31 August 2010 @ 11:03 pm
Too Far  
Title: Too Far
Author: Lilith ([info]lilithilien)
Fandom & Characters: Alles Was Zählt, Deniz Öztürk/Roman Wild, Lars Berger
Summary: He knew it was really fucked up to listen to his flatmates fucking each other.
Word Count: 2000 words
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; fisting, voyeurism, exhibitionism, surly alcoholic grumblings
Disclaimer:I own absolutely nothing.
A/N: Finally, just in time for [info]bbtp_challenge 2010, the sling-fic that has been teasing me for ages. Twice as long as I planned it to be, which hopefully will make up for missing the challenge last year. Sloppy kisses to the fabulous [info]aldiara who, as always, cleans up my random tenses, makes it clear whose body part goes where, and generally makes writing worthwhile.

"Quiet down in there," growled Lars from the bed. Except that he'd just finished the bottle of vodka, and so the words came out more as "KARRRDARGYAR." Not that properly enunciating would have made any difference. The walls of this flat were paper thin, and those two knew it. In fact, Lars was pretty damn sure they took advantage of that fact, making more noise than anybody should rightfully make . Especially tonight when he was stuck here alone, just a bottle to keep him company, and the thought of Stella's departing insults the day before .

Hence the vodka, and that odd pungent fragrance that even he was finding hard to ignore, although god knew he'd tried.

He could do something about that. He had to get up anyway, the bottle being empty and all. A shower, yes, and after that a run to the shops. "Well, okay, maybe not a run," Lars corrected himself as he stumbled on his very first step. He wasn't even drunk, just unsteady on his feet. Perfectly natural after lying in bed well past noon. He'd get more than one bottle this time, so he wouldn't run out so quickly. What was that crap they said in AA? About how winos never planned ahead?

Still chuckling to himself over this thought, he took his remaining steps slower, more carefully, and he didn't stumble once in the living room despite the shoes and jackets and scattered DVD cases that littered the floor . By the time he reached the long hallway, he was feeling quite capable of making it to the shower without any trouble. That was when he noticed that the door to the third bedroom -- he categorically refused to call it the dungeon room -- was wide open. And the sounds, those ragged moans and pleas that zoomed straight to his gut, were twice as loud here as they were from his bedroom.

Lars knew he should ignore them.

He knew he should turn the other way, get into the shower and block those noises out with running water and maybe even a wank, if he could get his dick to cooperate.

He knew it was really fucked up to listen to his flatmates fucking each other.

Then again, Lars was feeling really fucked up at the moment. He wasn't drunk, no, but there was that comforting sheen of alcohol across the top of his blood, skimming through him like those iridescent swirls of oil that floated on the streets after a rain . Now that he wasn't moving, he could feel it sluicing through his veins. It was an odd thing, feeling your blood move, and it threw off his balance just enough to make him feel steadier if he leaned against the doorframe. He stayed in the shadow of the hallway where he wouldn't be noticed, but there was no way he could miss seeing what was happening, right there in front of him.

It was that fucking sling.

What kind of perverts had a sling anyway? Lars didn't even know where you would buy such a thing, and he was sure that it should not have come in those IKEA-style flatpacks , procured as casually as you would get a bookcase for your living room. But then, he had never wanted to know the details. It was bad enough that he and Stella had had to listen to those two through so many sleepless nights, to those metal joints creaking in distress and those chain links clanking as they moved. And he'd seen it once, when Deniz and Roman were out -- just to have some idea of what kind of freaks he lived with, of course. It was good to know those kinds of things, after all, so that a year from now he wouldn't be one of the poor bastards interviewed on the news, talking about how his flatmates had always been quiet and kept to themselves and never would he have suspected them of committing such terrible crimes .

The contraption had looked utterly ridiculous, like some kind of wild sloth pinioned from the frame; or its hide, more likely, tanned and stretched, although it still seemed like a living thing when he tried to sit in it , trying to scurry away before he could shift his weight. He'd finally figured out the balance of the thing and let it swing -- just thinking about that now made the bottom of his feet tingle -- before remembering where it had been and quickly untangling himself.

What he saw now was more disturbing than he'd even imagined.

Lars wasn't sure why he'd always pictured Roman in the sling -- not that he had pictured how Roman would look in the sling, ever . Still, it was surprising to see Deniz there instead. It wasn't Roman's compact muscular thighs that were raised, looped against the hanging chains, but Deniz's long coltish limbs that stretched up forever ; not sweat-darkened blond hair thrown back against the black leather but Deniz's wiry dark hair, looking softer than usual, unstyled and mussed as he arched his neck; not Deniz but Roman positioned between inviting legs.

Not that Lars had pictured what would happen in the sling, ever.

But if he had, it would have been all bare buttocks and clenching, knuckles gripping the chain, the hammock rocking against each thrust . Instead, the sling was almost still, and Roman standing, almost motionless, save for his hands. They moved with a smooth action that reminded Lars of how the man skated , with that same sure unhesitating repetition, only now… now they were disappearing, alternating one and then the other , between Deniz's legs. Lars watched, both transfixed and horrified by the sight, while his arse clenched out a warning that he had better never think of doing anything so intrusive. He knew he should turn away -- this wasn't just watching two people fuck, this was something much more personal, something that he should never know about them -- but between the padlock that seemed to have affixed itself to his asshole and his useless feet, where all the alcohol in his body seemed to have suddenly pooled, he could not move.

Looking away was possible, though -- should be possible, anyway -- at least until Lars registered the strangled noises Deniz was making. These weren't sounds of agony, these ragged groans that seemed to rise from deep inside. They drew Lars' gaze to Deniz, whose face was flushed, his lips parted, panting -- his entire being so obviously given over to pleasure that Lars couldn't tear his eyes away. The sight, the sounds, they triggered something deep inside Lars. His cock roused itself in a surprising show of sobriety that ignored every admonition from his still-clenched buttocks. Hardening in his jeans, it begged him to shove his hand inside, to give it some blessed friction. It was out of line, wanking at the sight of his flatmates -- even in this fucked up state he knew that -- but he still moved his hand to his crotch and pressed down hard.

"My god, Roman," moaned Deniz just then, and it was hard to tell whether they were those empty words you utter during sex or a true declaration of reverence. Lars was still debating that -- anything to control his mind and keep it from unzipping his jeans -- when he noticed that Deniz eyes were open and fixed on his. Lars felt dizzy, caught in the act, frozen in what turned from a defiant to an amused gaze before his eyes. Deniz's mouth fell open; his bottom lip curled over his teeth like he was about to say something, and Lars was sure he was about to be busted. But instead, Deniz stretched his hand across his torso, down to his cock resting half-hard against his belly. Without blinking, he wrapped his fingers around it, tugging it to life in time with Roman's rhythm.

"Do it," Deniz urged, "c'mon, man, do it."

It was the command Lars needed to disregard his remaining hints of propriety. Refusing to let himself think about whether the instruction was for him or for Roman, he hurriedly unzipped his jeans and tightened his fingers around his hard-on. He had to bite his lip to keep back the moan, and when he glanced at Deniz's face again, he was pretty sure he recognised musement there.

But it wasn't Deniz that caught his attention now, but Roman. Mostly turned away, his face wasn't visible to Lars, but the muscles on the right side of his back rippled like a living machine as he plunged his entire fist inside Deniz's hole. Admiring the powerful sight without wanting to, Lars' gaze travelled over Roman's shoulder, down his elbow, sliding across the frosty cream that made his forearm gleam, and finally to the breaching hand. In his own hand his shaft twitched, intrigued and quite obviously disregarding any pretence of horror coming from anywhere else in Lars' anatomy . His cock noticed things that Lars was sure he would much rather ignore, like the split second of resistance that Roman's hand encountered with every thrust, that suspenseful moment before Deniz swallowed him inside… like the way Deniz's hole stretched, closed then spread open again at Roman's touch… like the depth Roman reached, his legs braced and his shoulders firm, pushing inside Deniz too far, well past his wrist, almost to his elbow … like the squelching sounds punctuated by slaps of skin and the rising groans from both Deniz and Roman.

And from Lars, although he was sure his went unnoticed, and at the moment he didn't really care if they weren't. His hand stroked faster while he reached down to grip his balls with the other. Good, that was so good, and almost enough to tip him over, but not quite. Without thinking, without letting himself think, he snaked his middle finger past his balls, sliding between the crevice of his buttocks, just ghosting over his tight hole…

And then he was coming, harder than he had in ages, spilling hot over his fingers, and every sensation feeling more vibrant than he could ever remember from just jacking off. Even the aftershocks shuddering through his felt stronger; despite feeling completely sober now, they forced him to rest his weight against the doorframe for support.

Once he'd ridden out the waves of his climax, Lars opened his eyes. He half-expected to see his flatmates staring at him, fully aware that he'd been enjoying this live-sex show and accusing him of being a peeping Tom. Not that he could protest that, of course. But Deniz and Roman's attention was far from him. Roman's motions seemed slower, but more intense, breaching Deniz even deeper than before; and Deniz was still tugging at his erection, but in an unhurried, indulgent way. Their timing seemed perfectly matched, as if they were riding the ebb and flow of tides together, waiting to crash against the breakers in their own time.

Silently, Lars backed away, leaving them to it. He felt completely sober now, and eager for the shower to wash away the sticky mess in his hand and down his trousers. But until the very last second when he slipped under the water jets, he listened intently to the noises from the room across the hall, trying to catch every sound that made its way through the paper-thin walls.