Work Text:
In the end, Lukas bought himself a Hästens bed. Såklart. He hadn't wanted to put the cart before the horse – so to speak – but no deep dive in the world can stand up to twenty year old ad indoctrination. (And it's not like testing sites ever agree about anything anyway.)
Back in the 90's, Lukas was a twentysomething loser who spent his evenings and nights tinkering with computers and code, but didn't yet know how to make a career out of it. He didn't have a TV in his student flat in Göteborg, but on weekends and holidays back home in Jönköping, he'd spend whole days in front of dumburken, watching junk and eating junk, not even changing the channel when the ads came on. And so, in 1998 (he googled the year – and found out that the ad is up on YouTube now) he watched – over and over – that Hästens ad where a guy in a blue-and-white checkered pajamas, with a blue-and-white checkered nightcap, lies in a blue-and-white checkered Hästens bed with blue-and-white checkered bedding. With that iconic ad, like it did for so many of his compatriots, Hästens came to epitomize luxury for Lukas.
So that's one reason that Lukas sped up the bed-procurement process and just got himself a Hästens bed. The other reason – arguably the deciding factor, really – is right now spread out on Lukas' old camp mat, naked, with his eyes closed and his dick half hard.
And Lukas is standing over him with his own dick out. He aims it at Roman Roy's crotch, and then, reconsidering, he aims it at Roman's face instead.
"Open your mouth," Lukas says, testing another boundary, because just saying whatever shit came to their minds is what got them here: We should give your old air bed a proper send off to Why not keep up ye olde tradition, shower it in gold? to And how are you gonna contribute, Mr. 'Can't-piss-near-other-men'? to this, now. And, well. Don't change a winning concept.
Roman winces – and winces again, his whole face screwing up – but then he actually does open his mouth. Just a little, but it's enough to make Lukas break out in a grin. Always ready to try something new, that one. It's impossible to be bored with Roman Roy around.
Lukas takes a moment to chuckle at how "kiss" means, well, kiss, in English, but urine in Swedish. Then, with a "Take this," he gets the juices sluicing.
At first, Lukas is disappointed with how watery his pee is. He's always careful to hydrate, two liters a day like his PT ordered, but if he'd known what he'd get up to today, he would have skipped a bottle or two. A golden shower should be golden, you know? This washy swill barely even smells like pee.
God, stop finding fault in abso-fuckin'-lutely everything. Roman told him that, not three days ago. So Lukas makes an effort to actually enjoy this – and soon finds that he enjoys it more than he thought he would. There's something primal, visceral, about watching his strong stream of piss hit Roman's skin and splatter off as tiny droplets in every direction. Marking him like a dog marking its territory. Damn right.
"It's warm," Roman says, suddenly, wonderingly, the words bursting out of him like he's been trying to keep them in.
Just for that, Lukas sends a splash of piss up into his face, where it sprays across his nose and his cheeks and his closed eyelids, even up into his hairline.
Did any of it enter his mouth? Lukas didn't see, but there's a tiny drop on Roman's lower lip, trembling with the lip's trembling. Any second now it'll start to run down, unto his chin – or into his mouth. Which will it be? Lukas stares, transfixed, until – åh satan – Roman's clever little tongue tip darts out and licks it up.
Herrejävlar.
Lukas shakes out a few last drops onto Roman's stomach, and now there's enough piss for him to really smell it, too much water or no. For Roman, the musky scent must be overpowering. God, that's a bracing thought, and when Lukas tucks his dick back in his pants, he's already growing hard. Soon, the sweats tent out in front of him.
Now the plan is to take a shower, and then inaugurate that shiny, checkered, new bed together. Lukas just needs another moment or five to admire his handiwork (dickiwork?). Roman is a mess, as is the camp mat – and the floor around it. Skitsamma. Someone else will clean that up. (Maybe Roman?)
Lukas' piss is pooling here and there on Roman's body: in his navel, on his sternum, in the creases by his groin – so very close to the bruises that Lukas sucked into his skin last night. It sticks in droplets to his pubic hair, and to his now fully erect dick. Lukas tears his eyes away from Roman's crotch, up to his face, where some of it still glistens in his stubble, in his hair. In his eyelashes, fuck. Lukas wants to run his fingers through it, all of it, but also, blä. (Perhaps another time?)
Roman squirms under Lukas' gaze; it's plain to see that he both hates and loves it, this humiliation, this attention. In a moment of inspiration, Lukas picks up Roman's shirt from the floor, and throws it down into the mess of him.
"Dry yourself up, I don't want you soiling my perfect home. Then you can come join me in the shower," he says, willing himself to turn away. Another moment of inspiration, and he pauses halfway across the room to add, "If you're quick about it I'll even let you lick my cock clean first, you little piss-slut."
Roman's groan of mortified lust follows with him through the doorway.