stoic, but it was obvious to him that he wasn't well and he didn't like to see it that way.

For a second, as he snapped back to reality, he glanced to his left and his eyes connected with the drummer's. It was a quick, covert glance. It was also a quick, disguised glance but he felt understanding on his part and then he felt embarrassed — he felt as if he had seen him naked or had been caught committing a crime. He felt too exposed.

A/N: Sorry if something was weird expressed, English isn't my first language. Crossposted on my AO3.

[princess-lvcifer]

dark room

eurodead • drabble • sad/plotless

The voices of the actors in the film that was playing on the television were coming in one ear and out the other. He was more focused reading a book, sitting on the corner of the sofa, being illuminated by a small lamp to his right. To his left was the lead singer of his band, lying curled up in the other corner. At first he was watching the film, but he fell asleep; which was normal for the time of day, the quiet and dim lighting of the room, and his horrible state of physical and mental health. Pelle was tired, always.

Øystein looked away from his book, craning his neck to fix his eyes on the Swede. He watched him silently for a few long seconds, observing how peaceful he looked sleeping, and a strange melancholy came over him. It was clear that he was happy being unconscious, with no bad memories or thoughts if he was lucky enough to not even have a nightmare.

He looked away from him to stare at a spot on the floor as he thought about carrying him to his room, but no matter how little he weighed, Øystein wasn't strong enough to carry him, and he knew it. It was better not to try, he knew it was futile just as it was pointless to feel helpless about it. He just carefully put the book down on the table, turned off the television, went to get a blanket to throw over him, and turned off the lamp to go to his room.

A/N: 🚬🐤

Sorry if something was weird expressed, English isn't my first language. 🇪🇸 ao3

[princess-lvcifer]

soap

eurodead • drabble • fluff/plotless

Øystein bolted the bathroom door behind him while Pelle left their pyjamas on the sink and went to the bathtub, plugging the drain hole to fill it with hot water. They were wearing corpse paint, and it was time to get clean — which was as much fun and romantic as putting on make-up together, because they bathed together and made the excuse that it was to save water and therefore money. They also saved time, and if either of the other two band members said that bathing together was "too gay" Øystein said it was even gayer to be afraid of bathing with a friend.

They both undressed, staining the inside of their black shirts with their make-up, but it didn't matter as they were ready to wash. When they got into the bathtub, now full and with the tap turned off, Pelle sat on the wet marble and Øystein sat on his legs, resting his arms on his shoulders. The Swede grabbed him by the hips and the two looked at each other smiling before kissing, merging their make-up and creating a grey stain on their lips.

Then the guitarist poured gel on his hands and began to rub them together to create a lather and wipe them over his beloved's face, cleaning him little by little with each rub as he examined his face closely, wanting to get a good look at every detail despite the fact that he had already seen it all too well before. He never tired of it and never would tire of it. He put his hands on his cheeks and began to caress him with his thumbs as he felt Pelle examining his face in the same way. When they looked directly into each other's eyes they smiled and kissed again, it was a loop they couldn't avoid.

"There's no way to clean you like that," he said as Pelle removed his hands from his hips to splash him. "Don't splash me, silly," he said slightly annoyed but laughing quietly.

"Normally you like it," he said playfully and causing a slight blush that he couldn't see because of all the white make-up further padding his cheeks, but he couldn't reply as the vocalist brought their lips together again as he placed his dominant hand on his left cheek and the other back on his hip. The difference from the previous kisses was that his tongue made its way inside his mouth, and he didn't intend to part from him until he was out of breath. He felt his hands on his shoulders, and his erect member rubbing against his stomach. "I want to fuck you..." he said in a whisper, his voice hoarse and his breath hitching after he pulled away.

"Not here, not now..." he answered in the same tone. He was as eager as he was, but he had to be the voice of reason.

"Just hold back... I swear to be gentle, so gentle it will make you desperate."

"No, some other day when these assholes aren't around," he said referring to Jan and Jørn as he rubbed the corners of his lips, trying to erase the grey stain they'd created, though after all that kissing there was hardly any make-up of any colour left.

A/N: Sorry if something was weird expressed, English isn't my first language. 🇪🇸 ao3

[princess-lvcifer]

make-up

loc!eurodead • drabble • rewrite

Euronymous and Dead were locked in the bathroom, preparing for one of their many parties, putting make-up on each other. Euronymous was sitting on the toilet and Dead in front of him, leaning over.

"Sit on top of me," he said to Dead as he saw how uncomfortable he was doing his make-up standing up.

Dead hesitated for a second, but bolted the bathroom door shut before agreeing to the proposal. The brunet looked closely at every detail of the blond's already made-up face, and the blond pretended not to notice, focused on finishing his friend's make-up. But there was a moment when their gazes met and Euronymous couldn't help but smile.

"Don't smile, you'll fuck up the make-up," Dead told him.

"Do you know how I'll fuck up the makeup for real?" he asked, and he thought by getting drunk at the party — but that thought vanished when Euronymous grabbed his shirt and kissed him, merging the black and white paints on both their lips, creating grey smudges on both of them. Dead tensed at first, even though it wasn't the first time they'd acted like this, but he wanted to deny himself everything he felt for him and didn't want anyone else to know their secret.

"We'll take longer now," he said annoyed while getting up from his legs to go touch up his lips, wiping them clean and repainting them white in front of the small, dirty round mirror there.

"More time together."

[princess-lvcifer]

freezing moon

eurodead • drabble • fluff

It was late at night. In the morning it rained, in the afternoon it stopped and in the evening the sky cleared so that everyone could see the full moon and the stars, although depending on the area you could see them better or worse — in the city you couldn't see them well, but you could see them in the outskirts, where a certain metal band lived.

The ground, although it didn't have a layer of snow on it, was cold and you could smell its dampness. You could hear some animals and insects in the distance, and the sound of the breeze making its way through the trees, some leafless, already on the ground along with some branches.

A young blond boy stood in the forest near his home, leaning his back and head against the trunk of a tree in front of a clearing, enjoying the peace of the cool summer night, connecting with the nature he loved so much and looking up at the illuminated sky, absorbed in his thoughts. Still, that absorption didn't deafen him and he heard a branch on the ground break behind him with a crack, causing him to look down and tear his eyes away from the moon.

"I know you're there," he said sure of himself. He knew very well who he was, he knew he wasn't an animal — and even if he were any animal, he would feel no danger.

"Do I disturb you?" asked the guitarist behind him, resuming his march towards him, rattling the leaves and mud he stepped over as he went.

"A lot," he said sarcastically, half joking and half serious.

Øystein stepped in front of him, sliding his foot between his to spread his legs and sit in the same position he was in, but between his legs, resting his back on his chest and his black-haired head on his shoulder. A feeling of warmth invaded Pelle's chest, but he thought it was probably because of the coat his friend was wearing.

A/N: Crosspoted on my AO3.

[princess-lvcifer]

necrobutcher

eurodead • drabble • no plot tbh

summary: where Jørn realises that Øystein and Pelle have something going on, but refuses to believe it.

A/N: basic ass title, I know.

Loud metal and voices in the middle of the dark nothingness, that's what the cabin where the members of Mayhem lived was like because they were having a party.

"Where the fuck are these two?" Metalion asked Necrobutcher in the garden, referring to Euronymous and Dead with his camera in hand and hanging around his neck, ready to take a couple of pictures. He wasn't particularly bothered by the wait, but no one liked to wait too long and he was also curious.

"I think they're still in the bathroom," Necrobutcher replied, taking a sip from his small bottle of beer.

"Still?" he asked puzzled and slightly surprised.

"I'll go and see," he said heading for the door to enter the cabin. He didn't have to walk far to reach the bathroom. He saw that the door was closed, and was even more surprised when he put his hand on it to push it open, seeing that it was bolted shut. "Hey, what the hell are you doing!? Come on out, Metalion's waiting!"

"We're coming, give us a minute!" Euronymous hastened to reply.

"You act like girls, I swear," he said referring to the make-up issue and the fact that they even locked themselves in the bathroom together.

The bassist looked at the door, still puzzled that it was closed and slightly annoyed by their tardiness, but decided not to make a big deal out of it. Surely it wasn't what it looked like, it was impossible.

When they soon came out of the bathroom Metalion was finally able to take some pictures of them: each of them alone, just Euronymous and Dead, and the whole band. At one point, posing to the right of the guitarist, the bassist noticed that some of his make-up was smeared on the right side of his face. It was strange because he had just come out of the bathroom where he had spent too long putting on his make-up, he hadn't had time to ruin it so quickly and he had spent too long in there for it to have looked bad.

The threads started to come together later, when he was next to Dead drinking and talking to Hellhammer, who noticed that he had the right side of his neck stained white and even a little black, turned grey by the mixture of those colours — it was barely noticeable because he had apparently tried to rub it off with his hand and tried to hide it with his hair and clothes.

He didn't react and tried not to stare at his neck for too long. Since he wasn't talking or being spoken to directly at the moment, he decided to look for Euronymous on the other side of the party, who was talking to Faust and Occultus. He had the good fortune, or perhaps rather the misfortune, to find the guitarist in the same situation as himself — catching him looking in his direction, and he guessed that he wasn't looking specifically at him or Hellhammer, but at Dead.

Maybe if he hadn't gone after them in the bathroom and found out they were locked up with the latch on he wouldn't have realised what they were probably up to. Part of him was surprised, but part of him wasn't — they were very close, they'd known each other for years through letters, they were the most involved with the band, Euronymous cared the most about Dead, and they'd even gone to Sweden together. Apart from the fact that the guitarist was a communist, and the vocalist claimed to be apolitical.

But he wanted to believe that maybe he was just paranoid and that his prejudices and alcohol were making him believe the wrong thing, even though it was all true.

A/N: Sorry if something was weird expressed, English isn't my first language. 🇪🇦 Crossposted on AO3.

[princess-lvcifer]

Btw I read this fanfic days ago and I can't stop thinking about it, it was very entertaining. Loved the dynamics, specially Euro/Dead and Faust/Ihsahn.