. C Y X F Y X .

Unrivaled, or The Superior Power of the Female Orgasm [Metalocalypse]

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 00:03:47 GMT

Title: Unrivaled, or The Superior Power of the Female Orgasm
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Het
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Caj
Rating: NC-17 for language and sex
Disclaimer: Caj Stryker belongs to xixthe. Caj is the guitarist/drummer for Baen-Shee, the musical counterpart to Dethklok in xixthe's AU fics. Caj is introduced in Chicklok, the first of said fics - GO READ THEM! As for Skwisgaar - he doesn't belong to me, either, but I sure wish he did ;)
A/N: Written as a gift for the fabulous xixthe :)

Long, pale fingers smoothed through layers of short, wet, brown locks, stirring the exotic scent of recently-rinsed shampoo. While one hand lingered to revel in the damp and unfamiliar softness, the other slid down the shallow canal formed by the brunette's arched spine—a slow serenade, indeed, for the world's fastest guitarist. He knew he was in limbo, though, as soon as the brunette reached back and slapped his arm.

"Not t'ere—here," Caj scolded, half-mumbling the words against Skwisgaar's mouth as she shoved his wandering hand to her full, fishnet-clad left breast. Oh rights. Now he remembered—she wasn't the type who wanted to be caressed, or even warmed up first. Skwisgaar made a mental note to completely skip foreplay the next time, no matter how badly the slender curves of her body begged to be ravaged. He could have all of her as quickly as he wanted, anyway—all it took was a cocked eyebrow and an offhand comment about the lagging speed of her guitar playing to send Caj into a frenzy that, more often than not, ended in a sticky, bruised mess of lanky Scandinavian limbs and a pair of smug smiles that faded as quickly as the afterglow.

The Dane's lips broke from their flushed Swedish counterparts, allowing a duet of shuddering moans to escape from throats that were half-hoarse from shouting. Caj pushed herself up from Skwisgaar's chest with hands that were nearly as large as her partner's, stretching sensually atop the Swede's longer frame and allowing her eyes to slide closed for a moment of privacy. The nakedness of face-to-face sex with what was perhaps her greatest rival—not to mention the most infuriating man she'd ever met—sometimes unnerved her. Nonetheless, Caj's hips shifted and rolled along with Skwisgaar's in a well-established rhythm that both guitarists could replicate in their sleep (and sometimes did, when drowsy comfort sex was called for).

The new angle wrenched a sharp gasp from the Swede beneath her, and as his hands tightened around her sides, all emotional considerations flew from Caj's mind. She grinned a wickedly playful grin and focused her mismatched green-and-blue eyes on the Swede's slack-jawed, hooded expression. Something inside her chest jumped when she felt his stomach muscles begin to tense beneath her thighs. She liked this part.

"{s}Coming already?{/s}" she teased him in his mother tongue.

"Mmm... wuzzitlooks… likes…" he slurred, wishing for all the world that she'd just shut up and quietly fuck him into climax for once.

"I would have t'ought—a guitarist like you—would have had—a little more—stamina," she taunted, this time in English, between increasingly violent thrusts.

Before he could reply, Caj bore down on him hard, impaling herself on eight inches of Swedish cock, and Skwisgaar's would-be retort was lost in the sudden explosion of endorphins and neurohormones that engulfed his senses.

"Arrrghn!" Skwisgaar's nails dug into the flesh covering the Dane's ribs, nearly squeezing the air out of her. His body arched, shaking with the force of his orgasm. On impulse, Caj bent down and sank her teeth into the Swede's ear.

"Oj! What's de fucks, Caj?!"

The Dane snickered against Skwisgaar's cheek and lapped up the tiny bead of blood that sprang forth when she unlatched her teeth. "Somet'ing to remember me by."

Skwisgaar panted painfully, hips grinding to a sudden halt, although his chest continued to heave from his exertion.

"Dat's enoughs, I t'inks we's dones now," he said brusquely, removing his hands from the brunette's too-skinny torso and moving to push her off his lap. Before Skwisgaar could initiate such a coitus interruptus, however, the Dane had his wrists pinned to the bed and the skin of his throat between her teeth.

Skwisgaar froze, awaiting the inevitable bite… but it didn't come. Instead, Caj began to suck at his neck, administering the beginnings of a hickey—something else to remember her by, he supposed—as his wrists quickly grew numb from the pressure of her strong, guitar-seasoned hands.

"Ah, Caj, dat ams hurti—"

"I t'ink you are forgetting somet'ing, Skwisgaar," she interrupted, purring like a week-old kitten in between gentle nips and licks. Between his legs, Skwisgaar felt another set of muscles, equally as strong, clench around his somehow-still-hard cock, and it was then that he remembered Caj hadn't yet gotten off.

Vaguely irritated at the Dane's modus operandi but still willing to satisfy her carnal needs, Skwisgaar grunted in response and rolled his hips upward, high and deep, which was how he knew Caj liked it best.

"{s}You're persistent,{/s}" he murmured, his breath caressing the shell of her ear, as the brunette relinquished her death grip on his wrists and refocused her attentions on the movement of their bodies. Skwisgaar slid his hands to her ass and kneaded, marveling at how nice it felt in his grasp despite its woefully inadequate size.

"And you are not so persistent, I see, when it comes to pleasing women," Caj shot back, with less than her usual vigor, as her preoccupation with the fiery sensation emerging in her belly mounted to consuming proportions. In truth, she didn't give a shit what came out of Skwisgaar's mouth next, just as long as he kept fucking her like that.

"Mmm, ams you callingks you'self a womans now, Caja?" Skwisgaar sneered in a low voice, gripping her right hip with one hand and curling the other around her shoulder so that she wouldn't pull back and hit him. He knew how much she hated being addressed by her given name.

Caj bucked hard against Skwisgaar's hips, hoping like hell she'd leave a bruise on one of those delicate pelvic bones. "You would love it if I had a dick," she snarled, eyes squeezing closed involuntarily and teeth grinding as she felt her climax begin to unfold. "You would—mmm—you'd—oh, fuck!"

The brunette wailed unabashedly into her partner's ear as the deep, sweet swelling in her groin rose and spiraled out of control, washing over her body in a simultaneous burst of heat and an after-sprinkle of shiver—that post-orgasmic chill the Dane could never seem to avoid. She finished with an almost submissive moan as Skwisgaar's arms closed completely around her, rocking her into a blissful oblivion from which she secretly wished she didn't have to return.

"Mmmmm…" Caj breathed in deep, allowing herself to wallow in the comingling scents of the Swede's warm skin and flowery-smelling hair. She'd never before seen a man's shower so full of women's hair care products.

"Happies now?"

"At least you didn't put me to sleep t'is time."

Skwisgaar balked, his eyebrows lifting in affronted surprise. "Huh. Is not as ifs you's any greats t'ing you'self, you knows. I could haves hads t'ree organ-sams by nows wit' ones of dose GMILFs!"

The Dane pushed herself upright and swept her still-damp hair out of her face with a bony, long-fingered hand.

"Or a hots groupie sluts," Skwisgaar added, as an afterthought.

Fixing him with her kaleidoscope eyes, Caj licked her lips and grinned. "T'at may be true," she said, stretching her arms and lacing her fingers behind her head, causing her perfectly-round breasts and taut nipples to strain against the fishnet weave of her midriff top. "You may be faster in t'bed, Skwisgaar, but my orgasms will always be better."

"Pfft. What's makes you says dat?" Porb-as-lies somes crazy Dutch supers-stitch-ion, Skwisgaar thought, with an inward smirk, as the Dane lifted herself off of his body and gracefully stepped off the bed.

Caj bent over to retrieve her thong underwear from the floor, deliberately giving Skwisgaar an eyeful. Then, straightening up, she made her way to the highly-trafficked exit, the stringy black thong looped around her wrist like some sort of absurdly-designed bracelet. Hand on the knob, Caj threw a superior look over her shoulder at the prostrate Swede.

"T'ey're better because I am a woman, idiot," she replied smugly, and left Skwisgaar to ponder that thought with a hearty slam of his bedroom door.

Danse [Metalocalypse]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 01:19:47 GMT

Title: Danse
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Spoilers: 3x01, "Renovationklok"
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for language and sex
Summary: Skwisgaar comforts Toki after an unpleasant performance at Amateur Night.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.

"Skwisgaar?" Toki called softly as he nudged the door closed behind him. Although the tall corner lamp was on in the lead guitarist's bedroom, it was still feasible that Skwisgaar was asleep due to the lateness of the hour. As Toki's eyes swept over the room, however, he saw that the bed was made and that the Swede's Explorer was untouched on its stand next to the TV console, which either meant that Skwisgaar hadn't returned yet, or—

"Fucks!" came Skwisgaar's voice, a muffled boom behind the half-cracked bathroom door. "Fuckingks hammer!"

—or that he'd hurt himself working. Again.

Toki sighed and pressed his palms to his eyes, trying in vain to wipe the tired from them. His skin prickled as a rash of goose bumps arose on his naked legs and back—it was chilly in here, a sharp contrast to the hot, multi-colored stage lights under which he'd spent the last half an hour sweating.

The glug and sizzle of hydrogen peroxide being poured over the sink was followed by a string of choice Swedish phrases, and then the raspy scriiitch of medical tape being pulled out from the roll.

"I's back!" Toki called out wearily in the direction of the bathroom as he trudged across the stone floor and, after removing his boots (he'd been too embarrassed to take those off in addition to everything else), flopped down on the lead guitarist's generously-sized bed. The fur blanket simultaneously tickled his skin and warmed him. He wished Skwisgaar had a fireplace in his room—the imitation polar bear fur would make an excellent rug on which to sprawl out and cook s'mores.

The Swede appeared in the bathroom doorway, holding his left hand—which was full of red and throbbing fingers, some of them wrapped with gauze and crudely taped—delicately by the wrist, as if he was afraid it would fall off. The stormy expression on his face lifted as his eyes took in the sight of Toki on his bed, one leg bent and the other stretched out to the side, wearing nothing but a pair of white shirt cuffs, a black bow tie, and a red thong. Except for the messy hair and the Fu Manchu, he looked every bit a male stripper—the tight, sculptured ass and chiseled torso alone made him perfectly suited for this kind of work (or at least more suited than the rest of them were).

Toki could feel Skwisgaar's eyes on him and he turned his head, smiling in spite of his exhaustion and frayed nerves. As the Norwegian's pale blue eyes met their Swedish counterparts, coaxing forth a sly grin and a cocked eyebrow from the tall blond, Toki felt a sudden burst of warmth low in his belly. He always did when Skwisgaar looked at him like that. The band might be screwed without their manager and their Klokateer army, but he and Skwisgaar would always have this.

"When ams you stops working?" Toki asked gently as Skwisgaar hit the bathroom light with his good hand and joined him on the bed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress with a tired exhale.

"Halfs-hours ago. Was fuckingks brutal." The Swede held up his injured hand, wiggling his sore fingers to illustrate.

"I's sorries it sucks," Toki said, the emotion in his voice genuine despite the comical pout of his lips.

Skwisgaar wrinkled his nose. "I don'ts knows about dese res-nor-vay-shuns. Dis ams too much works for fives people." He was being generous in saying "five," as the rest of the band had chosen to pursue other money-making schemes in the hope of earning back a fragment of Dethklok's fortune, leaving Skwisgaar to single-handedly rebuild Mordhaus. He knew Toki would have helped if asked, but Skwisgaar had already persuaded the Norwegian that he'd be able to earn more money by taking off his clothes for wealthy old GMILFs than by playing grandpa's guitar for cheap patrons in coffee shops, which had been Toki's original idea.

Toki yawned and stretched his arms above his head, casting a glance at the half-repaired ceiling of Skwisgaar's bedroom. Opaque squares of plastic tarp hung silently from the open panels like bed sheets left out to dry, stirring every now and then with a draft of air; and a maze of pipes was faintly visible above the skeleton of rafters. Since the unpaid Klokateers had fled, rebuilding Mordhaus had proven to be the band's most daunting challenge to date.

"So's… hows ams it goes, ah?" Skwisgaar asked, releasing his hurt hand long enough to graze his bandaged fingers along the Norwegian's bare thigh.

"Hm?" Toki asked, stirring from his thoughts as his legs unconsciously drifted further apart at the Swede's touch.

"Tonights—de ams-matures com-spit-tit-shuns." The lead guitarist eased closer on the bed, allowing his other hand to roam across the smooth expanse of taut muscle above the brunet's stomach. The Norwegian's body tightened at the touch, and from the corner of his eye Skwisgaar could detect a faint stirring in the front of Toki's thong. However, he kept his eyes on the rhythm guitarist's face, not wanting to push things any further until he'd gotten an answer.

"Mmm…" Toki's vocalization of pleasure quickly gave way to a groan, but not a happy one. "Was awfuls. I didn'ts know whats to do's, and dey's all grabbings at me at da same times." The Norwegian covered his eyes with his hands. "I never wants to do's dat agains."

Skwisgaar's eyebrows knitted together. Maybe he'd been wrong to suggest that Toki try pole dancing?

"I only says to tries its ams because ladies what takes off dems clothes gets big tips!" he said, in quick defense. "And you's de only ones of us what looks goods enough nakeds to do's dats!"

Toki chuckled half-heartedly, the sound muffled by his palms. "Is okay, Skwis. I just don'ts t'ink I's very good at pole-jumpings."

Skwisgaar bit his lip, his hands stilling momentarily. On top of the throbbing in his fingers, he now felt vaguely stupid for sending Toki into such an unnerving situation. But it wasn't his own discomfort that mattered, he reminded himself—it was Toki's. (He'd been learning, over the past eight months, a thing or two about how to keep the rhythm guitarist happy.) There had to be something he could do to make Toki feel better.

An idea slithered into Skwisgaar's head, accompanied by a rise of heat in his nether regions at the sight of the perfectly-sculpted body beside him, and he smirked at the lecherous—and yet completely suitable—turn his thoughts had taken.

"Wells…" he said playfully, trailing his good hand down the length of Toki's torso and ending at the lip of the thong, "I didn't sees you's dance, but I bets you any'tings you ams de best-lookingks guy dere."

Toki's pulse quickened at the seductive tone in Skwisgaar's voice and the feathery touches assailing his body—small sparks of light from fingertips that were, at one time, insured for one billion dollars each. A warm flush arose on his cheeks on chest, causing him to look away. After all these months, he still found himself growing flustered under the Swede's touch.

Skwisgaar could see the effect his words were having on the Norwegian, and it pleased him. He could feel Toki's body trembling beneath his hands as he tilted the brunet's head with his forefinger, forcing his ice-blue eyes to meet his own, darker blue ones. Locked on Toki's gaze, he nudged fluidly in between the other man's legs, his own erection straining uncomfortably against the fabric of his jeans when he felt the bulge of Toki's cock brush against his stomach through the thong.

"You ams mine, Toki," Skwisgaar whispered earnestly, his breath stirring the delicate and uncombed hairs around the brunet's face. "And you ams gors-geous." He bent his head to nuzzle the crook of Toki's neck, drawing in the scent of his warm skin and soft chestnut hair and nibbling lightly at the space between his ear and jaw.

"Mmhnn," Toki purred, his energy now renewed, as he arched into Skwisgaar's body and allowed his hands to wander beneath the Swede's shirt. He would never get tired of hearing that.

"And not'ingks in de world should evers be makingks you feels no ot'er way."

Skwisgaar lifted his head to look into the Norwegian's eyes, their noses bumping in the process and their breath comingling in short, heated spurts—and then Toki pulled him down sharply, burying Skwisgaar's words in a belated, needful tangle of lips and tongues. An unabashed hum of pleasure rose in Toki's throat, spurring the Swede to slide his un-bandaged hand down the taut, downy flesh of the Norwegian's belly to his stiffening erection. He grasped and squeezed, teasing him through the silky crimson fabric.

"Nnn…" Toki gasped as Skwisgaar broke the kiss for a needed gulp of air. Toki's pupils were wide and dark beneath his half-closed eyelids, and the dull yellow glow of the corner lamp lent them a preternatural shine. Bathed in shadows and the glow of spontaneous lust, the Norwegian's rippling muscles and hidden curves begged to be touched, to be studied—a physical oeuvre whose full enjoyment was reserved for Skwisgaar alone.

No ones else ams ever sees how beautifuls he ams, Skwisgaar thought fondly as Toki took his injured hand in his own and brought the Swede's abused middle finger to his mouth, Not evens dose sluts at de strips club. They would never see him like this.

Skwisgaar allowed his eyes to drift closed as Toki's lips swirled around his fingertip and sucked gently, massaging away the angry red pain with his tongue. The Swede moaned, the sound no louder than a whisper. It never failed to amaze him how such simple things could move him so deeply—at least, where Toki was involved.

He moved his hand to cup the smooth firmness of Toki's ass and squeezed, as the Norwegian took his ring finger (which was the only other un-bandaged digit on Skwisgaar's hand) between his lips and sucked all the way to the second knuckle, the comfort of his warm, skilled tongue more than making up for the ill treatment Skwisgaar had shown his hands that day. The sensation of Toki's mouth against his flesh sent a shiver of pleasure through Skwisgaar's body that settled between his legs with a rolling heaviness, causing his erection to strain painfully against his jeans. He did not, however, move to unbutton them—there were more pressing matters at hand than his own needs.

Skwisgaar removed his free hand from Toki's ass, eliciting a small whimper from the Norwegian, and brought it to his own mouth. Toki's lips and tongue stilled and his eyes slid open, brow wrinkling in confusion at the loss of contact. The Swede waited until the Norwegian's glazed blue eyes were focused entirely on his face, and then he mimicked Toki's actions, lubing the index and middle fingers of his right hand with a generous coating of saliva. The brunet's lips curled up in a small smile at the sight, which he knew would've caused millions of unabashed panty-wettings—and more than a few incriminating hard-ons—if the fans could have seen it.

A small sound escaped the rhythm guitarist's mouth as Skwisgaar's hand returned to its previous place of wandering, his calloused thumb gently nudging aside the thin strip of red fabric barely covering Toki's entrance.

"You ams so fuckingks gors-geous, Toki," Skwisgaar murmured softly, massaging the tight ring of flesh beneath his long, moistened fingers with unhurried insistence.

"J-ja?" the Norwegian asked shakily, his body nearly buzzing at the teasing touch.

"Mm-hmm," the Swede replied, his voice taking on a husky quality. "Ek-spes-shully when I's insides you."

At that, Skwisgaar eased in the first finger, the heat in his groin throbbing at the tightness of Toki's muscles around his flesh. The Norwegian's eyes slipped closed at the sensation and a low, breathy cry escaped his throat, and he spread his thighs wider as Skwisgaar began to move inside him.

"Oh gods—uhmm…" he whispered, hips shifting with the movement.

"Shh," Skwisgaar hushed softly as he used his thumb to massage Toki's balls. With his other hand, the Swede brushed the moist hairs from Toki's forehead, which was glowing with a fine sheen of sweat. The pain in his hands, now subdued thanks to Toki's attentions, was suddenly and completely abolished as his fingers grazed across Toki's open mouth, educing a sensuous moan that caused both of their hearts to race and their untended erections to throb with demand.

He worked the other finger in slowly, watching Toki's face for any sign of discomfort, but the Norwegian's head only lolled back in contentment as he shifted his hips forward, forcing Skwisgaar's fingers further into his body. When the Swede felt the tip of his middle digit brush against the small knot deep inside, the aching, feral noise that came from Toki's throat caused the bulge in the blond's pants to strain and tighten too severely for comfort. Skwisgaar quickly unzipped the crotch of his jeans and freed himself, stubbornly ignoring how the slightest touch of his own hand sent a fiery wave of need throughout his body. You ams doingks dis for Toki, he reminded himself.

The Norwegian threw his head back, letting loose a long, coarse moan as his hands gripped fistfuls of the fur blanket, causing the muscles in his forearms to ripple and bulge.

"Ohh… Skwis…"

The Swede's reply was to nudge aside the remainder of the constraining red fabric and wrap his other set of long, skilled fingers around Toki's thick erection. He squeezed hard at the base and lessened his grip as he slid upward—exactly the way the Norwegian liked it. He felt the blood swell violently in the large vein beneath the pad of his thumb, and Toki's body shifted and trembled with the stimulation. Shaking the hair out of his face, Skwisgaar bowed his head, red tongue darting out to caress the soft, smooth underside of Toki's cock; and then the head, lapping up the tiny pearl of liquid it found there.

A visible shudder ran through Toki's abdomen as Skwisgaar took him all the way into his mouth, humming around the Norwegian's shaft as he continued to press and swivel his fingers inside his body. Toki was precious seconds away from coming—Skwisgaar could feel the muscles beginning to tighten around his fingers and in Toki's belly—but the Swede wanted to see the look on the rhythm guitarist's face before he allowed him release. He lifted his head, sliding his tongue across his lips to capture Toki's taste.

"{s}Close?{/s}" Skwisgaar asked in his native tongue—a form of intimacy he'd only ever shared with Toki. The brunette nodded and swallowed, his eyelids fluttering half-open to gaze upon the lead guitarist with nothing short of blissful surrender. The cheap bow tie at his neck had become crooked and partially unraveled, which only added to the allure of the modest little Norwegian's ridiculously racy getup. Skwisgaar had half a mind to rip off the bow tie with his teeth, but decided he'd much rather watch Toki cum with it on.

The Swede's wavy blond locks fell away from his face as he tilted his head upward, and in a thick, husky whisper, commanded, "{s}Dance for me.{/s}"

Knowing exactly what Skwisgaar meant had been a specialty of Toki's ever since he'd joined the band—more as an interpreter for the grammatically-deficient Swede than as a serious musician—and the blond's ambiguously-worded bedroom requests were no exception. Toki let go of his frenzied grip on the blanket and buried his button-cuffed wrists and hands in Skwisgaar's hair, pulling the other man down on top of him and simultaneously bucking his hips so that the lead guitarist's deeply-buried fingers sent stars of pleasure racing through his field of vision. Arms clasped tight around the Swede's back, Toki ground his belly against Skwisgaar's erection as their mouths clashed, seeking the friction and force of lips and tongues; mouths drawing heavy moans across heated flesh, tongues tangling together in a sensual dance that had, over the months, become comfortingly familiar, yet not routine.

Body buzzing and heart pounding against his own and Skwisgaar's chests, Toki froze as he felt the first wave of his orgasm crash over him like a tsunami, devastating his body and mind and leaving him speechless. When the second and final flood of endorphins hit his body, he wailed, hips jerking upward, lips forming words only the carnal part of his nature understood. Skwisgaar kissed him hard, alternately silencing him and adding his own noise to the mix as his long-ignored erection pleaded for attention. Just a littles longer…

Toki's tensed muscles collapsed into a puddle of loose limbs and warm, satisfied flesh, and he had to take a second, between kisses, to catch his breath. Many thoughts came to mind—some even planting seeds of words on his tongue—but Toki could not yet force himself to speak, or even look. Without opening his eyes, he dug into Skwisgaar's jeans and took him into his hand. He began to stroke, slowly at first and then speeding up to match the advanced state of the Swede's arousal. Skwisgaar's breath was hot against his cheek, his ear; and the blond's hair trailed a silky tickle across Toki's bare chest as he moved to nip at the loose tail of the tie around his neck.

"Mmm, goes—ja—fasters—!"

Toki doubled his efforts, sensing the telltale, shaking build of Skwisgaar's orgasm almost before the Swede himself did. When Skwisgaar came, it was with Toki's bow tie between his teeth and a dark blush coloring his high Scandinavian cheekbones—a sight that, in the Norwegian's mind, instantly made up for any and all embarrassment the rowdy GMILFs had caused him during his striptease.

"So, you likes da dancings?" Toki asked after a minute, the corners of his mouth turning up in a sly grin as Skwisgaar spit out the bow tie with a soft "pthft" and raised his head to see into his counterpart's ice-blue eyes. Toki curled a finger around a soft tendril of the Swede's hair and pulled on it playfully.

Skwisgaar flashed a smile to rival the Cheshire Cat's and growled, "I t'inks... I likes you in dat outfits."

"Ja?" The Norwegian beamed.

"Ja. You makes a good slut."

Toki's face fell, but before he could protest, Skwisgaar wrapped his arms around the Norwegian's waist and crushed his mouth against the other man's.

"My slut," he mumbled against Toki's lips, before guiding them into a deep kiss that lasted longer than either of them had the breath to sustain. Toki broke for air first, the warmth of rekindled lust burning in his cheeks.

"You's blushingks," the blond said pointedly as he rolled onto his back for a stretch, although the teasing smile that graced his near-angelic features did little to hide his fresh arousal. "I hopes you didn'ts do dats onstage in fronts of all de ladies."

"Pfft," Toki sputtered through swollen lips, imitating Skwisgaar's favorite noise of disapproval. "I wouldn'ts gives dem da sats-sits-facts-shuns!"

Skwisgaar cast a curious glance at the Norwegian. "How much monies ams you makes, ansieways?"

Toki chewed his lip, stalling. Would Skwisgaar make fun of him if he told him the truth? No, dose days are over, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him. Skwisgaar cares abouts you now.

"Sevens dollar and a Pickle nickel," he confessed shyly, avoiding the Swede's eyes, and then went on to admit, "I don'ts t'inks dat's very much…"

Skwisgaar laughed, but it was not an unkind sound. He climbed back atop Toki's prostrate form, pressing his weight against the Norwegian's finely-chiseled body and resting his forehead atop his lover's.

"I t'inks we just sticks to what we ams good at, ja?" Skwisgaar said playfully, nuzzling Toki's nose with his own.

"Whats ams dat?" the brunet asked, turning his head and squirming with renewed pleasure as Skwisgaar kissed a line across his jaw and down his neck.

"De best two t'ings we do's toget'er, Toki," the Swede answered matter-of-factly, summoning forth a new hickey from the tender flesh of Toki's neck and grinning as he felt the Norwegian's erection slowly coming back to life beneath the satiny fabric of the thong. "Sex and guitars."

Dressing Up [Metalocalypse]

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:05:26 GMT

Title: Dressing Up
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 for language and sex
Summary: Toki and Skwisgaar engage in a little clothes-swapping role-play.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
A/N: This was written several months ago for a trade with lukadron, but in light of the events in "Tributeklok," it begged to be posted ;) Title is taken from the Cure song of the same name because I'm too lazy to think of something else X3

"Dis is da stupids-est idea we's ever has," Toki scoffed, emerging from the bathroom with a head full of ruffled chestnut hair and a rapidly-spreading blush on his cheeks. "Is silly."

Skwisgaar leaned back in the round leather chair, propping himself up on one elbow, and smiled as he surveyed the rhythm guitarist with possessive satisfaction. The black tank top fit snugly around his muscled torso and showed off the curves of his rarely-seen biceps, while the dark gray jeans clung to his slim legs with an almost sinful tightness. The slight swell of flesh at his hips and crotch made it apparent that the skull-buckle belt wasn't needed, but Toki had put it on at Skwisgaar's request.

"You ams de one what says you wants to be tryingks de roles-play," Skwisgaar reminded Toki casually as the Norwegian shuffled over to the big white bed, his bare feet drowning in the too-long pants legs. "And whats ams possibly be better dan roles-playingks me?"

Toki raised an eyebrow as a smirk flitted across his lips. He folded his arms across his chest, vein-dappled biceps bulging. "I woulds never says dat."

Skwisgaar's brow furrowed for a second before he remembered who he was supposed to be role-playing. "Oh. Rights." He stood up from the chair and stretched, teasing a series of sharp pops from his spine. "We ams startingks, den…" It was more of a question than a statement; the upward inflection in Skwisgaar's voice betrayed a hint of apprehension, but it was also reminiscent of the characteristically uncertain intonation of Toki's speech.

"Ja," Toki answered, the long hems of Skwisgaar's jeans brushing a wispy scratch across the floor as the brunet crossed to the lead guitarist, whose lean figure was disguised by the wrinkled folds of the Norwegian's favorite blue tee shirt and a pair of faded brown pants that were a size too large for the Swede.

"So… whats you wants to doo-o's?" Skwisgaar asked in a high, sing-song voice, hoping to invoke a convincing imitation of Toki, but he couldn't suppress the grin that arose at the look of annoyance that crossed the brunet's face. He half-expected Toki to retort, to start bitching about how he didn't sound like that, but the Norwegian's face quickly melted back into Skwisgaar's characteristically pristine, high-browed sneer as he loosely curled his arms around his tall, pale lover, cupping his elbows in his palms.

Toki raised an eyebrow, and the tiny smirk returned. "I t'inks you knows dis game, Toki," he purred, taking Skwisgaar off-guard both with the sudden huskiness of his tone and the use of the Norwegian's own name. The lead guitarist blinked and leaned in, touching his forehead to the other man's.

"Tells me," he whispered.

Toki smiled mischievously and steered them both around, so that the Swede's back was now facing the bed. "I can'ts. I gots to shows you—"

Skwisgaar found himself being pushed back onto the bed rather forcefully, and he eyed the Norwegian with pleased surprise as he climbed atop him, using his greater strength to pin Skwisgaar to the mattress.

"—Wis' my hands…" Toki continued, sliding his hands up Skwisgaar's smooth, pale arms and dragging them above the Swede's head, and then gently clamping his wrists against the fur blanket. "And my mout's…"

Toki lowered his head to the blond's lips, nipping at the plump flesh before running his tongue along their smoothness. An insistent knee nudged between Skwisgaar's thighs, prying them apart and eliciting a whimper of satisfaction from the Swede, who was—for what may have been the very first time—being completely dominated by the rhythm guitarist. The Norwegian's grip tightened on Skwisgaar's wrists as the blonde arched into him, moaning softly as Toki's tongue caressed his own, then moved impatiently down to his neck, where lips and teeth attacked the tender white skin with merciless need.

"Ah… you's so goods at dis, uh—Skwisgaar," the Swede half-moaned, feeling at once silly about calling Toki by his own name and simultaneously giving himself a mental high five for complimenting his "own" kissing.

"I knows," Toki growled as his lips continued to suck at the other man's neck, coaxing the blood close to the surface to form a small, purple bruise. "I's da best, and I's gonna make sure you ams not forgets it. Ever."

Skwisgaar chuckled inwardly. So the little Norwegian was getting bold, was he? "Ja, you's ams has to make a real big imps-presskion den, I t'inks," he teased, falling back out of character momentarily.

"Mmm, you just waits," Toki answered, gazing down at him with lust-glazed eyes. "I gots somet'ing specials for you."

Skwisgaar smirked and flexed his wrists beneath Toki's clenched hands. "Oh ja? Like whats?"

Toki flashed another devilish smile before he released his grip on Skwisgaar's left wrist, and reached down with his right hand to unbutton the crotch of the Swede's borrowed pants. "First gets naked. Den I shows you."

Skwisgaar swallowed as a sudden sear of desire flashed through his groin at Toki's words. The Norwegian was doing an awfully… convincing… job of seducing him, Skwigelf-style, and it was turning him on like nothing Toki had ever done before.

"Okays," he answered, his voice barely above a whisper, as he fumbled with the skull belt buckle between Toki's hips. He'd never had trouble getting it off before… but then again, he'd never had to take it off of someone else—especially not when his fingers were numbed with excitement and lust, as they were now.

Toki, meanwhile, had already succeeded in working the loose-fitting pants halfway off of Skwisgaar's body, and bent over to attack his lover's mouth again, completely disregarding the clumsy hand that was still clutching at the belt buckle. Skwisgaar's lips were crushed by the force of Toki's kiss as the Norwegian, still clasping the Swede's wrist to the bed, reached into the blond's boxer-briefs with his other hand and curled his fingers around his stiffening erection. He stroked hard—once, twice—and Skwisgaar gasped at the sudden intensity.

"Det gör ont så bra… ah, does it again!" he begged, but the warmth of Toki's hand vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. Skwisgaar looked pleadingly into the brunet's face, but Toki's expression was unyielding, amused—a little cocky, even.

"Nei," he scolded, slipping the pants the rest of the way down Skwisgaar's legs and letting them fall to the floor. The fabric bunched and rustled against the Swede's skin as it slid, revealing his long, pale limbs. "I says gets naked first."

Skwisgaar huffed in annoyance, but refrained from letting out a characteristic "pfffft." He was, after all, supposed to be playing Toki.

"Fines den," he retorted. "But you has to—uhm, I means… cans you helps me?" He looked up into Toki's face with as wide and innocent an expression as he could muster. "Please?" he added, grinding his hips wantonly against the body above him.

Toki's hair slid across Skwisgaar's stomach and draped over his thighs as the Norwegian released the Swede's other wrist in order to shimmy off his boxer-briefs, and then pull the soft blue tee shirt over his head in one swift, fluid motion.

Skwisgaar stretched and shook the stray strands of hair out of his face, glad to be free of the Norwegian's clothing even though it was nowhere near as constraining as his own. "You's still dressed," he reminded Toki pointedly.

"Ja, and who's faults ams dat?" the Norwegian asked smugly, leaning back on his knees and making himself available to the Swede. Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow at the bossy tone in Toki's voice, but did what was asked of him, feeling the fur of his blanket tickle his bare back as he reached up to snap off the skull buckle. It was easier now that Toki wasn't crushing him, and the zippered crotch was a cinch for his nimble fingers.

What surprised Skwisgaar as Toki moved to the side, allowing the Swede to slide off the tight-fitting pants, was the stiff erection that greeted him. Toki's ministrations upon his lips and cock had taken Skwisgaar halfway there, but Toki was already fully hard. The sight both amused and aroused the lead guitarist, who would've expected the tightness of that particular pair of jeans (which he had, admittedly, chosen just to see Toki in them) to prevent such an occurrence. Not that he minded, of course.

Skwisgaar bowed his head to place a soft kiss upon the velvety tip of Toki's swollen cock, and simultaneously ran his hands up the brunet's sides and caught the tank top in his fists as he did so. Toki drew in his breath at the sensation of the Swede's wet lips, closing his eyes to savor the first touch, as he always did. Skwisgaar broke contact momentarily to slip the tank top over Toki's head, leaving them both naked.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Skwisgaar hovered over the now-prostrate Norwegian, running a hand down his smooth chest and tracing the planes and valleys of his well-defined muscles. Arms splayed out loosely around his head, Toki watched him with a cool satisfaction that felt strangely familiar to Skwisgaar. The blond's eyes briefly flickered to his lover's face and brightened with excitement at the dark intensity they saw there.

Lowering his head to Toki's ear and tightening his grip around the other man's side, Skwisgaar whispered in his native tongue, "{s}You said you had a surprise for me…{/s}"

Toki shifted his body heavily against Skwisgaar's as the Swedish words danced seductively through his mind and aroused a hot flare deep within his body. Skwisgaar flicked his tongue lightly over the Norwegian's earlobe, causing Toki to draw in his breath.

"{n}I do have a surprise for you… but are you sure you want it now?{/n}" he gasped, arching his neck as Skwisgaar explored the sensitive skin there with his lips and tongue. Toki could feel the blood swelling and pulsating in his groin and hammering in his head, his wrists. He couldn't remember having ever been this aroused during foreplay. Maybe Skwisgaar's suggestion hadn't been so stupid…

Skwisgaar chuckled in reply to Toki's question and reached down between the other man's legs to stroke him casually. "Of course I wants it now," he teased. "You knows I likes it when you sus-prises me's." The Swede gazed at him with expectation in his steel-blue eyes, daring Toki to make a move, to catch him off guard. It was no longer completely clear which one of them Skwisgaar was trying to emulate, but Toki didn't care. He was about to show the Swede just how well he could take the lead.

Toki caught the hand that was leisurely moving along his cock, clutching his fingers around the slender wrist, and crushed his lips against Skwisgaar's mouth in a sudden amplification of lust. The Norwegian kissed his Swedish counterpart roughly, passionately, allowing no room for breath or resistance. He steered Skwisgaar's body back against the mattress, disarming him of his supporting elbow, and the Swede crumpled beneath him like a flower.

"Mmmnnn…" Skwisgaar hummed from deep in his throat, and squeezed Toki's shoulder in approval before curling his fingers into his hair.

"Spreads you's legs," Toki commanded breathily, his teeth clashing against his lover's mouth. Skwisgaar gasped as the Norwegian's teeth caught his full lower lip and tugged insistently, turning his kiss into a bite.

"Ah… whats?" he gasped as Toki's tongue trailed down to his neck, relishing the salty taste of the skin beneath his jawbone.

"You hears me," the brunet growled, clutching the other man's body close and shifting just enough to work his right knee in between Skwisgaar's thighs again. The Swede arched helplessly against Toki's body, his insides melting at the dominant turn in the Norwegian's demeanor. He, Skwisgaar, was usually the one on top during sex—he'd allowed Toki to take him only twice in all the time they'd been doing this. The first time had been after a show, when the little rhythm guitarist's confidence had been unexpectedly boosted by what even Skwisgaar had to admit was a good performance. The second time, they'd both been well on their way to getting drunk when the rest of the band had decided to go out to a strip club, leaving the Scandinavians alone in the hot tub. Skwisgaar's ass had hurt for days afterwards. In actuality, water made a shitty lubricant.

"Spreads you's legs, Toki… does it for me," the Norwegian whispered against the Swede's skin, remaining unabashedly in character and slowly shifting his weight atop the other man's. Skwisgaar gasped as Toki's chest came to rest on his ribcage, the pressure stifling his breaths and sending a rush of blood to his head.

"{s}Is this my surprise?{/s}" he asked, parting his thighs and allowing Toki's body to slip between them.

"{n}You'd better believe it,{/n}" the Norwegian retorted smugly, pressing the head of his rigid cock against Skwisgaar's entrance and flashing him a suggestive and slightly mischievous smile.

The look in Toki's hooded, ice-blue eyes was all it took to melt the last of Skwisgaar's apprehension, and he moaned as the Norwegian's cock ground against his ass.

"Lube," Skwisgaar panted, prompting Toki to reach beneath one of the pillows and draw out the small bottle they kept there.

Toki was excited. It wasn't very often that he was the one to conduct this ritual. He popped the cap and poured a bit of the slippery stuff into his palm, then slicked himself with it. He wiped the excess off on the furry bedspread and returned his attention to the Swede splayed out beneath him.

Skwisgaar's eyes were dark and his lips and cheeks were flushed as Toki positioned himself, bracing against the mattress with his palms. He didn't hesitate, didn't ask for permission—he wanted Skwisgaar to feel just as taken, just as claimed, as he did when the Swede did this to him. The Norwegian moved forward, slowly penetrating the tight ring of muscle. The blond trembled and groaned beneath him, throwing his head to the side and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Hurts?" Toki whispered as he moved in another inch, slowing down a bit.

"Ja," the Swede answered in between heavy breaths, but Toki could feel Skwisgaar's back arching below him and his erection straining against the hard surface of his abdomen. "Hurts goods."

The blond's fingertips clutched the brunet's sides and pulled, drawing him suddenly closer. Before he knew what was happening, Toki's elbows buckled and his mouth crashed against Skwisgaar's as his body slid deep into the other man's. Something between a scream and a moan escaped the Swede's lips as Toki sank in up to the hilt, but it was muffled by the Norwegian's calming kisses.

"Sorries," he whispered as he drew back, afraid that he'd accidentally hurt his lover. But Skwisgaar looked anything but upset as he gazed up into the other man's face, eyes glazed with lust and lips parted in anticipation. The Swede lifted his head and ran his tongue along Toki's stubbly jaw. Toki shivered as the other man's eyes met his, and the words that came out of his mouth sent his mind spinning.

"Fuck me, Skwisgaar," the Swede said in a soft, steady voice. "{s}Please. Make me feel you…{/s}"

Toki moaned low in his throat as the same words he'd said to Skwisgaar so many times blazed through his body, setting his nerves afire. It was thrilling beyond belief to hear them spoken aloud to him.

"Now?" he teased, drawing out and pushing back in ever so slightly.

"Jaaa," Skwisgaar drawled, his stomach muscles tightening with pleasure as Toki began to move more insistently. His body adjusted to Toki's length as the Norwegian's gentle thrusts encouraged his muscles to relax, and the sharp pain he'd felt when Toki had first entered him slowly subsided.

"Hard?" the brunet asked, thrusting deep inside and smiling when the tip of his penis brushed Skwisgaar's prostate, eliciting a long moan from the other guitarist.

"Odin, ja," the Swede encouraged, digging his nails into the other man's back. Skwisgaar's legs lifted and clenched around Toki's hips as the other guitarist moved atop and around and inside him with a strong, steady rhythm that was rough enough to keep Skwisgaar from relaxing but gentle enough to send waves of pleasure rolling through his body. Toki carefully lowered himself onto his elbows, grazing his hands along Skwisgaar's arms as he did so and leaving trails of fire in the wake of his fingers. Without breaking his rhythm, he cupped his blond lover's shoulders in his palms and bent down to kiss him, and Skwisgaar nipped at Toki's lip with a soft snarl, lost in the raw carnality of the act.

The unexpected vocalization sent a blazing shudder of lust through Toki's belly and erased all thought from his mind. He saw Skwisgaar's head thrown back on the pillow, hair splayed out behind him in a golden waterfall on the white satin; his eyes shut tight and his red, swollen lips parting more with each panting breath; and it was all he needed to allow his own primal instincts to take over.

Toki gripped one white, creamy thigh in his guitar-roughened hand and pushed it back—far enough so he could see the place where their bodies were joined. A noise of surprise escaped Skwisgaar's throat and his eyes popped open, seeking Toki's, but the Norwegian was busy drinking in the sight of himself—slick, engorged—pumping into the Swede's tensed body. Toki slung the leg over his shoulder, bracing against the mattress with his knees, and drove into Skwisgaar with such force that it made both of them cry out.

"Dat's… dat's—oj!" Skwisgaar groaned as the spot inside his body was brushed again and again. And Toki could tell, by the way Skwisgaar's face went slack and his eyes squeezed closed, that he'd hit his mark. Their bodies streamed with sweat, cooled only by their breath, as they lifted and sank, lifted and sank in unison. Toki eased a hand beneath Skwisgaar's ass and pushed him closer as they rose, eliciting a feral cry from the Swede, who curled his other leg around Toki's back in response, urging him to move deeper, harder, more.

It was no longer clear who was playing who—or if they were still playing at all—but it didn't matter. As Toki looked down into his lover's face, flushed and shining with sweat, his ice-blue eyes locked onto Skwisgaar's azure ones, and there he saw something he'd never before glimpsed. The Swede's heavily-lidded eyes, so often narrowed in concentration as he bent over his guitar or Toki's body, were wide and soft and shining. He looked almost… innocent, if such a word could ever be used to describe Skwisgaar Skwigelf.

The sight caught Toki so off guard that he faltered in his rhythm, provoking a trembling, tender smile from the man beneath him. Skwisgaar shifted against him sensually and reached out a hand to caress the side of Toki's cheek with a calloused thumb.

"You can goes slow for a little bits," the blond whispered, still gazing at him with that look of uncharacteristic adoration. Toki did as requested, slowing his thrusts and concentrating on feeling every inch of his lover's body from the inside. Skwisgaar hummed long and low as Toki filled him, angling to massage the small, round knot deep inside with as much skill as he could muster.

"Odin—why doesn'ts—I lets you—does dis—more ofs-tens?" Skwisgaar panted in between thrusts.

The Norwegian moaned in reply, feeling his orgasm beginning to build like a slow fire. He bent down over the Swede, sweat-soaked hair sticking to the sides of his face and tangling in his mouth, and brushed his lips over Skwisgaar's collarbone. Skwisgaar arched into the touch, and his breath comingled with that of his lover as he lifted his head to look at the rhythm guitarist. He needed to see, to feel that Toki was there with him, too. This was uncharted territory, and although he didn't show it, Skwisgaar was, at that moment, desperately afraid of becoming lost.

Completely foregoing his "role," Toki fixed his eyes on the Swede's as he brought himself to an agonizingly slow pace, and said in a voice that was barely above a whisper, "{n}I would do this to you as often as you wanted, exactly the way you wanted it… forever, if you wanted it.{/n}"

Skwisgaar's eyes widened and his lips quivered, then spread into a smile. Words he'd said once before to Toki—on the floor of a snowy northern forest, seconds away from death—came back to him in a rush, and were rolling off his tongue before he could stop himself.

"I's always hated you, Toki."

Toki grinned back, and his heart leapt because he knew exactly what Skwisgaar meant—but then he decided to push things a little further.

"{n}And I'll always love you… but you probably already know that.{/n}" The words were too delicate to be spoken in English, but they clearly had an effect on the Swede. Skwisgaar wrapped a hand around the back of Toki's neck, fingering the soft tendrils of hair there, and then pulled him down into a deep kiss.

"{s}I do,{/s}" Skwisgaar breathed against the brunet's lips when he surfaced. "{s}You've never needed to tell me.{/s}"

Stomach fluttering, Toki kissed him again, slowly, wanting to stretch out the moment, to prolong those words, the way they tasted in the cool bedroom air… the way the Swede's skin felt deliciously hot and soft against his own… but then Skwisgaar broke the kiss and laid his cheek alongside Toki's. His tongue darted out to caress the Norwegian's earlobe, and he growled quietly, "Now fuck me."

A white-hot bolt of heat shot through Toki's core at his lover's words, and Skwisgaar moaned beneath him as Toki thrust in with more force. Their lips clashed with each panting, solid thrust, eyes closed and ears locked on each other's cries of enjoyment. It wasn't long before Toki felt the familiar, swelling sensation arise in his groin, and he reached down to stroke Skwisgaar, bringing him closer to his own climax.

"Cans I, um…?" Toki asked breathlessly, feeling suddenly shy.

"Cum—insides me—ja!" Skwisgaar commanded, his words almost inaudible between his sharp gasps of pleasure.

A half-groan, half-growl escaped Toki's lips as he squeezed his eyes shut, causing little white stars to dance in the darkness in front of him, and concentrated on thrusting at the perfect angle to make Skwisgaar cum. But his concentration fell to pieces as soon as he heard the high whine starting in Skwisgaar's throat, and Toki allowed himself to let go as he heaved one final time, and then fell into nothingness as his own orgasm exploded within him, rolling like a wave over his body and crashing into the shores of his consciousness—and his sounds were echoed by the Swede's long, wanton cries of release.

Their orgasms buzzed and washed over them as they gasped for breath, muscles trembling, hearts pounding, sweat cooling. Skwisgaar brushed an unsteady hand across Toki's back and sighed loudly, and the Norwegian could feel the Swede's fingers shake as they grazed across his skin. He smiled at the knowledge that he had done that to Skwisgaar's hands—the same hands upon whose controlling precision Dethklok's music was built.

Toki lifted his head to look into his lover's eyes. He smiled, thinking about how this had started—an odd and slightly stupid way to alleviate the afternoon boredom that had quickly turned into something unexpected—something far deeper and more consuming than either of them had thought possible.

"So, how did you likes it, Toki?" the Norwegian asked, exaggerating the last two syllables and shooting Skwisgaar a mischievous look as he brushed a strand of chestnut hair away from his mouth.

Skwisgaar shifted his hips, allowing Toki to slide out, and then wrapped his arms around the rhythm guitarist's back, pulling him down again. "Shuts up," he said playfully, brushing his still-swollen lips across the other man's. "Calls me Skwisgaar."

"Whatsever you wants," Toki replied, closing his eyes and smiling against the Swede's mouth as they sank into an exhausted but passionate kiss. "Min Skwisgaar."

Reflection [Metalocalypse]

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 02:12:30 GMT

Title: Reflection
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash, angst
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: R for language and sex
Summary: By the time Dethklok became the most important entertainment act in the world, the Scandinavian guitarists already had a history.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
A/N: Written for the Kloktoberfest challenge at i_hates_you. This ficlet was made possible by Children of Bodom's cover of Alice Cooper's "Bed of Nails," which I can no longer listen to without thinking of Skwis & Toki ;)

They had fucked exactly twenty-three times. Toki knew this because he had kept count.

The memories were sharp and layered and thickly tainted by time. When he thought back to those early years, after the band had scooped him up in Seattle, it was almost like watching a movie—and yet inordinately sensuous. The damp, smoky smell of light-warmed skin after a club show; the taste of cheap wine staining pillowed lips. Soft blonde hair—shorter, then—brushing soft and heavy against the muscled arms that wrapped around a long, pale body. Heels, knees grinding into lumpy mattresses in strange motels. A fistful of uppers and machine-fresh coffee from the hall at two a.m., two cups each to kick-start the second round.

Even the greasy black smears of corpse paint weren't dark enough to disguise the glimmer of secrecy, the shine of lust. It emanated from the Scandinavians like the smoke-darkened heat of a wildfire, contrasting with their pale Nordic skin and cold blue eyes.

At first, he and Skwisgaar had fought the near-magnetic connection that pulled them closer day by day, glance by stolen glance, feigning ignorance and disinterest until they were exhausted. They'd finally given up one night in a rush of hot, clashing lips and torn clothing and half-stifled moans that had left telltale bruises on both guitarists' bodies. They emerged the next morning from Toki's motel room rumpled, hung-over, and happy—but nowhere close to sated.

As the weeks rolled by and the list of cities left on Dethklok's first American tour grew shorter, the two Scandinavians found themselves lapsing into their native languages at the breakfast table about as frequently as they together made their way down to breakfast (which, for Dethklok, normally came around noon). This earned them some raised eyebrows from the rest of the band, but not even Murderface (tactless and intrusive as he could be) protested. They had their reasons—Skwisgaar was the best guitarist any of them had heard, for one. For another, they were more concerned with earning their bread and getting somewhere than with bickering or insults—that was for "celebrity" metal bands, and at this point Dethklok could barely afford to keep gas in its tour bus. They didn't yet have the luxury of being able to hold grudges or harvest regrets.

Not that it made any difference to Toki—being on the road had already changed him. He could feel it. Where once there had been only self-doubt and murky trepidation, a spot of light had appeared—so bright it was almost blinding. Music had saved him, but Skwisgaar had inspired him.

In the aftermath of their first time, among the scattered pillows and warm, crumpled sheets, Toki had propped himself up on one elbow and watched Skwisgaar sleep until the first blue blush of dawn crept over the horizon. Watched him breathe, pale chest rising and dipping in the shallow dance of drunken slumber. The Norwegian was very quiet. He knew—he knew—if he was good, if he was careful to please, then there would be more… and despite the emerging throb of his hangover, more was all Toki's hungry body and heart would allow him to consider.

Somewhere in between that first time and the last, however, the fierce, frenzied pull that had driven them into so many motel beds on Dethklok's whirlwind rush through the States had inexplicably, unpredictably reversed. It was subtle at first; a marginal shifting of the ground, a slight change in the air. Then the cracks had appeared. Now they were trapped along a fault line of their own making, frozen in place by their growing fame—like two magnets turned the wrong way, repulsed by the same forces that bound them.

Toki had blamed himself, of course; but it was Skwisgaar who'd pulled away first.

On their twenty-second night together, Toki had to practically pry the two tattooed groupies in belly shirts off of Skwisgaar to get to him. One of the girls, Toki remembered, had dark red hair down to her ass. He'd seen the way Skwisgaar had woven his fingers through the scarlet strands as he talked her up, dizzying her eyes and ears with handsome smiles, coy glances, and enough tongue-twisting guitar terminology to impress anyone into bed.

On their twenty-third night, Skwisgaar had been drunk. He'd pulled Toki into a closet offstage ten minutes before the show. Toki had crushed his mouth against Skwisgaar's to silence his intoxicated, half-Swedish, half-English babble. Skwisgaar did not return the kiss, instead digging his fingers greedily into Toki's jeans. It had been quick and hard and a little painful. It had also been their last time, Toki realized when he stepped into the hotel bar after the show to see Skwisgaar stretched out on a chaise lounge in the corner, lips locked and limbs entwined with those of a nameless, dark-skinned brunette.

He did not go to Skwisgaar's room that night.

The next morning, Toki joined a very bleary-eyed Pickles and a hung-over Nathan in search of breakfast. Since the manager had booked them in an actual hotel this stop, they'd been promised food on the house. Toki was looking forward to the miniature cereal boxes—he liked to bring them home to hold the small pieces of equipment for his model planes and cars. The trio chanced to walk by Skwisgaar's door as it opened, revealing a towel-clad Swede and the brunette from the previous night, dressed only in a pair of lacy red panties.

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, then let out a stilted laugh, her round breasts bouncing with the movement. "We thought you were the room service!"

Skwisgaar chuckled and curled a long, slender arm about the girl's waist, tracing a circle around her navel with his fingertip. At that, Toki felt something in his chest break and ooze hurt all throughout his body. This strange new sensation was quickly followed by a scorching flare of anger that exploded behind his eyes and in his fingertips, and he lunged blindly at the Swede, wanting nothing so badly as to tear the smug look off his face.

The girl shrieked, and Skwisgaar's roaming hand balled into a fist as Pickles and Nathan, taken off guard, made a delayed grab for the Norwegian.

"Hva om oss?!" Toki hissed. (What about us?!)

He struggled weakly in Nathan's locked arms, already aware that the Swede had had his fill of him and that it was over.

"Vad om oss?" Skwisgaar growled, warning flashing in his ice-blue eyes. (What about us?)

The challenge in the Swede's voice said it all. Like the bed mates that had come before and all those that would come afterward, Toki was replaceable. Disposable. Except he would have to bear witness to each new notch on Skwisgaar's bedpost, whereas the others could go on their way, feeling exceptionally lucky to have held the legendary guitarist in their arms for a night.

…After Toki, however, one night was all Skwisgaar would give to anyone.

It didn't matter how beautiful or famous they were themselves, or how skilled in the art of seduction; come morning, they were taken out with the dirty sheets by the Klokateers. Sometimes, as the lead guitarist lay awake in his massive white bed in Mordhaus, surrounded by women of all shapes and ages and degrees of kink, he wondered if Toki knew that he had been the only one.

Not that it would have made any difference. Skwisgaar's reasons had been his alone, but, like the Nordic blood that blazed through their veins and the layers of rivalry that both strengthened and threatened their fragile friendship, the regret belonged to both of them.

Stolen Moment [Metalocalypse]

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 22:21:11 GMT

Title: Stolen Moment
Author: Cycatryx
Artists: Cycatryx, stealing_mail

Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, and slight dubcon (ETA: *NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: Skwisgaar puts Toki in his place.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.

I've always had this urge to show him up. Put him to shame. Dominate him. Whatever you want to call it. From the day we met, when he was an eighteen-year-old kid fresh off the boat from Norway and I was already a seasoned guitarist, having perfected the fine arts of fucking, drinking, and drugging—and shredding through it all with unequaled perfection, night after night, bathed in a wash of hot stage lights and adrenaline—I made it perfectly clear how much I looked down upon him.

Maybe it was the way his shoulders hunched up whenever he made a mistake on his crappy Fender—that was the guitar he had back then, a second-hand Fender Squier—and judging by the jagged scratches along the neck and the gummy gray remnants of glue left behind from the stickers its previous owner had plastered all over the body, it had clearly seen better days. Or maybe it was something in the way he seemed to look to me for guidance, seeing as how I was the lead and had already been doing this for years. Toki knew that Dethklok wasn't my first band—not by a long shot—but it was painfully obvious that this was a first for him.

So I preyed on his inexperience, his gullibility, his good-natured curiosity. The other guys seemed to think it was funny, but when the teasing didn't stop after a few weeks Toki's awkward smiles settled into puzzled frowns, then sad, surreptitious glances, and then came the day I first saw anger burning in his eyes, and I knew that there was real danger there, buried deep in some dark and carefully-guarded corner of his mind. Danger that he could unleash at any moment, if provoked to the point of snapping—and that small morsel of knowledge made it all the more exciting; made him all the more worthy of pursuit.

It wasn't a game of cat and mouse (although sometimes I would've given anything to swipe that stupid, whiskered grin off his face); more like a never-ending catfight. I know it sounds silly to phrase it that way—we're not ladies, after all, despite my teasing Toki to the contrary—but our arguments were almost never physically violent. Maybe that was part of the problem. Our verbal sparring drew wounds that couldn't be seen, but they were still wounds… and through it all, we kept our fists (and hands) to ourselves. For the most part, anyway. There was that once incident with the pig's blood… but that was more of a practical joke than anything. I'd been planning it for days. At one point I'd actually convinced myself that Toki would think it was hilarious. He didn't. I still have a scar on my bottom lip to prove it.

Things changed as Toki grew up. What I had once took for admiration evolved without warning, without reason, and things between us became even more complicated. Our fights grew more intense, which somehow heightened our musical synchronicity, both in the studio and onstage. Dethklok grew bigger and more brutal as Toki and I tore each other to shreds, and soon we—both the band and the two of us—were unstoppable.

From the corner of my eye, I would catch him staring at me—only it wasn't just my fretwork he was studying now. It was me. I'd be lying if I said some small part of me wasn't pleased. Not only did he envy my musical proficiency, he also envied the man behind it. Of course, most people envied me—whether out of lust or awe—but it soon became apparent that Toki's fascination with me bordered on both. It became harder and harder not to touch him when we argued—I wanted to push, to grab, to strike; to make him feel the power his inferior presence inspired in me. He never let it get that far, however—he'd turn and walk away as soon as things got a little too heated, and I'd be left alone, chest heaving with anger and belly searing with a strange warmth that always made me feel slightly nauseas.

We stumbled through the months and years with a vague sense of inevitability—one that was at once disconcerting and familiar—without taking our musical or personal relationship beyond the limits of friendly rivalry. But today at practice, things between us erupt. In the six years I've known him, Toki's never intentionally tried to piss me off, but today he does the unthinkable: he steals my solo.

I have no clue what's happening at first, and neither does the rest of the band. Pickles is bashing away at his drum kit and Nathan's swinging his hair in a wide circle, nearly wiping out Murderface, who's standing off to the side bobbing his head to the throb of his bass. I lick my lips and ready my fingers to unleash my musical artillery, when, out of nowhere, another guitar rises up from the melee.

It takes me a second to realize it's Toki. His Flying V crescendos over the squeal of my Explorer, spilling out a series of crystal-clear, perfectly-chosen notes so fast my jaw drops open. Now I'm the one who's gaping wide-eyed at the Norwegian as he plays, face flushed, eyes screwed shut in intense concentration. Damp strands of hair are sticking to his forehead and his mouth is slightly agape—and I can't help noticing how soft and moist his lips are and how infuriatingly ethereal he looks when he's actually trying. Something twists inside my stomach, and I feel the nausea stirring in my gut, along with another, more familiar stirring further down…

Oh god, no.

This can't be happening…

I sense the confusion around me as Nathan lifts his head and Murderface glances over his shoulder to see what's going on, and a sudden, delayed burst of anger boils up inside my chest. No one steals my glory—in practice, onstage, or otherwise. My immediate thought is to put him to shame—to play louder, harder, faster, until the pristine cry of my Explorer drowns out the guttural grind of his V with complete and devastating accuracy—but my fingers clench around the frets and won't move. These notes, this sound coming from his guitar is unholy… and I'm feeling a rage building within myself that's unlike anything I've ever experienced, and it pushes every other feeling from my mind and body and sends me stomping jerkily across the space between us, guitar swinging madly to and fro on my shoulder strap.

"Whats de fucks you t'inks you's doingks?!" I snarl, grabbing Toki's shoulders and roughly shaking him from his trance. The Norwegian's eyes pop open, two surprised spots of blue in his flushed face, and he cringes, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders in that wounded posture that irritates me to no end. "You don'ts play de solos, Toki, I does, dat's why I's de leads guis-tarists!"

Toki opens his mouth as if to respond, then shuts it. I scowl and dig my nails deeper into the flesh of his upper arm. But instead of retreating into his usual submissive sulk, Toki's lip curls into snarl and a dark look comes over his furrow-browed face as his pale eyes glare into mine. In them I see that deep-buried anger flashing, and a not-entirely-unpleasant shiver runs down my spine, and I realize that, strangely enough, this is what I've waiting for. Toki's true colors have eluded me for far too long, and to see them so suddenly displayed—first in an impassioned show of musical zeal, and then in his eerily colorless eyes as his rage mounts and zeroes in on me like a laser sighter—leaves me as intrigued as it does breathless.

"I. CANS. PLAY. SOLOS. SKWISGAAR," he spits at me, his voice soaring to a volume to rival Nathan's. "I'M A GUITARISTS, TOO!" His mouth is twisted into an ugly grimace and I can feel the furious heat coming off him in waves, and it's then that common sense creeps in and I start to feel a little bit scared.

"Guysch…" Murderface interjects, and from the corner of my eye I see Nathan shaking his head, but I keep my eyes trained on Toki's and he on mine, neither of us daring to sever that fierce, fragile connection.

"Doods, seeriously—let's all jeest take five 'er somethin', okee?" Pickles' voice calls hopefully from across the room. The drummer's words seem to have an effect on Toki, because the Norwegian's face quickly relaxes into a neutral expression and he shrugs his arm from my grasp, which I allow with a certain degree of reluctance. Toki turns away and walks out of the studio without another word, and the rest of the band filters out after him, throwing one or two disapproving looks my way, but I ignore them. My boots are rooted to the floor and my stomach is twisted in knots as I stare after the back of the Norwegian's blue tee shirt. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I couldn't care less what the other guys think, but Toki—what the fuck was he thinking? No one takes my spotlight away, and no one walks away from me when I want… well, when I want to teach them a lesson.

Nathan ends up canceling practice for the rest of the day. Or rather, Toki, Pickles, and Murderface don't bother showing up again after the break. Although this gives me some time to calm down and perfect my solo for tomorrow's practice session, I can't help but feel irritated at Toki's swift departure and subsequent failure to reappear. It's as if he's trying to teach me a lesson, and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's being patronized. This isn't over yet.

-----

It's hours later, well after midnight. I'm sitting on my bed, idly plucking at my guitar. The lights are turned down low, bathing my white room in a wash of dim yellow, and the breeze from the open window leaves my bare skin dappled with goose bumps. No matter how hard I try to focus on my Explorer, my mind keeps returning to Toki's brazen move at practice earlier this morning. Was he just showing off, or was he trying to prove something? The latter thought is amusing. What could he possibly have to prove? That he's a better guitarist than me? That he should be the one to play solos? Odin, no—those ideas are just laughable. Toki never has, and never will be, anywhere near as good as I am.

My pinkie finger slips on a string and I curse under my breath. Play it again. Play it faster.

Toki will never be this good, I think with satisfaction as I watch my fingers flash across the strings, this time with unequaled perfection and speed. He'll always be inferior to me. Fast maybe, but still second.

I know this and I believe it, so why do I still feel uneasy?

I breathe in deep, allowing my hands to come to a stop. This can't happen again. Toki needs to be taught a lesson. Tonight.

Which is how, after slipping on a pair of loose black jeans and carefully placing my guitar back on its stand, I find myself walking down the hallway to Toki's bedroom. The electric torches lining the hall flicker with an artificial, intermittent pulse, but they still cast an eerie glow over the stones, outlining every crag and ridge and imperfection of each hand-hewn block. The Haus always feels a little unfamiliar late at night, when everyone is either asleep or passed out in a corner somewhere. Usually I'm too preoccupied with the groupies I'm leading back to my room to notice.

I don't bother knocking—he'd likely just tell me to fuck off anyway—and a loud, lascivious moan reaches my ears just as the door slides closed. Amongst the shadowy dips and folds of his dark-colored comforter I see a faint movement, and for one awkward second I'm convinced Toki isn't alone—but then a single, well-muscled form—Toki's—bolts upright in the bed, far too quickly for him to have been asleep. The glow from the night light in the corner spills across the slopes of his quivering shoulders as he inhales sharply.

"Skwisgaar!" My name squeaks out from between his lips with embarrassed surprise, and a tingle of excitement skitters down my spine. Oh, this is delicious. Not only did I just interrupt what must've been a particularly intense masturbation session (judging by his heavy breathing and the slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression I can faintly make out in the dimness), but now I get to pay him back for taking my solo. This is going to be hilarious.

Before I put him in his place, though, I decide to tease him a little. "Whats ams you t'inkingks abouts before I comes in, Toki? You seems pretty busy deres."

"N—not'ings!"

"Ja, 'not'ingks' ams not sounds like dat," I sneer, referring to the moan of pleasure I'd overheard upon walking in. He doesn't answer or yell at me to leave, so I keep pushing.

"I bets you's t'inkingks abouts how great all de girls loves you when you steals my solos, ah? Or maybe—maybe you's secrets-lies t'inkingks dat I's gonna like dat shits you plays and war-ships you all overs like de real guitar heroes, huh?"

That thought gives me sudden pause. Jerking off to thoughts of tits and guitars is one thing, but jerking off to fantasies involving your band mates… well, that's an entirely different and infinitely more complicated matter.

"Shuts up Skwisgaar! You don'ts know anyt'ings!" There's a slight trembling in his voice—a sound that is precariously balanced between rage and devastation, and my joke falls flat on the still night air. A flutter arises in my stomach as the unspoken truth becomes apparent: he had been fantasizing about me. I've wondered about this for a while, given the way his eyes roam over me from across the room, but I never imagined I'd be confronted by it—and certainly not like this.

My heart skips, then stops. For a brief moment, I'm suspended in both body and mind (why Toki why this why now?), and then all thought, all reason disappear as quickly as a snowflake on the tongue. My instincts come back to me with a roar. My blood is pounding in my ears as a sudden wash of heat and adrenaline overrides the warnings in my brain, and I'm moving onto the bed before I know what’s happening. Toki pulls the sheet up to cover his shoulders and I yank it down. I don't want him to protect himself—not now, not ever. It's better when we're bare to each other, even if it hurts more.

He's completely naked and his thighs are spread and he looks absolutely terrified. Why I find this so arousing I can't explain—but it's his sudden rush of embarrassment, as his hands fly to cover his erection, that shoots me over the edge.

"No, Toki," I growl as I clamber up between his muscular legs, pushing his hands out of the way with uncharacteristic roughness. "Is me you wants? I gives it to you."

He whimpers my name and feebly attempts to push me off, but the effort is half-hearted and we both know it. My body's on autopilot and my hand moves to unzip my jeans without a second thought—and Toki's hand suddenly appears atop mine, fumbling, pushing, helping. Or at least, that's what it feels like. It's dark and it's hard to tell what's happening, and his whimpers have segued into short gasps and noisy breaths that betray his fading shame and simultaneous loss of control.

I'm naked within seconds, and my skin burns where it touches his. Sinking down onto him, my flesh tingles in a way it hasn't before. This feels raw and almost painfully real, like jumping into a fire or a glacial stream—not hazy and predictable, like crawling in between the legs of a prostrate groupie. He's completely mine, completely under my control—and he knows it. In the dim glow from the helicopter-shaped night light, I can make out a sharp look in his too-pale eyes, one that is at once questioning and knowing, and his body tenses as I pull one of his legs over my hip and press up against his entrance.

He stretches his arms above his head and nudges his thigh tighter around me, and then turns his face away as he closes his eyes. He's leaving the decision up to me. His mouth is half-open, lips wet where he's licked them. They shine invitingly in the yellow half-light, begging to be tasted. But I can't stop to think about what those lips might feel like on mine, or around my cock, or I'll lose the advantage I brought with me when I came into this room.

On the bedside table is an open bottle of lube. Convenient. I smear a dab on my fingertips and hurriedly slick myself. We're both breathing harshly, and there are no words to break the silence.

"{s}Are you going to let this happen?{/s}" I ask in my native tongue, shattering the uneasy quiet, and he knows I'm serious. I only speak to him in Swedish when I'm not joking around, when I don't want the others to know what I'm saying. He breathes in sharply as I grind against him again, insistent. If I pushed just a little harder I'd be inside him, but I'm not going to do it without his permission—I'm not a fucking rapist, after all.

He swallows, nodding. A weak Ja reaches my ears as I start to push in, expecting resistance and the resulting cry of pain, but I'm surprised to discover he's already slick inside—and slightly stretched. I smile to myself in the dark. Dirty little Toki, what have you been doing to yourself?

However, the amusement of the thought is quickly eclipsed by the hot, growing tightness of Toki's body surrounding me; the sparks and shivers of pleasure that run along my skin and through my body as I slide the rest of the way in, forcing apart the hidden muscles to accommodate my length. His toned thighs clinging to my waist are hard but inside he's so soft and warm and—Odin—close, and I have to bow my head so he doesn't see the telltale signs of pleasure on my face. Instead, I thread a long-fingered hand through his hair, which is strangely cool to the touch, and clench a handful of delicate brunette locks in my grip, pinning his head to the pillow.

He bites his lip and I can tell by the look on his face that it hurts, but he's not complaining. His eyes are still closed, his face tense, his strong hands gripping the pillow like a buoy in a storm. I push into him faster and more intensely, panting as my thrusts rock us both. He starts to move his hips in rhythm with mine, crying out when I plunge in sharp and hard. I'm fucking my rhythm guitarist. I'm fucking Toki. The thought winds through my mind on a loop, replaying over and over—my brain's way of trying to convince me of the absurdity of the situation, but I do my best to ignore it. I came here to teach him a lesson, after all.

"Uhnn, Skwisgaar!" —a short gasp as I angle in deeper, rougher.

"Whats?"

"Hurtss," he slurs, tossing his head to the side and pulling his hair tight in my grasp.

"{s}I know. It's supposed to.{/s}" My own hair, sticky with sweat, tangles in my mouth and puffs out with each strangled exhale. I grit my teeth, swearing quietly under my breath, because it isn't hurting me at all—it's driving me fucking insane. I ache to let go, to cry out, to make him want it, to make him want me—but there's no room for that amongst all the little shards of hate we’ve buried inside one another. Band mates and rivals and friends—all that's on the surface. What's ingrained is something far darker and more dangerous. We call it hate, but it's really more like cautious animosity.

Cautious because, if we aren't, things like this might happen.

"{s}Now you know how it feels when someone takes something from you,{/s}" I pant gruffly, letting go of his hair and putting all my weight on him as I fuck him as hard as I can. "{s}You'll think twice next time you want to steal my solo.{/s}"

In between gasps of breath and the shine of blossoming tears, he squeaks out, "{n}You—can't take it—from me—if I give it—to you.{/n}"

The words send a spasm of heat through my body that stirs faint memories of fiery arguments and dark looks and the fluttery tremors of nausea that followed them. Is this what I'd actually been craving all along?

"Is dats what you's doingks, little Toki?" I challenge, switching to English. The sound of our native tongues suddenly feels far too intimate. "You's givingks yous-selfs to me?"

I push in hard, all the way in, and he closes his eyes and draws in a sharp breath. Beneath me, a shudder ripples through his body and he unleashes a long-stifled moan, arching his back and hips in time to my thrusts. He doesn't need to answer, because I can feel the balance between us teetering just as clearly as I can feel his rock-hard erection rubbing against my abdomen. The sight of his sweat-slicked, straining body below me, that soft brown hair splayed out across the pillow in the darkness like a pool of blood, sends a sudden rush of endorphins coursing through my body, and somewhere in my consciousness I realize that this is feeling less and less like a power fuck and precariously similar to something… else.

Is it instinct? Is it desire? It sure as fuck isn't longing or love or any of those other useless states of being I don't traffic in, but it's something. Something other than the antipathy I've harbored so long for him. The answer's on the tip of my tongue, but I don't want to hear it, don't want to think it—I just want to touch. To feel.

I tangle my fingers in his hair again, and this time it's searing with heat, radiating lust from every silken thread. Every square inch of his body is on fire. He's writhing below me now, the curves of his hard body shining with sweat, begging for me to slow down, to speed up, to go deeper, to tear him apart, to give myself to him.

To give myself.

Give up.

…just let go.

My heart is dangerously close to listening as I lean back on my knees, simultaneously pulling him up into my lap along with the tangle of sheets beneath him. Without thinking, I crush my mouth against his. His lips are as warm and moist and sweet as I knew they would be. He looks up at me in surprise after I pull away for breath, his blue eyes gleaming with lust and confusion. The sight brings a brief smile to my lips as I slow my pace to accommodate his abused body. He follows me, rolling his hips into my slow thrusts with unexpected ease.

Our panting breaths send hot shivers of air down each other's skin and our sweat mingles together, plastering our hair to our foreheads and making touching slippery. Beneath his slick, soft, pale skin, the muscles at the small of his back ripple beneath my hand with each movement—up and to the side, up and to the side. I can tell by the look on his face and the way his muscles are tightening around me that I'm hitting his spot—and that it feels better than anything he's ever experienced.

"{s}You don't deserve that, Toki…{/s}" My words spill out of my mouth in a quivering whisper, without direction or explanation.

"{n}Deserve what?{/n}" he moans, pulling the sheet closer around us.

"{s}A lesson.{/s}" I tighten my grip around his back, feeling the streaks of scar tissue shift beneath my fingers, and it's at this moment I realize I'm doing this for him. Fondness and fear overwhelm me as I pull him in for a second kiss.

Our chests rise and fall quickly against one another, heaving from our exertion, as my hand wanders to his neglected erection. His cock is still slick from the lube and his own ministrations, and as I begin to stroke him he hums low in his throat and tilts his head back, eyes closed, savoring the moment. I use the opportunity to attack his neck with my lips, nipping and licking, sampling the saltiness of his skin with my tongue. The tips of his hair brush against my arm as he frantically urges me on, faster, faster—until we're both hovering above the brink, at the point of no return.

Suddenly, he flings his arms around my neck and cries out, half-moaning, half-whimpering, as every muscle in his body tenses, including those surrounding my cock. The unexpected pressure pushes me over the edge and I'm gasping his name before I can stop myself. Warm fluid spills over my knuckles and down the side of my hand, and then my own orgasm shudders through my body from deep in my core to the end of every nerve. Toki's still bucking against me and clenching my shoulders as he rides out the end of his orgasm. His body is slippery and searing with heat, and it's hard to keep a solid grip on him but I manage somehow, and several minutes pass after our movements have stilled in which I continue to hold onto him, breath still coming out in heavy spurts. I don't let go and he doesn't push away—instead, he clings tighter.

My heart is still racing as a draft of cool air skitters over my skin, turning my sweat to chill and sending a shiver through my body. My legs are starting to cramp from kneeling; I need to stretch out. I unwind my arm from Toki's back and my fingers from his hair, and he obligingly slips off my lap and back onto the bed. When I open my eyes, he's staring at me. I look away, barely able to comprehend what we've just done. It's as if the severance of our embrace has sullied the atmosphere somehow, and for the first time in more years than I can count I feel the smallest hint of shame slithering through my consciousness.

I cough and clear my throat, completely at a loss for words. He's still staring at me, head cocked slightly to the side, studying me. I feel like an insect—or a model plane—under a microscope. I don't like it. Not one bit.

I cross my arms over my chest and rub my palms along my forearms to warm them. "I has to go's."

"You don'ts needs to, you knows," Toki says kindly, a soft glimmer of hope in his eyes. I remember how angry and alien his eyes looked earlier that day at practice after I'd grabbed him, and I have a sudden, crazy urge to shoot him down, to tell him off, to give him the tongue-lashing he deserves for taking my mind and body hostage and tricking me into doing and feeling all of this.

"Yes, I do's," I haughtily insist, looking down at him from the side of my nose and hugging my arms tighter around my chest. The expectant look on Toki's face dims and his forehead wrinkles faintly, but his hand is warm and gentle as he reaches out to touch my thigh. Then he speaks, and his words are as daring as they're ever going to get around me.

"Next times… you don't has to pretends you hates me so much, ja?"

I swallow hard, brain working desperately to find a suitable retort, but there isn't one. He's not talking about guitars or solos or band practice—things I can make sense of, things I can define.

After a long moment in which we stare at each other in the dark, the cooling sweat still clinging to our chests and Toki's hand still resting lightly on my leg, I answer.

"I t'inks abouts it."

He grins.

I just might stay, after all.

A Nest among the Thorns, 8/8 [Metalocalypse]

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 22:37:02 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 8/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

"According to local fire officials, the death toll from the fiery end to the Phlegethon Metalfest has reached three hundred and twenty-two—oh, just a minute—"

The rustling sound of papers being shoved into the newswoman's hand from someone off-screen caused the three Dethklok members' eyes to jump to the massive, hanging TV in curiosity.

"—Excuse me, we've just received confirmation that the death toll from the Phlegethon Metalfest fire has jumped to three hundred and fifty-seven…" (here the anchorwoman paused for dramatic effect), "although, after speaking with several of the surviving festival attendees after the tragedy, it appears that most fans were more upset about Dethklok's closing set being cut short than about the numerous casualties caused by the catastrophic inferno..."

The picture cut to footage of a blackened, still-smoking field as the newswoman rambled on in the foreground. "LIVE" appeared in screaming red letters at the bottom of the screen. Men in oxygen masks and bright yellow jumpsuits milled among hundreds of shiny black body bags that were scattered across the ground like giant, dead roaches. The smell must have been terrible, because one of the yellow-suited men was puking into his mask off to the side of the screen.

"Hoo phuffin' baff," Nathan grunted, his words smothered by the mouthful of chicken-and-pepperoni pizza he'd just taken.

Pickles took a swig of his beer and grinned. "Well, it is death metal, after all."

Murderface, who was carefully picking off the unwanted red and green peppers from his pizza slice with a fork and depositing them onto the side of Nathan's plate (the singer had refused to eat them if the bassist used his hands), snorted cheerfully.

"Juscht look at it thisch way: that'sch tchree hundred and fifty-scheven autographsch we won't have to schign schomeday."

"Yeah guys, but it's also nearly six grand lost in future record sales," Knubbler interjected in his characteristic cat-like drawl, swiveling his radio-dot eyes to each of them in turn. "More, if they buy two copies. And that's not even counting merch."

"Aw Knubbs, stop bein' so fuckin' business-minded. We're jeest heeavin' fun. You 'n Charlie, man—you two're too alike fer my teeaste."

Knubbler grimaced at Pickles' remark but said nothing, as he knew the drummer was already well on his way to getting sloshed and would likely have no recollection of the conversation the next day. Or the next hour. Which was unfortunate, because Pickles had the best ear in the band—a detail Knubbler would never share with Nathan, of course, because he liked his teeth and wanted to keep them—and he'd been counting on the drummer to help fine-tune the last few bass and rhythm guitar tracks that morning, now that recording was finished and the album was ready for post-production.

"Yeah, speaking of—" Nathan said, swallowing his bite and washing it down with a guzzle of cabernet sauvignon, straight from the bottle, "—apparently we're getting, uh, sued or something. For the fire. Says Charles."

"What?!" Murderface shouted, spraying bits of half-chewed cheese everywhere and nearly tipping over the paper plate in his lap. "But we had nothing to do with that!"

"Uh-uh," Nathan said, shaking his head. "Remember that bald drummer from backstage? Their singer was, uh, killed in the fire… head got caved in by a fallin' stage light or something. So now they're suing us."

"Fuck. That'sch brutal."

"By t'way—" Pickles said, picking up an onion ring and popping it into his mouth (pizza, onion rings, and beer—the true breakfast of champions) "—what the fuck was up with Skwisgeeaar yeesterday? He wouldn't get ahff the stage!"

Nathan snickered. "Yep, sounds like Skwisgaar."

"No, I mean—like, he didn't wanna come deeown. At ahll. Neevermind the fuckin' fire, an' all that. Don't that seem a little weeird to you? Like—suicidal weeird?"

"Hmm." Nathan scratched his chin, wiping a jagged line of tomato sauce across his stubbly jaw. "It did kinda look like that. I guess that's why Toki went to get him."

"Where are Toki and Skwisgaar, anyway? I thought they were going to be here," Knubbler asked carefully, combing his thin blonde hair away from his face with his pinkie and hoping one of them would say something to clarify what he'd seen in the recording studio the week prior.

"Oh, they're probably off fuckin' around somewhere," Nathan said grouchily, crunching into the crust of his pizza with a sharp snap. "As usual."

Knubbler breathed a sigh of relief. So what he'd walked in on had, indeed, been what it looked like.

"Ya know, I had no idea they were gay," the producer said, opening his mouth to take a generous bite of his anchovy-and-olive pizza. Until his ears were met by silence.

Knubbler's pizza hand drew back slowly as he looked up and met two confused (Nathan, Pickles) and one horrified (Murderface) stares. He shut his teeth with a soft click. Oh boy. Maybe that wasn't what Nathan had been referring to.

"Uh… what the fuck're you talking about?" Nathan asked, one dense black eyebrow cocked sharply upward.

Knubbler quickly considered three potential courses of action: one, pretend he'd been joking and laugh it off; two, tell the band the truth and deal with the shitstorm of questions that was sure to follow; or three, tell Ofdensen and get him to handle it. Band politics were not his forte; his job was to manage the music, not the personnel. Of course, he'd just successfully thrown himself knee-deep into the muddy affairs of the latter, and there was no easy way out when it came to Dethklok. Dumb as they were, they could tell when they were being lied to. But Knubbler had also glimpsed the way Toki had clutched at his fellow guitarist—like a drowning man holding onto the last plank of wood left after a shipwreck—and he knew it wouldn't be fair to the Scandinavian guitarists to make a joke out of whatever was going on between them.

He took a deep breath. "It was an accident. I was late for the session and the rest of you were downstairs, and I walked in on them. Together. I don't… think they saw me."

Murderface's jaw, which had practically come unhinged from his skull, dropped even lower.

"That's… impossible," Nathan declared, his features twisting into a strange expression that made it look as though he'd just smelled something strange and couldn't decide whether it was interesting or foul.

"Why?" Knubbler asked.

"Because they… well, they fuckin' hate each other!" Nathan exclaimed, his voice rising to a near-squeak, which was quite a feat for the perpetually-growling frontman. Murderface nodded in agreement, open mouth wagging in bewilderment.

Knubbler folded his arms lightly. "I don't know. They looked pretty happy to me."

"Pickles?" Nathan asked in a near-threatening tone as he turned to him for some kind of affirmation, but the red-haired drummer was silent as he tipped his beer back and allowed the last of the amber liquid to slide down his throat.

Only after he'd swallowed and wiped his mouth, and then crumpled the can in his fist, did the drummer answer. "Neh, 's'not reeally that big'a surprise, is it? I mean—look at 'em. They've bin fightin' fer years. Back an' forth, back an' forth. But then they turn areeound an' act like brothers t'each other, too." A small grimace crossed Pickles' face. "Not like me an' Seth, but yanno, like… good friends or somethin'. Like they'd do anythin' fer each other, if it really came down ta' it."

Nathan and Murderface stared off into their separate spaces, seemingly pondering Pickles' words.

"—An' besides, all the chicks Toki's ever banged look exeeactly like Skwisgeeaar. You noticed it, too. Used to give 'im shit for it, as I r'member."

"Well… there isch that," Murderface acknowledged, his voice dragging reluctantly over the words.

"Hmm…" Nathan mused, his forehead wrinkling into a row of little white ridges as he tried to wrap his mind around the concept of his lead and rhythm guitarists fucking. No, wait—he didn't want to imagine that. Skwisgaar and Toki exchanging furtive glances at one another over their guitars in the middle of practice? Still pretty gay, but he could live with it.

"Fine. Whatever. Their business's their business," he grunted, which prompted Murderface to snap his jaw shut in unspoken agreement and Pickles to give a commending nod in the singer's direction.

Knubbler, looking relieved, spoke up cautiously. "Guys, I hate to break up the pizza party, but we still have some work to do on the rhythm track for 'Jugular Saw,' and…"

"And?" Nathan asked, his bright green eyes challenging Knubbler's pulsing bionic ones.

"Well, should we, ya know—go find them?"

"No!" Nathan and Murderface boomed simultaneously as a horrifying visual popped into both their heads of their Scandinavian band mates in flagrante delicto somewhere in the secret recesses of Mordhaus. Knubbler wrinkled his nose and Pickles laughed as Murderface crammed the last of his pizza into his mouth and chewed violently in an attempt to jar the image from his mind.

"Ta' Skwisgeeaar an' Toki!" Pickles grinned, popping the tab on another beer and holding it aloft as Nathan grimaced comically and Murderface rolled his eyes. "Let's just preeay this don't lead ta' ballads!"

Nathan took a large gulp of his cabernet sauvignon and Murderface followed suit with his beer. They could drink to that.

-----

It was cool and dim in the exam room, and smelled sharply of rubbing alcohol and latex. Naked except for his black boxer-briefs, Skwisgaar shifted uneasily on the paper-covered cushion atop the table as he waited for Dr. Dildo to return. Next to him, Toki's fingers danced across his bare kneecap in a half-playful, half-reassuring gesture that sent ticklish shivers down Skwisgaar's leg. The doctor had thrown the rhythm guitarist a confused look when he'd followed them into the exam room, but took Skwisgaar's lack of protest as a sign that the Swede wanted him there.

He was nervous, and he knew Toki could tell. The silence made it worse. Skwisgaar didn't particularly like doctors or hospitals; didn't like being touched, prodded, or scrutinized by anyone but those he took to his bed. Toki's hands always studied, always lingered, but they never overstayed their welcome; so many of the women Skwisgaar had been with clung and petted him as he tried to fall asleep, clutching long-nailed fingers into his flesh in a lonely, desperate attempt to preserve the once-in-a-lifetime act that had preceded it. They always looked ten years older in the morning, faces smeared with eyeliner and defeat, when the Klokateers ushered them out of his bedroom, but Skwisgaar didn't care. He couldn't. They were there for one reason, and one reason alone—unlike Toki, whose touch stirred more than just desire in him. Skwisgaar was beginning to think Toki's hands were as skilled as his own, but in a different way—a way that was soothing, intuitive, and deliciously unhurried.

"So, whens ams dis kid be comingks?" Skwisgaar asked in a low voice (dark rooms always made him feel quiet), in an attempt to break the uneasy silence. Just as Toki opened his mouth to answer, the doctor brushed back into the room with a fistful of black-and-blue X-ray films in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Toki squeezed Skwisgaar's knee with a warm hand as the physician switched on the X-ray illuminator hanging on the wall and punched the films into place.

Toki marveled at the dark, dangling transparencies of his fellow guitarist's skeleton-hands, which were as awe-inspiring as they were brutal-looking. Those bones—those joints—were the marrow upon which Dethlok's strength was built; the sinew that bound one album to the next. These were the world's fastest and most legendary fingers at their most naked, their most vulnerable. It was a little like peering into a relic box to glimpse the preserved remains of some saint or martyr, shrouded in mystery and reverence and age. Only Skwisgaar was still young, and his hands had thousands of songs, millions of notes—and, Toki hoped, just as many sensual caresses—left in them before they would disintegrate into ash upon a Viking funeral pyre.

"Well, based on the symptoms you've described, I'd say it's definitely arthritis," Dr. Dildo said matter-of-factly as he turned away from the light board to face the two guitarists. The words sent a chill down Skwisgaar's spine, but Toki's hand curled around his side and rubbed a slow, encouraging circle into the goose-pimpled flesh of his lower back. Although they'd been careful to keep their affections private so far, Skwisgaar did not move to stop him.

"It appears to stem from previous injuries, as you suspected. You can see here—" the doctor clicked on his laser pointer and sent a red dot jittering across the bony, X-rayed knuckles of Skwisgaar's right hand, "—the inflammation at the metacarpophalangeal and proximal interphalangeal joints? That swelling is what's giving you so much pain. Also, the small ridges here—" the red dot danced down to Skwisgaar's wrist bones, "—at the carpals, and particularly the carpometacarpal joint, are evidence of uneven fusion."

The words scuttled through Skwisgaar's consciousness like spiders, sinister and elusive.

"Whats dat means… in Anglish…"

"It means the bones in your wrists and fingers didn't heal correctly after they were broken, which, combined with your near-constant guitar playing, have contributed to the arthritic degeneration of your hands over the last few years. There could also be genetic factors involved, of course, but that's beside the point at this stage."

Toki felt Skwisgaar's muscles stiffen under his hand, and he sensed the Swede's burgeoning fear and frustration morphing quickly into anger.

"But he stills can plays guitars, rights? Dere's gots to be somet'ings to makes him not hurts," Toki said hurriedly, beating Skwisgaar to the question in order to spare the doctor a Swedish tongue-lashing.

The white-coated man raised an eyebrow, his spectacles reflecting the light from the screen. "I was just about to get to that." He turned to Skwisgaar. "There are a number of medicinal and lifestyle solutions to alleviate this problem—solutions that would allow you to continue playing while minimizing the amount of pain you experience."

"I's listeningks," Skwisgaar said gruffly, folding his arms.

"Well, there are some dietary and environmental changes you might want to consider, like consuming more foods rich in Omega-3 fatty acids, taking a glucosamine supplement, and avoiding cold drafts, especially where you sleep." Skwisgaar's mind immediately zoomed to his bedroom window, which he kept open year-round, even in winter. Oops.

"I'll give you some literature on the subject," the doctor continued. "But for pain this severe, I'd also recommend taking a daily anti-inflammatory drug. There've been a number of excellent medications developed in the last few years that—"

"I don'ts wants dem pills dat makes me loopies," Skwisgaar interrupted. "No sides infects. Dat's nots be somet'ingks I's conpro—comspri—agrees to do's."

"Ja, he can'ts have de sides insects, dat's bad for his guitars-playings," Toki added authoritatively.

"—As I was saying," Dr. Dildo continued, undeterred, "there have been a number of new drugs developed that provide excellent pain relief with little or no side effects. If you're willing to try one, I can get you started today, and we'll monitor how you respond over the following weeks. If you don't like one medication, we'll try another, but I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at the results. How does that sound?"

Skwisgaar glanced sideways at Toki, lifting his eyebrows, and the brunette nodded in quiet excitement. He suddenly felt as though his whole body was buzzing. No more searing, aching agony in the dead of night—no need to drug or fuck himself to the point of near-coma to find relief—the freedom to play his guitar without fear of pain? The prospect was giddily intoxicating—almost too encouraging to be real. Toki had been right, but he knew the little Norwegian would never say I tolds you so. They were above such things now.

"Ja, okays. I tries dat, den," Skwisgaar answered, slipping Toki's arm from around his back and clenching the Norwegian's hand in a wordless, open gesture of gratitude. Toki squeezed back, gently.

"All right, then. I'll get the medication and some pamphlets together, and you can be on your way," Dr. Dildo said, and shuffled over to a door on the far wall that he unlocked with a key on the ring he drew from his pocket. Before the doctor shut the door behind him, Skwisgaar caught a glimpse of dozens of rows of white shelves packed to the edges with enough bottles and boxes of drugs to fill several pharmacies. Skwisgaar knew that a staff as large and as injury-prone as Dethklok's needed a lot of medication to keep them running, and he wondered briefly if Pickles had any knowledge of this room. He decided against telling him in case he didn't.

"Dis good news!" Toki said fervently, his lips twisting into a slightly goofy grin. Skwisgaar let out a long, whooshing sigh, unaware he'd been holding his breath. He was going to be okay. They were going to be okay—him and his Explorer; him and Toki. He had been saved.

"Is all because of you," Skwisgaar whispered. "You helps me. And nots just wis' my hands…"

Just then, a familiar voice cut across the two guitarists' poignant exchange of words, booming forth from a small gray speaker on the wall that blended in perfectly with the stone. (There was one in every room in Mordhaus in case of emergencies. It was one of Murderface's favorite pranks to sabotage the P.A. system when he knew one or more of his band mates were getting laid and broadcast tapes of animal mating calls over the loudspeaker, which ruined the experience for almost everyone involved—particularly the confused groupies.)

"Paging Toki Wartooth—this is Charles," the CEO's cordial monotone rang out in the sterile stillness of the room. "Please see me in my office ASAP. Your visitors have arrived."

Toki turned to Skwisgaar, his eyes glowing circles of panic in the darkness. "Dey's here!" he squeaked, hugging his arms to his chest. "What's I gonna do?!"

Skwisgaar set both hands on Toki's shoulders and lowered his head so that his eyes were nearly level with the Norwegian's. Toki had helped him—now it was time for him to help Toki.

"We gets dis medicines from de dok-tors and den we go's. I be dere wis' you—okays?" Skwisgaar could actually feel Toki trembling beneath his hands, but the Norwegian swallowed and nodded courageously, a tendril of toffee-brown hair falling into his eyes as he did so.

"Okays," he answered faintly, allowing the Swede to curl the stray strand behind his ear as he anxiously waited for the doctor to reappear with Skwisgaar's cure.

-----

Toki felt like he was drunk as he limped down the dim corridor next to Skwisgaar. His head spun and whirred with nervous energy, and in his mind he saw the faces of his parents, grimacing in silent contempt. This is what happens when you live in sin, boy… du vil lide!

Each footfall from his heavy boots echoed on the stone floor with a sharpness that reminded him of the sound his father's footsteps used to make on the tall staircase leading up to his room. As a boy, he'd never known what to expect when his father came upstairs—sometimes he was called to dinner, sometimes he was ordered downstairs to help his mother with the chores. Sometimes he was punished for leaving his muddy shoes on the floor, or for playing with his toys, or for speaking—and these were the times he remembered most vividly, because they were etched into his skin. His father had always been generous with the whip—too generous, some of the other villagers said—but it was not their place to disagree with the Reverend Wartooth, especially when he was administering the Lord's punishment.

The memories sent a sudden wave of nausea coursing through his body, and Toki stopped in his tracks, clutching his stomach with both hands. He felt like he was going to be sick. How could he ever be expected to act like a father when his own father had only taught him fear and pain?

"…Toki?" came Skwisgaar's voice a few paces ahead. The Norwegian lifted his head to see the Swede's head turned, light blue eyes fixed on him in concern.

"I… I don'ts feel so goods…" Toki said faintly, backing up against the wall and sliding down to the floor, his spine scraping against the rough stone. "I don'ts t'inks I cans do dis."

Skwisgaar came to him and kneeled down, wrists resting lightly on his knees. "Don'ts tell yourselves dat. Of course you cans."

Toki's gaze traveled from Skwisgaar's knees up to his face, and his pale blue eyes timidly met the Swede's, certain that the other man would balk at the shame and fright they saw there. However, there was nothing reproachful in the lead guitarist's expression, only sympathy—and the long, slender hand that reached out to still his shaking shoulders was warm and full of strength.

"Toki, you gets to be dad todays—maybe only ones of us dat ever does. Dat's somet'ingks, ja?"

Toki swallowed and nodded lightly, trying to keep the hot flush that had risen to his face from turning to tears.

"Dat's impors-tants. You knows it. And you knows whats else? I knows you's goingks to makes good dad."

"Hows?" Toki asked, his voice cracking.

"'Cause you's de only ones of us dat ever cares about somebodies. You… you helps dem, and you don'ts ask for noti'ngks back. Like dat dumb clown, and dat littles girl in de wheelies-chair…"

"But dat little girl dies! Rights in front of me!" Toki cried out, his voice rising to a sharp, panicked squeak. "Whats if—whats if da same t'ing happen wis'—wis'—" but he couldn't bring himself to voice it, and the words dissolved into a thick sob as he buried his face in his hands.

"Shhh, Toki—" Skwisgaar hushed, smoothing the Norwegian's tangled hair with his other hand. "—Dat little girl ams not your kid. She's was sick, anyways—not'ingks you can do's. Lots of dem littles girls and boys likes you—dats why you's be so goods at dis. Now—"

Skwisgaar cupped Toki's chin and tilted his face upward. "—Dries up your eyes and follows me. You's goingks to look behinds you somedays and see how great dis day ams now, I knows it."

The Swede curled his slender fingers around Toki's biceps as though to pull him up, but Toki's stomach was still roiling and he could see the ghost of his father in every shadow and crevice of the murky hallway. The taste of his day-old nightmare was still thick in his mind, and the smell of burning flesh filled his nose. There was no child to be found; his father had killed his son. Nej—his father had tried to kill him. Out in the cold, in the blinding snow, with only a pair of ragged shorts to keep his legs warm as he gathered dead branches for firewood; with the hot tongue of the whip scalding his back, his arms, and even his naked thighs, in punishment for crying out; with the ugly maroon bruises that faded to brown, then yellow, then pink. Toki distinctly remembered counting the days in the bathroom mirror, watching to see how long it took the marks to turn from purple to flesh-colored again.

"Waits!"

"Toki—"

"How can I knows how to be's to him when my own fathers am so bads to me?" The words spilled out in a desperate, jumbled heap, and in the pregnant silence that followed Toki desperately wished he hadn't said anything. He didn't like to speak about his childhood, or about his father. Besides, what advice could Skwisgaar possibly give? He'd never even had a father—at least, not one that had treated him like a son.

"Oh Toki…" Skwisgaar sighed in a soft voice, and scrubbed his face with his hands. "…I knows is hards. I knows… dat you t'inks you can't do's dis 'cause you only gets shit and hate all your lives from de ones supposed to loves you, but—" the blonde folded his arms across his knees and looked Toki straight in the eye, "—you's de forst one shows me how to knows… dat I cares… abouts somebodies, and nots just for one nights." Skwisgaar cleared his throat uncomfortably and swallowed, but kept his eyes trained on the Norwegian's face. "So, you knows, if you can do's dat, den you's got someti'ngks dere. Somet'ingks… specials."

Toki stared back at the Swede, mouth slightly agape. It was the most brutally honest speech he'd ever heard the lead guitarist give, and it sent a flutter through his belly that was completely unlike the crunching pangs of nausea that had gripped him moments before.

"You… you really t'inks so?" he asked in a hushed voice, watching the Swede's face carefully. Skwisgaar nodded, the rippling waves of honey-blonde hair around his face swaying with the movement, and stretched out his hands again.

"Come ons."

This time, Toki took them.

-----

On the way to Charles' office, Toki made a quick stop at his bedroom. With trembling hands, he took down a red-and-black-striped F-16 Fighting Falcon from his ceiling and wrapped it in some sheaves of blue tissue paper as Skwisgaar looked on.

"Readies?" the Swede urged as Toki tucked the awkward bundle beneath his arm and roughly combed his free hand through his hair in a last-minute attempt to make himself presentable. Toki nodded, although his father's cold blue eyes and crooked frown were still lingering in his mind's eye, mocking him, smothering him. Would he ever be ready for this? He didn't think so, but it didn't matter—this was one situation that being a member of the world's most popular band couldn't change. There would be no hiding behind his fame today.

"Ja," Toki replied, nodding weakly.

Skwisgaar led him out the door, arm brushing lightly against Toki's shoulder, and they walked the halls in silence until they arrived at the door of Charles' office. Toki clutched the tissue-wrapped model plane behind his back as Skwisgaar lifted his arm and rapped lightly on the door. Normally they would've strode in unannounced, but the occasion seemed to require a higher degree of formality.

"Ah, here he is," Charles' muffled voice announced behind the thick wooden door. Toki heard his sharp footfalls approaching and felt a shock of panic flash hotly through his body as the door was opened wide and the manager's face appeared. Toki's eyes instantly zoomed to the back of the office, but he didn't see Aina or his son.

"Hello, Toki… and Skwisgaar. Please come in." He nodded politely at each of the guitarists, his gaze lingering a fraction of a second longer on the uninvited Swede.

Charles stepped to the side to let them through, and right as he crossed the threshold Toki saw him. Spindly legs dangling two feet above the floor, pale blue eyes the exact color of his own gazing around the expensively-furnished office in wonderment, his son sat perched upon the armrest of a couch in the corner, kicking his tennis shoes against the cream-colored fabric. To the side of the couch stood his son's mother, blonde hair falling in heavy curls around her face and her dress hugging the curves of her petite frame, just as pretty as he remembered her from that fateful night nearly four years ago.

Toki opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His son's colorless eyes focused on him, studying his face with shy curiosity, and Toki could only stare back, mesmerized by the child's features—the fine, sunny blonde hair and full lips he'd gotten from his mother; and the summer-tanned skin, curved nose, and wide-set eyes that unmistakably marked him as Toki's own flesh and blood.

"Well, I suppose I'll let you two make the introductions," Charles prompted, glancing at Toki over the rims of his glasses. Skwisgaar gently nudged Toki with his elbow, and the Norwegian swallowed roughly as Aina placed her hands around the boy's shoulders and helped him off the arm of the couch.

"Hej, Toki," she said in a sweet mixture of Swedish and English as she softly guided the boy to him. "Dis is Emil."

Emil. His name is Emil.

Toki took a faltering step toward them, still trying to wrangle words from the whir of thoughts in his head. The child's legs bumped against his mother's shins as she stopped and bent down to look her son in the face.

"Emil, dis is your father. Go and say hellos." The boy tipped his head to look into his mother's eyes, seeking affirmation, and she gave him an encouraging smile.

Toki took another step toward the boy and crouched down as Aina gave him a small push in his father's direction. Emil faltered, his steps slowing to a shuffle, and he hooked a pinkie in his mouth and eyed Toki warily.

"Emil…" Toki whispered, finally finding his voice, the syllables sounding strange and frightening and wonderful rolling off his tongue—but no more words followed. Aina was blushing, and he felt suddenly foolish and out of place. What should he— how should he—

Behind him, Skwisgaar came to his rescue. "Ah, Toki—don'ts you has somet'ingks to gives to him?"

Toki's mind turned to the awkwardly-wrapped package he was still clutching in his hands. Of course—he'd forgotten all about the Falcon.

He drew it out from behind his back with shaking hands and held it in front of him delicately, almost reverently; then looked into the wide, piercing blue eyes that were his own and smiled.

"I brings dis for you—I hopes you likes it." The boy's eyebrows shot up in curiosity, and Toki added hurriedly, "But if you don'ts, I has others—you can picks any ones…"

Emil grinned and hurried the rest of the way to him, emboldened at the prospect of receiving a gift. Toki helped his son unwrap the tissue with bated breath, watching as the boy's tiny hands dug into the folds of blue paper to get to his prize. Toki saw that his son's fingers, although small, were long and nimble, unlike his own—and a surge of hopeful warmth rose into his cheeks at thought of someday teaching Emil to play guitar.

"Oh wows!" the boy exclaimed as the colorful model plane tumbled from its flimsy packaging and into his open arms. Emil's eyes sparkled with sincere delight as they roamed over the slender wooden body and the red-and-black-striped nose and wingtips Toki had spent hours painstakingly painting.

"Did you make it?" Emil squeaked enthusiastically as he gazed at his father in wonderment.

Toki nodded. "I dids. I makes lots of dem. Can show you how to makes one someday, if you wants," he said tentatively, his lips tugging into a cautious smile.

"Say t'ank-yous, Emil," his mother reminded him gently.

Toki turned to tell her that it was all right, that their presence here was thanks enough—and suddenly found his arms full of wriggling warmth as Emil threw himself against his chest and wrapped his short little arms around his neck, pressing his face against the side of Toki's head. His silken hair tickled Toki's cheek, feathery and soft.

"Tack!" the boy cried in his mother's native tongue, the sharp corner of the Falcon's tail wing digging into Toki's back as Emil squeezed his father with the pure, infectious enthusiasm that only a child's hugs can bring. Toki's face broke out in a boyish grin as he curled his arms around his son, and he felt the awkward uncertainty between them instantly melt away—along with his own father's hard, black hold on him. There would be light from now on, but no more flames, and laughter instead of silence—he would make sure of that. This was his life, his son, and nothing his father had done to him in the past could touch him or Emil now.

An idea suddenly popped into Toki's head, and he hoped against hope that Charles wouldn't say no.

"Does you like puppies?" he asked, holding Emil at an arm's length so he could look into his face.

Emil, who was inspecting the Falcon with greedy zeal, snapped his head up and asked excitedly, "You has doggies here, too?"

Toki laughed. "We has baby wolfs—just few day old! Dey very gentles. I show dems to you—uh, if moder says okays." Both he and Emil looked expectantly at Aina, who smiled at the sight of father and son's identical expressions of eagerness. She glanced to Charles for affirmation, and the CFO gave a short nod.

"All rights, let's go see de puppies," she answered, provoking a cry of jubilation from Emil.

"Yah!" he exclaimed, slicing the Falcon through the air in a simulated vertical dive, and shoved his hand into Toki's as the rhythm guitarist stood up, ankle stinging slightly. The boy's gesture sent a flutter of emotion through the Norwegian's heart, and he grasped his son's tiny fingers in his as Aina and Charles moved to follow.

Skwisgaar sidled up beside Toki as the rhythm guitarist led the five of them out of the office and down the stone hallway. Over the barrage of noise bombs Emil was dropping from his plane, the Swede said confidentially, "I says you be goods at dis, ja? Looks like I ams rights. As usuals."

Toki met the Swede's grin with a sly smile, and reached out with his free hand to squeeze the taller man's arm, not caring in the least if Charles or Aina saw. Skwisgaar was part of his family now, too, and sooner or later, everyone would have to know. With any luck, they would understand—and if Odin willed it, they might even accept the way things had come to be. Toki knew life's wandering road was laced with many loops and branches, and no one—save the gods—knew which path each man would take on his journey. In some other life, perhaps his and Skwisgaar's paths might not have crossed the way they had, but in this one—in this one, they were fiercely and irrevocably intertwined.

"But still—maybe you helps me wis' dis…?" Toki replied cautiously, flickering a hopeful look at the lead guitarist.

Skwisgaar paused. He knew what Toki was asking, and it both thrilled and terrified him. He'd never thought of himself as that type of man, especially after all the dark, painful years he'd spent with Erling and his mother, but this was different. This was his life, his Toki—and he'd promised to be there for him, after all.

"Ja," he replied after a moment, shoving his hands into his pockets and smiling down at the bouncy, blonde-haired child at Toki's side. "I does dat for you… buts only you."

-----

As Skwisgaar, Charles, and Aina watched, Toki showed Emil how the wolf pups formed a wriggly, living ball of soft gray fur as they huddled together for warmth, and how they would suckle and knead at a finger poked into their tiny pink mouths, expecting their mother's milk. Emil appeared to be even more fascinated by the pups than the model plane; he stroked lovingly through the babies' downy fur and listened with wide eyes as Toki explained how the pups would grow up to be yard wolves that would roam the grounds of Mordhaus, protecting their masters and striking down any and all foes with organized and chilling precision. He left out the grislier details, such as the wolves' bloody attacks on Twinkletits and the rabid fans that occasionally tried to break into Mordland, for which Skwisgaar silently commended him—no one in Dethklok blinked an eye at violence and gore, but Toki seemed to understand enough about parenting to know those weren't stories for young children.

Since Aina wanted to keep Emil's first meeting with his father short, there was only enough time for a visit to the wolf pup pen and an afternoon snack of animal crackers and fruit juice for Emil before it was time for mother and son to depart. As the five of them made their way back to Charles' office, the manager informed Toki and Aina that he would need to speak with them privately regarding visitation privileges and the signing of certain legal documents.

"I'll have one of our best Klokateers watch Emil while we're inside. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes," Charles offered.

Skwisgaar cleared his throat and stepped up. "No needs for dat. I watches him." He nodded at Aina. "I takes good cares—oroa inte."

"Is all rights with me," Aina assured him, smiling sweetly at her fellow Swede's offer.

Toki bent down to look Emil in the eyes. "You okays to go wis' Skwisgaar for little bits?"

Emil nodded, and craned his neck to look up into the tall lead guitarist's face with shy curiosity, as though seeing him for the first time.

"Come ons," Skwisgaar said, extending his hand to the boy and feeling a warm swell of protective instinct—along with a tiny thrill of excitement—rise up in him as Emil wove his child's small, crumb-covered fingers into Skwisgaar's long, slender ones. "I shows you de guitar your daddy plays."

* * *

Epilogue

The blazing summer sun beat down on the grassy field and on the four men who were lazily tossing a football back and forth between them, as well as on the fair-haired man seated at the wooden picnic table and the equally-fair-haired child sitting in his lap. The man was helping the child position his fingers on the miniature electric guitar resting across his skinny thighs, and the boy's light blonde eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he bent his fingers awkwardly into position. The tip of his tongue poked out between his curled lips as the man guided the pad of the child's pinkie to the appropriate fret, then let go as the boy drew his other hand across the strings and strummed, producing a surprisingly pleasing (if slightly buzzy) C chord.

"Dat was very goods, Emil!" he exclaimed. "Your hands ams naturals to de stringks. Now try dis ones…"

"Jeeschus Skwischgaar, you gonna give that kid a break and letsch him play schome football with his dad?" Murderface asked, hurling the football hard at Pickles.

The red-haired drummer—whose skin had already started to turn slightly pink from the sun—caught it with an "oomph" as it sailed into his chest, and then called out, "C'maan, Skwisgeear—kid's got years to learn guiteear!"

Pickles spiraled the ball downfield to Nathan, who leapt up and caught it deftly in one large, beefy hand as though it were a baseball.

Toki said nothing, just smiled at the sight of his lover and his son seated at the picnic table, guitar balanced between their two sets of careful, talented hands. Skwisgaar's tutoring of Emil had proved that the lead guitarist could, in fact, be a good teacher when he tried.

"Is never too earlies to starts dem outs!" Skwisgaar retorted, eyeing Pickles sternly. To the Swede, the guitar—and the teaching of it—was serious business. However, to Emil, lunchtime was also serious business, and Skwisgaar's young protégé was not above interrupting a lesson when his stomach was rumbling.

The boy twisted in the Swede's lap and stared up at the man who had become, over the last few months, like a second father to him, and asked hopefully, " Can I have a snack 'n then do some more?"

Skwisgaar smiled affectionately at the request. "Ja, as long as you don't forgets what I's just shows you. Now go gets your daddy!"

The Swede lifted the guitar off Emil's lap, allowing the boy to bounce down off the picnic bench and run to his father, who stretched out his arms and lifted him up, tickling him through his grass-stained tee shirt and taunting him in Norwegian as he did so. The boy laughed and wriggled in his father's arms as he carried him over to the table.

"Wants eats lunch wis' us?" Toki asked, shifting a still-giggling Emil onto his back.

Skwisgaar stood up, slinging the child's guitar over his shoulder and then dusting off his pants. "Ja, is gettingks hots out here, anyways."

"Aw, c'mon! You're both goin' inside?" Nathan called to them in disappointment from the far side of the field.

Skwisgaar tickled Emil's stomach and whispered playfully, "We just lets dem melts out here, ja?"

"Okays!" Emil giggled, happy to agree to anything Skwisgaar proposed, regardless of whether or not he understood it.

"We be backs!" Toki reassured the singer, then turned to gaze into the face of his best friend and lover, relishing the steady calm in his glittering blue eyes and the way his shining golden hair framed his high, white, noble forehead—like one of the angels from the Bible his father had said wicked boys like him would never meet.

"Takk," he said quietly. "For everyt'ings. You saves me."

"And you saves me, little Toki," the blonde replied, his voice low and earnest as he softly ran his hand through the Norwegian's sun-warmed hair.

Across the field, Murderface groaned loudly and declared, "Oh god, they're gonna do it again. Cover your eyesch!"

But the two guitarists ignored him. Skwisgaar leaned in and met Toki's lips in a brief but fervid kiss as Emil looked on placidly, having seen the same thing many times before. As they broke away, however, a curious question sparked in the young boy's mind and, as was his custom, he immediately blurted it out.

"Daddy, does you love Uncle Skwisgaar like momma loves me?"

Toki chuckled at the serious tone in his son's voice. "Not exactlies da sames," he replied, after a moment in which he and Skwisgaar exchanged amused looks. "But ja, I does."

Satisfied with the answer, Emil snuggled his arms around his father's neck and pretended he was riding a dinosaur as they made their way across the grassy field toward the looming dragon-boat that was their home. The boy felt his father's shoulder shift beneath his arm, saw him reach out and twine his fingers into the other man's; and in a soft voice Emil knew was for Skwisgaar alone, he whispered: "And I always wills."

A Nest among the Thorns, 7/8 [Metalocalypse]

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 21:41:40 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 7/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore (*NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

"We barely remember what came before this precious moment
Choosing to be here right now
Hold on, stay inside
This body holding me, reminding me that I am not alone
This body makes me feel eternal
All this pain is an illusion"

-Tool

Toki and Skwisgaar stumbled toward the Dethcopter, clutching tightly to one another as though afraid the other would disappear if one let go. The 'copter's massive blades began to whir, fanning away the smoke from the fire behind them. Despite the pain that seared through his ankle at each step, Toki held up Skwisgaar as best he could; the lead guitarist was wheezing and sputtering and his eyes were watering so hard from the smoke that he could barely see where they were going.

As they approached the Dethcopter, an uncharacteristically alarmed-looking Charles emerged with a small army of Klokateers behind him, some of whom were decked out in fireproof suits and carrying oxygen tanks. The manager halted suddenly when he saw the two guitarists staggering toward them.

"Christ, Toki!" Charles yelled angrily, running down the steps to meet them. "You both could've been killed! You should've listened to me!" The manager's eyes were blazing and his chest was heaving with fury, but Toki didn't care if Charles yelled at him all damn night for what he'd done. All that mattered was that Skwisgaar was safe.

"Well, we's not dead! And I gets us both out, rights? Now cans we just gets outta here?" Toki shot back crossly as he lugged Skwisgaar toward the Dethcopter steps. Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface appeared in the doorway, their frightened expressions transforming into grins of relief when they saw that Toki and Skwisgaar had made it out alive.

"Dood, yer not dead!" Pickles exclaimed as Toki and Skwisgaar tottered up the stairs, then added in a low voice, "Thank fuck."

"Hey, what the hell happened to you?" Nathan asked, pointing at Skwisgaar's red-raked chest as the frontman moved to let the two guitarists through the doorway. Charles climbed in after them, scowling.

"Yeah, man—didsch you get in a fight withsch one of your old lady whoresch or schomething?" Murderface sniggered, attempting to lighten the mood. No one laughed.

Toki gritted his teeth. All he wanted was to be alone with Skwisgaar. He didn't want to answer any questions or talk about what had just happened or listen to Charles chew him out for saving Skwisgaar's life. And he could tell, by the Swede's silence and the way he was avoiding the others' eyes, that he felt the same way.

"He's ams fine. Just leaves us alone," Toki said squarely, placing a protective arm around Skwisgaar's naked back.

Charles cleared his throat. "I really think you both ought to get checked out by a doctor before you go anywhere. You're limping and Skwisgaar's obviously been… injured." The manager sounded as confused about Skwisgaar's wounds as the rest of the band looked. Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface eyed Toki and Skwisgaar warily, trying to work out what was going on between the two guitarists.

"I says we's fine," Toki said firmly as a Klokateer slid the heavy steel door closed and the Dethcopter began its smooth ascent into the night sky, which was blazing with orange light from the fire below. "We's goin's to get cleans up now."

Charles sighed. He knew Toki wasn't going to budge. Whatever the rhythm guitarist needed to work out with Skwisgaar was going to come first, whether he liked it or not. And really, he owed the man a little privacy—he'd been forced to turn the young Norwegian's life upside down enough as it was.

"All right," he answered, scrubbing a hand across his forehand. "Get some rest, all of you. We have a long flight home and sympathies to extend in the morning. People aren't going to forget this show anytime soon."

-----

Toki guided Skwisgaar through the maze of narrow hallways inside the Dethcopter to his bedroom, which was a near-replica of his room at Mordhaus. Once inside, Skwisgaar sank weakly onto the bed, gathering Toki's blue down comforter in his arms and hugging it to his chest.

"Skwisgaar?" Toki asked apprehensively, shutting the door with a soft click. He shuffled to the bed and sat, eyeing the lead guitarist with concern. In the soft yellow light from the bedside lamp, Toki could see that the Swede's eyes were bloodshot and that his skin, beneath the smoke smudges, was pallid and beaded with sweat. Beneath one puffy, red-rimmed eye, a muscle twitched restlessly. "You's, um, don't look so goods."

Skwisgaar bit his lip, leaving two small, dry marks in the delicate flesh. "I's fine—just dizzy. Just needs to—sits down for little whiles."

Toki propped up his good foot on the edge of the bed and hugged his knee awkwardly to his chest, wrestling with himself. Skwisgaar was clearly not fine—anyone could see that. Should he ask him what had gone wrong? What was so terrible that it had made him want to smolder inside that circle of flames rather than continue living his charmed life as Dethklok's brightest star?

"Whats… whats happens to you outs dere?" Toki asked quietly, turning to look into Skwisgaar's eyes, but the Swede's downturned face was hidden by a ragged mop of blonde hair. Only the tip of his long, regal nose was visible.

"Is not'ingks," he answered, still staring at the floor. "Not'ingks at alls."

Toki sighed. "Dat's not good answers and you knows it."

Skwisgaar was silent. Toki knew he wasn't going to talk. He was going to make Toki pull it out of him, bit by bloody bit, until they were both covered in the putrid gore of their unraveling. So dis whats it feels like to nots be trusteds. No wonder Skwisgaar had been angry with him.

"I can tells… is somet'ings not rights with you, Skwisgaar," he cautiously began. "Has not been rights for long times. You t'inks you don'ts need anybody, but is nots true. You needs me. We needs each others."

Toki paused, waiting for Skwisgaar to say something, but the Swede remained quiet.

"I sorries I don'ts tell you sooner I has a kid—" Odin, how strange those words sounded rolling off his tongue! "—And I sorries for… you knows. Dat not-good sexes last nights. Its ams… not rights for me to do's dat." Toki paused uneasily, feeling his cheeks grow warm as the thought occurred to him that Skwisgaar might not even care that he was apologizing.

The blonde guitarist sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of one thin, pale hand, and was still. Toki opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter another word, Skwisgaar said, in a low voice, "I's not greats big whore you all t'inks I ams. Dere's reasons for t'ings I do's."

Toki was taken aback. What could Skwisgaar possibly mean by reasons? The Swede had always seemed to regard sex as a particularly entertaining and elaborate game—one at which he excelled, of course, but still a game. What reason could he have for sleeping with a different woman every night of the week other than pleasure?

"Ja, I has lots of sex. But everybodies does, just nots you."

Toki frowned, eyebrows knitting together in irritation. "I has sexes! Gots a kid dat way, didn'ts I?"

Skwisgaar sighed, and his voice sounded dull and detached as he continued. "Ja, ja, I knows—you's rights. I just means—I sleeps wis' so many ladies because… it's likes pains-killingks. I gots to haves it."

Toki's eyebrows shot up. Now he was really confused. "What's you means? I don'ts get it."

Skwisgaar turned to him, and Toki saw two small, glistening tear-tracks running down each cheek. The Swede's steel-blue eyes shone with wetness and his forehead was scrunched in pain.

"Toki, I has to tells you somet'ingks. But is privates—no ones else can be knowingks it."

"I's here." Toki stretched out his hand and ran it along the length of Skwisgaar's arm. Despite the clamminess of his skin, the flesh was still soft.

Skwisgaar looked down at his own hands, which were drawn into a tight knot his lap. He twisted his fingers together nervously, and Toki could see he was fighting with himself, torn between the desire to close the diminishing space between them and the urge to step back from the edge; to remain isolated, alone.

Toki lowered his head until he was level with the Swede's eyes. "Skwisgaar, we needs to be trustings each others now. I alreadies fucks up once, and I never does dats agains. I trusts you—now you gots to trusts me."

The Swede's face softened and his shoulders sagged in resignation. "You ams rights, little Toki. You always ams." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. "Dis reasons I's always havingks ladies back to my rooms… is more dan just sex. Is fun, ja, but dat's not all its be for. I has—" he coughed suddenly, and the sound was like rip-cord being pulled on a lawn mower. Toki winced. He was definitely going to make sure Skwisgaar saw a doctor after this was over.

"I has—" he continued, swallowing harshly, "—dis pains. In my hands. De bones, I t'inks." Skwisgaar held up his ten knobby-knuckled, long-stemmed fingers to illustrate. "Is bad at nights, is worse in de morningks. Sometimes makes it hards to play. But de sex be helpingks—is like medicines, almost."

Toki gaped at his band mate, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. "How—how longs dis be happenings?" Toki asked in a hushed voice, fully aware now why Skwisgaar had been so hesitant to tell him.

"Is happeningks for years. Ever since—" the Swede gritted his teeth and a dark look crossed his face, transforming his tired, pale features into a stony mask of hatred, "—since dis times I's young, in Sweden. Was dis man—we lives wis' him, her and me."

He can'ts even says "mother," Toki thought sadly to himself. As much as his parents frightened him, he could still verbally acknowledge the fact that they were his mother and father.

"He pushes me down de stairs and I falls, breaks dese fingers—" Skwisgaar explained, holding up the five fingers on his right hand and the last three on his left, "—and here." He touched the pad of his thumb to the inside of his right wrist, rubbing a small circle into the flesh, and Toki noticed, for the first time, a long, thin, nearly invisible scar running parallel to the tendon.

"Hands was never de sames after dats. Heals wrongs, I t'inks, but maybes dat's what helps me play guitars so fast. I don't knows. But later—is almost seven year ago, de pain starts. Is tears-a-bulls—feels like burningks. Is all in fingers and de wrist, same places. I tries makes it go aways, but pills don'ts helps. Only t'ings helps is sex, and sometimes drinkingks. And drugs."

Toki stared, open-mouthed, at the Swede. It made him ache to think of how many sleepless nights Skwisgaar must have spent curled up in pain; how many times he'd had to inebriate himself to the point of numbness just to feel normal.

"Whats—whats drugs?" he asked faintly.

"Pot sometimes, but nots be helpingks always. Opium de best, but problem is once I starts, cans not stops. Hads to un-tox two times. Hardest t'ings I ever did do's." The Swede gulped and sniffed hard, trying his best to keep his composure. "I even takes it tonights for de show. But I gets too high and… is all fuckeds to shits now, anyways. I don'ts knows what else to do's."

"Skwisgaar…" Toki uttered softly, not daring to say anything more. There were no words to tell him how sorry he was, how desperately he wished the Swede had confided in him sooner. The Norwegian picked up one of the lead guitarist's slender, pale hands in his and massaged the knuckles gently with his thumbs.

Skwisgaar exhaled raggedly, just managing to contain a sob. "Maybe soons you be de fastest, ja?" The Swede's watery eyes met Toki's icy blue ones, and the sad half-smile on his face nearly broke the rhythm guitarist's heart. There had to be something he could do, some way he could pull Skwisgaar out of the pit of despair into which he'd thrown himself.

Or maybe—

Maybe he could convince Skwisgaar to help himself.

"No, is not time for dats yet," Toki said firmly. "You's still de best. I knows it, everybodies knows it. Is de ways t'ings supposed to be. But you don'ts has to be having dis pains, Skwisgaar! Dey has medicines for dis."

"Ja, but is makes me all loopies upstairs," Skwisgaar protested, pointing to his head and waving his index finger in a circle. "Beliefs me."

Toki wasn't giving up. Medicinal breakthroughs happened all the time. Surely there was a new cure for Skwisgaar—something he hadn't tried? "Oh ja? And when's de last times you takes real medicines?" he asked defensively.

Skwisgaar grimaced. "Is… t'ree or four year ago, I t'inks. Dat stuff makes me so nuts I stops it after a weeks. Is not like beingks high—is differents. Bads. Dis-comf-stor-bles."

"Ja, but maybes dere's somet'ings new! Somet'ings not so bads! And you won'ts never knows it 'til you asks."

"Buts—"

"No buts," Toki said firmly. "Tomorrows we go to da 'hauspitals first t'ings in da mornings. I go wis' you. We find somet'ings to fixes you, I promise."

Skwisgaar closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. "Okays, but I's tellingks you—dere's not'ingks to fix dis. Not de way is needingks to be fix."

"Let da doctors figures dat out," Toki replied reassuringly, leaning over and nuzzling his lips against Skwisgaar's neck. Now that the air between them was (mostly) clear, he could turn his mind to other things. Like the tense curve of Skwisgaar's shoulders that begged to be rubbed, and the sore-looking gashes on his chest that needed to be cleaned and bandaged.

Skwisgaar shivered at Toki's touch. "Is cold in heres."

Toki dragged the blue comforter off the mattress and wrapped it snugly around the Swede's shoulders, then drew him to his chest as he pulled them both down onto the bed, facing one another. He ran a hand through Skwisgaar's sweat-soaked, cinder-scented hair, loving the way it looked even when it was dirty and mussed.

Toki had always thought Skwisgaar was like the winter sun, shining brightly but offering no warmth, but now he knew he'd been mistaken. The Swede was a fiery lover with passions as hot as the blaze they'd left behind—quick to anger and quicker to laugh. But, like Toki, a part of him had been beaten out of him at a young age—too young for him to understand how to get it back. Skwisgaar's secrets ran deeper and uglier than the Norwegian could have imagined. He was, now that Toki thought about it, more like the moon—shadowed, mysterious, and ever-changing.

Skwisgaar gazed at Toki with a troubled look in his tired blue eyes and allowed the Norwegian to stroke his hair, his shoulders, his hands, his hips—every part of him that Toki could reach, reaffirming that, yes, Skwisgaar was here and he was alive—the flames had not taken him, and all was well between them.

Or was it?

Skwisgaar spoke Toki's thoughts before the Norwegian had time to voice them. "But whats about us?" The question hung on the air between them like a silken thread, a spider web—fragile-seeming floss that, while easily swayed by the wind, was actually tough as steel in its own way.

Toki exhaled lightly, his breath stirring the hair around Skwisgaar's face. Now was the time to be honest, if ever there was one.

"I's nots lyings when I says for evig," the Norwegian said quietly. "I wants dat. So bad. I wants dose blue eyes to be da first t'ings I sees when I wakes up, and da last t'ings I sees before I dies. Is what I always wants. I just… never t'inks you wants dat, too."

Skwisgaar turned his face into Toki's shoulder and did not reply. Toki could feel warm wetness soaking into his shirt and sliding down his skin, and he circled his arms around Skwisgaar's back as a shuddering sigh escaped the Swede's lips. After a minute, Skwisgaar swallowed thickly and answered, his breath puffing out hot against Toki's shoulder through the thin fabric of his tee shirt.

"I wants dat too, Toki. I always has."

-----

The two guitarists lay in an exhausted, tangled heap in Skwisgaar's bed in Mordhaus. They'd fallen asleep on the Dethcopter for the remainder of their three-and-a-half-hour flight home, but as soon as the 'copter had hit the landing pad Charles had rushed Toki and Skwisgaar to the on-duty physician, who'd instructed Toki to stay off his sprained ankle and had given Skwisgaar a bottle of hydrogen peroxide for his scratches and lozenges for his cough.

Skwisgaar was thankful the doctor had classified his condition as "minor smoke inhalation," because Charles was shooting daggers at Toki from his eyes during the entire exam, as though it was the Norwegian's fault. Normally, Skwisgaar would've told Charles not to get his panties in a knot and flounced out of the exam room without a second thought, but he was too tired to protest. He nodded and took the bag of medicines the doctor gave him, and then let himself be led to the dining room with the rest of the band, where he was fed something that looked delicious but which he could barely taste. Afterwards, Toki slipped his hand into the Swede's and Skwisgaar followed him up the huge, curving staircase to their bedrooms, although he no longer felt like he was floating since the effects of the opium had worn off.

They'd taken a long, lazy shower, and Toki had gently washed the scratches on his chest with soap and a sponge, and then bandaged them with clean gauze afterward. The little Norwegian could barely look at him while he was doing it, and something inside Skwisgaar's chest ached beneath the soreness of his flesh as he watched Toki carefully measure out the tape and press it gently to the gauze, his long, dark hair swinging into his face and his cheeks flushed with heat from the shower. Skwisgaar wanted badly to kiss him at that moment, but he knew he needed to let Toki finish—it was the Norwegian's way of "fixing" him, and the seriousness with which he carried out his silent apology was touchingly apparent.

Now they were curled up in his bed, face to face, legs woven together in a loose, slinky knot, and each too full of thoughts to sleep. Skwisgaar could feel Toki staring at him through the darkness. The Swede cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"So, you's meetingks him tomorrows?"

After a moment, Toki answered, his voice tinged with apprehension, "Ja." Then, with a hint of pleased surprise: "You remembers?"

"'Course I remembers. Dis big t'ings for you."

"I guess," Toki sighed.

"Wells, if you's goingks to meets dis kid," Skwisgaar said matter-of-factly, shifting onto his back to ease the soreness in his muscles, "I's be dere wis' you. If you wants."

A choked sound of acknowledgement escaped Toki's mouth and he swallowed, burying his words. He stretched out his arm, moonlight rippling silver along his skin, and touched a hand to Skwisgaar's chest, right over his heart.

"Takk," he whispered, tracing a finger against the padded gauze covering the Swede's torn skin. Skwisgaar's flesh prickled at the faint touch and a small shiver ran through his shoulders and up the back of his neck as he realized it had been nearly two days since he'd gotten off. Two days of confusion and anger and hurt and pain—old memories like soggy corpses rising to the surface and causing everything they touched to fester, to decay. Still, the only redemption he could imagine finding was here, in his bed—not in between the legs of some nameless stranger, but in Toki's arms.

Skwisgaar vaguely wondered if he should be worried. He didn't like not being in control, and the way Toki made him feel with each softly-spoken word, each knowing glance, each soothing touch in the darkness, was anything but self-possessed.

When Toki spoke again, his voice was tilted with sorrow as his fingers roamed Skwisgaar's bandaged chest. "I sorries I hurts you… I… not means it."

"I knows dat," Skwisgaar replied after a moment. "Is you dreamingks. Can'ts helps it." He paused again, closing his eyes as he felt his body begin to respond to Toki's hand, which had drifted to his abdomen and was now caressing his stomach, his hips. "What's—what's you dreamingks about dat makes you so scares?"

Toki shifted onto his elbow and slid down the mattress, licking and nibbling along Skwisgaar's side as he did so. "It's not matters anymores… everybodies ams safe now," the Norwegian mumbled faintly as he nipped at the smooth skin along Skwisgaar's upper thigh and wrapped his hand around the Swede's hardening cock.

Skwisgaar squirmed in pleasure as Toki's touch aroused a hot, fluid rush in his groin that slowly spread throughout his body, setting his delicate nerves afire and causing the pain in his legs and back (which had been jarred by the jump from the stage) to ebb.

"Mmmms… you be wantingks de good sex now, ja?" Skwisgaar teased, imagining the blush creeping into Toki's cheeks as he reached out and lazily tripped his fingers down the raised planes of the brunette's rigid abs. He gazed into the young Norwegian's face, and in the faint splash of moonlight Skwisgaar saw a beautiful, almost alien brightness in his half-lidded eyes and the hint of a smile curving upon his lips.

Toki pulled himself back up to Skwisgaar and pressed his mouth against the blonde's, deeply, longingly; then uncurled his hand from around the Swede's shaft and snaked down the smooth flesh of his inner thigh. His fingers slid purposefully between Skwisgaar's legs, and the blonde murmured in startled pleasure as Toki's guitar-seasoned fingertips pressed at his entrance, teasing him.

"Skwisgaar…"

"Ja?" he asked, sucking in his breath and tilting his hips as Toki slid one finger halfway inside.

"I wants you. I wants to haves you… be insides you." Toki paused, licking a slow circle with his tongue around Skwisgaar's left nipple, then raised his head. "Does you… wants me… do's dat?"

Skwisgaar arched his back as Toki sank another finger inside, and the liquid heat in his loins throbbed and ached with a fiery, desperate need. Everything in his body was screaming Yes! but the proposition gave his mind pause. He'd never been dominated by another man, and he'd halfway hoped that Toki wouldn't bring up the subject, at least not for a while—although, at the same time, he knew it wasn't fair to deny Toki that pleasure.

Skwisgaar took a deep breath as Toki moved his fingers inside of him—slowly, gently. "Ja—I wants dat," he answered decisively.

Toki kissed Skwisgaar's wet, hardened nipple in reply and slid his fingers out. Skwisgaar felt a small tremor of anticipation run through his body as he listened to Toki rustle around in the built-in drawer on the other side of the bed frame for the lube.

"How's you wants do's dis—?" he asked as Toki rolled back to the middle of the bed and popped the cap on the bottle. It was far too quiet in here, Skwisgaar thought as Toki squeezed out a generous palmful of the stuff and slathered himself with it. Every sound was amplified—he could even hear the fluttering of his own heart beneath his ribcage, and it unnerved him.

But Toki's warm, endearingly uneven smile immediately melted Skwisgaar's apprehension like sunlight on spring frost. The Norwegian lowered his mouth to the Swede's, hungry lips grazing across parted teeth, and his warm, steady hand moved to spread the remainder of the lube between Skwisgaar's thighs.

"I be behinds you. I goes slow," Toki said, his voice low, eager. Skwisgaar shifted onto his side as Toki pressed up against his back, his slick erection teasing and rubbing against his ass. The sensation sent tingles racing all throughout the Swede's lower body, and he arched into Toki's groin as the Norwegian curled a hand around Skwisgaar's hip and pulled him closer, whispering breathily into his ear, "I's gonna make dis feels so goods…"

"Mmmhnnns," Skwisgaar murmured as the head of Toki's cock nudged inside of him. He could feel his muscles expanding as Toki sank in another inch—then two—and then he flinched at the dull burning sensation that arose. But Toki was patient and waited for Skwisgaar's calloused fingertips to guide him before moving in any deeper.

Skwisgaar had, of course, had plenty of anal sex over the years—more recently with Toki—but he'd never thought about how it might feel to be on the receiving end. Toki had never complained, though—not even after the first night, when they'd been too drunk and too caught up in the heat of the moment to be careful or slow. Skwisgaar's thighs trembled a little as the pressure mounted, and he briefly wondered if this was how it felt for Toki every time, or just the first.

His thoughts were cut short as Toki pushed in another inch—then all the way in—and the Swede gasped as Toki slowly began to thrust, moaning faintly against the back of his neck. The hot flare of pain melted away as Skwisgaar moved with him, matching Toki's pace, and for the first time in his life he was completely and totally under the Norwegian's control. Slick teeth and hot breath tickled Skwisgaar's shoulder and he hitched his hips higher, reveling in the absolute fullness of having Toki inside him.

"Gods—you feels… ngggh… so goods!" Toki said shakily, and groaned as Skwisgaar reached behind him and snugged a hand around the brunette's hip, pushing him closer, deeper, harder. Toki wrapped his hand around Skwisgaar's cock in response and stroked, long and full, and the Swede cried out as Toki's fingertips brushed the ridge of his sensitive head. Sweat smeared between their bodies, hearts hammering as one, they moved together in an unscripted, perfect rhythm, Toki rocking in and then pulling halfway out as Skwisgaar clenched and then drew back for the next thrust.

Toki's strong fingers slid along Skwisgaar's shaft with fervent ease, bringing him closer to orgasm with each stroke. "Oh… ja… fuck! Keeps doingks dat!" Skwisgaar panted, licking his lips and digging his nails into the sides of Toki's ass and pulling, straining. The fire was searing through his body and his mind was bare of everything except the thrust of Toki inside him, hot and wet and deliciously hard, and the slow, tingling pressure that was building in his groin, threatening to spill over with each new sensation, each swipe of Toki's tongue against his skin and each moan that escaped the Norwegian's lips, leaving them both breathless.

Skwisgaar shifted his hips and tucked his left knee behind the sweaty crease of Toki's leg, steering him to a higher angle, and all at once bright spots of ecstasy exploded inside the rolling, fluid darkness in his mind as Toki drove in, hitting the same spot he'd found with his fingers during the blow job in the recording booth. Skwisgaar felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him for one wild, glorious second and he thought he'd finally cum, but when he surfaced there was still the scorching, swelling pulse of heat inside his belly and Toki's hand was still stroking new waves of pleasure through his body.

"Annnnnnrgh!" The sound tore from Skwisgaar's throat with such fury that Toki faltered briefly in his movement, perhaps afraid that he'd hurt his lover somehow. But the long, aching moan that followed let Toki know that he'd found the spot again and that the rough buck of Skwisgaar's ass against his crotch was a plea to go faster, deeper—Oh does dat agains, gods please—oh Toki!

Toki drove in hard when he heard Skwisgaar cry his name, nearly sending himself over the edge. His heart was pounding in his ears and he could smell the heady fragrance of Skwisgaar's shampoo and taste the musky, salty tang of sweat on the blonde's skin; their legs tangled and slipped against one another's as their rhythm quickened, breaking and then rejoining as they both hurtled uncontrollably toward climax. Skwisgaar was like a wild thing beside him, all sharp hips and lusty snarls and nails scratching red lines into Toki's muscled thighs, and—untamed though he might be, the Swede was his now—his and no one else's—finally and forever.

Toki buried his face into Skwisgaar's back, open mouth crushed against the blonde's moist flesh, and stroked him hard as he plunged inside him sharp and deep and fast, knowing he had only a few precious moments of blazing, searing bliss before the deep, rapturous fall into orgasm. Skwisgaar's moans grew high and quick as Toki's hand coaxed him closer, and then a strangled, wordless, elated cry escaped his lips as Toki gave a fierce, final thrust.

"Ohhmmm—Skwis—!" Toki groaned, breathing in sharply and cutting off the last syllable as he came, spilling hotly into Skwisgaar as the warm, sticky fluid of the Swede's orgasm simultaneously flowed into his hand.

A surge of nameless feeling swelled inside Toki's breast as his orgasm buzzed throughout his body, and for the first time he understood—really, deeply understood—why it had always been Skwisgaar. Simply put, it had to be. Toki had never loved anyone else—not even his parents—and he was fairly sure he never would. That space in his heart, so empty before he'd joined Dethklok, had been filled over the years with alternately callous and encouraging words; visions of pale, slender limbs beneath tight-fitting clothes; and surreptitious, blue-eyed glances—always Skwisgaar's; no one else's. And now he knew that space inside himself would never grow any larger, because it had already molded to the Swede's form and no amount of shaping or prying would ever be able to change it. And for that, he was glad.

After a moment, Skwisgaar carefully moved his hips forward, allowing Toki to slide out of him. "Toki—you's—ahhhnn," the blonde gasped, chuckling at his own gibberish as he panted, trying to catch his breath. The Norwegian breathed out hot into the Swede's soft, flaxen mane, his chest heaving against the other's back as he willed his racing heart to slow.

"How—how's you doings? Okays?" Toki stuttered as Skwisgaar rolled over on his back and turned his beautiful, high-boned face to him. The moonlight spilled over his skin, coloring it a creamy white, and his eyes shone darkly as he smiled.

"Betters now, after dats," the Swede said, lazily folding his arms in back of his head. "You?"

"Amazings," Toki answered honestly, tracing a finger across the ridge of Skwisgaar's collarbone.

They were both quiet a moment, still wallowing in post-orgasmic calm and mulling over the wisps of wondering thoughts that floated silently through their minds like the gauzy gray clouds across the moon outside the window. As Toki watched, a concerned look crossed Skwisgaar's face and his brow wrinkled as he turned to look the Norwegian in the eyes.

"Whats?" Toki asked worriedly.

"I never do's dats with anyones else. Never will—just you. Only you," the Swede said vehemently, but in the sea-blue depths of his eyes Toki saw a yearning softness, and his heart swelled as he realized that Skwisgaar had just told him, in his own way, that he loved him also.

"Goods, 'cause I don'ts wants to shares you wis' anyones else," Toki replied, and leaned in to place a deep kiss on Skwisgaar's flushed mouth. When Skwisgaar kissed back, arms curling closely around the Norwegian's sides, Toki could feel it tingling in his thighs.

A Nest among the Thorns, 6/8 [Metalocalypse]

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 21:54:09 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 6/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

"Blue water, blue eyes color me
If any could come this close, I'd let them see
Looking at the world through elusive eyes
I hide in the spotlight—it's a great disguise

Ain't that what you want them to know?
All they get of you is what they get out of the show
The rest is mine, I guess—
The beauty and the mess, to hide"

-Nickel Creek

When Skwisgaar awoke, Toki was gone. The Norwegian's tee shirt and pants had been picked up off the floor, one half of the blanket had been neatly folded up—and the sheets on his side of the bed were cold. Skwisgaar rubbed his eyes with his fists, ignoring the dull pain that flared through his knuckles at the touch. The disastrous events of the previous night clawed at his memory like a rabid animal, screeching to be let in—Toki on top of him, drunk and needy and wanton; Toki behind him, laying a soft hand on his back and beseeching him to come inside; Toki right next to him, crying out in the throes of his dreams and tearing at him with those same soft hands, those guitar-seasoned fingers, leaving long, jagged scratches like exclamation points in Skwisgaar's flesh. It had the bizarre, slightly artificial feel of a bad acid trip—a hallucination—a nightmare. Skwisgaar might've been willing to consider those possibilities if not for the scalding burst of pain that seared across his torso at the memory of Toki's unintentional attack. The Swede's shoulders twitched as he pushed down the blood-stained sheets and lifted up his tee shirt, and he briefly wondered what Toki had seen in his dream that had made him lash out so violently.

He peeled back a gummy, pink-stained strip of gauze and cringed as a newly-formed scab came away with the cloth. Although the skin was still raw the scratches had already started to heal, and none of the wounds were pussing, which he assumed was a good sign. Skwisgaar closed his eyes and breathed in deep, causing the torn skin across his ribs to stretch painfully. What a fuckingks dildos clustersfuck. Skwisgaar knew it had been an accident, but he also knew that Toki wouldn't see it that way—which was probably why he'd left without waking him. On the other hand, Toki's refusal to trust him with his secret had not been an accident—and the worst part was that Toki had said it in complete honesty. Skwisgaar knew, because the Norwegian's eyes never lied.

An uneasy feeling arose in the Swede's stomach as he sat up and glanced at the clock. It was just after eleven a.m.—the Phlegethon show was in less than seven hours. The familiar pain was jolting through his wrists and hands in waves now, begging to be assuaged in some way, any way. Maybe if he'd gotten off last night… but the thought rang hollow as he remembered Toki's voice drunkenly protesting, "{n}I thought you liked getting laid{/n}."

"Ah fuck," he sighed to the silent, white room. Somehow, the stark angles and planes of his dwelling seemed utterly lifeless without Toki's presence, which was just as maddening as the memory of Toki's callous words. More irritating still, the room had taken on Toki's warm, honey-and-sunshine smell and mingled with it Skwisgaar's own deep, spicy scent, so that the bed, his fur blanket—even the air¬—was a constant olfactory reminder of the long, heated nights they'd spent tangled in each other's limbs. How had he let the little Norwegian get so deep under his skin? And had it been a mistake—or just the opposite? Skwisgaar groaned in aggravation and slid out of bed, tugging off his baggy tee shirt in the process. He didn't handle this kind of confusion well, which meant it was probably best not to over-analyze upon awakening.

He padded to the bathroom and flipped on the light switch, washing the room in a cold glow. Light bounced off the shining surface of the white marble vanity, reflecting onto his skin as he glanced up at himself in the mirror, and he was startled by the unfamiliar vision staring back at him. His hair was still sticky and tangled from where Toki had wiped out the blood, and violet-hued bags bloomed beneath his eyes, which were puffy and sore from rubbing.

He lifted a hand, grazed his fingertips across his sunken cheekbones and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked like shit. He looked old. In fact, he almost looked like—

No you don'ts. Don'ts you dare t'inks it. You ams never be likes her!

Skwisgaar's stomach gave a lurch and he gritted his teeth, clamping down on the half-formed thought and tearing it away before it could sink its blood-red fingernails into his mind. In an effort to distract himself, he tenderly pulled off the remainder of the gauze, taking care not to rip off any more of the gooey brown scabs knitting the scratches closed. Little jolts of pain skittered across the wounds as the air hit them, but in truth, they didn't look as bad as they had the night before. That was something to be thankful for, at least.

Leaving the bloodied gauze in a pile on the vanity counter (someone would clean it up later), Skwisgaar stepped into the shower and hissed as the warm water hit his skin and filtered into the deepest gashes, cleansing them. The soap stung and he rinsed it off quickly, taking care to spritz away the trail of foam it left behind; he hated soap scum even more than he hated fans, and that was saying a lot. He felt better afterward—cleaner in body, if not in mind—although the heated water did nothing to diminish the throbbing ache in his hands.

A shiver of sick anticipation ghosted through Skwisgaar's body as he dressed, not bothering to re-bandage his chest. He knew what he had to do, and more than his own performance depended upon it. He had to prove to the band—and to himself—that he could lead them tonight just as well as he always had. It was time to talk to Pickles.

-----

"So where'd ya go ahff to yesterday, anyway?" Pickles' muffled voice floated out to Skwisgaar from the depths of the drummer's bedroom closet, which was piled high with dirty laundry, little-used percussion equipment, and several crates of ancient VHS porno tapes that Pickles refused to throw away for "sentimental reasons." Pickles was on his hands and knees, digging through the stash of chemicals he kept buried away in a cabinet at the back of the closet, searching for the requested substance.

Skwisgaar, who was leaning against the closet doorframe, turned his head from the pile of empty liquor bottles in the corner of the room, which he was somewhat relieved to see was still larger than Toki's collection. "Whats you means?"

"Yanno—yesterday, when—ow! Fuckin' shelves—jammin' my fuckin' fingers…" Pickles muttered, sucking on the offended digit as he continued to dig with his other hand. "Yeeah. When, uh—when Toki was talkin' to us."

"Eh, practicingks. You knows—gots to do's it," Skwisgaar answered vaguely as he reached out to graze a fingertip across a dusty constellation of skinny, conjoined drums that was propped up against the wall. "What's ams dese?" he demanded, purposefully changing the subject.

"What's what?" Pickles asked, withdrawing his head from the hidden cabinet and glancing over his shoulder at the Swede.

"Dese—" Skwisgaar pointed to the small black circle of drums, "—T'ings here."

"Oh. Those are ahctobahns. Like tom-toms, beeasically. Yanno."

"I never sees you plays dems before."

Pickles chuckled and turned back to his storehouse. "Well, they don't reeally go too well with our stuff. But they're still fun to pleeay."

"Ah." At a loss for something more to say, Skwisgaar folded his arms and allowed his eyes to rove over the drummer's stone-walled room, which somehow appeared disorganized and empty at the same time. Toki's bedroom was the exact opposite—neat piles of clutter adorned every nook and surface, and the numerous photos on the walls and dog-eared rows of books lining the shelves gave the space a homey, lived-in feeling—a safe feeling. Skwisgaar didn't have any family photos on his walls. In his world, "family" was a four-letter word.

"You has talks to Toki todays?" the guitarist asked abruptly, although it was unlikely that Pickles would've seen Toki when Skwisgaar himself had been unable to find him. He'd stopped by the Norwegian's bedroom on the way to see Pickles, but the door was wide open and no one was inside—and what was more, Toki's guitar was missing from its stand. The thought of Toki practicing on his own, without any outside motivation, almost brought a smile to Skwisgaar's face. Almost.

"Sahrry dood—haven't seen 'im," Pickles mumbled beneath the rustle of what sounded like tinfoil scraping against plastic. "So whaddaya think about this whole 'daddy' thing, aeenyway? Kinda weird, innit? I mean—that he's goin' along with it."

Skwisgaar tensed. This was not a subject he wanted to discuss, but he had to say something or Pickles might get suspicious.

"I… don'ts knows." He paused, remembering the stricken look on Toki's face just before he'd turned and walked out of the rec room. "Is dependingks on if it's be makingks him happy, I guess."

"Score!" came Pickles' triumphant voice from the back of the closet, saving Skwisgaar from the need for further elaboration. The drummer emerged with a grin on his pale, freckled face, holding aloft a clear glass baby food jar with a small, purplish-black lump of goo sticking to the bottom. "Found yer auntie!"

Skwisgaar eyed the jar warily, although he could already feel his taste buds tingling in anticipation of the sweet, heady smoke. The ball of opium looked incredibly moist, which meant it was still fresh. Pickles could always be counted on to provide the good stuff.

"Gahd, I dunno why that took so fuckin' long. I get this stuff an' put it somewhere and—well, yanno. Alcohol's not so great fer short-term mem'ry." Pickles tapped the side of his temple with his index finger and smiled again. "I got a little somethin' special fer myself tonight, if you wanna try—custom blotters! Whaddaya say?"

"No t'anks. How much's you wants for it?" Skwisgaar asked, the drummer's words barely registering in his mind. He couldn't take his eyes off the tarry black ball. He just needed to smoke a little to ease the fire in his hands, then he'd be fine… he could give the rest back later. Or maybe he'd keep it, just in case—just for emergencies.

"No weeay, dood!" Pickles crooned, waving dismissively at the lead guitarist with one hand and shoving the baby food jar into Skwisgaar's mangled chest with the other, which elicited a whimper of pain from the Swede that he quickly transformed into a grunt, "—Don't try an' pay me. Jus' invite me next time you 'n Toki decide to get baked before recordin', deal?"

"Uh, ja—deals."

Pickles perched his hands on his hips and tilted his head at his band mate. "So… you gotta pipe, or d'ya need one?"

Skwisgaar held the jar up to the weak light filtering down from the single bulb in the closet, eyes roaming satisfactorily over the oily black lump inside. After his last detox, he'd promised himself to never go back to this midnight hell. It had been weeks before the muscle spasms had dissipated, and even longer before he'd stopped craving it with every ragged, waking breath. Still, where his guitar was concerned—there was really no question. He had to be the best, the fastest—the guitar god, the sultan of shredding. If he didn't have that, he didn't have anything—not anymore. Not since Toki had unraveled the gossamer threads of trust from around his heart and tried to fuck him like a goddamn whore.

"Ja, I has a pipe," Skwisgaar answered, the words slipping dully off his tongue as he lowered the jar and, flashing the best fake smile he could muster, nodded appreciatively at Pickles. "Tack."

-----

"Shit!"

Toki threw himself back against the flimsy wooden wall as full bottle of champagne rocketed, bullet-like, through the air less than an inch from his face. There was a deep thunk as the projectile collided with the polished wooden body of the guitar in Nathan's hands, and Toki threw his hands over his eyes as the bottle shattered into a million glittering, wet glass shards.

"Oh crap!" Murderface exclaimed, lowering his throwing arm.

Nathan straightened up as Toki cautiously peeped out from between his hands. "Sorry, Toki. Didn't see ya there," the frontman grunted.

"What's da fucks you doin's?" the rhythm guitarist squeaked, half in fright and half in intrigue. The last thing he'd expected to see backstage at the Phlegethon Metalfest was two of his band mates playing baseball with full bottles of wine and a guitar.

Nathan chuckled. "We're freakin' out the band that's on now. They're gettin' ready to do an encore since we got here late."

Toki's eyes followed the trail of glass and spilled liquor to the curtain dividing them from the stage, and observed a large pool of champagne leaking under the hanging fabric. There was a patchwork of large wet spots soaking into the curtain and little shards of dark-colored glass embedded in it, too—right behind where Toki imagined the band's drummer must be sitting.

"But… who's belongings to dats guitars?" Toki asked, eyeing the crumpled steel mess that used to be the instrument's strings.

Nathan shrugged. "Dunno. It ain't one of ours, so who cares?"

The singer nodded at Murderface and, slinging the guitar behind his shoulder, assumed a ferocious-looking batting stance as the bassist grabbed another bottle from the open crate behind him. Toki stepped to the side, well out of the way of Nathan's aim, and watched as Murderface flung the flagon by the neck into the air. Baring his teeth in a determined scowl, Nathan sent the round curve of the guitar's side crashing into the butt-end of the bottle, exploding it from the bottom and spraying glass and champagne all over the three of them. The head of the container—which was still carrying the cork—smacked into the curtain and fell to the wooden floor, where it rolled beneath the cloth and disappeared onto the stage.

"Uh-huh—score!" Nathan smirked.

"That wasch aweschome!" Murderface crowed, pumping the air with a dripping fist.

Suddenly, a bald head—presumably the other band's drummer's, by the look of irritation on his bearded face—poked between the opening in the curtain.

"Seriously dude, whats da fu—?" the man shouted, but his eyes grew wide and his mouth twisted into an 'O' of surprise as he realized he was yelling at none other than Nathan Explosion.

The face disappeared swiftly behind the flap, followed by a rapid string of syllables in what sounded to Toki like Old Norse, although the only word he could make out over the sound of the crowd was "Dethklok!"

"Oh fuck," Nathan said, grimacing. "They found us."

Murderface sighed dramatically. "Scheriously, why can't we ever juscht have fun at thesche schows? And why can't they get any Englisch-schpeaking bandsch?"

Their impromptu baseball game now spoiled, the singer and the bassist turned to leave, the former still clutching the shattered guitar in his meaty hand and the latter mumbling something under his breath about "foreigners." However, Toki wasn't about to let them vanish just yet.

"Waits, waits!" he cried, waving his arms and causing Nathan and Murderface to turn. "Has you seen Skwisgaar? He nots on da hellicopters."

Nathan raised an eyebrow and shifted the neck of the broken guitar onto his shoulder. Black splinters of wood and warped steel threads hung down over the singer's back like the bones of a slaughtered animal. "Huh. Now that you mention it—no. But you should find him. We go on in ten minutes."

"Next up—what you alls been waitings for—DETHKLOK!" roared a man's heavily-accented voice from the stage, his words rolling out of the microphone with the force of an avalanche. The announcement provoked a wild surge of screams and cheers from the crowd, and Nathan rolled his eyes in irritation.

"Make that five minutes. Fuckin' rabid animals…" Nathan eyed Toki. "Go find Skwisgaar," he growled. "And tell Pickles to get his ass in gear, while you're at it."

Toki stared forlornly after the black-haired singer and the grouchy bassist as they disappeared down the plywood stairs to the fenced-off field where the Dethcopter had been parked. Go find Skwisgaar… which was a somewhat ironic request, considering that Toki had been hiding from him all morning, afraid of what confrontation could bring—afraid to look into that pale-skinned, proud-eyed face and glimpse even a shimmer of the anguish he'd inflicted with his words and hands. But the long hours by himself had only made Toki realize just how lonely "alone" could be. He already knew in the deepest, most untouched part of his heart that he could never live that way. Not again. Not after all that had happened between them in the last three weeks. He had to find Skwisgaar. Had to talk to him, to try to undo whatever damage he'd caused.

-----

Skwisgaar exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering open and then closing again as his fingertips drifted listlessly along the walls. The room had gone dark—it was full of shadows—but it was a tranquil feeling, a kind of radiant dimness. Thick, white smoke hung in filmy layers on the air, awaiting a draft to stir them. The same translucent haze had filtered into his mind, emptying it of all its sorrows, and diffused into his blood—into his bones—numbing every atom and cell, every tendon and fiber. He felt as though his skin was glowing. His hands—the hands that had earlier caused him so much trouble—were tingling with a low, calming warmth—all ten digits fresh, limber, and at his command. Even the wounds on his chest had ceased to sting, although he could still feel the torn skin stretching with every breath.

He felt his way along the wall, not wanting to open his eyes—the twilight inside his mind was so vibrant, and he could only fully appreciate it behind the darkness of closed eyelids. He remembered having stared for hours at this sky and counting all the grays inside the rainbow, but he was a different being then and this had not been his last chance. Not that it mattered now. Nothing mattered now, because he had no memory—there was only the gentle scrape of the wooden wall beneath his fingers and the sensation of being lifted from the inside up.

His hand closed around a cold, hard thing—it was the doorknob—and he turned it. His feet moved him through the doorway, into a narrow passageway, which he followed past a series of small, closed rooms until he came to another doorway—this one shrouded in a deep golden halo of light. He floated down the steps of the Dethcopter and out into the fading sunlight, blinking against the orange-and-cerulean throb of the western sky.

Skwisgaar could hear a sea of voices churning somewhere ahead of him, but the field around him was empty, save for the handful of black-hooded men guarding the helicopter. He smiled at their solemn, crossed-armed stance and wondered briefly if they all looked alike under their masks.

He didn't have long to speculate, however—a small seed of thought, of direction, tugged at his mind and set his legs to moving. There was somewhere he was supposed to be—his body knew, even if his clouded consciousness didn't. He made his way to a small, nondescript building that jutted out awkwardly from the backstage area and followed the sound of laughter through the open door and into a brightly-lit room to the side of the stone-floored entrance hall.

"Heeey, it's Skwisgaaeer!" a familiar voice called in a high Yooper accent, and Skwisgaar grinned widely as Pickles weaved across the room to him, shaking his dreadlocks out of his face and wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

The red-haired drummer wrapped an arm around Skwisgaar's shoulder, nearly knocking them both off balance, and declared, "This here's my leeeead guitarist! Best udda best!" A murmur of acknowledgement buzzed through the room, and Skwisgaar suddenly realized there were at least ten other people there, most clad in black and draped in spiked jewelry and none of whom he recognized. There was also a naked, heavily-tattooed woman lying on a table against the far wall, and when she heard Skwisgaar's name she turned her head to stare at him with the blackest eyes the Swede had ever seen. They were like two stones at the bottom of a deep pool.

"Jaaa… I's heeere," Skwisgaar said, his voice sounding slow and sonorous to his ears. Pickles swayed as he took a deep draught from the whiskey bottle in his right hand, and then tugged Skwisgaar toward the girl on the table.

"Dood, I saved ya—hic—I saved ya the best part!" Pickles exclaimed, sniffing loudly and coughing. "Happy trail!"

The drummer pushed Skwisgaar in between the girl's spread legs and he glimpsed, between her bent knees, a razor-thin line of white powder stretching from the top of her neatly-trimmed bush to her navel. Someone shoved a straw into Skwisgaar's hand and Pickles slapped him on the back, snickering.

Well, why's not? he thought smugly and bent his head, pressing a finger to one nostril and the straw to the other. The girl's perfectly flat, smooth belly quivered slightly as Skwisgaar snorted the line off her flesh, and then the swirling tattoos along her arms blurred as his eyes began to tear. The coke sent a high, stinging jolt of pain through his sinuses and behind his eyes as he raised his head and sniffed deeply, clearing his nasal passages. His lips and tongue were buzzing and below the ringing in his ears he heard Pickles say, "She's all yers, dood, if ya wanna heeave a lil' fun before the show!"

Skwisgaar frowned, suddenly confused. There was a reason why he couldn't fuck her, but he couldn't remember what it was. He looked down at the girl, who gazed back at him with her endless pools of eyes. She lifted an ink-stained arm and beckoned to him, and then he saw that her arm was a snake, with the diamond-eyed head curled around her shoulder and the rattle at her wrist. A shudder ran down his spine and he took a step back—wasn't there something about—about a woman and a snake? Something about good and evil. He couldn't remember… oh Odin, if only he could think!

"Good god, there you two are! You're supposed to be onstage now!" Charles' voice pierced Skwisgaar's thoughts like a pin through a balloon and he whirled around to see their suited manager gliding through the doorway, eyeing Pickles as though he wanted to choke him. Skwisgaar's heart skipped as Charles moved and he saw, behind him, slouching in the doorway and trying not to be noticed—Toki.

And then Skwisgaar remembered why he wasn't supposed to be fucking groupies or loitering between their legs while sweet white dust burned through his body. The Norwegian shifted his eyes when he caught the Swede looking at him. Skwisgaar opened his mouth to call to him, but then Charles was ushering him and Pickles out the doorway and Toki had already disappeared ahead of them into the darkness of the hall.

Finger-like rays of blood-red sunlight arched across the sky as they exited the building, clutching at the skirts of evening and trying to keep their grip on the horizon, but mistress night was too clever for them. Skwisgaar wished he could lie on the dry grass and watch her shake off her petticoats one by one, but the hand on his back kept pressing him forward—across the field, up a set of stairs, and across a dark, slippery floor bordered by a high black curtain.

A pair of nameless hands pushed a guitar into Skwisgaar's arms, and he barely had time to slip the strap over his head before another pair of arms shoved him through the flap in the curtain, where his eyes were greeted by a very angry-looking Nathan Explosion. Beyond the singer, a vast ocean of faces waved and blurred beneath a large canopy, chanting in unison, "DETH-KLOK! DETH-KLOK! DETH-KLOK!"

Skwisgaar took a deep breath and swept his fingers across the familiar frets. Now he knew why he was here. It was time to prove his worth, to show the world what he could (still) do.

-----

"Now, I know some of you've been sleepin' out here in the cold and the mud for three fuckin' days just to see us," Nathan growled into the microphone once he saw that his drummer and lead guitarist had been secured. The singer stalked across the stage, hair swinging into his wild green eyes, clutching the mic in his hand like a weapon. "You're probably all outta booze and money and drugs, and you're dirty and hungry…"

Screams and cheers erupted from the crowd at Nathan's words of acknowledgment. The breeze kicked up, skittering across Skwisgaar's flesh, but all he could feel was the intense heat of the stage lights glaring down on his flushed skin. He shifted his guitar strap and glanced to his right, trying to catch Toki's eye, but the Norwegian seemed intensely interested in the toes of his boots.

"—Now some people might call that loyalty or whatever. Dedication," Nathan growled. "You wanna know what I say?"

The crowd held its collective breath, waiting for affirmation—for the long-awaited sign that their beloved Dethklok did, in fact, love them back.

"I say FUCK YOU! I hope you all fuckin' DIE!"

An equal number of screams and sighs swept through the multitude. Women swooned. Men cried. The few children in the audience laughed, being the only ones who could truly appreciate Nathan's sense of humor.

"So this song's for you—all you loyal shitbags in the audience tonight!" Nathan bellowed, stepping back from the spotlight as, behind him, Pickles broke into a sloppy rendition of the drum intro to "FanGrinder." Toki joined him a moment later, teeth bared, fingers grating against his guitar so harshly it sounded painful.

Skwisgaar's heart was beating harder than a racehorse's, and his body was throbbing with heat. He could feel the coke racing through his blood, displacing the calming effects of the opium, and for a brief, panicky moment he wondered if he'd snorted too much. No, that couldn't be right—it was the lights. The lights were too hot. They were burning him alive.

He ignored his cue to start playing, instead letting Toki shoulder the intro for another few measures as he peeled his sweat-drenched shirt off of his sticky back. He managed to slip it around his guitar strap and over his head and tossed it to the side of the stage, where it landed into a puddle of something that looked like bubbly water. He felt instantly cooler as the chilly, early-autumn breeze whipped across his tender skin. There was an audible gasp from the first several rows of fans as they gazed upon the jagged, scarlet streaks across Skwisgaar's bare chest, but the lead guitarist didn't hear them. His hands flew immediately to his Explorer and he ripped into the song with Toki, one priceless set of fingers curled around the frets and the other whizzing across the strings as swiftly and as skillfully as they ever had.

With the addition of Skwisgaar's guitar, the song became a living thing. It had a pulse, a heartbeat—it gnashed its teeth and pounded its fists against the throng below, bellowing in anger; it crunched bones and slurped blood and roared to the darkening heavens like a heathen god-beast on its throne, calling for more bodies, more blood, more carnage. A large mosh pit had formed in the crowd and thirty or so brave souls were flinging themselves mercilessly at one another, playing at death in a desperate effort to exorcise their anger, their disappointments, their complete and utter hatred for the world.

Skwisgaar closed his eyes and ground his hips into his guitar as his lightning-fast fingers tore riff after crashing riff from his Explorer and flung them into the night sky, where they howled across the naked darkness, slicing mistress night's sable flesh with their silver-white tails of light. He was alive again—his hands were on fire, but not in the sharp, painful way he loathed—he was The God again, The Master, The Fastest Guitarist Alive. He was no longer curled into a tight ball of agony and trying to convince himself that he could handle the pain the way he'd handled everything else in his life: alone.

However, Skwisgaar's unbridled glory was interrupted as his sensitive ears picked up on a sharp, unmistakable cracking sound coming from the pit directly below him, and his glazed eyes darted to the teenage kid with stringy black hair who was screaming in anguish and hugging a bent and bloodied arm to his chest. The kid's forearm had snapped, and a sharp sliver of clean white bone jutted out just above the wrist. The outer circle of moshers drew back in horror as the boy continued to scream, his face twisted in shock and white as a sheet.

The sight sent a cold wave of fear rushing through Skwisgaar's body, and his stomach boiled thick with nausea as he felt the cocaine hit its peak, searing through his body with a crazed, uncontrolled vengeance that set his nerves ablaze and sent his mind spinning back into the past—to the last time he'd heard that same, sickening crack coming from his own body. In his mind's eye he saw clearly the face of the man he hated more than anyone else, more than even his mother—the man whose sharp, hooded eyes and snarling mouth and angry hands terrified him more than any monster in a storybook. The man whose name he loathed to even think, much less speak: Erling.

He'd sent Skwisgaar downstairs with a hog-bristle brush and a bucket of bleach and told him to clean. To a seven-year-old, the basement was a huge, dark, and frightening place, and it smelled of mothballs and rat dung. He didn't understand why he had to clean when it wasn't his house—Erling never asked his mother to clean, and she made more of a mess than anybody. Still, he knew he had to do it, or Erling would yell and smack him across the face with his beer bottle, and his mother would scream at Skwisgaar when she came home from shopping and pretend like she didn't notice the bruise on his cheek.

Skwisgaar had scrubbed the filthy cement floor until his knuckles and knees ached and his head was spinning from breathing in the ammonia. The work had made him thirsty, too, so he crept upstairs to the kitchen to sneak a bottle of juice from the cooler—but there was Erling at the top of the stairs, blocking his path. "{s}What do you think you're doing?{/s}" he'd slurred, sounding drunker than usual. "{s}I—I was just getting a drink,{/s}" Skwisgaar had said, assuming the man wouldn't fault him for being thirsty. As usual, he was wrong. "{s}Well, are you finished yet?!{/s}" he'd demanded angrily, and when Skwisgaar hung his head, knowing he'd already lost, Erling boomed, "{s}Answer me!{/s}" "Nej!" Skwisgaar had shouted, realizing too late just how angrily the word had tumbled from his mouth.

Before he could apologize, Erling had stretched out his hand and smacked him clear across the face with the force of a sledgehammer, sending him soaring headfirst down the long, narrow stairwell. Skwisgaar's head struck one of the aluminum stair guards, leaving a deep gash. He flung out his arms to brace himself—and he hit the concrete floor fists first, crushing all five fingers on his right hand and several on his left. There was a shattering crack, followed by a bright burst of pain that made spots of light dance before his eyes, and his right wrist gave way, snapping against muscle and skin to fracture in two places.

It had taken an hour for his mother to return home and another hour before they arrived at the hospital. By that time Skwisgaar was conscious again, although the fresh waves of pain that scorched through his bleeding head and mangled wrist and hands every few seconds threatened to send him back into unconsciousness. He wanted to throw up, but he hadn't eaten breakfast that day and he was dehydrated already and there was nothing for his stomach to release. He remembered vividly the way his mother curled her sharp-nailed fingers around his skinny arms and frantically searched his face, trying to decipher whether or not he'd tell the doctor the truth. He could also recall the last thing she'd said to him before a busty nurse in a white uniform had ushered him back to the patient rooms: "{s}We have a nice life here, with him. Don't ruin it, Skwisgaar.{/s}"

Lost in his waking nightmare, fingers steeled to autopilot and eyes blind to the world, Skwisgaar did not see the small flame from the tip of a discarded, still-burning cigarette—a roadie's, probably, or perhaps belonging to one of the Klokateers keeping guard backstage—claw its way up the champagne-soaked curtain in back of Pickles, nor did he hear Nathan's cry of surprise as the flame spread impossibly fast, igniting the entire cloth within seconds. Some in the crowd thought it was part of the show, but others saw Nathan's reaction and knew that something had gone very wrong. Within a minute, the inferno had crawled to the canopy hanging over the crowd, creating a blazing, rolling awning of fire. Large chunks of burning cloth began to fall amongst the panicked audience, and those near the front of the stage turned to find themselves trapped by the massive throng in back of them.

Onstage, the smell of smoke snapped Skwisgaar out of his reverie. Mesmerized, he watched the fire draw closer, stalking toward him along the alcohol-soaked boards with one intent: to devour. He continued to play, his fingers unwilling to give up the intoxicating splendor of the rhythm—and now that Nathan had hauled Pickles and Murderface off the stage and Charles was pulling Toki away, his guitar was the only sound emanating from the amps, whose hard plastic exteriors were beginning to warp and melt from the heat. His Explorer surged above the screams of the crowd as dozens were trampled in their rush to escape the burning stage, but most were too late: the canopy collapsed, trapping several hundred fans beneath a solid sheet of flame. Nathan's wish had come true.

Skwisgaar laughed as the flames leapt higher around him, teasing him, daring him to come play. His skin seared red with heat and the sensitive scabs on his chest began to blister and sting. He felt godless, worldless. He was the Devil, and this was his Hell. Skwisgaar knew they would talk about this night as though it were a tragedy—all those poor fucking people, burned alive by a fallen awning after waiting for three days to see Dethklok. But in Skwisgaar's mind, they were the lucky ones. They would never grow old, never watch their bodies and minds succumb to the slow decay of age and disease; would never lose their talents to the iron grip of an uncontrollable, invisible pain.

But whats about 'for evig?' a small voice in the back of his head asked, and in the depths of his mind a pair of blue eyes—pale as the sky on a winter's day—opened and swallowed him whole.

He closed his eyes tight against the searing smoke as the cocaine rush and the stifling heat overtook his consciousness. Memories flashed through his brain like a picture-wheel: the look of defeat on his mother's haggard face the day he announced he was leaving Sweden for good; taking home his very first guitar—a beat-up, second-hand Les Paul Standard—and cutting nearly every one of his fingers as he taught himself how to restring it; the day he'd met Toki and learned two very important things: one, he'd never understood what "home" was supposed to feel like until that moment, and two, "home" could just as easily be a person as it could a place. Toki was, in a sense, his first real home—and still the only person he could play with and fight with and love and hate at the same time—the only one with whom he could create music and passion and rivalry and pleasure. Was that worth living for?

To the side of the stage, well outside the wall of flames flanking the lead guitarist, Toki was fighting Charles' vise-like grip on his shoulders.

"Lets me da fuck go!" the Norwegian screamed, straining against the grim-faced manager's arms.

"No, Toki—you have to go back to the Dethcopter! We'll get him out—just go!"

"NO! Fucks you!" Toki snarled, writhing and bucking like a trapped animal and shooting panicked glances in between the flames, trying to make sure Skwisgaar was still there, was still alive—that he hadn't given himself to the fire, hadn't thrown himself away without a reason or a goodbye. There is no forever, the man who was not Skwisgaar and not his father but a frightening amalgamation of both had said to him in his dream, right before he'd flung himself and Toki's child into the blazing hearth. But of course there was no child—this wasn't a dream. This was a living nightmare, and Skwisgaar was trapped inside. Toki already knew that he was the only one who could save him—and if he could rescue Skwisgaar, maybe he could save all three of them…

"Arrrrrghh!" Toki bellowed, jerking hard against Charles' hands and simultaneously kicking him in the balls with the heel of his boot, for which he firmly resolved to apologize later. As Dethklok's manager fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, Toki bounded across the stage, dodging the flaming puddles of champagne-drenched wood, until he was standing right outside the ring of fire separating him from Skwisgaar.

"Skwisgaar!" he cried through cupped hands, trying to make himself heard above the chaos of the crowd and the high, dulcet howl of the Swede's guitar. Skwisgaar started at the sound of Toki's voice but refused to open his eyes. Toki didn't recognize the melody but he knew the sadness behind those notes all too well—Skwisgaar was playing his heartsong, and it was about to become his deathsong if Toki couldn't convince him to get off the stage.

"Skwisgaar!" he shouted again, his throat burning as smoke filled his lungs. The Explorer gave a stuttering cry as Skwisgaar began to cough, and Toki, with ash-stung tears streaming down his face, stretched out his arms, fingertips barely brushing a hot lick of flame. "Comes with me! Please!"

Skwisgaar shook his head vigorously before doubling over with a spasm of coughing, his song now forgotten, useless. The flames were dangerously close now—only a small gap remained through which Skwisgaar could escape without being completely swallowed by the blaze. It was now or never.

Before Toki charged into the inferno, he promised himself that, no matter what had happened to make Skwisgaar want to go to Valhalska without him, he wouldn't leave the Swede's side until he was whole again.

The rhythm guitarist grabbed his counterpart's hand and pulled him close, shielding him from the flames as he hauled them out of the circle of fire. Skwisgaar hung on weakly, stumbling alongside Toki like a drunken man, his guitar swinging wildly to and fro on its strap, as the Norwegian rushed them over to the backstage stairs—which, to his dismay, were also on fire. Charles was nowhere to be seen, which likely meant that he'd already retired to the safety of the Dethcopter. The stage was only ten or eleven feet off the ground, but the flames were quickly spreading to the backstage area—they couldn't wait for the Klokateers to come find them.

"We has to jumps, Skwisgaar!" Toki cried out, untangling himself from the other's arms but keeping a firm grip on his hand, which had gone eerily cold. The Swede's bloodshot blue eyes met Toki's pale ones and he nodded feebly.

"Readies? On threes—ones, twos, threes!" They jumped together, falling through the blazing-hot air like two stunt men in an action movie, as the wooden stage behind them gave way and crumpled in on itself with a thunderous crash. Toki hit the ground and rolled, wincing at the stabbing pain that shot through his ankle as he landed. Ignoring the sting, he scrambled to his feet and turned to Skwisgaar, who was struggling to disentangle himself from his guitar strap a few feet away. He was covered in ashy smudges and looked a little sick and shaken up, but appeared otherwise unharmed. Takk Odin, Toki prayed silently, knowing that even if Skwisgaar didn't want to have anything to do with him after this day, it would be still all right because he was alive.

"Come ons—let's gets out of dis hellshole," Toki said, hobbling to the disheveled lead guitarist and extending his hand. This time, Skwisgaar took it.

A Nest among the Thorns, 5/8 [Metalocalypse]

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 21:28:40 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 5/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore (*NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

"The two of us together again
but it's just the same
a stupid game

but I don't care if you don't
and I don't feel if you don't
and I don't want it if you don't
and I won't say it
if you don't say it first"

-the Cure

Moonlight streamed into the room from the single barred window, casting Skwisgaar's guitar in shine and washing his bare skin in a preternatural glow. He was perched on the edge of his bed, naked, one leg folded under him and the other dangling off the mattress. His fingers wandered aimlessly over the steadfast strings of his Explorer as thoughts slipped in and out of his mind like the lovers had, over the years, from his bed.

He'd tried to sleep, but he might as well have tried to fly—Toki's words were still echoing in his head, and they still stung. "Jeg trodde ikke du ville forstå." What wasn't to understand? That Toki had made an epic mistake and now he had to pay for it? That his own childish habits and juvenile hobbies plainly meant he was unsuited for fatherhood? That nothing in Mordhaus—or between the two of them—would ever be the same now that Toki was on daddy duty? They might as well have never started fucking—it had all been for nothing. The eight long years of blood-thick tension; of artfully-evaded emotions and firecracker-like fights where they burned off more than just their frustrations; the soft whisper of Toki's flesh against his own and the beautiful shivers that ran through Skwisgaar's belly each time he entered him—all gone, useless.

Skwisgaar bowed his head and closed his eyes as he played to the moon upon her indigo altar, and as his sight went dark his ears picked up on the slight, but noticeable, buzz that registered with each press of a finger upon the strings. A sinking feeling coursed through his stomach. His joints were beginning to go stiff again, and there was no Toki here to fuck him out of it. The Phlegethon show was tomorrow, and if his hands hurt too much to play, well… he'd just have to get something from Pickles. He was willing to bet the drummer had some opium stashed away somewhere—Pickles hoarded drugs the way squirrels stockpiled nuts.

The sound of his bedroom door being jerked ajar made Skwisgaar jump. His eyes flew open and he reflexively gripped his guitar as he peered through the gloom to see who was there.

"…Toki?" he called tentatively as the door smacked shut and the soft rustle of fabric against skin licked at his ears.

The Norwegian swaggered noiselessly into the moonlight like a vision in a drunken dream, sloppily tugging off his tee shirt and nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Skwisgaar watched the shirt drop from the Norwegian's hand as he climbed up onto the bed. He wasn't wearing his boots either, which explained the silent footsteps.

"Whats ams you doingks?" Skwisgaar asked sharply, putting down his guitar.

"I wantss—hic—comes sees youss," Toki slurred, hiccupping slightly and reaching down to unbutton the crotch of his pants with a well-muscled arm. The moonlight curved and wrapped around Toki's skin in waves as he crawled across the bed, illuminating the planes of his abdominals and the breadth of his chest. "Dis shit—all dis stupidss. Wants you nowss."

"Toki—you drunks?" Skwisgaar asked, although he didn't need to—the pungent, glassy aroma of vodka wafted from the rhythm guitarist's body like a sick cologne, and the Swede knew that Toki must be very, very drunk if he could smell it on his skin.

"You's shits-faces. Gets off my beds." In truth, he didn't really want Toki to leave, but Skwisgaar couldn't conjure a single scenario where sex with a drunk, unhappy Toki would make either of them feel better in the morning.

"—Doessn'ts matters," Toki continued, as though Skwisgaar hadn't even spoken. The brunette pushed his loose, liquor-stained pants and boxer-briefs down over his thighs and clambered across the wide white mattress to Skwisgaar on his hands and knees. "Wantss you. Dis ams its—du og meg. For evig."

Skwisgaar quickly moved his guitar onto the floor before Toki could plow over it with his puppy-dog crawl. He sighed and scrubbed his face with his calloused, tender hands.

"Toki," he mumbled in between his fingers. "I t'inks we more needingks to talks rights now."

But Toki wasn't in a talking mood. The alcohol coursing through his bloodstream had made him bold and desperate, and he clearly wasn't going to take no for an answer. Naked now, he straddled Skwisgaar's hips, pushing him back against the pillows none too gently, and began peppering his neck and chest with licks and kisses. Against his will, Skwisgaar felt his body respond to Toki's touch as eagerly as it ever had, his unbridled erection blossoming stiffly between his own belly and the steel press of Toki's abdomen.

"Toki, you's—not listeningks—to me—" Skwisgaar muttered weakly as the Norwegian moved to his neck, mouth hungry and wet against his throat, and he knew he was fighting a losing battle as Toki slicked his palm with his own saliva and curled his fingers around Skwisgaar's dick, lubricating him.

"Nhhhn-mm… haa—" the Swede moaned shakily as Toki continued to stroke, their quickening breaths shattering the otherwise perfect stillness of the room. When the Norwegian's mouth found Skwisgaar's lips, he murmured "For evig" against them before kissing him deeply and simultaneously spreading wide his thighs to allow the blonde inside.

Skwisgaar gasped as the friction of Toki's inner muscles sent a spasm of pleasure through his groin. Toki's saliva was a poor substitute for lubricant, and the tight, hot, unexpected resistance could only be compared to fucking a virgin—something Skwisgaar had always tried to avoid (he didn't like getting blood on his sheets) but which had occurred, on occasion, when he was too blitzed to make out which groupies were naïve young fillies and which were seasoned sluts.

"Arrnngh!" the brunette groaned lustily, his muscles clenching around Skwisgaar's cock as he broke away from the Swede's mouth and pushed himself upright. Toki began to ride him—slowly, sensuously, lolling his head back and letting his hair fall down over his shoulder blades in a rippling, honey-brown wave. Skwisgaar ground against him deeply, feeling their pulses throb and conjoin in a steady rhythm, but something was still off. Skwisgaar felt like he was on autopilot. Each breath, each push, each moan was tinged with a faint shadow of doubt, and as their flesh became heated and damp the surrealism of the situation grew stronger and more stifling until it threatened to crush Skwisgaar alive.

"Toki," he squeezed out between gasps. "We's—we's gots to talks."

"Ngggh—notss now," Toki rebuffed, leaning forward and bracing himself against the Swede's shoulders, pinning him to the bed. The Norwegian drove against him hard, drawing a sharp cry of desire from Skwisgaar's throat.

"Oj! Fuck!"

Toki looked down at him and grinned but his eyes were glazed and empty, and Skwisgaar felt a sudden tremor of anger stir in his chest. There Toki was, on top of him—his lover, letting Skwisgaar fuck him, and yet it wasn't him. He was a shell, a husk—the fucked-up, pissed-off, strung-out ghost of a man he became when he escaped into the bottle. Toki was going down the drain just like the rest of them were—only he was doing it as fast and as hard as he could, with his head on backwards and his eyes closed. Stupid fucking kid. Didn't he have a clue how much he mattered? How much he was needed?

Skwisgaar wriggled out from under Toki's grasp with some difficulty and struggled onto his elbows. Toki's grin faltered and his hips ground to a halt. The tension between them buzzed and warped as their two sets of blue eyes met in a silent tug-of-war, and the shadows in the room seemed to change shape around them, slinking and circling like carrion birds and waiting for one of the guitarists to fall.

But neither of them did. Skwisgaar spoke first, breaking the silence.

"{s}If you don't think I'll understand, then why are you here?{/s}" he asked in a low voice.

Toki looked at him for a long moment. A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes glistened with sudden wetness.

"{n}Why do you care?{/n}" Toki asked, his voice breaking as the little-used Norwegian syllables rolled off his tongue. "{n}I thought you liked getting laid.{/n}"

The words hit him like a punch to the jaw, and Skwisgaar had to curl his fists into the sheets to keep from rising up and shoving the Norwegian off of him. All the years he'd lived with the pain—all the memories he'd tried so hard to drown with sex and drugs and music—through it all, no one—not his mother, not the women he took to bed, not his band mates—had ever asked him if there was something wrong. Not once. They just assumed he was a selfish asshole who screwed women right and left because he could—not because he needed to. Not because he was hiding a secret. Not because the sex helped kill the pain. Not because disappearing into the warmth of another body for a few hours was the best way to forget just why he needed to do this. No. In Toki's eyes, he was just another dumb slut—no better than a groupie.

"You don'ts knows de first fuckingks t'ing abouts me, Toki. Gets off me," Skwisgaar hissed through gritted teeth.

Toki shrank back, but didn't budge. Skwisgaar could feel his cock growing soft inside Toki's body, and it infuriated him.

"I says gets off me! Now!"

Looking slightly ashamed, Toki pulled his hips forward, allowing Skwisgaar to slide out. The Norwegian swung his leg over the other side of the Swede's body and wrapped his arms around his knees, watching silently as Skwisgaar scooted to the opposite side of the bed and stood up.

The Swede padded across the cold stone floor to the high, white cabinet in the corner of the room and, yanking open the topmost right drawer (which he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach), he fished around blindly until his fingers closed upon the small, square emergency pack of cigarettes. It had been a long time since he'd smoked and he knew they'd be stale as old bread, but he didn't particularly care. He just needed something to distract him.

"Skwisgaar? Where's you goin's?" Toki asked in a small voice. Skwisgaar ignored him as he walked to the balcony that adjoined his third-floor room and unlatched the sliding glass door.

"I's sorries!" the Norwegian's voice called shrilly after him as Skwisgaar stepped onto the concrete floor of the balcony, wincing as the chilly night breeze ghosted across his skin. He took out his tarnished skull Zippo and a shrunken cigarette from the pack and lit it. Bracing his elbows against the railing, he snapped the lighter shut with an angry flick of his wrist, coughing as the musty smoke filled his lungs.

He'd been stupid to think this thing between them could work. Skwisgaar didn't normally care enough to think about the future, but with Toki, he'd found himself looking past the fall of night, the heat of sex. He'd thought—crazily enough—that they could come up with some brilliant way to explain to the rest of the band that, yes, they were together, and if they had a problem with it—too bad. Charles would just have to figure out some way to make it look good for the media. Pffft—as if dats could ever happens. This kind of thing, it made you crazy. It made you blind. It made it so you couldn't think straight. This kind of thing—it had a name. But Skwisgaar wouldn't allow himself to think of that name now.

His fingers burned with pain from the inside as the cigarette stub glowed orange between them, and Skwisgaar looked out into the sable evening sky as he exhaled a cloud of wispy gray smoke into the air. The smoke was carried away by the breeze, disseminating into nothingness as the stars winked overhead and the pale yellow moon commenced her early-morning descent toward the horizon. "Is morningks now, you dildos." "Well, good mornings, den!" His and Toki's voices echoed back to him from the past, from the innocence of a stolen kiss barely three weeks old. He shook his head as the stars blurred before his eyes, trying to wring the echoes from his mind and keep his eyes from tearing.

The balcony door swished open behind him, but Skwisgaar didn't turn his head.

"Skwisgaar?"

Toki laid a warm hand on his back—welcome heat amid the cold embrace of the nighttime air—and said again, more firmly this time,

"Skwisgaar."

The lead guitarist turned to face his rhythmic counterpart, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. He tossed the dying cigarette stub over the railing and shakily cleared his throat.

"Whats."

Toki looked up at him with tired, bloodshot eyes, and Skwisgaar could see, for the first time, the dark circles beneath them; the pallid waxiness of his skin; the limp, stringy hair that framed his cheekbones. His entire face read like an exhausted apology, but Skwisgaar kept his feet planted as Toki gave a slight tug on the Swede's arm.

"Comes to bed, ja?" Toki asked. His eyes added, And we figures out dis shit in da mornings.

Skwisgaar felt himself being torn in two—one half wanted to collapse into Toki's arms and the other half was tempted to slip off the balcony without a sound to the cold, hard ground three stories below. He lifted his eyes from Toki's face to the sky and saw, beyond the trees, a hint of blue dawn spreading slowly into the east like a blush. It was almost morning. He took a long, deep breath of pine-scented air and followed Toki inside.

-----

Blind in the darkness, Toki reached out slowly, cautiously, hoping he wouldn't bump into anything sharp or living. His fingertips connected with a dense, ridged surface—wood, judging by the feel, and a wall, based on the height and span. He pulled himself up from his crouching position and flitted his hands across the wall, and a small twinge of fear ran down his spine as his thumb connected with a knot. He started to inch along, using his hands as a guide—although a small, high voice in his head screamed at him in an unfamiliar language to turn back. He didn't know why he was so afraid, why every nerve in his body seemed to be on fire...

He stopped when he thought he heard sobbing—a child's cry, lost and lonely—but it was too dark in this place to see anything, so he kept moving. Before long his fingers grazed across a round, metal object, and it took a moment before his brain registered that it was a doorknob. He grasped it in his right hand, twisted, and pulled. The heavy door creaked open slowly, revealing a room with three crude chairs and a stone hearth where a pungent-smelling fire blazed beneath a large, iron cauldron.

As he stood, staring into the room and debating whether or not to go in, a tall, thin figure shuffled in through an unseen door and walked over to the hearth. The figure was dressed in a coarse black cloak and had a full head of long, golden-blonde hair, but he moved stiltedly, as if moving hurt him. Before Toki could open his mouth to speak, the figure turned its head—and he saw that it was Skwisgaar, although his face was slack and gray, devoid of all its high-boned, full-lipped beauty. Toki stepped into the room, and the sudden realization of where he was slammed into him with the force of a broadsword. It couldn't be—but it was. He was home again, in Norway—in the very house where he'd lived until the winter of his eighteenth year. His eyes darted around the room, expecting to see his father and mother emerge from the shadows at any moment, but there was only him and Skwisgaar.

"Skwisgaar? What's you doings here?" He didn't recognize the language he was speaking, but the words flowed from his mouth with ease.

The blonde man ignored him, instead reaching out to grasp the poker that was leaning against the stone fireplace. Skwisgaar used the instrument to tip up the lid of the cauldron, and he peered inside eagerly.

"{n}Ah. Almost ready,{/n}" he muttered in Toki's native tongue, and turned his back to the other man as he busied himself with the fire, feeding a handful of sticks, each half as thick as Toki's arm, into the flames.

Toki took another few steps toward the flickering red fire and Skwisgaar. He decided to try a different approach. "What's you makings in dat pot, huh?" He leaned forward and sniffed, trying to discern if it was food or simply water for boiling.

Skwisgaar turned his head to stare over his shoulder at Toki, and his eyes were a cruel, unnatural blue as he opened his mouth and spoke in Toki's father's voice, which was like the rustle of dry leaves:

"{n}The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son. Behold your creation!{/n}"

Then Skwisgaar turned, and in his arms was a young child, writhing, red, and screaming. Blisters dotted every inch of his skin, blooming with thick, white pus; and the hair atop his head had been singed off. Toki's mouth dropped open in horror but he couldn't speak; as Skwisgaar shifted, he saw that the lid on the cauldron in back of him had been removed and that the basin was empty, save for a bloody, crusted film along the sides. The child had been inside.

"No! Whats did you do's?!" he shouted, and a strangled cry broke from his lips as he staggered toward Skwisgaar and the child. "He's mines! Min sønn!"

The blonde man smiled evilly and held the convulsing child above his head, long nails digging into the infant's flesh and causing the blisters to burst and drip with bright red blood that splattered onto the dark wooden floor at his feet. "{n}There is no forever,{/n}" his father's voice cackled from Skwisgaar's lips, and just as Toki reached out to grab at the child, the grinning man turned and jumped into the fire, still clutching the baby boy in his arms.

"Noooo!" Toki screamed as the flames spilled over the hearth and burst into the room, alighting the wooden walls with a frenzied hunger and shrinking the hand-made chairs down to toothpick skeletons within seconds. Smoke filled his lungs and eyes, blinding him as he turned and reached desperately for the door, but the knob was no longer there. He was trapped.

Ignoring the flames that seared and licked at his arms, Toki pounded his fists against the burning wall, screaming in a desperate mixture of Norwegian and the unknown language for help—anyone, please, oh behag, hjelp meg! But there was no one to save him, and there was no way out.

The skin on his hands popped and hissed as he scratched frantically at the white-hot wood, fingertips burned to the bone and dark, heavy streams of blood running down his arms, covering his flesh in hot, sticky, bubbling wetness; and he screamed again and again as the wall disappeared and then long, clammy fingers were wrapping tightly around his wrists, pinning them against his own chest; he was dying, he was sure of it, and now Hel was coming to drag him down to her cold, black, rotting realm—

But it was Skwisgaar's voice that called to him beyond the darkness of his dream—not his father's, not the goddess of the underworld's. "Toki—stop! STOP!!"

Toki's eyes flashed open to see Skwisgaar's panicked face bending over him, and he stopped struggling as he realized it was the Swede's hands clutching his wrists. Toki gasped for air, the memory of smoke-filled lungs still strong in his mind, and tried to calm his racing heart. It was then he noticed there was blood on his hands.

"Skwisgaar—you—" he began, but the words caught in his throat as he looked beyond their tangled arms to the Swede's pale-skinned torso, which was streaked with angry red scratches and smeared blood from collarbone to navel. Toki's eyed widened as they darted back to his own hands and saw, to his horror, what looked like scraps of skin snagged on the ends of his nails.

Toki looked up into Skwisgaar's face, which, despite the beautiful, golden glow of daylight caressing the contours of his nose and cheeks, was twisted in fright.

"Toki, you—ams—dreamingks," he said, pronouncing each word slowly, as one might to a child. "You's not dyingks or whatsevers de fucks you t'inks is goingks on, okays?"

Toki nodded faintly, and Skwisgaar let his wrists fall from his hands when he saw that the Norwegian had fully returned to the waking world. Toki stared at Skwisgaar's bleeding chest in disbelief as the Swede sighed heavily and tucked his long hair behind his ears, drenching the tips in red.

Toki reached out hesitantly to touch one of the wounds, then drew back as his fingers recoiled of their own accord. He had done this? He had torn his lover's flesh to shreds in his sleep, all because of a fucking dream?

"Oh gods… Skwisgaar…" They were the only words he could think of to say. "I don'ts knows what I do's. I didn'ts means—I—" and then, without warning, the tears began rolling down his cheeks, hot and fast, and his chest was shuddering with the realization that if he'd had any chance of worming his way back into Skwisgaar's good graces, it was most certainly gone now. Toki pressed his blood-smeared palms to his eyes and rubbed away the wetness staining his face, and he felt Skwisgaar's quiet, watchful eyes on him and it made him want to die; oh if ever someone had fucked up royally it was him—he'd broken Skwisgaar's trust, and the band's, and what was worse, he'd tried to drown himself in liquor to make it all better. Only an idiot would be so stupid.

But through his sobs, Toki felt a warm hand on his back, and the hand rubbed in comforting circles as he heaved and gasped and choked on his own snot; in truth, there was nothing pretty or delicate about a grown man crying, and Toki was ashamed to have Skwisgaar see him this way—to have Skwisgaar comforting him after he'd practically tried to kill him.

"S'okays, Toki… just… lets it all outs," Skwisgaar murmured, the words sounding a little unnatural, but still soothing, coming off his tongue.

"No no no no—I hurts you," Toki sobbed thickly through gritted teeth, and looked at Skwisgaar through tear-blurred eyes. He had to do something—it was wrong of Skwisgaar to be taking care of him like this. "I has to fixes you," he said determinedly.

Rising from the bed, Toki pulled Skwisgaar along with him to the master bathroom, where the Swede allowed him to wash and disinfect his wounds with a clean washcloth and soapy water as he sat perched on the toilet seat, naked and shivering. The Norwegian carefully cleaned the dark, drying blood out of Skwisgaar's pale yellow hair and wiped away the crusty smidges of blood around his own eyes, and then dressed Skwisgaar's wounds with tape and gauze as best he knew how. They did not speak, neither knowing how to navigate the silence; and although Skwisgaar kept his eyes trained on Toki the whole time, the Norwegian could scarcely bring himself to look at him.

After he finished bandaging the gashes on the lead guitarist's chest, Toki retrieved a clean, loose-fitting tee shirt from the dresser in the bedroom. Skwisgaar tugged it on slowly, wincing as he did so, as Toki watched from beneath lowered eyelids. Even if Skwisgaar did still want to talk to him later that day, the rhythm guitarist vowed never to tell him about the dream. Not because Toki was afraid he wouldn't understand—(Odin, how he wished he could take back what he'd said!)—but because he couldn't quite comprehend it himself. However, Toki knew enough about dreams and the subconscious to realize that none of the images he'd seen in his nightmare could be good omens. And if Skwisgaar himself put any stock in dreams, he was sure to come to the conclusion that whatever had blossomed between them had wilted. And if he didn't believe in dreams, well then… he still wasn't likely to ever invite Toki back to his bed again, for fear of being mauled—or worse.

Shrouded in a halo of dim and desolate thoughts, Toki allowed Skwisgaar to wordlessly lead him back to the bed. The two guitarists collapsed beneath the crimson-stained sheets and immediately fell into an exhausted and (thankfully) dreamless sleep where, for a few brief hours, neither pain nor fear could touch them.

A Nest among the Thorns, 4/8 [Metalocalypse]

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 21:34:26 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 4/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

"All I'm schaying isch, it'sch posschible. They have done schientific teschts."

"What—you mean, like, strapped a bunch of electrodes to a plant to see what happened?"

"Well, it'sch more than juscht that—they measchure it'sch schtress levelsch to look for correlaschions," Murderface, who was folded up Indian-style on the floor by the saw-shaped coffee table, said sagely as he sharpened his knife on the edge of one of the massive, curving blades.

"Dood, theeat sounds like prabbly the most boring jahb in the univeerse," Pickles interjected, glancing up from the pile of suspicious-looking brown powder that was lumped, like a large anthill, in front of him on the tabletop.

"What is?" Nathan asked, turning to the drummer.

"Wahtchin' pleeants."

"Oh." The singer shifted his piercing green eyes to the bassist. "How do they know plants have stress levels, anyway? Kinda sounds like bullshit. I thought you didn't believe in all that new age… spiritual… nature… crap," Nathan scoffed.
Murderface rolled his eyes. "Excusche me, I happen to be a very open-minded individschual. And I told you—they tescht thisch schit. Haven't you ever scheen that Mythbuschters episode where they killed the plantsch with metal?"

Nathan's eyes grew wide. "No way! What?!"

"Yeah, they built a greenhousche and put a schterio and a bunch of plantsch in it and played metal twenty-four hoursch a day until the plantsch all wilted and died." Murderface grimaced and poked the side of the prickly Euphorbia horrida that was sitting on the table with the point of his knife.

"That's fucking brutal. Wait—did they play Dethklok? Please tell me we were responsible for the death of at least one plant."

Murderface scowled. "Nope. Apparently there are schuch thingsch as 'botanical rightsch' groupsch. We woulda gotten schued out the assch."

"Christ! It's always about getting sued," Nathan grumbled, baring his teeth.

"…Although I wouldn't mind killing thisch plant," the bassist mumbled under his breath, slicing off a row of the cactus' thick red spines with his freshly-sharpened knife.

A grin lit up Nathan's face. "Aw, you're just jealous those plant people sent Skwisgaar a ghost orchid and all you got was an ugly fuckin' cactus."

"Am not jealousch!" Murderface shot back, glancing out the corner of his eye at the majestic white flower that presided over the room from its perch on the porcelain pedestal in the corner. The plants had been gifts from a group of fans that ran an exotic botanicals supply store, and no one was really sure what to do with them.

Nathan's smile stretched wide as he tried to suppress a laugh. "You sure you're not just a little bit jealous of my goliath Venus Fly Trap?"

"Aww, fuck you! You guysch alwaysch get the bescht fan giftsch. It'sch not fair!"

Pickles chuckled at Murderface as he procured a sheaf of rolling paper from the green-and-gold box next to the dust pile. "Hey dood, maybe you just have beead feean gift kahrma. Nothin' to be asheeamed of."

"Fuck you, too, Picklesch!"

Skwisgaar, who was sandwiched on the couch between Pickles' pointy red Bromeliad and Toki's speckled orange Tiger Lilies, picked absent-mindedly at his guitar and allowed his band mates' words to float atop his consciousness like sea foam. He didn't really care about fan gifts or plants or the possibility that his ghost orchid (which was, admittedly, rather interesting-looking and would probably go well with his bedroom décor) might have a consciousness, but he was concerned about the fact that Toki hadn't made his way down to the rec room yet. The Norwegian had rolled out of Skwisgaar's bed that morning around ten a.m. at the sound of his Dethphone and explained, after he'd hung up, that he had to go to Charles' office to discuss something. It was almost noon now—what could they possibly have been talking about for two hours?

That wasn't the only reason Skwisgaar was worried, however. Toki had started drinking again. Not the way they'd drank the first night they'd spent together—that kind of quick, sloppy intoxication was no good for burning away the brittle husks of unwanted thoughts. You needed a long, slow, steady drunk for that. Skwisgaar had watched Toki sway as he plugged away on his V during the last few recording sessions, eyes shining unnaturally beneath half-closed lids, and he knew—could hear, even if no one else could—that the Norwegian's mind was elsewhere, that his heart wasn't into the song, even if his fingers followed the chords he'd been practicing with Skwisgaar perfectly.

He couldn't think of how to ask, so he'd said it with his eyes. During rehearsal the day before, while no one was looking, Skwisgaar had glanced up from his strings without moving his head, hoping Toki would read the question on his face. Toki had smiled, but in his icy blue eyes there flashed a warning that sent a shiver down Skwisgaar's spine, because it was the same way he'd looked at him the night they'd gotten piss-drunk on potato vodka and watched Pulp Fiction—that look that said Please don't hurt me I don't know where I'm going.

Skwisgaar hadn't had the heart to bring it up later that night, either—partly because Toki had fallen asleep almost immediately after sex and partly because Skwisgaar could tell he was still slightly drunk, but mostly because the thought of what Toki might say in response—I don'ts t'inks dis rights, Skwisgaar/We shouldn'ts do dis anymores/Dis not what I tought it's woulds be—unnerved him. Set his stomach to churning, the same way it did whenever he thought about his childhood—specifically his mother and… he gritted his teeth to keep from thinking the name but it surfaced anyway, laughing through his memory with dark, cruel eyes and leaving a faint tinge of vomit in the back of his throat. Erling. The syllables were ugly, nauseating to the ear and acrid on his tongue. It made him want to retch.

But Toki had not explained the pile of empty glass bottles that had accumulated in his room over the past week, and he had not yet returned from Charles' office. Skwisgaar switched his guitar to his left hand to distract himself as Pickles carefully scooped up a spoonful of the brownish-gray dust and lined the folded rolling paper with it.

"Whatsch isch that schit, anyway?" Murderface asked as he sloppily carved a square of rubber out of the bottom of his boot.

Pickles chuckled. "I'll letcha know when—and if—it werks."

Nathan poked the end of his pinkie finger into one of the large, fringed mouths of his Venus Fly Trap and watched in satisfaction as the pale green head closed hungrily around the stub of flesh. "Ya better just hope no one sneezes," he said, smirking and nodding at Pickles' dust pile. "Else you're gonna be all out of fairy dust."

"Fuck you," Pickles replied good-naturedly, and then licked along the side of the joint to seal it. "And this ain't fairy dust. Ever smoked Ancient Egyptian?"

"No way! You actschually did it? You actschually ground up the mummy?!" Murderface cried, eyeing the joint with jealousy and awe.

"Jeest an arm. Or mebbe a leg, can't really tell. Thing's so fuckin' decrip—decret—old."

At that moment, the rec room door opened and Charles walked in, his lips whittled down to a thin, straight line. Shuffling in after him was a very guilty-looking Toki. Skwisgaar felt his heart stutter inside his chest as the Norwegian refused to meet his eyes, and a vague sense of uneasiness settled into his stomach. There was no way—but the look on Toki's face—no, it couldn't be—not the butler and—

"Toki has something he wants to discuss with you—all of you. It's something of a personal matter, but I feel it's important you're all aware of the situation so that you don't find yourselves in similar circumstances. So please, ah, be patient and hear him out." Charles was well aware that Dethklok had a collective attention span shorter than that of most five-year-olds, and he'd chosen his words well. Courteous enough to appear inviting, but with an undercurrent of danger and the hook of a threat that instantly made the other four band members' ears perk up.

Toki swallowed nervously and fidgeted with his hands, which were wound together behind his back. Skwisgaar had stopped picking at his guitar, leaving a stark void of silence that was punctuated only by the crinkly scratch of Pickles' fingers against the heavily-packed joint.

Before Toki could speak, however, Charles zeroed in on the drummer and said sharply, "Pickles, is that what I think it is? Because if it is, I doubt Egypt would be amused to hear that you've destroyed a historic relic in a misguided attempt to get high."

Pickles looked from Charles to the dust pile and back again, and saw there was no use lying. "Dood, it was a gift. That means I kin do whateeaver I want with it, includin' smoke it. Stop bein' such a control freak an' let Toki talk alreeady."

"Yeah, I wanna hear what this is about," Nathan said, scowling.

"Yeah!" Murderface added, not to be outdone.

Charles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses above his eyebrows. "I apologize. Please go ahead, Toki."

It was then that Toki's eyes finally met Skwisgaar's, and in his face the Swede read a look of pure panic. Whatever he was about to say clearly scared the shit out of him.

"I's… uhms… wants tell you dats… I's gonna—uhm, I means—I ams has… a kid." Toki mumbled the last few words into the carpet and shuffled his feet as though he wanted to grind the syllables into the fibers; make them disappear.

They were all silent for a moment. Skwisgaar could hear the dull thud of his heartbeat in his ears, and he wondered if he'd heard correctly.

"Whats ams says you has, Toki?" he said, laying his guitar down across his lap and fixing his eyes on the Norwegian.

Toki cleared his throat and looked away. "I has a kid," he said in a slightly louder and shakier voice. "A—a boy. Dis goil—from t'ree, four year ago—she has a baby boy, says I's da fathers. Now she wants me to's, uhm… be daddies. For hims."

"Huh." Nathan stopped playing with his pet plant and eyed Toki curiously. "Way to go, I guess."

"Dood, if you don't wanna deal with it, just tell 'er to fuck off," Pickles interjected, giving Toki a reassuring nod. "I mean, she can't leegally prove it's yers, anyway."

"Uhm… I's… uhm…" Toki faltered.

"Ya did make 'er sign a pahternity thingie, right?" Pickles asked, eyeing him critically.

Toki shook his head.

"Aw, you gahtta be kiddin' me."

"Well schit. There goesch the band!" Murderface exclaimed dramatically.

"I… ams sorries…" Toki mumbled, hanging his head.

"Toki, that's like, the first rule of Mordhaus! You know that!" Nathan growled, his eyes flashing angrily beneath dark brows. He turned to Charles. "So what's she want? Half of everything? Royalties? Fuckin' move in with us?"

"Waits—waits—is not like that!" Toki cried, throwing up his palms.

Charles, seeing that Toki was floundering, cut in. "The situation is this: the boy's mother isn't seeking financial support. And no, Nathan, she does not want to live in Mordhaus. However, she has requested that Toki take some time to get to know his son. The caveat is, if Toki refuses, she will bring the media's attention to the situation, which could potentially be very bad for all of you. Now I know you're all aware of how important these paternity agreements are to protecting your fortune, but I can't be around every time one of you decides to be… intimate with a female fan. Nor would I want to be. Now, unless all of you can recollect every woman you've ever slept with since joining Dethklok, I have no choice but to assume that some of them have slipped through the cracks."

"Cracksch?" Murderface asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

Pickles nudged Nathan's side and whispered, "Murderface kin prabbly count 'em on one heeand. No need ta worry there!" Nathan snorted loudly, but turned the laugh into a cough when he caught the bassist glaring at him.

"That is to say—" Charles continued, "—there may be a number of other women out there who have children that were fathered by one or more of you." Charles' eyes flickered to Skwisgaar, and the Swede felt a stab of anger cut through his chest.

"Ja, and dids you checks to makes sure de kid ams ac-tu-allies belongingks to Toki?" he asked airily. "Pfffft, probs-bablies not. I doubts it."

A small, hurt look flitted across Toki's face as he tucked his hands behind his back. Charles just grimaced.

"Hey, what's so heeard to b'leeve about Toki havin' a kid?" Pickles countered, his mouth warping into a half-smirk as he eyed Skwisgaar over his shoulder. "Didn'tcha ever think 'bout how many little Skwiddies you prabbly got runnin' around out there?"

Nathan sniggered. "No, no, wait—I got a better one—Skwiglets!"

Murderface and Pickles burst out laughing as Skwisgaar narrowed his eyes at Nathan's grinning face. He wanted badly to punch the singer right between the eyes, but he knew that laying a hand on Nathan was liable to result in death. Broken bones, at the very least.

"Ja, dat's fuckingks great," Skwisgaar muttered, pulling his guitar back into his lap. He didn't want to listen to these idiots anymore. He wanted to plug in his Explorer and play, drown out the ominous chill that had settled in his heart at Toki's confession. There was no way Toki could be a father. He hardly ever slept with groupies—just wanted to talk and make out until the girls got bored and sought comfort elsewhere. Besides, he didn't know the first thing about parenting.

"Actually, Skwisgaar, we do know that Toki is the father," Charles said, raising his voice above the din of Pickles and Murderface's laughter.

"And how's is dat?" Skwisgaar challenged as the drummer and the bassist's guffaws faded to wheezy giggles and tear-wiping.

"Toki's blood test showed a positive DNA match."

The stab of anger that had arisen at Charles' earlier intimation of Skwisgaar's promiscuity knifed into his gut, twisting in deep and leaving a cold, stinging wound in its place. Toki had known.

Skwisgaar fixed the rhythm guitarist with an icy stare. "{s}You knew three weeks ago, after the hospital. Why didn't you tell me?{/s}" he asked in his native tongue.

Toki's eyes—normally a nearly translucent shade of blue—had darkened, but his face was pale. "{n}I didn't think you'd understand.{/n}"

It was the wrong thing to say, and Skwisgaar could tell, by the Norwegian's stricken expression, that Toki knew it as soon as the words slipped from his lips.

"Hey, you guys promised not to do that!" Nathan butted in, scowling at Skwisgaar and Toki in turn.

"Eh, I kin beearely understeeand what they're sayin' anyway," Pickles said, waving his hand at the two Scandinavians. "Let 'em talk in foreign."

But Skwisgaar wasn't listening to the rest of the band. His eyes were fixated on Toki, his ears tuned to the frequency of doubt buzzing like a halo around the Norwegian, shadowing him in static despair. Could hear the pounding of the other's heart against his ribcage and feel the curve of once-warm flesh cooling beneath his hands. In his mind, Skwisgaar could almost sense Toki's fingertips reach out to brush his—then draw hastily away.

The windows were closed, but the room seemed suddenly chillier as Skwisgaar stood up, swinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. Looking Toki in the eye, he said flatly, "{s}You're right, I don't understand. I don't understand why you want to be with me if you can't trust me{/s}."

Then he walked out.

A Nest among the Thorns, 3/8 [Metalocalypse]

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 23:03:39 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 3/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore (*NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Toki and Skwisgaar sat side by side on the big maroon couch in the recording studio, Toki with a damp gray towel draped over the top of his head (his hair was still wet from the shower he and Skwisgaar had just taken), and Skwisgaar with Toki's Flying V in his lap. The Swede was doing his best to tune the guitar, but his aural sensibilities had been dulled by the large joint he and Toki had shared, on his insistence, before going down to the studio.

They'd been late for the session, too, because Skwisgaar had conveniently slid in behind Toki while he was rinsing off and turned the Norwegian's shower into a quickie. Not that Toki minded—he'd never had so much sex in his life as he had in the past week, and he was loving every minute of it. Being with Skwisgaar was like a drug in itself—intoxicating, addictive, thrilling. Most of all, it helped numb his mind to the reality of what he'd have to face after the Phlegethon Metalfest. Toki hadn't spoken directly to Charles since their discussion the week before, and he was in no hurry to remind the manager of the meeting he'd set up between him and his son.

He had a feeling he and Skwisgaar had smoked too much weed, though, because everything seemed hysterically funny all of the sudden, and he was having a hard time focusing on anything besides Skwisgaar's fingers as they fumbled with the tuning pegs. Nathan, who was leaning against the mixing console, waiting for the Swede to finish, did not look pleased with either of them.

"Are you two fucks ready to play yet?" he asked grumpily, ripping into a corner of his pastrami-and-Swiss cheese sandwich.

"What's its looks like?" Skwisgaar asked, brushing his own wet hair out of his face. Little droplets of water splashed onto the shiny, white-and-black body of Toki's V as Skwisgaar looked up at Nathan. "I's still tuningks Toki's guitars."

"Uh, can't Toki tune his own guitar?" Nathan retorted.

The Swede smiled lopsidedly. "No… he cans…. nots. Rights. Now." Skwisgaar glanced over at Toki, who grinned widely at him from beneath his towel-hood, and the blonde burst out laughing. Toki joined him, unable to hold in his giggles as Nathan's frown deepened into a scowl of disapproval.

"You guys are way too fuckin' stoned to record," Nathan grumbled, aggressively biting into his sandwich.

Pickles tapped his drumsticks on the rim of his snare in irritation. "Hey, whateeaver heeappened to the 'no drugs before recordin' rule?"

Murderface, who was stretched out on one of the smaller couches, spoke up. "Exscusche me, but I think it wasch you, Picklesch, who changed it to 'no hard drugsch before recording'."

Pickles cocked his head, thinking. After a moment, he shrugged. "Yeeah, I guess I did do theeat. Aw well. Bahttoms up." The red-haired drummer took a final swig of his beer and then crumpled the aluminum can in his fist and threw it across the room.

"Hey Moiderface! Maybes you should lets Skwisgaar tunes your guitars, too!" Toki called cheerfully to the bassist.

"Fuck no! He'sch not getting anywhere near my bassch," Murderface retorted.

Skwisgaar looked up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Ah, buts den maybe you don'ts get mixed out of de recordingks if your guitars ams in tunes! Dids you ever t'inks of dat?"

Unable to help himself, Toki snorted with laughter at the furious expression that came over Murderface's countenance. He looked like he'd just discovered that his favorite Civil War shoes had been stolen, or that his grandmother was coming to visit.

"Well, maybe if you could play worthch a schit, Toki, you wouldn't get mixed out!" the bassist growled, folding his arm across his chest.

Toki stopped laughing.

Skwisgaar handed Toki's V to him and turned to glare at Murderface. "Now dats was belows de belts," the Swede reprimanded.

The lead guitarist's icy stare did nothing to dissuade the bassist. "Why are you defending him?" Murderface asked cockily. "You're the one who doesch the mixing half the time!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Nathan cried, holding up his palms and stepping in between the two arguing guitarists. "Enough of this shit. Let's just get started. I don't wanna be here all fuckin' day."

"Yeeah, but what about Knubbler?" Pickles asked.

"He'll show up eventually," Nathan growled in response. It was obvious the singer was eager to clear the air and kick off the session, with or without their producer present.

Skwisgaar and Murderface glared at each other a moment longer as the rest of the band assumed their positions. Toki strapped on his Flying V and plugged it into the amp next to Skwisgaar's, taking care not to stand too close to the lead guitarist; Skwisgaar liked his space when he was playing. The Norwegian had also discovered that Skwisgaar liked his space when he was sleeping, although he was usually willing to curl up next to Toki for a little while after sex.

Their routine was to practice the song together first, then record their tracks individually. Toki sneaked a sideways look at Skwisgaar as Pickles broke into the heavy drum intro to "Vomitorium," but the Swede didn't return the glance; he was flexing his fingers over the frets of his Explorer and glowering at the guitar as if he wanted to smash it. Toki knew Murderface had just been kidding about his playing (sort of), but it appeared that Skwisgaar was still pissed off at the bassist. He opened his mouth to tell the Swede that it was all right, that he didn't care—but then Skwisgaar uncurled his hands and slammed his fingers down on his strings, opening up with a stabbing, gut-twisting riff that was almost painful in its intensity. Toki quickly mimicked the rhythm on his V, setting the pace as Nathan growled into the microphone:

"Grind the bones to pulp

Crunch the guts to paste

Guzzle blood until

You're too drunk to taste.

Feast with us on fellow man

No need for fork or plate or pan

Obese or emaciated—

We'll eat them all until we're sated.

Vom-i-tor-i-um!

Let all your insides go

Vom-i-tor-i-um!

And watch the horror grow

Vom-i-tor-i-um!

Then ring the dinner bell

Vom-i-tor-i-um!

Open the mouth to hell."

The lead guitar broke away suddenly, bringing forth a spiraling crescendo of screaming, wheeling notes. Toki dared to glance away from his own hands so he could watch Skwisgaar, and was mesmerized by how the music transformed him—the way the Swede closed his eyes and tilted his head back as he played, equal parts concentration and ecstasy. Skwisgaar's eyebrows furrowed as his fingers zoomed over the strings, moving so fast they were a blur to Toki's eyes. The Explorer's silver-sweet song descended suddenly into a thunderous howl of rage, and Skwisgaar bared his teeth and threw his head forward, whipping his hair to and fro in time to the beat. The Norwegian shivered a little at the unearthly sound, sensing something far darker in those notes than the music could convey.

Toki pulled his eyes away from Skwisgaar and allowed the hammering pulse of his own guitar to draw him back into the song. His fingers flitted over the steel threads, flinging out a guttural response to the crowning wail of the Swede's Explorer, and he suddenly wished his strings could form words instead of notes. Maybe then he'd be able to look into Skwisgaar's eyes and say Tell me what's wrong. Because Toki could tell—he could feel—that there was something not right with Skwisgaar. Sometimes, at night, the blonde would whimper in his sleep—words that were not Swedish and not English, but something in between. And, on a couple of occasions, Skwisgaar had unconsciously reached out in the middle of the night and clutched Toki to his chest so hard that the rhythm guitarist felt as though his lungs would be crushed.

That wasn't all, though. Despite the blossoming of their physical relationship, Toki could still sense a divide between them—but only when Skwisgaar was awake. When he was asleep, all traces of his cocky, careless attitude disintegrated into the indigo bloom of night and he became like another person—like a child, seeking comfort from the dark. It was enough to make Toki wonder—and worry.

The rhythm guitarist closed his eyes and breathed in deep, detecting the faint scents of the soap they'd used in Skwisgaar's shower and the leather of the recently-reupholstered couches as the song scraped to a grinding end. If he couldn't ask Skwisgaar what was wrong (for he was fairly sure that would only provoke a scowl and possibly a reprimand), perhaps he could do something to make him feel better. In the past week, he'd figured out more than he'd ever hoped to learn about the kinks and gears of Skwisgaar's mind, and the Swede had made no secret of his fondness for spontaneous sex. An idea sprang suddenly into Toki's head as Murderface began to babble loudly about the volume of his bass and Pickles made fake puking noises into his drum mic. The Norwegian grinned widely as he met Skwisgaar's gaze. The Swede, still breathing heavily from the exertion of playing, lifted an eyebrow at Toki's expression, but didn't say anything.

Two hours, one lead guitar track, one rhythm guitar track, and half a bass track later, Nathan decided it was time for a break. Knubbler still hadn't shown, and Pickles had temporarily taken over the engineering. They were still going to need Knubbler to lay down the drum track for "Vomitorium" since no one else, save Skwisgaar, knew how to properly engineer a Dethklok recording; however, Nathan had already declared the lead guitarist too high to function behind the soundboard, much to the Swede's displeasure. It was clear that Nathan was in a rotten mood—he'd scowled all through the guitar tracks and had nearly chewed Murderface's head off when the bassist had accidentally knocked the neck of his Thunderbird into the hanging mic, planting a fat, thudding echo right in the middle of the recording.

"Maybe you should leave the drumming to Pickles next time," Nathan growled at Murderface as the bassist rejoined them in the main room and tugged off his headphones.

"For the hundrethsch time, I'm fucking schorry!" Murderface retorted. "What do you expectch me to do? Kissch your fucking asschole and beg for forgivenessch?"

"That'd be a start," Nathan retorted, folding his arms across his chest.

"Hey, hey, hey—doods, let's all jeest… get outta here for a little while," Pickles interjected, sensing the start of a fight. "Yanno, have a beer or somethin'. Blow off some steam 'til Knubbler shows up."

Skwisgaar, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "Ja, we all gots to haves breaks. Can'ts do's more recordingks 'til we gets crazy-eyes guy back."

"All right, then—everybody take twenty. I'll get someone to find out where the hell Knubbler is," Nathan declared.

Skwisgaar stood up to follow Pickles, Nathan, and Murderface out of the studio, but Toki laid a hand on his arm before he could take a step.

"Stays here wis' me," he said, looking up into Skwisgaar's face expectantly.

"You's not hungries?" Skwisgaar asked, surprised.

Toki did have a rather raging case of the munchies due to the marijuana, it was true—but he wasn't about to let that derail his plan. He curled his hand around Skwisgaar's thin wrist, fingertips pressing lightly against the pulse point, and coyly responded, "Ja, I's hungries. Not for foods, though."

Skwisgaar's eyebrows shot up as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What ams dis, little Toki? Ams you hittingks on me?"

Toki ignored the question and asked, "You stays, den?"

Skwisgaar sighed, feigning irritation. "Fines. But if you's goingks to makes me starves to de deaths, dis better be goods."

"It wills be. Trusts me." Toki went to lock the studio door as Skwisgaar sat back down and strummed aimlessly on his unplugged Explorer. He could feel the Swede's eyes on his back, watching him move, probably wondering what he had in mind. Oh, he'd find out soon enough.

He came back to the couch and took Skwisgaar's hand in his, pulling him to his feet.

"Leaves de guitars," he said, nodding at the Explorer. Skwisgaar reluctantly relieved himself of his guitar, laying it down reverently against the soft, sweet-smelling leather.

"What's we doingks?" the blonde asked as Toki pulled him toward the glass-paneled, amp-lined recording booth.

"You stays here. Just one sec. I gots ta do somet'ings," Toki said, kissing him quickly on the cheek and pushing a pair of headphones into his hands. "And puts dese on. You gonna wants dem."

Looking thoroughly confused, Skwisgaar did as he was told as Toki ducked out of the booth and went over to the soundboard. Nathan, Pickles, and Skwisgaar assumed he was clueless when it came to engineering, but he'd scratched together enough know-how over the past few months to help Murderface record a couple of songs for Planet Piss. His production work wasn't anywhere near as good as what Knubbler or Pickles (when he could be coaxed into it) did for Dethklok, but Toki knew his way around the audio console far better than anyone was aware.

Skwisgaar ducked his head out of the recording room, headphones matting his ruffled blonde hair to the sides of his face, as Toki began pushing buttons and turning dials on the mixer.

"Hey Toki! What's you doingks?" the Swede asked worriedly. "You's not fuckingks wis' dose tracks, ams you?"

Toki ignored him as he isolated the lead and rhythm guitar tracks they'd just recorded and set them on a loop. "Vomitorium" was only four and a half minutes long, after all.

"Toki—seriouslies, what's you doingks out dere?" Skwisgaar asked again, his voice laden with anxiety. Instead of responding, Toki flooded the audio channel into the booth, instantly firing up each and every amp on the wall with the low, stabbing rhythm of his Flying V and, soaring just above it, the piercing, white-hot scream of Skwisgaar's Explorer.

"What de fucks?!" Skwisgaar shouted, but his voice was drowned out by their guitars and by the sound of the recording room door slamming shut behind Toki as the Norwegian grabbed the Swede by the shoulders and, walking him backward, pushed him up against the wall of pounding amps. Toki felt the clunk of Skwisgaar's shoulder blades as they thumped against the hard plastic and metal, and he pressed his mouth against the Swede's with heated urgency and nudged open his thighs with an insistent knee. Skwisgaar's eyelids fluttered closed, the look of wide-eyed surprise melting into one of purring compliance. Now he understood what was going on, and Toki was delighted to see that he appeared more than willing to go along.

The sound of their guitars flashed and seared through Toki's uncovered ears as he hastily undid the buttons on Skwisgaar's pants, his tongue never leaving the Swede's mouth; Skwisgaar's hand curled around the back of Toki's neck and knotted into his hair as the Norwegian freed his stiffening erection from his jeans and began to stroke, gently at first and then with long, fluid movements as both the song—and Toki—grew bolder. A small moan escaped Skwisgaar's half-open mouth, buzzing against Toki's lips, almost inaudible against the backdrop of Skwisgaar's guitar solo.

Toki nibbled along the length of Skwisgaar's porcelain neck as his hands pushed the blonde's jeans further down his hips, the warm fabric sliding across the smooth, pale skin with silent swiftness. He followed the fallen clothing down, down—fingertips trailing along the exposed skin of Skwisgaar's stomach and thighs. Toki swiveled his tongue inside the dip in between the Swede's hip and his crotch and felt the little golden hairs there stand on end as goose bumps rose on Skwisgaar's flesh.

"Ahnnn, Toki, you littles—" But Skwisgaar's words were stifled by the sensation of Toki's warm, wet mouth around his cock, and he trailed off into a low, gutteral groan of pleasure, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back against the buzzing speakers.

Toki gripped Skwisgaar's hips with both hands as he licked and sucked, taking him deeper with each snakelike movement of his head, and the blonde's moans grew longer and louder as the pulse of their guitars beat steadily behind and above and all around them. The melody and the rhythm flew and clashed, sometimes beating against one another with the fury of vengeance-seeking fists, notes leaving bloody tracks across whitened knuckles; sometimes entwining in the passionate, feverish embrace of doomed lovers or two gods wrestling atop a cloud-roped mountain, each note pushing them closer to the edge, to the summit of their strength.

Skwisgaar bucked against Toki's mouth as the Norwegian tilted his neck and took him all the way into his throat.

"Nggggh—!" the Swede moaned, his eyes flashing open in surprise. "Where's de hells you learns dat?"

Toki's eyes lit up with amusement at the question, but instead of answering, he slowly removed the Swede's throbbing dick from his mouth and ran his saliva-coated tongue along the index and middle fingers of his right hand. The song barely had time to end before the loop started over and the dizzying opening crash of Toki's Flying V filled the room again.

Before the Swede could ask what he was doing, Toki pulled him away from the wall—just enough to get his arm around his backside—and encircled Skwisgaar's waist, splaying the fingers of his left hand across his lower back for support. He bent his head and wrapped his lips around Skwisgaar's dick again, flicking his tongue across the glans and lightly grazing his teeth across the top of the head, while the moistened fingers of his right hand tiptoed between his thighs and across the flesh of the Swede's firm ass toward his entrance, allowing a little time for Skwisgaar to protest if he wanted. But the blonde just wound his hands into Toki's long chestnut hair, his renewed moans lost in a sea of raging guitars.

Skwisgaar's hips twitched slightly as Toki slid the first finger in, but his breath quickened as Toki took him into his throat again and simultaneously slid the second finger inside, moving in gentle rhythm with his mouth. Skwisgaar's muscles shifted beneath Toki's other hand as the Swede spread his legs ever so slightly and rolled his head back on his shoulders, the tips of his honey-blonde hair brushing across Toki's arm like a whisper.

"Oh Toki—dat's good… keep goingks…" the Swede's voice, though barely perceptible above the noise from the speakers, had risen to the high, breathless groan that usually preceded his orgasms. A tinge of saltiness on his tongue called Toki's taste buds to attention, and the slight spasm of Skwisgaar's abdominal muscles told him it was time for the little surprise he'd planned.

Once he was sure Skwisgaar's inner muscles had adjusted, he waited for the beginning of the solo—and then, just as the Explorer began its crescendo, he pushed his fingers deep inside until they hit the small, round knot he'd read to look for, and he nudged his elbow against the amp wall, sending a flood of buzzing, electric vibrations through his arm and down into his fingertips—and straight into Skwisgaar's ass.

"Oh—fuh—JA!" the strangled cry broke from Skwisgaar's throat like shattered glass. His hips thrust forward, muscles clenched around Toki's fingers and fists knotted tightly into Toki's hair as the Swede's guitar stormed and squealed above the rhythmic grind of Toki's V. Their song was a chariot, racing headlong into a thunderous black sky; Toki's chords were the wheels, and Skwisgaar's rapid-fire scales were the white-winged horses at the helm, gnashing their teeth and straining at their ropes as they flew. Then Toki's throat filled with the hot, thick, salty fluid of Skwisgaar's orgasm, and suddenly there was a hard jerk in his own pants and he came without warning, the warm cum sliding down the inside of his leg.

Toki swallowed quickly and slid his fingers out of Skwisgaar's ass. He hadn't been expecting that. Then again, he'd been so focused on Skwisgaar, on the soft stiffness of flesh pressing against the roof of his mouth and the feel of those strong muscles wrapped around his fingers, he hadn't bothered to pay attention to much else. Toki ran his tongue along the underside of Skwisgaar's cock, stopping to lick the last dribble of semen from the head, before he opened his eyes and looked up at Skwisgaar. He smiled in satisfaction at the little beads of perspiration on the blonde's forehead and the dark flush in his cheeks as his sea-blue eyes met Toki's pale ones in wordless affirmation.

The Norwegian knew that, for Skwisgaar, getting off to the sound of his own guitar was one of his favorite kinks. The Swede probably thought Toki didn't know that, but he'd heard moans coming from Skwisgaar's room plenty of times while a Dethklok album was playing in the background. He really was in love with his playing—but that was all right with Toki, because he also knew just how much Skwisgaar needed it. His guitar was his anchor, his beacon in the storm; it was the only thing that made sense to him amid all the chaos. (Although, admittedly, the Norwegian had allowed himself the faint hope of someday becoming for Skwisgaar what his guitar was for him—someone to go for comfort, for release—perhaps even for inspiration. He could dream, couldn't he?)

Toki stood up, knees cracking slightly, and pressed himself against Skwisgaar's half-naked form, knocking both of them back against the canvas of speakers. As he sunk his mouth against his lover's, Toki spread his palms across the plastic mesh covering the amps, feeling the vibrations surge through his body a second time, and they sent electronic shivers down his limbs and spine and forced the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

They were both so lost in the kiss and the grip of the music that neither one of them heard the quick, tappity knock at the recording room door, followed by Knubbler's muffled, meow-like voice calling through the thick wood, "Hey—guys? Anyone gonna let me in?"

Outside the studio door, the producer fumbled with his keys, finally finding the one key to a Mordhaus door that Charles allowed him to carry. He really needed to get a key cover for that one, he thought to himself, because it was an important key and he really shouldn't be spending five minutes searching for it on his ridiculously full key ring when the band was probably already pissed off at him for being late and had probably locked him out just to prove a point.

As he slid the key into the lock and cracked open the door, the muted tones of what sounded like two nicely-engineered guitar tracks for "Vomitorium" greeted his ears, and Knubbler's mind filled with nervous anticipation at the idea that the band might have picked up another producer in his absence—but the thought was suddenly smashed to shards as his bionic eyes swiveled toward the source of the sound, and saw, through the shiny, nearly-sound-proof glass of the recording booth, Dethklok's rhythm guitarist crushed up against the straggly form of the band's lead guitarist, who appeared to be wearing his pants around his knees.

Knubbler's mouth dropped open in fascinated incomprehension—was he really, really seeing this?—the same two guitarists who threatened to kill each other during nearly every recording session he'd engineered for Dethklok?—but he'd walked in on enough weird shit in his lifetime to know that sometimes, it was better to just turn around and walk out. And that's exactly what he did, shoving his key ring back in his pocket and shutting the door quietly behind him (not that it mattered; judging by what he'd heard, the volume inside the booth had been loud enough to render both of them deaf for a couple of hours, if not days). Now he just had to find out where the rest of the band had gone.

Knubbler glanced down the hallway to his left, then looked to his right. Why did Mordhaus have to be so fucking huge? He sighed, and turned to the right, in the direction of the kitchens. It was a fairly safe bet that, if the rest of the band had chosen to take a break while the guitarists stayed behind, it was either because Pickles wanted booze or Nathan needed food. He'd just sit back and shoot the shit with the guys until someone else decided it was time to go back to the studio.

-----

Later that night, long after recording had wrapped up (Toki and Skwisgaar had barely had time to clean themselves up and shut off the audio before the rest of the band, with Knubbler in tow, had returned to the studio, in much happier spirits after having been fed and watered)—and long after dinner had been eaten and Dethklok had spent a few aimless hours messing around in the rec room with the latest crate-load of fan gifts—the two Scandinavians lay in Skwisgaar's bed, staring out the barred window at the stars.

The cool, early-autumn wind rustled through the tall pine trees that bordered the west wing of the 'haus, filling the room with a sweet-scented draft that made Skwisgaar's spine tingle. For one second he imagined the dark, rippling branches as a myriad of giant arms, reaching out with their gnarled and twisted hands to clutch at his own aching, failing fingers—and then Toki spoke, and his thoughts dissolved like smoke on the wind.

"Cans you believes someones sent Pickle a real mummy?"

Flexing his fingers beneath the blanket, Skwisgaar said, "Someones didn'ts send dat. A countries did."

"Oh." Toki rolled over on his stomach and rested his chin on his knuckles. Skwisgaar could feel the Norwegian's curious stare, even in the darkness.

"Well, whats country sends it, den?"

"Mmm…Ees-jipts, I t'inks."

"Oh." Toki was silent for a moment. "Still, is weird. Seems like somet'ings Moiderface woulds like more."

Skwisgaar chuckled. "I t'inks Pickle happy enoughs with dat ting. Muhderface says somet'ingks about grindingks up mummsies into powders. Den wears it in a bottle 'rounds your neck, dey says it's good lucks." Skwisgaar turned his head on his outstretched arm to look at Toki. The brunette grinned.

"What's so funnies?"

"I bets you anyt'ings Pickle try to smokes it."

"Smoke de mumm-sies?"

"Ja."

Skwisgaar considered the idea for a moment. When it came to drugs, Pickles was the greatest creative force in the band. If he was willing to smoke a blunt lubed in the fetid juices of a hooker's vagina (Skwisgaar had been witness to both the lubing and the smoking—on more than one occasion), it was entirely plausible that he would smoke dust from a three-thousand-year-old, very dead human being.

"Heh, I t'inks you's right, Toki. Don'ts be givingks him ideas, dough. He gets ass-dicts-ded and den he's be fuckeds. Don'ts t'inks dey gives out mumm-sies for frees."

Toki wrapped an arm around Skwisgaar's chest and squeezed lightly. Skwisgaar smiled at the touch as a cool gust of wind blew across their bodies, stirring their hair and causing the white satin sheet to ripple silver in the moonlight.

The Swede's thoughts turned to the recording session that morning. He'd been so worried that his hands would refuse to cooperate, he'd snuck in an orgasm and a large joint beforehand to offset the pain. Toki had been surprised but receptive to both (for which he was thankful), but it hadn't helped as much as Skwisgaar had hoped—his fingers had still stiffened up when he'd started playing, and he'd had to grit his teeth and shred through the pain. To top it off, he'd overdone it on the weed and his "Vomitorium" track hadn't turned out as crisply as he would've liked. That wasn't to say it was bad—but he'd probably re-record it later with Pickles so that Knubbler didn't bitch at him about wasting his time. Speaking of Knubbler…

"Dids you see de weird looks Knubblers gives us when he listens to de recordingks?" Skwisgaar asked. "Likes he eatens sour fishes or somet'ingks."

"I t'inks he just worrieds Nathans hits him for bein's late."

"Ja… maybes." Still, Skwisgaar didn't like it. The look had been directed more at Toki than at him, which had instantly aroused a flame of irritation in the Swede. It was one thing to throw a disdainful look in Skwisgaar's direction (after all, getting high had been his idea), but there was no reason to glare at Toki—the rhythm guitar had sounded fine. If dat creepies little guy looks at Toki funnies agains I's gonna hits him, Skwisgaar thought silently to himself.

"So… you likes dat today?" Toki asked shyly, tracing his fingers in feathery circles along Skwisgaar's chest. "In de studios. Wis' me…"

"Ams you kiddingks? What's not to likes?" Skwisgaar placed his palm over Toki's hand, quieting his movement, and pulled him closer. Brushing his lips along his lover's, Skwisgaar whispered, "You ams de best at dat I ever knows, Toki." He pressed his mouth to the brunette's, languishing in the warm, inviting wetness of Toki's lips and tongue, the gentle, suggestive tug of teeth on flesh. Toki really had outdone himself in the recording booth, and Skwisgaar knew that he was more than a little proud of himself for it, which was all right with him—he knew how much Toki needed the encouragement, the ego boost of being good at something. And whether that something was building model planes or bringing the world's fastest guitarist to an explosive orgasm in a matter of minutes, Toki deserved all the praise Skwisgaar could give.

When they broke apart, Toki surveyed Skwisgaar's face with pale, half-lidded eyes. "Den I's glads. I wants make you happy… and you's mad at Moiderface for bein's a dick, so I t'inks maybe I cans make you un-mads with dat."

Skwisgaar winced as the memory of stiff, burning fingers grinding over steel strings raced back to him. "I's not mad at Moidersface, Toki. I's just—"

He froze, suddenly unsure of what to say. He couldn't tell anyone—not even Toki—about the pain, as much as he wanted to—as much as he longed to confide in the little Norwegian, he knew it would be safer for himself and the band if his secret stayed just that: a secret. He could get by on sex, weed, and alcohol for as long as he needed… no one was going to question that. Well, they might question it if they discovered the identity of his new bed partner. But that was a whole other can of slugs, as the expression went, and he didn't feel like trying to see that far into the future just yet. He wasn't a fucking psychic, after all.

Toki tilted his head. "Just whats?"

"Huh?"

"You says you's nots mad at Moiderface. So what's you upsets about, den?"

"Not'ingks, Toki. I's not upsets, was just stoneds—dat's all."

"Oh. Well, stoneds is okay, too."

Skwisgaar chuckled at Toki's response as the brunette curled up against his rib-rippled side and laid his head on his chest. A lock of Toki's hair fell across Skwisgaar's stomach, tickling the smooth skin there.

They grew quiet as the wind softened and died down, giving way to the watchful silence of the waxing moon. Skwisgaar gazed out the window at the half-orb and watched the shadowy gray clouds drift across her alien brightness as she made her veiled ascent into the night sky. The press of Toki's muscled body against his was both familiar and strange; it was a sensation he'd grown used to over the past week, but it was also one he'd never expected to know. There had always been so many barriers, so much damned tension between them in the eight or so years they'd known each other that this—this web of limbs and fluid and unspoken thoughts they'd spun over the past seven days with their bodies and minds—seemed damn near impossible. The words between them, so often tense and heated, had turned from brittle strings to silken floss, from spitting insults to whispered reassurances—and Skwisgaar could feel himself changing inside as the web grew stronger, more layered, more complex.

He'd thought for sure when he'd stepped off that edge seven nights ago that he'd be free falling until he hit bottom (if there was a bottom), but Toki had caught him, scooped him up, and wrapped him in a net of such soothing softness and comfort that he found himself unable to imagine ever wanting to untangle himself from it. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he knew he wouldn't be able to do so easily—those filaments were stronger than either of them had supposed, and they had already started to creep inside him, taking root in his thoughts and curling tentatively around his heart.

Skwisgaar was fairly sure Toki had fallen asleep, and he was about to close his eyes and drift off himself, when the Norwegian spoke again.

"Skwisgaar?" he asked, his voice heavy with drowsiness.

"Ja?"

"I cans hear your heartsbeat."

Skwisgaar's breath hitched in his throat as a small, tender ache that was nothing like the pain in his hands rose in his chest. It took him a moment to find his voice. "Ja, and what's dat sounds like?"

"Brutal."

Toki snuggled up against Skwisgaar's side, one arm draped loosely over the other man's belly, and his calloused fingertips—those which had made stars of pleasure dance behind Skwisgaar's eyelids earlier in the day—drifted lightly over his skin as he sighed contentedly into the Swede's flesh. Skwisgaar allowed his mind to go blank and he forgot about the pain, forgot about recording, forgot about his guitar—even ignored his urge to curl up on his side to sleep—and held the little Norwegian until his thoughts disappeared into the calming darkness.

A Nest among the Thorns, 2/8 [Metalocalypse]

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 21:48:34 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 2/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore (*NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Chapter 1

Toki sidled down the hallway, fingertips grazing along the cold stone wall as he walked. It was always cold in his dream—cold like snow, cold like the climate of his homeland. Cold like the icy brightness of the Swede's eyes. Those eyes had an uncanny ability to claim to anything they gazed upon—a woman, a crowd of head-banging fans—but it was the warmth of his hands that proved deadliest. Whether the blonde's strong fingers were curled around the neck of his guitar or around Toki's shoulders, they blazed with such heat that the rhythm guitarist had to turn away, or risk being burned. The iciness of those eyes and the fire in those hands was a dangerous combination, and Toki knew that if he ever fell victim to both at once he would be powerless to resist.

He turned the corner and stopped just inside the doorway of the big white room. There was Skwisgaar, spread out on his stomach in his bed, loose and slinky as a cat. His legs were tangled in the white silk sheets and his hair was splayed out against the mattress in waves of gold, and his arm was draped loosely over—over something. Was it a person? Toki moved closer, ignoring the chills that skittered down his spine as he crossed the threshold (he'd never done that before; only ever dared to stand and watch him sleep). The other figure had long brown hair, but somehow Toki didn't think it was a groupie. He wanted to lift Skwisgaar's arm, pull down the covers, and see who it was the blonde had in bed with him… but then his Dethphone was ringing shrilly from somewhere below him and the dream was fading fast, melting away as quickly as a snowflake on the tongue.

Toki's eyes snapped open, and as his consciousness caught up with his body three things hit him at once: he felt unusually energetic, which meant he was probably still drunk; he was pinned under something long and thin that felt suspiciously like an arm; and his ass hurt.

Toki quickly blinked back his surprise as he realized he was still in Skwisgaar's room and that the Swede's arm was wrapped around his chest. Skwisgaar's hand dropped heavily into Toki's lap as he sat up, wincing. His Dethphone rang again, louder this time, and Toki scrambled to find the phone before it woke up the Swede. Luckily, his pants were still on the floor by the bed where Skwisgaar had let them fall after he'd tugged them off. Everything was coming back to him now—the feel of Skwisgaar's mouth on his, wet and longing; the smooth press of the Swede's body against his as he'd thrust inside him; the way he'd gasped Toki's name when he'd come.

Toki pulled the noisy phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and punched the answer key, blushing furiously at the memory of the previous night. Quietly, so as not to disturb Skwisgaar, he whispered, "Hej? Hvem er den?"

"Toki?" the voice replied, uncertain.

"Ja, hellos—is me," Toki corrected, embarrassed at having spoken in his native tongue in his still-drunken haze.

"It's Charles."

"Oh—hi, Charles!" Toki said brightly, although he was starting to feel a little dizzy, probably from being awakened so abruptly. He rested his too-warm forehead against the palm of his hand and shifted his eyes to look at Skwisgaar, who was spread out luxuriously on his stomach, legs akimbo and sleeping face turned toward him, just as in his dream. He hadn't stirred at the sound of the phone, which meant that he was probably out cold.

"Good afternoon, Toki. Sorry to wake you, but I've received some news that I, er, think you should hear."

Toki's eyebrows shot up at the mention of "afternoon" and the gravity of Charles' tone. "Bads news?"

"Not… well, I'm not really sure what to call it. Let me put it this way: we need to discuss a few things. Immediately, if possible. Are you busy now?"

Toki looked over at Skwisgaar and felt something twinge in his chest at the sight of the Swede's closed eyes and softened face. The hard lines were gone; the haughty expression he wore during the day had disappeared in sleep, leaving a look of almost angelic beauty in its place. Between the high, sloping forehead and the bold curve of his nose were eyelids so pale and delicate that Toki could see traces of the small, bluish veins underneath the skin. His lips looked even softer than usual, and were still flushed with the alcohol he'd drank the night before.

Toki's breath caught in his throat as he opened his mouth to reply, and he reluctantly tore his eyes away from Skwisgaar's face. He couldn't think clearly while looking at the other guitarist—not when he looked like that.

"I's… I's not busy. I comes now, if you wants."

"That would be perfect. See you in a bit, Toki."

"'Byes." Toki pushed the button on his Dethphone to power it off. He didn't need anyone else calling him while he was getting dressed; he didn't want to risk disturbing Skwisgaar. He hoped he could get this conversation with Charles over with and crawl back into bed with Skwisgaar before the Swede awoke. He needed to see the look in those icy blue eyes when he saw that Toki was still there. It would let him know right away what Skwisgaar thought about what had happened between them—if it was merely a drunken mistake or, by some unthinkable miracle, something more.

The Norwegian slipped out of the big white bed, picked up his boxers and pants, and quickly pulled them on, ignoring the soreness in his ass as he bent to retrieve his shirt from the floor. Skwisgaar had been bigger than he'd imagined, but the orgasm the Swede had given him had been better than any he'd ever experienced, alone or with a woman. Toki couldn't allow himself to think of how he might never have that again—that breath-taking release as Skwisgaar's hands gripped his hips and his mouth traced dizzying patterns into the flesh of his neck—because it would drive him insane, and he wasn't sure he could handle being so close to that particular state of mind again. His parents had already driven him halfway there—surely it was time for something good to happen to him?

-----

At Toki's knock on the half-open door, Charles lifted his head from the pile of paperwork spread out on the desk in front of him.

"Ah, Toki. Please come in," he said, gesturing toward the leather-upholstered swivel chair on the opposite side of his desk. Toki shuffled over to the chair and sat down, waiting for the CFO to say something. He hoped whatever it was Charles had to tell him wouldn't take long. His head had begun to ache, and his stomach didn't feel so hot, either. He wanted desperately to crawl back into bed…

Charles peered down through his glasses at the papers in front of him and twiddled an expensive-looking silver pen in his right hand. After a moment, he looked up.

"Toki, I know that you and the rest of the band are… fond of the female fans, and that they're quite fond of you, as well. You are, after all, one of the five most famous men in the world, and it's no surprise that there are massive numbers of women who are eager to, er, spend time with you."

Toki laughed weakly, feeling at once confused and slightly unnerved. "Ja, dey sure seems to likes Skwisgaar lots."

"Toki, my point is—" Charles paused and took a breath, "—the female fans can be somewhat… obsessive about the five of you, and there are some who would go to great lengths to keep you for longer than one night. Which is precisely the reason why any and all women you or anyone else in Dethklok chooses to, er, invite back to your rooms has to sign a paternity waiver."

Toki stared at the bespectacled CFO. "Ja, I knows dat. What's dat gots to do wis' me?"

Charles sighed. "It appears you neglected to attend to that particular provision at some point roughly four years ago, Toki, because your blood test came back positive."

Toki froze. "Positive for whats?"

"For a DNA match. You have a son, Toki… he's a little more than three years old."

Toki's stomach flip-flopped as Charles' words hit him like the blunt end of a battering ram. He had—a child? A boy? A son. He was… a father.

Charles continued softly, "And while the fact that you or anyone else in the band has fathered a child isn't surprising, given the… proclivity for promiscuity you all share, what is a problem is that your son's mother has threatened to go to the media unless you agree to certain terms."

Toki's head was spinning. His heart felt like it would explode if it beat any faster. He swallowed carefully. "But da pats—pats-terns-titties agreements?"

"Like I said, either you failed to have her sign one, or the paperwork is long gone, because I've had five Klokateers tear the documents room apart looking for it. There's no agreement, Toki. I'm afraid I can't do anything—not legally, anyway. She came to me with a court order for a DNA test; I had to comply."

Toki could hardly believe his ears. Not only was this not good news, the timing was worse than terrible. If he'd had any shot at getting Skwisgaar to spend more than one night with him, it was gone now. He could just imagine the look on the Swede's face when he told him he'd broken Rule Number One in the Dethklok handbook: no pussy without a pass. Of course, the fact that Toki had actually slept with women on a regular basis at one point would probably surprise him even more…

"Why didn'ts you tells me whats da tests was for?!" he asked angrily.

"Because I knew you'd likely refuse to take it, which would have caused even more legal problems," Charles answered calmly.

Toki stared at the manager, struggling for something to say. "Fuck! You's not jokings wis' me, is you?"

"I would never joke about something this serious, I can assure you."

"Well, whats I supposeds to do's now?"

Charles eyed him sharply. "Actually, you can consider yourself lucky, Toki, because the mother isn't asking for that much. Some women would take total advantage of the situation and demand you pay a ridiculous amount of child support, in order to keep a leash on your fortune. Your son's mother—her name is Aina, by the way—would just like you to spend some time with the boy. She wants him to know his father."

Toki's shoulders slumped as he sank back into the chair. His stomach felt alternately fluttery and sick. He remembered the woman—and the night—perfectly. He didn't have the luxury of forgetting about the girls he'd slept with as soon as the sex was through like Skwisgaar did, because in truth, Toki's list of "conquests" was nowhere near as long as the lead guitarist's, or anyone else's in the band, for that matter—except maybe Murderface, whose concept of seduction was about as developed as a dog's.

The woman—Aina—had been pretty, though—he remembered that. She'd whispered to him in Swedish as they'd drifted off to sleep, and the words had sent tingles down his spine. It was one of the more memorable nights he'd had with a groupie, and upon awakening the next morning, he'd been a little disappointed to find she'd already left. At the time, he wouldn't have minded seeing her again—but then the next night had come, and with it the next party and the next batch of groupies, and the petite Swedish girl with the tiny waist and the long, honey-blonde hair was quickly forgotten in a sea of drink, drugs, and women.

And now she was the mother of his child.

Toki had half an urge to ask the boy's name, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he entreated, "Please don'ts tell da band."

Charles sighed again. "Unfortunately, Toki, we're going to have to tell them at some point. Not only because, should you choose to spend time with your son at Mordhaus, your band mates are going to want to know why there's a child following you around, but also because we can't have this happening again. Everyone needs to be reminded just how serious this paternity situation can be if it gets out of control."

Toki frowned. "Whens does I has to… you knows…"

"I've arranged for a visit between you, Aina, and your son the day after the Phlegethon Metalfest—so, in roughly three weeks. But you might want to consider talking to the rest of the band about it before then."

"But I don'ts wants to tells dem! Dey kills me!"

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Nonsense. Why do you say that?"

Toki looked down at his hands and said slowly, "Because I fucks up… likes always. Dat's what dey say—dat I just fucks up again, why do's we even gots to haves him in da band—he always fucks up."

Charles cast a look of sympathy in the young man's direction. "Toki, no one is going to kick you out of the band because you're a father."

Toki sniffed and continued to stare at his slow, stubby fingers, wishing he had long, quick, slender hands like Skwisgaar. He'd give anything right now to be someone else. Someone smart and important—someone who never fucked up or made mistakes or forgot to do things. His vision began to blur as hot tears sprung to his eyes, and a sick feeling washed over his stomach as he blinked, trying to make them disappear. Instead, they ran down his cheeks, leaving behind two telltale trails, and his face grew warm with embarrassment.

"Is everything all right?" Charles asked, his voice tinted with worry as Toki pushed himself out of the chair and stumbled toward the door.

"Ja, ja," he mumbled weakly. His stomach was boiling now; the vodka wasn't going to stay down much longer. "I gots to go… t'ings to do's."

Charles called after him as he hurried out of the office and staggered down the hall to his bedroom—which, thankfully, wasn't too far away. Before he'd made it ten steps, though, the bile had risen into his throat and he couldn't hold it in anymore; Toki fell to his knees and threw up against the wall, bracing with one hand against the smooth stone and gagging at the brownish, sick-smelling pool that formed between his knees.

"Auggch," Toki muttered as he panted and tried not to breathe in the smell. His head was spinning like a top now; he just wanted to go back to his bedroom and lay down. That's what he'd do. He couldn't very well go back to Skwisgaar's room in this condition.

Toki stood up slowly and rested his forehead against the cool stone wall. Will he calls me Toki or Daddy? The thought popped into his head out of nowhere, sending a fresh wave of nausea straight to his stomach and spurring him to sprint the rest of the way down the hallway to his room. Once inside, he flung the door closed behind him and headed straight for the bathroom. Collapsing in front of the toilet, heart pounding, he spewed the rest of his stomach contents (which was now mostly alcohol) into the basin.

"Fuck," Toki choked as he wiped his arm across his face to clear away the tears and sick-tinged spittle. He'd been too drunk when he'd awoken to realize just how much he'd had to drink last night, but he was certainly feeling it now. He wanted nothing more than to pass out and forget everything that had happened in the last ten minutes. And that's exactly what he did, slumping onto the bathroom floor and resting his head against the edge of the fluffy blue bath mat, hoping like hell that he wouldn't puke in his sleep.

-----

Sometime later (it may have been three minutes or three hours; Toki had no idea), he awoke to a throbbing headache and the feeling of something cold and soft being pressed against his forehead. He opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness. He was still on the floor, but someone had turned on the light. As the room came into focus, so did the pale, haggard-looking image of Skwisgaar's face. The Swede was holding a wet cloth to his forehead and peering down at him, his cool blue eyes sharp with concern and his blonde hair hanging in heavy, wet waves around his face.

"Skwisgaar?" Toki asked, his voice cracking in surprise.

"Ja, Toki, is me. Whats you be doingks on de floor, eh?" There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice as Skwisgaar gingerly helped Toki sit up, still pressing the cold washcloth to his forehead.

Toki laughed bitterly. Not only had he not been there when the Swede had awakened, but Skwisgaar—with whom he'd had the best sex of his life only hours before—had also discovered him passed out on the bathroom floor, drunk as shit and probably smelling like it, too. This day was just getting better and better.

"I's, uh… didnt's feel so goods, so I comes here in case, you knows, I has to…"

Skwisgaar glanced at the toilet. "Looks like you alreadies did."

"I's… I's sorries."

Skwisgaar's lips curved into a soft smile. "Not'ingks to be sorries for, Toki. We drinks too much. I t'rows up too—hads to haves shower." He shook his head, spraying little droplets from his hair onto Toki's arms and shirt. "See? We's evens. We both gets drunks, both passes out, both t'rows up."

Toki closed his eyes, wishing desperately that the alcohol was the only reason he'd puked his guts out in the hallway and the bathroom. "Ja, we drinks way too much," he mumbled dully, taking the cloth from Skwisgaar's hand and dabbing his face with it.

Skwisgaar handed Toki a small plastic cup of cold water from the vanity, which the Norwegian gratefully accepted. He drank deeply as Skwisgaar sat back on his haunches and ran a hand through his wet hair, making it stick out unevenly along the sides of his face. It might've been Toki's imagination, but he thought Skwisgaar looked almost… nervous.

"Dere somet'ingks you wants to tells me?" Skwisgaar asked pointedly, staring into Toki's face and holding his gaze so that the Norwegian couldn't look away.

"Whats you means?"

Skwisgaar continued, his tone far too serious for Toki's liking. "Is dere… somet'ingks you wants to tells me of last nights?"

Toki sucked in his breath. This was it. If he didn't blow this, maybe Skwisgaar would forgive him for finding him passed out next to a toilet full of vomit.

"I's… really happy I's—ums, we—was neither of us alones last night. I sorries I wasn't dere to wakes up wis' you."

Skwisgaar's eyes softened as a look of relief crossed his face, but this didn't do anything to quell Toki's worries.

"Is dere… somet'ings you wants to tell me?" the Norwegian asked hesitantly.

"No, Toki. Not'ingks," Skwisgaar said, and looped one arm around Toki's back, helping him to stand. "Come ons. We both ams needingks naps, I t'ink."

"Where's we gonna go?" Toki asked faintly as his head started spinning again, albeit more slowly this time.

"Rights here," Skwisgaar answered, guiding Toki out of the bathroom and over to his small, blue-coverleted bed. Toki gratefully crawled onto the duvet and lay down with his back against the wall, and Skwisgaar climbed up next to him, easing his body down until his face was level with Toki's.

"You needs a bigger beds, Toki," Skwisgaar said affectionately.

Toki smiled feebly, hardly daring to breathe, much less venture to think about what Skwisgaar might've meant by that. Yes, he felt like ten kinds of shit from all the alcohol he'd drank, and yes, he'd just been informed that he'd made what was probably the biggest mistake of his life, but Skwisgaar was still here. He wanted to be with him. This knowledge alone was enough to carry him through anything an unsigned paternity waiver might throw at him.

Skwisgaar reached out to smooth Toki's hair away from his face. "I's happies I's not alones last night, too."

Toki looked into Skwisgaar's sea-blue eyes, noticing for the first time that there were small, golden flecks of color around the pupils. Must be whats makes dem so brights, Toki thought fondly. He could lose himself in the depths of those eyes and never find his way out, he was sure of it.

"I means… I's glad you's dere," Skwisgaar added, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile.

Toki felt a sudden urge to kiss him, but he doubted the blonde would appreciate the gesture after all the puking they'd both done that morning. Instead, Toki laid a finger across the other guitarist's lips and said, "Shhh… sleeps wis' me, Skwisgaar."

The Swede curled his arm around Toki's back as the Norwegian closed his eyes and huddled close to his companion. His nose filled with the fresh, clean scent of Skwisgaar's shampoo and the deeper, slightly spicy scent of his skin, and he exhaled softly against the blonde's neck, pushing all thoughts of Aina and his unseen son out of his mind. He felt happy for the first time in far, far too long, and he didn't want anything to destroy it.

Both guitarists drifted off to sleep within minutes, worn out from the previous night's exertions and the effects of too much vodka, and the golden calm of the afternoon glided into the dusky stillness of evening without so much as a stir from either of them.

A Nest among the Thorns, 1/8 [Metalocalypse]

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 21:24:27 GMT

Title: A Nest among the Thorns, 1/8
Author: Cycatryx
Artist/beta: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki, Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 (whole fic) for sex, implied het, language, drug use, violence, and gore
Summary: Toki's recent and Skwisgaar's not-so-recent pasts come back to haunt them, but how long will they be able to keep their secrets from one another?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Is this a feeling of something about to happen? Like snapping out of something I didn't realize I was in.
…Was I sleeping?

-Frou Frou

There had always been tension between them. It defined their every action, their every gesture and word. Sometimes it was as tight as a guitar string, threatening to snap with the slightest hint of sarcasm or innuendo; sometimes it was as pliable as wet yarn, allowing them to be in one another's company as long as neither of them ventured too close to the brink of the precipice dividing them. But it was also familiar, routine—it was even comfortable, in a way, because as long as the tension was there, nothing was needed to replace it.

So, naturally, when Toki pulled Skwisgaar into a headlock one night when they were alone in the hallway and unexpectedly kissed him, Skwisgaar immediately recoiled as he felt the tension threatening to break. The Norwegian was tipsy, but that didn't seem to mean much as Toki's laughing blue eyes met Skwisgaar's astonished ones.

"What de fucks you do's dat for?" the Swede hissed, shoving Toki away and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Just wishin's you a good nights!" Toki exclaimed happily, hoisting his plastic cup into the air and miming a cheer… to what? His own drunk ass, probablies, Skwisgaar thought humorously to himself, mouth curling into a smirk.

Skwisgaar knew the Norwegian was playing dumb, but he refused to take the bait. After all, Toki had just kissed him, full on the mouth, without any hesitation or awkwardness—and no one ever made the first move on Skwisgaar Skwigelf.

"Is morningks now, you dildos," Skwisgaar said, gesturing with irritation at the tiny window in the wall. The pale blue blush of dawn could be seen creeping over the tree line just outside.

"Well, good mornings, den!" Toki replied, just as cheerfully.

"Toki, you gots no reason to be kissingks me goods morningks or goods nights! I's not your girls-friend." Skwisgaar crossed his arms over his chest and stared reprovingly at the Norwegian, but Toki didn't flinch, didn't bat an eyelash—just grinned that silly, infuriating, whiskered grin of his.

"Whatsevers," Toki replied dismissively, as though Skwisgaar's reasoning made no difference to him. Before the Swede could fire back, Toki turned and sauntered off—presumably to his bedroom—and absently tipped his cup to his lips to gulp down the last of his alcohol in one swallow. Was that a swagger Skwisgaar detected in the Norwegian's walk? He thought it was, and his made his cheeks redden slightly.

Skwisgaar touched his fingertips to his lips and stared after Toki as he wobbled slightly before disappearing around the corner. That bastard. Toki knew he wasn't going to his room with a girl, and so the last thing Skwisgaar would have on his mind before he went to sleep was the rhythm guitarist's lips on his mouth, his warm hands cradling his face. Fuckingks tease, he thought, equally irritated at Toki's sudden advance and the fact that he was still thinking about it. There was nothing he hated more than being outdone by Toki, no matter how silly or small the challenge—kissing being no exception. Then an idea occurred to him—one that was odd and slightly uncomfortable, but nonetheless cunning. He didn't have to be outdone; two could certainly play this game. Skwisgaar smiled to himself, envisioning the stunned look on Toki's face when he paid him back for his stupid little prank, and retreated to his bedroom to grab a few hours of sleep before band practice.

The next night, Skwisgaar followed Toki upstairs when the Norwegian had finally tired of playing Tony Hawk. He'd never been very good at skateboarding games, and Nathan had threatened to beat him with the controller if he didn't improve immediately or quit hogging the Playstation. The Swede hung back a moment before setting off after him, to allay any suspicion from his band mates, but they didn't seem to notice—Pickles was already passed out in a chair, Nathan was ferociously fixated on pulling off a virtual boardslide down a railing, and Murderface was nodding off into his beer.

Skwisgaar swayed up the stairs as quietly as possible (he'd had a few drinks himself) and surprised Toki when he walked up behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, causing the Norwegian to spin around abruptly.

"So, you's is nots planningks on kissingks me tonights, den?" Skwisgaar slurred at Toki, whose pale blue eyes showed traces of drowsiness but no shimmer of alcohol. Tonight, it was him that was drunk, and he was feeling beautifully numb and particularly bold.

Toki raised an eyebrow and brushed a strand of hair in back of his ear. "I t'oughts you don'ts be wanting any more goods-nights kissings."

Skwisgaar laughed sharply and pointed a finger at Toki. "You's just stupids dildos, dats what you's is!" Somewhere, in some sober corner of his mind, he knew he sounded ridiculous, but he didn't care.

Toki grimaced, eyebrows knotting together in the center of his forehead. "I's not stupids!"

The Swede grinned widely, and Toki's scowl deepened, became a hurt frown. "Oh fucks dis. I's goin's to beds," the Norwegian declared, turning on his heel. Before he could take a step, however, Skwisgaar darted out and grabbed him around the waist, whirled him around, and pressed his lips against the surprised brunette's as he pushed him back against the stone wall.

This time, Skwisgaar's body kicked in before his ego, and he found himself dragging out the kiss beyond the length of the previous night's—beyond what was needed for retribution. His hands combed along Toki's crumpled shirt, slipped underneath, and slid across the smooth flesh of the Norwegian's side. Lost in the hazy grip of too much wine, he allowed his tongue to explore, to nudge between Toki's teeth and dance along his soft lips, his warm, wet tongue. And Toki responded, all traces of anger gone, by curling his hands into the Swede's long blonde hair and kissing back hungrily, body pressed up hard against Skwisgaar's and eyes shut tight, savoring. As if he'd imagined this before—as if he'd been -waiting- for it...

Skwisgaar could feel the heat in his groin building fast—Toki's mouth was amazingly soft and wet, his kisses more electrifying and unrestrained than he would've imagined—and, at the same time, he could sense the tension between them dissolving, could feel the edge of the precipice fast approaching—and he was both terrified and intrigued, despite how wrong this was, despite the fact that he had no fucking clue where it would lead. He didn't care just now—more immediate was the intoxicating scent of Toki's skin, the squeeze of his large, calloused hands against his back, the tingling sensation shooting through every nerve in his body.

And then Skwisgaar remembered he had a point to make.

He forced himself to break away, leaving Toki's mouth in mid-kiss and pulling a thin line of saliva away with him.

"Whuh—?" the surprised syllable dropped from Toki's lips as his eyes popped open in confusion. Skwisgaar grinned in triumph and licked his lips, tasting on them the dark sweetness of Toki's mouth.

"Just sayingks goods-nights, little Toki. Now offs to beds wis' you."

The Norwegian's forehead creased in disappointment as Skwisgaar turned and headed down the hallway toward his own bedroom.

"Skwisgaar!" Toki called belatedly after him, but the Swede continued down the hall until he reached his bedroom, not bothering to stop and gloat, to witness the effect his little display had had on the Norwegian. He couldn't—not with the embarrassingly large erection that had risen in his pants. Besides, the alcohol was starting to wear off, which meant the ache would be coming back soon—and tonight he had no help for it other than his own hand, which was purely a means to an end. The game (moment) was over, and he had won—Toki would never surprise him like that again.

Once inside his dimly-lit bedroom, Skwisgaar tugged off his shirt and let it slip to the floor. He sighed as he sank down onto his soft, fur-covered bed and rubbed his temples with his knuckles. His dick, which was still achingly stiff, strained against the rough fabric of his jeans, screaming for attention. It was the second night in a row Skwisgaar had gone to bed without a groupie in tow—although, admittedly, there had been more and more of these nights over the past few months than he cared for anyone to know.

The truth was, the sex wasn't helping as much as it used to, and there was no guarantee that the groupies he took to his room wouldn't seek the pleasure of another band member's bed the next night, and possibly blab his secret to Nathan or Pickles or (gods forbid) Charles. He didn't need anyone else—including the sluts he fucked—to watch him wake up in the morning to an ache that had grown worse over the years and had recently become almost unbearable. To see Dethklok's lead guitarist (who was arguably its cash cow) curled up in pain like a child. No one could know.

Skwisgaar lay back against his soft fur blanket, relishing the contrast of cool air caressing his bare chest and warm fuzz brushing against his back. It was almost funny how everyone thought he sought out sex purely for entertainment, when really it wasn't the case—well, not exactly. The chemical rush of endorphins and oxytocin was usually enough to kill the worst of the soreness, which always came late at night or early in the morning. It also helped him get to sleep, for which he was always grateful (much to the dismay of many a female fan). It was better that way—better than being constantly loopy on pain pills or, worse, addicted to opium (he'd already been down that road—twice), and better than letting anyone in on his devastating secret. He could only imagine what his band mates would do if he told them that his reign as the fastest guitarist in the world had an expiration date.

There was also a reason he didn't take attractive young women into his bed every night of the week like Nathan and Pickles and, on occasion, even Murderface did. He couldn't afford to—because he knew that if he did, sooner or later one of them would snare his heart, and the minute a girl got under your skin and claimed you as her own was when the sex usually dropped off. And he needed it—he needed it to stay calm, to stay focused. To ignore the grating reminder that, underneath his skin, he was made only of tendon and bone, not wood and steel, like his guitar. He supposed he was addicted to fucking, in a way—but for a far different reason than anyone knew.

And now Toki's damn eager kisses had made it impossible for him to go to sleep without doing something about the fierce ache that had taken his cock hostage. Gods be damned. No matter which way he looked at it, he was going to hurt in the morning. Damn you, Erling. And damn you too, Toki. Skwisgaar gritted his teeth, unbuttoned his jeans, shut his eyes, and got to work, ignoring the pain as it slowly burned its way through his wrists and into his talented, fragile fingers.

-----

When Skwisgaar awoke, he thought he was on fire. From the waist up, at least—which was a stark contrast to the previous night, when the lower half of his body had so willingly responded to Toki's touch. The warm, comforting cling of sleep in which he usually luxuriated after waking slipped away from him suddenly, like a silk robe to the floor. As he uncoiled himself from the twisted position in which he'd fallen asleep, sheets tangled around his thighs, a red-hot jolt of pain shot down his back. His muscles ached as though he'd been beaten, and the burning soreness in his hands had returned with a vengeance. On top of it all, a dull, throbbing sensation behind his left eye let him know he'd probably had too much to drink. Again.

Skwisgaar swung his legs over the edge of the bed and eased himself into a sitting position. "Oh fucks me," he muttered softly, and uncurled his stiff fingers enough to comb them through his hair. The knuckle of his right pinkie caught in a knot, jerking it sharply and sending a hot prick of pain into the joint, and the sudden rush of discomfort sent tingles of fear dancing down his spine. He'd never felt this bad in the morning before…

He grabbed his guitar and, gritting his teeth, forced his fingers into position. He wanted them to fly, to soar, to flash—but instead, they muddled across the strings with far less accuracy than even Toki could manage.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he growled, and threw his Explorer on the bed. Hot tears sprang to his eyes. It wasn't fucking fair! This wasn't supposed to happen!

He stared at his hands, at the long, thin fingers that were insured for a collective ten billion dollars, and commanded them to work, but the ache in his joints only seemed to mock him. What if he couldn't play today? What if he didn't show up for practice and they came looking for him? How could he possibly explain? He couldn't. There was no way in hell he could ever let them know.

Skwisgaar angrily wiped the tears from his eyes and stood up, not bothering to put his guitar back on its stand. He buttoned up the crotch of his jeans and, retrieving his shirt from the floor, gingerly pulled it over his head. There was no way around it—he was going to have to go back on pills. He was born to play guitar—he couldn't let something as ridiculous as a little joint pain stop him. He only hoped he could trust the band's doctor to keep his secret.

-----

Skwisgaar flipped through the magazine for what seemed like the hundredth time, skimming over the articles but not reading, staring at the pictures but not seeing. His heart was beating uncomfortably hard—he could hear it in his ears, could feel it in his chest. He thought he'd be able to see the doctor right away, but to his surprise, the Klokateer receptionist at the Mordhaus hospital had asked him to wait—apparently Dr. Dildo (which was what Skwisgaar called him in his head) was already with a patient. Skwisgaar had half a mind to tell the hooded bitch behind the glass that the health of Dethklok's lead guitarist was infinitely more important than that of a sick Klokateer, but he decided against it. He just didn't have the energy this morning. Besides, he didn't want any of the band's employees nosing into his problem—that would only create more of a possibility that Charles or Nathan or Toki would find out what was going on.

Toki…

Skwisgaar's stomach gave a fluttery lurch as the recollection of what had happened in the hallway the night before rushed back to him. He'd been drunk, but not that drunk. Not drunk enough to want… that. And yet that was all he could think about afterwards, when he was alone in his bedroom—when he'd undone his belt buckle and shoved his hand into his jeans. That deep, undeniably passionate kiss; the hard press of the Norwegian's body against his; hips grinding hungrily against Skwisgaar's, their message perfectly clear. His face grew warm at the memory. How had he let things go so far?

And then, out of nowhere, Toki strode out of the office doors and into the reception room, a fresh swath of white gauze taped to the inside of his elbow. Skwisgaar's stomach gave another lurch as Toki raised his head and saw him, causing him to stop in mid-step.

"Skwisgaar?" The Norwegian squinted at him, forehead wrinkling in surprise. "What's you doin's here?"

Oh fucks. Out of all the people he could've run into...

"Uh… what's you doingks here?" Skwisgaar asked, deflecting the question.

Toki held out his arm, showing him the little ball of cotton that was taped to his inner elbow. "Bloods test."

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. "Whats you needs a bloods test for?"

Toki shrugged. "Don'ts know. Charles said I gots to gets one."

"Oh." Skwisgaar didn't know what else to say. Toki was staring curiously at him, head tilted to the side, but he didn't look the least bit embarrassed. Skwisgaar, on the other hand, felt himself growing increasingly uncomfortable.

"Stops staringks at me," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

Toki ignored the command. "You's not sick, is you?" Was that worry Skwisgaar detected in his voice?

"Ja, I gots… de tooths-aches. Anyt'ingks else you wants to knows?"

Toki shrank back, a hurt look on his face. "I's just wondering, dat's all… I toughts maybe you's, um, gots de flu or somet'ings… and… you knows... "

Skwisgaar sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing at the burst of pain that flared up in his fingers at the touch. "No Toki, I's not gettingks you sicks with anyt'ingks. Stop worryingks." Was he actually saying this aloud? "—So leaves me alones, okays? I's nots in de moods for talkingks."

Toki's eyebrows furrowed. "Ja, okays. I leaves you alones den."

Looking slightly discouraged, the Norwegian turned and headed toward the hospital doors, leaving Skwisgaar to stare at his magazine. Before he walked out, however, Toki stopped and called softly, "Skwisgaar?"

"Whats, Toki?"

"I's worried 'bouts you, not me."

Without another word, Toki turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Skwisgaar with a quivery feeling in his stomach that he couldn't explain, along with an unexpected rush of guilt. Nice goingks. You really fucks dat ones up, a voice inside his head chided. Skwisgaar exhaled through his teeth, wishing to Odin he hadn't been so harsh.

"Well Skwisgaar, what seems to be the problem?"

"Whuh—?" Skwisgaar whirled his head around to see Dr. Dildo standing front of him with a clipboard in hand and an inscrutable expression on his face. The physician stared down at him over the tops of his glasses, waiting for an answer, and suddenly something inside Skwisgaar's stomach twisted, jerked. A cold wave of fear washed over him as the scrap of a memory shot up through the dark recesses of his thoughts and screamed through his mind's eye—and then he was no longer the fastest guitarist in the world, he was seven years old again and he was in another hospital waiting room with his mother. Her crimson-painted nails dug into the flesh of his upper arm as her eyes scanned the dark purple bruises on her son's face and the crushed, swollen fingers of his right hand. If you tell anyone it was him, if you even think about it… she hissed in his ear, and she didn't need to finish the threat to let Skwisgaar know he'd be in more trouble than his life was worth.

Skwisgaar staggered up from the chair, the magazine dropping out of his lap and onto the floor with a papery slap. He needed to get out of here. He shouldn't have come. This had been a bad idea.

"I's—uh—nothinkgs. Neverminds," he stuttered, slipping past the confused-looking doctor and hurrying toward the doors. His whole body was searing with heat except for his hands, which had gone cold, and his heart felt like it was about to explode. He had two thoughts in his mind: get back to his room. Then work his goddamn guitar until his fingers bled—whatever it took to make his Explorer scream his name again.

-----

Toki barely spoke to him at practice later that day. While this helped relieve some of the awkwardness of the previous night's encounter, Skwisgaar wasn't used to the rhythm guitarist being so unresponsive, and it bothered him.

In the hours between his aborted visit to the hospital and band practice, he'd loosened up his fingers enough to play to his usual standard, which pleased him. It quashed the sick feeling that had risen in the pit of his stomach in the hospital and warmed his hands to the point where he felt no pain. Even the slight hangover he'd woken up with had disappeared, and although his back still ached, he felt pretty damn good otherwise.

But there was something nagging him about Toki's silence. The other guitarist didn't even bother to sneak glances at him while he was shredding—something the Norwegian had been doing for years that Skwisgaar secretly enjoyed, but never acknowledged. Was he supposed to say something—do something? He didn't know. He'd never really understood how to deal with Toki when he was being reclusive, and today was no exception. Hopefully the rhythm guitarist would just get over whatever was making him sad so Skwisgaar could stop thinking about it; his mind was full enough as it was.

As Skwisgaar was heading back to his room for his post-practice nap, Murderface came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder before he could make it out the door.

"Dude, whatsch's you schay to Toki? He looksch pissched."

Skwisgaar turned to face the bassist, whose eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

"Why's you auto-masticallies assumingks I say somet'inkgs to Toki?" Skwisgaar replied, staring down at him defiantly.

Murderface smirked. "Becausche you're the only one who givesch him schit."

"Dat's not trues. And besides, is nones of your business." Skwisgaar shrugged the bassist's hand off his shoulder and walked out the studio door, effectively ending the conversation. He wasn't in the mood for Murderface's finger-pointing, but the bassist's words had brought him to an embarrassingly obvious realization: what he should've done to Toki was apologize. Not for the kiss—that he'd deserved—but for pushing him away at the hospital. No one ever thought twice about telling Toki to fuck off, and Skwisgaar knew how much the little Norwegian hated it.

As he made his way up to his bedroom, the beginnings of a plan formed in Skwisgaar's head, bringing with it the possibility of reconciliation as well as closure on what had happened between him and Toki the previous two nights. He only hoped the rhythm guitarist would be up for it.

-----

Skwisgaar smiled as the soft knock he'd been expecting all evening finally landed on his door. His bait had worked.

"Comes in, Toki," he called, and flashed a rare smile at the Norwegian, whose hair was still damp from a shower, as he let himself in and gently closed the door behind him.

Skwisgaar had left a chilled bottle of Christiana—Toki's favorite—outside the Norwegian's door, along with a note that read "Pulp Fiction. First one to throws up loses!" This was a game they knew well. In Dethklok's early years, when an endless supply of alcohol, drugs, and women still motivated the band to wake up in the morning, most of their nights were spent partying and playing drinking games while watching their favorite movies. Over time, it had become something of a competition between Skwisgaar and Toki to see who could drink the most without either throwing up or passing out. One especially brutal game—bottoms up every time the word "fuck" was uttered in Tarantino's Pulp Fiction—had claimed Toki ten times and Skwisgaar, eleven. The game hadn't been played in a long time—the band had tired of such activities years ago—but Skwisgaar and Toki had kept a running tally of their conquests and losses, and anytime one challenged the other to a night of movie drinking, the competition was resurrected.

Skwisgaar was happier to see Toki than he would've admitted. The last thing he wanted tonight was to be alone with his thoughts. Besides, if he invited Toki to take him up on a challenge, it would serve to restore the normal order of things. They would get drunk, have a few laughs, and probably end up in an argument, and the strangeness of the last two nights would be forgotten—buried beneath layers of friendly rivalry and copious amounts of alcohol.

"You sures you readies for dis?" Toki asked, setting the bottle down on the floor and perching on the edge of the bed, opposite Skwisgaar. "You's was pretty drunks last night."

Ignoring Toki's hint, Skwisgaar replied, "Pffft, of course I's readies. I's always readies."

Toki smiled at the reply and popped the cork on the bottle as Skwisgaar loaded up the DVD and skipped past the prologue (the talkiness of the intro bored him), and then scooted to the foot of the bed, where he sat with one leg draped over the edge and the other tucked beneath him. Toki retrieved two martini glasses from the wine cooler in the corner of the room and poured them each a glass of straight vodka as the opening credits rolled, punctuated by the rapid skittering of Dick Dale's guitar.

"Dat's some good speeds-pickings," Toki remarked as he handed Skwisgaar his glass and plopped down on the floor at Skwisgaar's feet.

Skwisgaar took a small sip of his drink—just enough to whet his taste buds—and smirked. "Ah, surf rocks is dildos. All sounds de sames," he declared. Although, privately, he had to give the guy some credit—double-picking wasn't an easy skill to master.

"Still," Toki said, mimicking Skwisgaar's kick-off sip and thoughtfully rolling the liquid around on his tongue before swallowing, "Is harders dan it sounds. Even for somebodies fast as you's." It was an observation, not an insult, and Skwisgaar chuckled and stretched out his arm to ruffle Toki's hair.

"Whatevers. Can do anyt'ingks with practice, you knows."

Toki turned his head to smile at Skwisgaar, but there was something unnerving about the look in his eyes. They were an even icier shade of blue than usual—almost too bright. Skwisgaar opened his mouth to say something—he didn't know what—but then the movie began, and Samuel L. Jackson's vow to "fuckin' go" to Amsterdam signaled the beginning of the game. Skwisgaar raised his glass to his lips and shivered as the chilled vodka tingled on his tongue as it went down, leaving behind a warm, sweet aftertaste that was not unlike the flavor Toki's kiss had left in his mouth the night before…

It was a good thing he was about to get incredibly drunk, Skwisgaar thought as he pulled his eyes away from the top of Toki's honey-brown head and focused them on the TV, because he needed to purge these thoughts from his mind. They would only lead to trouble.

-----

An hour into the movie, more than half of the bottle of Christiana was gone and both Scandinavians were splayed out on the bed against a massive pile of pillows, too drunk to sit upright. Toki was laughing hysterically at Uma Thurman's bleeding nose and hiccupping at the same time, which made him sound a little like a telegraph machine. Skwisgaar's vision was starting to blur at the edges, but he didn't feel sick to his stomach yet and he was determined to stay awake. Passing out now would mean he'd be losing to Toki for the second time in a row, and he wasn't about to let that happen.

"Hahahaha—she'ss so fucks-upss!" Toki slurred, thumping his fist against the mattress.

Skwisgaar grinned. "You gots to be drinksingks now—you says its!"

"Says wh—whats?" Toki asked, hiccupping again.

"Fuck, stupids."

"Pfffft," Toki sputtered, imitating Skwisgaar's favorite sound of disapproval. "Fuckss you, Skwisgaar—you drinkss!"

"No."

They were both silent a moment, and then Toki turned to the Swede with a sideways grin and cheerfully repeated, "Fuckss you!"

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. "You wants to fuck me, Toki?" he teased. "Keeps dreamingks."

The movie now completely forgotten, Toki scowled and sloppily punched Skwisgaar in the shoulder. "Shutss up. You's notss funny."

Undaunted, Skwisgaar pushed the Norwegian square in the chest, causing him to fall back against the bed and knocking his vodka glass out of his hand and onto the floor.

"Fucks you, Toki."

"Oh nice goingss, Skwisgaar," Toki admonished, undeterred. "Dat's on da rugss now, you knows."

As if in slow motion, Skwisgaar watched Toki stretch out his arm to pick up the fallen glass, and he felt a strange compulsion to touch him. Without really understanding why, Skwisgaar darted out his hand and curled his fingers around Toki's shoulder, pulling him back to the bed.

"Leaves it," he mumbled, the words sliding off his tongue before he could stop them.

Toki stared up at him, a cool look in his pale blue eyes. "Okays," he answered levelly, but made no attempt to remove Skwisgaar's hand from his shoulder.

Skwisgaar stared back, unsure what to do next. What was he doing? His thoughts had turned to mud. All he could focus on were the slight parting of Toki's lips, which were dark and flushed with alcohol, and the way the shadows from the lamp slid along his loose, stretched-out body like waves. He wanted to dip his hands in those dark spaces, to feel what lay beneath their slinky depths.

The tension was mounting rapidly—Skwisgaar could feel it, and he knew what it meant; the space between them was shifting, and the precipice was only inches away. He didn't want to fall, but the edge was so close, so inviting—

Nej. He had to end this now.

Before he could break away, though, Toki had wrapped his hands around Skwisgaar's sides and pulled him down against his chest, and without thinking, the Swede lowered his head and brushed his lips against the Norwegian's. He kissed Toki softly, tentatively at first, and then the rhythm guitarist responded by slipping his tongue in between Skwisgaar's teeth and kissing harder. Skwisgaar shifted his hips and eased his weight on top of Toki's, and the sensual press of the Norwegian's muscled body against his sent a warm, slow wave of desire coursing through his limbs.

Toki pushed against Skwisgaar's body as they kissed, grinding his hips into the lead guitarist's with need, and Skwisgaar could feel Toki's growing erection through his pants. He could feel himself getting hard, too, and the sensation struck him as suddenly surreal. Skwisgaar broke away from Toki's mouth, breathing unevenly. He needed to see his face, to look into his eyes and see if this was what was supposed to be happening, or if Toki was just going along with it because he was drunk. But the expression in the Norwegian's icy blue eyes was clear: he'd known precisely what he was doing when he'd kissed Skwisgaar two nights ago. This wasn't an accident. Toki had gotten the better of him. Again.

As if sensing Skwisgaar's thoughts, Toki spread his legs ever so slightly in what Skwisgaar knew was an invitation, and laced his fingers together across the small of the Swede's back, pinning him against his crotch.

"I don'ts t'ink we should t'ink too hards about dis," Toki whispered, the slur all but gone from his speech. Skwisgaar knew Toki was serious. He nodded. So was he.

"Whatever you wants, Toki," he purred, and sank against the Norwegian's body with grateful abandon, his mouth finding its way back to Toki's lips as his hands found the buttons on Toki's pants and undid them slowly. He felt no pain as his alcohol-numbed fingers reached into Toki's boxers and leisurely caressed his erection, teasing a small moan from the rhythm guitarist. To Skwisgaar, it no longer mattered if this was a product of the alcohol or of the previous two nights' stolen kisses; if it was what they wanted, why should they ignore their urges?

Sometime later, as they sweated and clutched at one another, Skwisgaar could feel Toki's orgasm coming as he pushed inside him, and he knew that this was more than just an urge. The way their bodies moved together—the ardent look of surrender in Toki's eyes—the way Skwisgaar's own orgasm built inside him like an uncontrollable fire until Toki's groan of ecstasy sent him blazing into oblivion—it felt more real, more powerful than any sex he'd ever had. And afterward, as Toki drifted off to sleep in his arms, one leg still tangled around his waist, Skwisgaar knew the precipice between them was no longer a threat. He'd already stepped off the edge. He was finally falling.

Auto Erotic [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 21:19:05 GMT

Title: Auto Erotic
Author: Cycatryx
Artist: safety_caesars
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language (*NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: A sweet and innocent story about what happened before Skwisgaar and Toki got into that high-speed police chase.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing
A/N: Lyrics included are property of Ministry. To listen to a sample of the song described within, click here.

City lights, trees, buildings whizzed by in a dark, windy blur as Skwisgaar ducked his head out the passenger window and looked behind them to make sure there were no cops following. His long blonde hair whipped around the sides of his face, partially obstructing his view of the road as it unfolded rapidly behind them, but he didn't see any red-and-blue flashing lights. He grinned, the rush of wind against his skin temporarily displacing the numbness of the alcohol and making him feel alive. It was a good night for being reckless.

He plopped back into his seat and glanced at the speedometer. Jävlar, but Toki was going fast! The rational part of his brain knew this was probably bad, as Toki was at least as intoxicated as he was, but the venturesome part of his mind that had convinced Toki to get drunk with him and take one of the cars from the Mordhaus garage was too immersed in the sudden, overwhelming feeling of freedom to care.

Mordhaus had grown too fucking oppressive since the band's trip to the Amazon, and Skwisgaar knew he wasn't the only one who felt it. Toki had been bored and listless too, and not only during band practice. More nights than not, Skwisgaar came up to the bedroom they shared to find Toki already fast asleep, curled into a warm little ball and snoring contentedly—a sweet sight, but it didn't do anything to quench Skwisgaar's sexual cravings.

Tonight, though—tonight was different. Spontaneous. Secret. They'd left the 'haus without telling anyone where they were going. And they'd brought along a bottle of whiskey, half of which had already disappeared down their throats. The recklessness of the half-formed plan hung on the air like a scent, like smoke, clouding Skwisgaar's vision with a thick haze of excitement and lust.

Toki flashed him a devilish smile from the driver's seat as he nudged the steering wheel to the left, whipping them around the edge of a tight curve. He was clearly thrilled that Skwisgaar had let him drive—but the Swede also knew that being in control was like an aphrodisiac for Toki, which was precisely why he'd let him have the wheel. Now, however, Skwisgaar found himself in the mood for a change of pace.

"Slows down, Toki," Skwisgaar commanded loudly over the roar of the engine.

"Aww, whys? We's havin's so much funs goin's fast!"

"Don'ts whine! Just do's it."

Toki grumbled, but did as he was told. He eased up on the gas and pressed unevenly on the brake, throwing the car into a series of short, staggered jerks before bringing them to a stop at a red light. The road around them was empty, nestled in between quiet train tracks on the left and several long blocks of abandoned-looking buildings on the right.

"Turns here."

"Wha—? Whyys?" Toki slurred, his voice heavy with liquor. He glanced apprehensively out the passenger-side window at the rows of empty buildings. "What's you wants me turns here for? Dere's nothin's dere!"

"I know dere's nothin's dere! Just do's it," Skwisgaar answered impatiently.

Reluctantly, the rhythm guitarist obeyed, taking a swig from the whiskey bottle in his left hand and simultaneously jerking the steering wheel clockwise with his right. The tires crunched over gritty asphalt as the car rolled into a quiet alley bordered on both sides by tall brick walls. One of the buildings had been some kind of factory—the peeling white paint on the side still showed traces of letters and what looked like a trademark—and the other might once have been a club or a bar, judging by the amount of faded graffiti sprayed on the walls. The windows had long since been blackened out, however—no parties to be found here. Not that it mattered—it wasn't as if they needed any more alcohol. (Or anyone else to entertain them, for that matter.)

Toki slowed the car to a stop at the end of the alleyway.

"O…kays. Now how 'bouts you tells me whats we doin's here," he said, turning to Skwisgaar with a mischievous grin on his face.

"Hey, how 'bouts you stop askingks questions and turns off de car," he retorted, grabbing the liquor bottle from the Norwegian's hand.

Skwisgaar took a long gulp, stretching back his neck to let the hot, smoky liquid rush straight down his throat. Toki put the car in park and turned the ignition off, silencing the rumbling engine, but left the dash lights on. Skwisgaar didn't know what surprised him more: that Toki had volunteered to steal the key to the Lamborghini out of the box on the garage wall while the Klokateer guards weren't looking, or that he could actually drive the thing pretty well, despite being drunk. The little rhythm guitarist had skill, he had to give him that.

Skwisgaar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he brought the bottle back down. He licked his lips. They tasted like fire.

"We needs music," he said suddenly, more to himself than to Toki. "Is too quiets."

"Whats you wanna hear? Radio?" Toki asked, reaching for the switch.

"Fucks no," Skwisgaar exclaimed, yanking the CD wallet off of the visor overhead. "Radios is dildos."

"Whose car is dis anyways?" Toki asked absent-mindedly, brushing a finger along the black leather steering wheel and watching as Skwisgaar opened the wallet and began rifling through the CDs.

"Ours, Toki. Who's you tinks?"

"Buts we don'ts even gots a drivings license!"

"Ja, well… who's else gots enough money to buys Lamborghinis buts Dethklok?"

"Buts… why dere somebody else's CDs in it?" Toki asked, pointing at the wallet in Skwisgaar's lap.

"I don'ts know, maybe some dildos Kloks-ateers drivingks it arounds," Skwisgaar answered dismissively. "Now will you shuts up and lets me find some musics?"

Toki muttered something under his breath and confiscated the whiskey bottle from in between Skwisgaar's legs where the Swede had tucked it. He took a long, deep drink as Skwisgaar rummaged through the CDs peeking out of the numerous pockets.

"No. No. No. No," Skwisgaar muttered, tossing the thin silver discs onto the floor as terrible band after terrible band greeted his eyes. Hootie and the Blowfish? Blink 182? Who was using this car?

"Whats kinds of dildos don'ts have Dethklok in de car?" he said crossly.

"You wants listens to us?" Toki asked incredulously.

"Not reallies. Just cannots believes what I's seeingks, dat's all."

"Well… maybe da 'somebodies' dat's drivin's it don'ts like Dethklok."

"Pfffft… dat's un-possibles."

Skwisgaar smirked as he held up a burned CD with 'Mariah Carey Mix!!!' written in black sharpie on it.

"Cans you believes its? In dis car?"

Toki giggled. "Probably belongings to da goilfriend. Goils likes dat stuff."

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. "Ah, you's is de author-titties on what girls likes—I forgets."

"Oh shuts up, Skwisgaar!"

"Whatevers, Toki—you knows you's a lady," the Swede said distractedly as he continued tossing discs onto the floor in irritation until he found what he was looking for.

"Ah, finallies. Sometings dat's not sucks."

"Whats you find?" Toki asked eagerly as Skwisgaar popped in the CD, having already forgotten the lead guitarist's insult in the blur of his drunkenness. The stereo jumped to life with blinking blue lights and a scrolling digital message that said, "Welcome, Number 347!"

"I knows it! Dildos Kloks-ateers," Skwisgaar chuckled under his breath as the staccato drumbeat and short, lunging guitar chords of Ministry's "N.W.O." shattered the silence. Skwisgaar turned the volume dial up as Al Jourgensen's grating vocals kicked in, providing the perfect complement to the stabbing grind of the lead guitar. The two Scandinavians listened for a few minutes in silence, nodding their heads to the beat and handing the whiskey bottle back and forth. Then Toki spoke up.

"So… what's we gonna do's? Just sits here and listens to music all nights?" he asked, hiccupping.

'I'm in love with a malicious intent/You've been taken but you don't know it yet…' Jourgensen's voice growled raucously from the speakers, making Skwisgaar smile at the weirdly humorous parallel of the lyric and what he was about to do to his band mate.

"No. I's gonna drives now," Skwisgaar answered, turning down the volume slightly and giving Toki a sideways glance.

"Den whys you makes me turns da car off?!" he exclaimed, his voice rising to a near-squeak as he stared at the Swede with wide blue eyes.

"I didn'ts means de car," Skwisgaar smirked, holding Toki's gaze.

It took the intoxicated Norwegian a few seconds to comprehend.

"Oh… oh." A long, drunken smile spread slowly across his face—a smile Skwisgaar loved, even though he knew it was mostly a product of the alcohol. "You's feelin's frisky," Toki giggled, and covered his hands with his mouth as he hiccupped again. Skwisgaar had been carefully monitoring Toki's drinking, making sure he didn't get to the throwing-up point, but ensuring that he was drunk enough to be in the mood for something a little more adventurous than fucking behind the closed doors of their bedrooms. Skwisgaar needed excitement, and this was the perfect opportunity.

"Ja, and you's feelingks like gettingks fucked, I knows it," the Swede replied, lowering his voice an octave. Toki was the only person he could talk dirty to in English and not feel awkward.

"Ja, and how's you knows dat?" Toki teased, pulling the whiskey bottle out of Skwisgaar's loosened fingers and taking another swig.

"'Cause you's already gettingks hard," Skwisgaar said smugly, nodding at the slight, but noticeable, bulge in Toki's pants. It was unbelievable what a little alcohol and a suggestion could do to the rhythm guitarist.

"Okays, you caughts me. Red handses!" Toki slurred, holding the liquor bottle aloft as if in salute and flashing another sloshy grin at his band mate.

But Skwisgaar didn't want to waste any time. Ministry was blazing in his ears, a half bottle of whiskey was coursing through his blood, and the chilly night air was sending signals to his flesh, lacing his bare arms with goose bumps and pushing his body to obey its urges. This was it—it was his turn to take control. There would be time later for cuddling and talking. Right now he just wanted to fuck.

"Takes off your pants," the Swede instructed as he undid his skull buckle and unzipped the crotch of his jeans, revealing the swollen head of his cock cushioned in a dark blonde burst of hair. Toki raised an eyebrow. Skwisgaar hadn't worn any underwear on purpose, and the way the Norwegian licked his lips let him know he knew that, too.

"Um, but we don'ts gots any…" Toki's voice trailed off as Skwisgaar produced a small tube of lubricant from his back pocket.

"You's such a sluts, Skwisgaar," Toki admonished as his fingers—half of which were still curled around the whiskey bottle—fumbled at his own belt buckle. Normally, Skwisgaar would've unleashed a volley of insults back at the little Norwegian for saying such a thing, but he was close to getting laid and he knew Toki was just being funny. Still, Toki was the only one he allowed to talk to him like that—and only when he was drunk. He'd been finding lately that Toki was his only exception for a lot of things…

Skwisgaar reached across the driver's seat to help Toki with his zipper, amazed at the way the rhythm guitarist's fingers seemed to stop working when he was intoxicated. Even when he was shit-faced, Skwisgaar could still play a pretty decent guitar solo. He made a mental note to keep Toki away from alcohol before they went onstage in the future.

Skwisgaar quickly unzipped Toki's fly and, with a flash of his fingers, had his pants around his thighs in a matter of seconds. He reached into the younger man's boxers and stroked his erection, eliciting a murmur of appreciation.

"Mmmm…"

Skwisgaar bent over and used his free hand to pull off Toki's boots and shimmy his pants down around his ankles. Toki gasped as Skwisgaar pumped his cock harder, delivering full, broad strokes with his skilled hand.

"Ngh! Gods… you's good at dats!"

"I knows," Skwisgaar said smugly, but his own erection had grown too stiff for him to lean over any longer.

He pulled the bottle out of Toki's fingers and dumped it, with a heavy clink, into one of the wide chrome cup holders beneath the stereo.

"Come heres."

Toki did as he was told, climbing drunkenly over the shifter, one pants leg still trailing from his foot, and slid into Skwisgaar's lap in the passenger seat. A jolt of heat ran through Skwisgaar's body as the familiar weight of Toki's thighs settled warmly against this own. How many times had they done this? Dozens? Hundreds? And yet, it always made his insides melt and set his entire body on fire. The fact that they were both blissfully drunk and horny just magnified the intensity of the rush.

The Norwegian swayed a little, then righted himself and shook the hair out of his face.

"Dis goods?" he asked, grinning. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright with the shine of liquor. Sure smiles lots when he's drunks, Skwisgaar thought affectionately.

"Ja. Now dis," he said, pushing the lube into Toki's hand.

Skwisgaar leaned back as Toki squirted some of the gooey stuff onto his palm. He dug his fingers into the top of Skwisgaar's pants and wrapped his hand around the Swede's cock, spreading the lube down the entire length of his shaft. Skwisgaar closed his eyes and laced his thumbs into his belt loops. Shifting his hips up in the air, he nudged his jeans down further, allowing Toki to stroke all the way to the base. The other guitarist's hand felt good on his dick—really good—but he was hungry for more, and he knew Toki was, too.

Skwisgaar felt Toki's arm brush against his stomach as the fingers of the Norwegian's other hand curled around his own cock and began to move, lost in the simple pleasure of touching. Gods how it turned him on to have Toki in his lap, hand sliding up and down his dick and watching him stroke himself at the same time.

Skwisgaar pulled Toki's face to his mouth and kissed him hard, and Toki broke his grip on the Swede's cock to wrap his arms around his head, pushing his fingers into his long, thick hair. The heat between them was building fast. Toki slid his left hand under Skwisgaar's black vee-neck shirt and gently pinched his nipple, rolling it in between the pad of his thumb and forefinger; then broke away just long enough to pull the shirt over the Swede's head, baring his smooth, pale chest. The chill night air made Skwisgaar's skin prickle, as did the feel of Toki's warm, wet lips against his neck as the Norwegian bent to suck at the space just below his ear.

As much as he liked it, however, the foreplay was starting to make Skwisgaar squirm. He needed it—now.

As if sensing Skwisgaar's urge, Toki moved closer, pushing his dick up against the Swede's belly and lifting his body. Skwisgaar slid his hands up the undersides of Toki's flexed thighs and around his ass, cupping both cheeks so that the tips of his long fingers brushed the edge of his entrance.

Toki lowered himself onto Skwisgaar slowly—teasingly—inch by agonizingly sweet inch. Skwisgaar bit his lip to keep from crying out as his fingertips sensed the muscles yielding. The feel of that tight, warm space inside Toki's body—a space that belonged to him and him alone—was more than satisfying; it was like coming home.

Toki gave a low moan as he came to rest on Skwisgaar's thighs, and the Swede slid his hands under Toki's shirt and around his back, pulling him close. He ran his fingers along the criss-cross of scars as he pressed the Norwegian's lips to his own.

"You likes dis?" he murmured.

"Just fucks me, Skwisgaar," Toki whispered harshly, nipping at the Swede's lower lip with his teeth. The unexpected command sent another burst of heat spiraling through Skwisgaar's body. He'd never heard Toki talk like that before—the Norwegian must've been drunker than he thought—but it drove his lust to a fever pitch.

He dug his fingers into Toki's skin and thrust all eight inches of himself deep inside the Norwegian's body, delighting in the groan of ecstasy the action provoked. Toki ground his cock against Skwisgaar's flesh and clutched at the back of the Swede's head with one hand, bracing himself for the ride, as Skwisgaar pulled out and then pumped back in with explosive power.

"Ahnn, Toki—!"

The words caught in his throat as Toki plunged his tongue into Skwisgaar's open mouth and kissed him fiercely. Skwisgaar moaned against Toki's lips, at once amused and aroused by his eagerness. Here they were, fucking in a car in the middle of nowhere like two horny teenagers, and it felt fucking amazing. And risky. Skwisgaar knew that if anyone saw them, they'd be instantly drowned in a media clusterfuck that not even Charles would be able to sort out—but he didn't care about that right now. All that mattered was the tangle of legs and arms and rippling muscles that was Toki, and the thrill of fucking in a ridiculously expensive car with the windows rolled down, music blaring, both of them half-naked and making enough noise to wake the dead.

Toki's rapid breathing quickly turned to panting as Skwisgaar thrust up inside him again and again. Toki's body moved in perfect rhythm with his, pelvis churning, thighs straining, back arching against Skwisgaar's stiffened hands.

"Harder!" he begged, and Skwisgaar reached in front to grasp the Norwegian's cock in his hand as he pushed inside him as far as he could. The combination of the thrust and Skwisgaar's hand on his cock made Toki cry out loudly, and Skwisgaar playfully stifled the sound with his mouth as he pumped into Toki again, more forceful this time, and worked his dick with his hand.

Short, stuttering moans escaped Toki's lips with each thrust, and each thrust brought Skwisgaar closer to orgasm. Toki was close, too—he could feel it.

"You likes it hard tonights, ja?" Skwisgaar panted, and ran his tongue from the base of Toki's neck to his jaw line. He tipped his head back to look into Toki's face and gave him an unruly grin.

"Hards as you cans," Toki said, his eyes ice-blue in the darkness and a faint sheen of sweat covering his forehead, plastering his hair to his skin. Skwisgaar thought he detected a challenge in the Norwegian's tone.

"Okays, den—hard we goes," he purred, and, curling one arm under Toki's and wrapping his hand atop the opposite shoulder, proceeded to drive his cock into the Norwegian with all the strength he had left. His solid pounding was matched by Toki's equally rough thrusts, and Skwisgaar could feel his orgasm building quickly as their bodies slammed together. They were both slippery with sweat and flushed with heat, despite the cool breeze drifting in through the car's open windows, and Skwisgaar had to keep a tight grip on Toki's back to keep him from sliding.

"Oh ja—keeps goings!… dats—mmmMM!" Toki jerked his head back, his dark hair brushing across Skwisgaar's arms, and moaned again, hoarsely, as Skwisgaar stroked his cock with fast, fluid motions. His head was wet with pre-cum and the Swede spread it around the tip of his dick with his thumb, hitting him where he was most sensitive.

"Oh fucks… ja, you's gots it—FUCK!"

Toki uttered a sharp, sudden cry as his body shuddered violently and a hot jet of cum shot onto Skwisgaar's chest. It was only a few seconds before Skwisgaar joined him, the orgasm washing over him in a fiery, surging wave that made him feel like he was falling and soaring upward at the same time.

"Fuck, Toki… gods," Skwisgaar exclaimed as he tried to catch his breath. The little Norwegian wasn't usually this wild or vocal when they had sex. And fuck had it ever been a turn-on.

Panting, Toki collapsed against Skwisgaar as the Swede rolled his head back against the headrest. Skwisgaar's chest was heaving and his heart felt like it was going ninety miles an hour. He reached up to stroke Toki's hair as the Norwegian's muscles relaxed against his body, limb by limb. This was one of his favorite things—watching Toki come down after Skwisgaar fucked him. He liked the way the rhythm guitarist's rapid breaths calmed, the feel of his heartbeat as it slowed from a frenzied pounding to an even throb… the way he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the crook of Skwisgaar's neck, completely spent.

The Swede slid a hand down the guitarist's back and cupped it around his hot, slippery ass, gently nudging his hips upward and allowing himself to slide out. He bent his head to nibble on his lover's neck, and whispered against his skin, "I likes you's tellingks me whats to do's."

"Ja?" Toki asked, surprised.

Skwisgaar chuckled. "Mmm-hm. Is only goods for sex, though. Not de rest of de times."

Toki smirked. "Whatevers. You likes it anyways."

"Ja, try me—you's see," he teased back, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and pulling it to his lips as another Ministry song issued forth from the stereo.

Toki bent over to grab his pants and boxers from off the floor, giving Skwisgaar the split-second opportunity to unceremoniously dump Toki's bare ass into the passenger seat and slide over the shifter into the driver's seat, smooth as a cat. He spilled a little of the whiskey on the floor as he did so, but he didn't care.

"Heys!" Toki squeaked as Skwisgaar zipped up his pants and re-clasped his belt buckle with one hand. "No fairs!"

"Now Toki, you hads your turns to drives," Skwisgaar chided.

"But I wants drives more! Charles never lets us drives at home!" the Norwegian pouted as he clumsily pulled his pants up over his shins and then hitched them under his ass.

"Oh shuts up. I bets you's never even asks him," Skwisgaar replied, passing the bottle to Toki.

"Whatevers," Toki said carelessly, taking a swig. Skwisgaar turned up the music once again and was pleased to hear the spoken intro to "Jesus Built My Hotrod."

"So, what's you feels like doingks nows?" Skwisgaar asked, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel and turning to Toki with a daring look.

Toki grinned as the frenzied, pounding rhythm of the song broke forth from the speakers, assaulting their ears and sending a fresh rush of adrenaline through both guitarists' veins. "Wells… I gots to one-fifteens—tinks you can go's faster?"

Skwisgaar snorted. "Is dats a challenge?"

"Only if you's not a scared little chickens," the Norwegian replied, mischief dancing in his pale blue eyes.

The Swede turned the key in the ignition, bringing the Lamborghini to life with a roar of the engine.

"Holds on, little Toki," he warned, pushing the shifter into drive and eyeing him slyly, a roguish smile playing along his still-flushed lips. "Dis ride goingks to be even faster dan your last ones!"

Want [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 21:13:35 GMT

Title: Want
Author: Cycatryx
Artist: zsomeone
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language (*NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: What could Skwisgaar Skwigelf possibly do alone that would be rated NC-17? Plenty.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Skwisgaar awoke abruptly, as though he'd been shaken. He reached around and padded the opposite side of the bed with his palm—empty. Was that good or bad? He immediately decided it was good, for even in the dark, the room swam before his eyes—apparently he was still drunk. And, inexplicably, he'd managed to make it all the way up to his bedroom after the party without being followed by a trail of thrill-seeking groupies. Which probably explained why he'd awoken alone, still dizzy, and with a raging hard-on.

For Skwisgaar, sex usually dulled the effect alcohol had on his brain, but he hadn't gotten any tonight and now his dick was begging for attention. He glanced at his alarm clock. It was well after four a.m. He didn't feel like calling for a groupie to be brought up to him—the thought of dealing with another human being—especially an overexcited fan girl—in his tired, inebriated state didn't appeal to him in the least. And with women there were usually certain… prerequisites, and he wasn't in the mood for any of that, either. Dey reallies should puts warningks on de ladies abouts de fores-plays, he thought to himself, smiling at his own joke.

No, what he wanted was a quick release, free of complications and obligations, and then to sink into the soft expanse of his big white bed and sleep off the half bottle of vodka he'd drank earlier. Something simple, something private… something all for him.

He trailed the fingers of his right hand lazily down his chest, to the inside of his thigh, reveling in the softness of his own flesh and giving himself goose bumps. He knew every dip and curve of his body, and he appreciated what he had. It had brought him many good things over the course of his lifetime, even before he'd hit mega-stardom with Dethklok. And while he usually preferred someone else do this for him, he also enjoyed taking things into his own hands every now and then.

Skwisgaar's hand wandered back up to his belly, to the sparse patch of fuzzy, blonde hair fringing his cock, and he circled his fingers delicately, almost reverently, around the base. He felt the blood swelling through the large vein along the top, right beneath the pad of his thumb, and he stroked once, all the way to the tip, causing the head of his cock to stiffen with pleasure.

He sighed luxuriously and allowed his mind to wander. What should he think about? He had plenty of nameless bodies to entertain his mind's eye—women whose forms and figures he vaguely remembered but whose faces never appeared clearly in his thoughts; and there were always the buxom porn stars from the movies—some of whom he'd also welcomed into his bed. Strangely, Skwisgaar didn't find any of these images appealing at the moment. He needed something else, something entirely different…

A familiar vision swam to the forefront of his mind—a vision of long, chestnut-brown hair and an endearingly uneven smile; of ice-blue eyes set beneath dark, finely-curved eyebrows and a rock-hard body hidden underneath loose clothing, just waiting to be revealed. Skwisgaar's heart skipped a beat and a small rush of air escaped his lips as a flash of liquid heat shot straight to his groin, tugging him, teasing him. He knew what this meant. This was the one flaw in his perfectly normal (well, normal for a metal god) sex life, but when this urge demanded that he pay service to it, he always complied.

The Swede tossed the edge of his warm fur blanket down and crept out from under it. He couldn't be in his bed—the place where he fucked women—for this. He had to be somewhere even more private, more enclosed—someplace where absolutely no one could see or hear.

He staggered to the master bathroom and locked the door behind him. There was a light switch… somewhere. He fumbled along the walls, hands grazing across wallpaper and his dick throbbing angrily for lack of attention, but he finally found it. When he flipped it on, however, his eyes were assaulted by the sudden, painful burst of whiteness. Skwisgaar squinted in the harsh light, attempting to shield his eyes with his hand. No, this wouldn't work. He slapped off the overhead lights with an impatient palm and switched on the heat lamps instead, bathing the room in a surreal orange glow.

He sighed and slid to the floor, wincing as his ass hit the cold marble. However, the sensation did nothing to diminish his erection, and the damningly provocative vision that had arisen in his mind was still plaguing him, toying with him—casting furtive, blue-eyed glances in his direction as if to say, You wants me—just admits it. Tells me and I comes to you.

Except that he knew it would never happen. In Skwisgaar's mind, it wasn't even remotely plausible. It was always a "someday/never" game with Toki. Someday Skwisgaar would give Toki a solo. Someday he would let him record his own guitar tracks. But he could never, ever let Toki—or anyone else, for that matter—know about this. It had become something of a ritual, and it belonged to him and him alone, for whatever crazy, fucked-up reason. And he wanted it. He wanted to keep it all for himself, although he had no idea why.

The Swede wrapped his hand around the stiff, velvety rod in between his legs and inhaled sharply as his body quivered at the touch. He rested the back of his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and spread his legs, imagining a pair of toned ass cheeks between them, grazing against the insides of his thighs as the brunette straddled him. And then it was no longer his own hand on his cock but Toki's, and the Norwegian's strong, guitar-seasoned fingers found more talent moving along Skwisgaar's shaft than in the strings of his Flying V. The Swede preferred it that way; if Toki was going to control his fantasies, at least he didn't have to be proficient at guitar.

But he could go anywhere else… explore anything else…

Skwisgaar's breathing began to accelerate as he licked his thumb and rolled it across his glans, imagining the Norwegian's tongue flicking roguishly along his head, teasing him. He spit into his palm and lubricated his entire length, and he could see Toki taking his cock into his mouth—head pressing against the back of his throat, wet tongue sliding over the underside of his shaft and swirling around his balls. He pumped harder, faster; a moan escaped his lips and his fingers spread and clutched at the marble tile as though to anchor himself.

Toki was looking up at him now, a sly little smile playing along his flushed lips and a devilish look in his eye that said, Wants more?

"Oh ja… please… gods, more—" he murmured under his breath as his (Toki's) free hand fluttered across his bare chest and squeezed a nipple in between a thumb and forefinger, eliciting just enough pain to make it seem real. In his mind, he watched Toki go down again, lips moist with saliva, and the Norwegian's hair draped across his spread legs and stomach like a whisper—a light, silken touch that was in stark contrast to the eager slide of tongue against flesh, of teeth grazing gently against the tender, swollen head of his cock.

In his imagination, Toki's blow jobs were rhythmic, passionate, and practiced—not amateur or apprehensive, as Skwisgaar was sure they would be if ever—by some impossible twist of fate—he looked down to see the real Toki between his legs. Fantasy-Toki responded to Skwisgaar's body as though they'd been doing this for years.

You's wants me under you? Or behinds you? came Toki's imaginary voice from inside Skwisgaar's head. Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, embracing him from behind and pinning him at the same time. Skwisgaar gasped as the far-away tingling feeling began building in his belly, and he pinched his nipple tighter as his other hand sent long, full strokes down his heated cock. He knew the usual answer to this question, too…

Except that, tonight, he wasn't feeling the usual. The alcohol had made him loose and carefree and curious to break through the restrictions he usually placed on the way the vision unfolded… and while he wouldn't allow himself to be dominated on guitar, he was willing to let the Norwegian dominate him in other ways—in the solitary, late-night safety of his bathroom, at least.

"You behinds me… I wants it likes dat…" he purred to his fantasy vision of Toki, who smiled seductively and slid his hands around Skwisgaar's back and down his chest. You's goings to beg for it before I's done, the Norwegian teased, gripping Skwisgaar's cock with one hand and resting the palm of his other on the Swede's hip, steadying him. Skwisgaar moaned again as Toki pressed up against his back, nudging his stiff cock in between his cheeks.

The two middle fingers of the Swede's left hand disappeared into his mouth, tongue coating them with saliva up to the knuckles. He sucked longingly as he pulled them out, and simultaneously shifted his hips so that his tailbone was nearly parallel with the floor.

Toki's slick, hard cock teased open his entrance, and Skwisgaar could feel the tight muscles give way as both fingers slid inside. It was a lot to take in at once—but then so was Toki—and he groaned in both pain and pleasure as he pushed in deeper with his fingers and rolled his thumb along his balls. Toki's other hand reached around to grasp Skwisgaar's bulging erection and stroked long and deep, nibbling along his neck and nipping at his earlobe as he fucked him slowly, rhythmically from behind.

"Ahh, dat's fuckingks good," Skwisgaar moaned as his groin began to fill with white-hot heat. "So fuckingks good…"

Behind him, Toki's breathing grew heavier, and Skwisgaar imagined he could feel the Norwegian's sweat against his skin and smell the heady, sex-drenched scent of his flesh as Toki's orgasm built alongside his own with the fury of a cyclone.

"Harder… oh gods, go harder!" Skwisgaar pleaded, and he didn't have to turn around and look to know that Toki was wearing a smug smile on his face. Well, the other guitarist had warned him that he'd make him beg, and he'd been right.

"Ja, dat's it—you's almost gots it—" the hand on his cock was stroking faster now, and his abdominal muscles were shuddering with the sweet, rough pressure inside his body, and for one moment he could actually feel Toki's arm clutching his chest and his breath coming out fast and hard against the back of his neck before the vision exploded into a thousand different fragments. His long, thin fingers pushed deep into his ass and found what they were seeking, and then sensation was all he felt as his orgasm crested and overflowed, spilling his cum onto the bathroom floor and forcing Toki's name to slip out from between his lips.

"Fuck, oh fuck—Toki!" The sound startled him almost as much as the warm gush of feeling that flooded his body and the shivers that raced through his limbs, causing his legs to tremble.

"…H'oh, fuck," Skwisgaar whispered to the still room, opening his eyes and exhaling loudly as the realization that he'd just done the thing he'd promised himself never to do—speak Toki's name aloud while he did this—sent a stab of shame through his chest. Although there hadn't been anyone to hear it, actually saying the name was acknowledgement in itself—that it was Toki he'd been fantasizing about; Toki he wanted.

Not bothering to clean up the puddle of cum on the floor, Skwisgaar sank back against the bathroom wall and rested his forehead against his palms, taking care not to let the fingers he'd had inside his ass anywhere near his face. Because he knew those fingers had given him an orgasm, not the embarrassingly delicious pounding of Toki's cock. And yet, for all the shame this knowledge inspired, he knew the next time the urge came, he would be even more powerless to resist it.

No matter that it muddied his ego and made him question his feelings toward his fellow guitarist. No matter that, after the ecstasy, his fleeting visions of Toki's limbs intertwined with his always left him feeling humiliated and weak and, worst of all, maddeningly curious. He was slave to them, and they demanded an obedience from him that was second only to his guitar (although sometimes he questioned even that). This was his private, "sometimes" world, and no matter how out of control the visions became in his head, he knew his secret was safe. He would never reveal to Toki the lust his imagined presence inspired in him, because he would never need to—it would never come to that.

Feeling more sober than he would've liked, Skwisgaar quietly washed his hands and then unlocked the bathroom door and returned to his bed. He curled up under his white satin sheets, which had grown chilly in his absence. Shivering slightly, Skwisgaar drew his knees up to his chest and allowed himself to indulge in one more fantasy—Toki's warm arms wrapped around him, hugging him close, and his gentle voice whispering him to sleep.

Mine [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 21:08:07 GMT

Title: Mine
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Toki/Skwisgaar
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Summary: Toki decides to take charge.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

"Mmmmhnn."

An arm reaches out, snakes lazily across my back; fingers brush lightly against my skin. I open one eye to peek at his naked, sprawled-out form, half-covered by the white fur blanket. He isn't completely awake yet, and I know I should let him sleep, but it's one of those mornings where I just can't wait. (Despite what he might think sometimes, he's not the only one with needs.)

I've been laying here, hard as a rock, for the better part of an hour and it's either get things started or go in the bathroom and jerk off. But why would I want to leave this bed when I've got this warm, flawlessly-sculpted, perfectly-fuckable body next to me?

I turn my head on the pillow and watch him as he sleeps—the slow rise and fall of his back as he breathes, the whiteness of his skin in the beam of sunlight coming through the window, the golden shine of his hair. I reach out and smooth his wild mane with a finger, noting how soft it is, despite its tangled appearance. I love him with bed hair—it's the only time he doesn't look so damn preened and perfect. I like seeing him as he really is, before he puts on the tight clothes, the attitude, the ever-present guitar—when it's just Skwisgaar, sleepy and naked and unpretentious.

He shifts and turns on his side, butting up against me. The mattress settles as he exhales and nuzzles his head against his outstretched arm. He looks so peaceful right now that he's just begging to be bothered. After all, there's nothing quite as satisfying as getting yelled at by Skwisgaar Skwigelf first thing in the morning.

I duck under the blanket and push my head in between his thighs, prying them apart with searching fingers and an eager tongue. This wakes him up. Skwisgaar starts, then rolls over on his back, knees up in the air, and peeks under the blanket.

"Whats you doingks down dere?" he asks crossly.

"Just playings," I answer, looking into his half-closed, steel-blue eyes, and run my tongue along his thigh.

"Yous a damn dildos. I's sleepingks, you knows."

(Sometimes he puts on the attitude before the clothes.)

"Yous awake now," I say hopefully, encircling his narrow waist with my hands and drumming a little rhythm on his hipbones with my thumbs.

"Well den. Whats you wants. Say its." He arches one blonde eyebrow and his eyes get that "fuck-me" look in them that no one can resist. A smile plays along his lips, and now I'm wanting nothing more than to put my mouth on those lips, to taste their haughty plumpness. I climb up between his legs and sink down against his chest, and as I press my mouth against his I can feel his cock slowly growing hard against my belly.

Skwisgaar arches his back ever so slightly, grinding into me, and a small "mmmm" escapes his lips as my tongue tangles with his. This is a promising sign.

I break away after a moment, rolling over on one elbow, and he looks at me, arms folded behind his head, dripping with sexy nonchalance and the smell of early morning. He blinks, waiting for me to answer.

"I wants to… you knows…" But suddenly I'm too embarrassed to say it. Skwisgaar's good at being bold and demanding in bed; I'm not. But I know he's not going to relent until I tell him properly, so I swallow my shyness and whisper, more firmly this time, "I wants to fucks you."

Skwisgaar looks surprised. Maybe because I've never asked; maybe because he just assumes that I'm happy with being fucked and getting blow jobs—but he'd be wrong. I've been wanting to try this for weeks now; only the fear of not being good enough has made me keep my mouth shut. But I'm ready now. Boy am I ready. My dick's so hard it feels like it's about to explode.

He smiles for real now, and his mouth gives a slight twitch as he asks, "Whats you waitingks for, den?" He reaches down, starts to pull me into another kiss, but I shake my head. Not yets. There's someplace I want to explore first.

He gives me a questioning look as I nudge back down between his thighs. I spread them apart with my calloused fingertips; the skin is creamy and soft beneath the downy covering of light blonde hair. He doesn't ask what I'm doing; doesn't say a word—just yields his body to me as I kiss a line along the inside of his thigh and then farther down, bypassing his dick and his balls.

My tongue goes straight where it wants to, swirling around the puckered rim of his asshole in a slow, lazy circle. I spread his cheeks apart slightly with my hands, and there's a sharp intake of breath from above as I plunge my tongue inside, wanting desperately to taste the deepest, most secret part of him.

He spreads his legs wider, allowing me more room, and lays a gentle, trembling hand on my head as I move in and out, lubricating the place I am about to claim. I can tell he likes it—more than I would've thought. His breathing accelerates and he says in a low, croaking whisper,

"Fuck dat feels goods."

The words send a jolt of heat to my groin and I whimper a little in spite of myself, even though I'm not inside him yet. Just knowing that what I'm doing is enough to make him shudder with pleasure drives me half-crazy with lust. Sprawled out naked like he is now, Skwisgaar tends to have that effect—his enjoyment becomes your enjoyment. I don't know how he does it, but whatever it is works.

I give a final push inside, as far as I can go, and I feel the muscles tighten around my tongue as he lets out a low moan, and now I want him more intensely than I ever have before—I want to be inside him, to feel him encircling me. I lick around his rim again, making sure it's wet and ready, and the taste on my tongue is musky and dark and strangely sweet.

"Toki."

Skwisgaar opens his eyes and looks down at me, unfocused, as I slide back up onto his chest. I rest my hand over his heart and beneath the ribcage I feel a rapid fluttering. It's time.

I use some of the lube that we keep by the bed on myself. My hand feels good going up and down my cock, but I have a feeling that what I'm about to do is going to feel a whole lot better. I position myself over Skwisgaar and bow my head as I brace myself against the mattress, but I don't kiss him; I'm not sure how he'd feel about that. He exhales unsteadily and brings me closer with a guiding hand; I feel his legs opening wide beneath me as he beckons me inside. I'm a little nervous, but there's no turning back now and oh I want this so badly—

—I ease myself in; just the head—just enough to let his body open up to me. I move slowly, centimeter by centimeter, not wanting to hurt him and at the same time hoping I'm not being too gentle; the last thing I want is to be called a pussy during my first fuck. But Skwisgaar's fingertips urge me on, and I slide in another inch, then two—and then he winces.

I freeze, afraid he's going to tell me that it doesn't feel good, that it hurts too much; but he continues to pull me in, despite the dull burning sensation I know he must be feeling since I didn't open him up beforehand with my fingers. I want to tell him that it's okay; that the pain fades and becomes sweet—but somehow I don't think Skwisgaar would appreciate sex tips from me. Suddenly it occurs to me that I've never even asked him if he's had this done to him before. Well, too late for that now.

I'm more than halfway in when Skwisgaar grabs the sides of my face and pulls me to his mouth—apparently he doesn't mind that my tongue was in his asshole. He kisses me roughly, almost frantically; and I'm about to ask him if he wants me to stop moving, when he plants both hands on my ass and pushes me all the way in with a sudden, violent shove that makes us both cry out—he in pleasure (or pain?) and me in the dizzy joy of being up to my balls inside him for the first time. For a brief moment, our bodies are completely one—mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, crotch to ass—and then I start to move, gently at first, since I can feel that his muscles are still tight and need time to adjust.

I go in deep, then out again—slow and sexy, the way I always imagined doing it. I breathe in and close my eyes, wanting to concentrate only on the feeling; on the unimaginably perfect feeling of being inside him. I've dreamed about this for years, but never thought it would happen—never thought it could happen. I hadn't known he was open to anything besides girls—not until he kissed me, that is. And I hadn't even asked for it. It was the first time he'd let down his guard around me, and it left me reeling.

And now this.

So… perfect. So deliciously tight. Oh Freya, who needs pussy when you can have this?

"Yous can go faster," Skwisgaar whispers after a minute, and in his eyes there's a hint of something I've never seen before. Shyness, maybe. Or trust. I kind of wish he'd tell me if I'm doing this right; I don't want to let him down. But I accept his invitation anyway and push deeper into him, and a little harder. The ripple of those strong inner muscles along my cock feels better than the juiciest pair of lips, the most eager tongue. Ja, Odin, he's mine now.

I toss one of his long legs over my shoulder to get a better angle and drive into him hard. I must've hit his feel-good spot, because he cries out abruptly, and it is an animal sound, full of carnal hunger and lust. A sweat breaks out on my forehead as our bodies pound together again and again, and he's grabbing my hair and grinding his cock into my chest and groaning in an incoherent mix of Swedish and English that only makes me want to fuck him harder.

I let his leg slip off my shoulder and pull him up onto my lap in one swift, powerful motion that surprises him (my strength always surprises him), and now he can move, too, which gives him the freedom to go as fast and as hard as he wants. I lean back, supporting myself with one hand flat on the mattress and encircling his back with my other arm, and let Skwisgaar take over.

He tightens his thighs around my hips and pulls away sharply, only to slam his ass back into my crotch in a fierce, fiery move that makes me shiver with pleasure and rattles the bed frame. So he wants it rough—I might've guessed.

I moan as I rock with him, tipping my head back and letting the tips of my long hair brush against his legs. I can feel the pressure building in my groin as he clenches his muscles around my swollen, throbbing cock. It's a good trick—one I wish I'd thought of before—and it sends me into overdrive. I lift up my head to look at him, and the sight of his lean, pale body and closed eyes and wet, parted lips are more than beautiful; "angelic" comes to mind, but it's not really the right word for such a conceited devil.

Suddenly he grabs me, pulls me to his chest, encircling my head with one arm. He presses the side of his face against my neck, and his hair is in my mouth—I run my tongue along a strand and it tastes sweet. His whole body feels like it's vibrating, and his heart is beating hard and fast through his chest; he's almost there, but he doesn't want me to watch him come. Typical Skwisgaar—keeping the glory of the moment all to himself.

But this doesn't prevent my own orgasm from building until it reaches a blinding frenzy; I thrust up into him once more, and a flood of white-hot ecstasy washes over me in a sudden, screaming jerk. I cry out—a guttural sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, and through the searing flash of rapture I hear Skwisgaar howl my name. I feel a sharp pain as his teeth bite into my shoulder, and then a hot jet of fluid shoots onto my heaving chest, and we come together, wallowing in the surging fury of that perfect, fleeting climax.

We come down slow.

Panting and spent, we try to catch our breath as muscles twitch and racing hearts calm; he's still holding onto me, hands pressed tightly against my back, breath coming out hot and hard against my neck. I nuzzle my nose into his shoulder and my lips brush feather-light against his ear; he turns his head to look at me, and his blue eyes search mine—for what I don't know. My dick is still inside him, throbbing gently, and his cheeks are flushed and his body shines with a thin sheen of sweat. He looks fucking gorgeous. If I hadn't just come, I'd want to bury myself inside him again.

"Was dats okay?" I ask, nipping lightly at his nose. My shoulder stings where he sank his teeth into it, and the little bit of wetness tells me that he probably drew blood, but I don't mind; there's millions of women out there who would die to have a love-wound from Skwisgaar Skwigelf.

"Dats was betters dan okay," he replies, his voice sounding the tiniest bit hoarse. I smile to myself. Not only did I just make him come without even touching his dick, he complimented me on it. I can die happy now.

"You lets me do dat again?" I ask, pulling out of him gently and lifting him off my lap. I swipe the cum off my chest with a tissue and then slide down next to him on the bed and curl up with my face towards his, waiting for an answer I hope will be yes.

Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow, looking slightly alarmed. "You means rights now?"

I laugh, and the sound causes that contrived expression of his that's a mix of superiority and amusement to crumble into an embarrassed frown.

So I hug him close, not wanting him to feel too stupid since he's just let me fuck him, and press my lips against his forehead. "I means some other times," I say, smiling a little at the thought of trying for a second round. I'm too worn-out to even think about it.

On the other hand, I could be ready again in an hour or so…

A happy, buzzing feeling washes over me as I hold him. Skwisgaar, my lover. My band mate. My friend. It really doesn't get any better than this.

"You knows whats?" I say, propping myself up on one elbow. I'm feeling bold. "I tink I loves you."

"Yous a dildos," he answers, but there's a hint of a smile on his face, and as he looks up at me, his cool blue eyes tell me all I need to know.

He just might love me a little, too.

Bare, 3/3 [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:57:40 GMT

Title: Bare, 3/3
Author: Cycatryx
Artist: mijeli
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language (*NSFW* due to the art within)
Summary: Skwisgaar and Toki return to Mordhaus. Things get even more complicated.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Part 1

Part 2

Skwisgaar began kissing him as soon as the door to his bedroom clicked shut, and the Norwegian felt the winter air ghost its chilly fingers along his skin as the Swede's hands lifted the black tee shirt over his head. They stumbled backward toward the bed, trying to kick off their boots and undo each other's pants at the same time. But as Skwisgaar threw him down on the soft white blanket and climbed on top of him, Toki became suddenly aware of the fact that he'd just spent the last hour in a hot, sweaty club, dancing and being touched by a girl whose name he hadn't even bothered to ask.

"Waits—waits—" he mumbled against Skwisgaar's mouth, and the Swede lifted his head and licked his lips.

"Whats?"

"I's, uh, all gross and sweaties. I needs a shower."

"You showers rights before we's left, remembers?"

"Ja, but dat ones was cold," Toki said, emphasizing the last word as though to explain why another shower was necessary. He was half-afraid Skwisgaar would tell him to shut up and get over it, but instead, the Swede smiled seductively and slid off of him, stopping to plant a kiss on his stomach on the way down.

"You's rights. We needs hot showers. Togethers."

Skwisgaar took Toki's hand and led him into the white marble bathroom. He nudged open the shower door and turned on the taps, and then moved close to Toki and encircled his waist with his arms.

"I wants gets you nakeds dis time," he said breathlessly, and hooked his fingers into the belt loops of the worn leather pants. Toki nodded in unspoken permission, and Skwisgaar unzipped the fly, and then pulled the waistband down just enough to reveal the angular curve of his hipbones and the thatch of dark, curly hair surrounding the base of his cock. Skwisgaar trailed his fingers down his chest and then through the mound of soft, springy hair.

"You feels as good as you looks, you knows dat?"

Against his will, Toki felt himself beginning to blush. Certainly no girl had ever shown such an interest in his body, and Skwisgaar's attentions were—well, extremely flattering and a little embarrassing, to be honest. He wasn't the sexy guitar god whose body was worshipped by millions—that was Skwisgaar—but the Swede was sure treating him like he was.

"Uh, cans I gets you's—cans I takes your clothes off, too?"

"Now," Skwisgaar replied bossily as he slid the leather pants down Toki's thighs and cupped his ass cheeks with both hands.

It was a little difficult to get Skwisgaar's pants off while he was fondling his ass, but Toki managed to do it. Next came the shirt, which slipped easily over Skwisgaar's head. The blonde shook out his hair, rolled his shoulders back, and smiled, seemingly glad to be free of his clothing. Toki was familiar with the stereotypes about Scandinavians and how much they liked being naked, but he'd never possessed that kind of carefree confidence—not when he was sober, anyway. It was clear, however, that Skwisgaar did, naturally.

After removing a couple of stray boots and kicking the piles of clothing away from their feet, Toki stood naked in front of Skwisgaar for the second time that day, which he found much less spectacular than the almost dream-like sight of the Swede's perfect, pale body. It was the first time he'd seen him fully nude. Skwisgaar was lean and strong at the same time; curved in some places and straight in others. The soft blonde hair on his arms and legs glinted in the overhead light, and the downy covering of darker blonde hair fringing his long, stiff cock looked as touchably soft as the hair on his head. Toki had never before been so aroused by the sight of limbs and bare skin.

"You wants gets in?" Skwisgaar asked, breaking the silence.

"Now," Toki answered, smirking slightly, and allowed Skwisgaar to take his hand and lead him into the large, steamy shower.

The water rushed hotly over their bodies from the numerous shower heads set into the ceiling, coaxing away the winter chill and the remnants of snowflakes on skin. Skwisgaar adjusted a dial on the nearest wall that lowered the lights—gods, he wished he'd known about that earlier; drunkenness and bright lights didn't mix—and then turned to Toki. The Swede slowly ran his hands down the sides of Toki's arms while canvassing his body with hungry eyes, as if trying to decide how to start.

He started with his tongue.

Skwisgaar licked and nibbled along Toki's neck as he gently pressed him up against the cool marble wall and eased a thigh in between his legs, prying them apart. The sensation of Skwisgaar's warm, slippery flesh against his own and the hot, smoky taste of his mouth rendered Toki's knees suddenly useless, and he had to drape his arms around Skwisgaar's neck in order to keep himself from falling. But even the tips of his fingers were buzzing as they curled loosely into Skwisgaar's wet hair—this kiss was different, because they were alone now, and Something was about to happen.

Toki arched his back, pushing his cock against the Swede's, and kissed him harder as the water splashed over his head and closed eyelids, soaking his hair. There was something incredibly sexy about kissing in the shower—the warmth of the water mixed seamlessly with their saliva, dripping into their mouths as their wet lips sucked hungrily at each other's, making the heat between them taste even sweeter.

He was more turned on right now than he'd been in a long time—maybe even his entire life—but Toki still couldn't shake the nagging sense of surrealism that this was actually happening. And underneath the disbelief there were restless questions—Why me? Why nows? What's happens next?

He dug one hand into Skwisgaar's heavy blonde hair and brushed the fingertips of the other down his back, trying to push the thoughts away as the sensations of damp skin and rippling muscles filled his consciousness and made him feel giddy—drunk, almost. He didn't need his mind for this—he just needed to relax and let his body do what it wanted—needed—to do.

But then Skwisgaar broke away without warning, fixing his eyes—which had grown dark with lust—on Toki's. "You's okay?"

"Ja," Toki answered, pulling the Swede back to him. Dont's stops now, please, don'ts stops.

Skwisgaar tilted his head and gave Toki a skeptical look. "No, you's not. You's someplace else."

"No, I's right heres," Toki said, his voice sounding small and pleading to his ears. Fuck. Now he's thinks I's scared or somethings.

It was a moment before Skwisgaar spoke. "You's sure you wantingks to be doingks dis? I's not be mad if you says no."

At first Toki thought he was being sarcastic—Skwisgaar with a stiff cock wasn't likely to take no for an answer—but then he looked into his face, and in the depths of his darkened eyes he saw the naked sincerity that so few ever glimpsed. Hands pressed reassuringly against his back as the water rushed over their skin, filling the silence.

A lump rose in Toki's throat, and he felt dangerously close to tears again. How could he possibly explain to Skwisgaar how much this had changed things already? How much more things would change if they fucked tonight? He'd never before been forced to deal with his feelings for his fellow guitarist in such an immediate, straightforward fashion. It was overwhelming. And with everything that had happened in the past few months—the disastrous trip to Norway, the Snakes 'n Barrels show, the constant flood of alcohol through his body that dulled his senses and kept the dark doors in his mind from flying open—he knew, deep down, that he was in no condition to give Skwisgaar an honest answer.

But he had to say something, or else Skwisgaar would think he didn't want to be here. And oh Freya—his dick sure knew where it wanted to be, even if his brain didn't.

Toki fidgeted with a lock of Skwisgaar's hair and his eyes fell from the Swede's face to his wet, sensuously-curved collarbone.

"I don'ts know what's… what's be making you wants me tonights," he said, trying his best to keep his voice steady, although it wobbled anyway. "But I gots to tell you, so you's knows… dis not da first time I tinks about you likes—likes dis."

Skwisgaar brought his lips close to Toki's ear and whispered huskily, "I knows dat now, and I's likingks it, Toki."

The Norwegian bit his lip as Skwisgaar's hand reached down and caressed his erection, briefly cupping his balls before the fingers slid up, brushing along the underside of his cock. Then a slippery thumb nudged back his foreskin and traced gentle circles along the glans, sending shivers of sensation through his belly.

"I's goingks to helps you relax. You lets me do's dis?"

"Ja," Toki moaned weakly, not knowing whether he meant the hand on his cock, the prospect of relaxation, or both. But he didn't care. What Skwisgaar was doing to him right now felt terrifyingly good. Those fingers—those long, pale, clever fingers that Toki admired almost as much as he envied—were curled around his dick, touching him, stroking him, sending dizzying waves of heat through his entire body. How many nights had he jerked off to this very scenario? How many mornings had he awakened with the fleeting crush of Skwisgaar's warm lips against his, only to discover he'd been dreaming? Far too many to count. And each time, it had gotten harder for him to look Skwisgaar in the eye and feel nothing; to remind himself that this—the thing that was happening at this very moment—would never happen.

"Mmmm," Skwisgaar murmured as he ran his tongue along Toki's lower lip and then his chin, licking at the water droplets on his skin. Toki closed his eyes and rested his head against the marble, helpless to the soft, gentle teasing of Skwisgaar's tongue. He could feel the other guitarist's hard-on pressing up against his abdomen, and he felt suddenly guilty for not paying attention to his erection. He curled his fingers around Skwisgaar's length and the Swede's body jerked pleasurably in response, but before he could do anything else, Skwisgaar whispered a single word into his ear:

"No."

And then Skwisgaar's fingers were no longer on his dick, but his tongue and hands were running down Toki's slick chest, his belly; and then—suddenly—a warm, wet mouth was on his cock, licking and sucking. Toki's eyes flew open in surprise and his knees nearly gave out again when he looked down to see Skwisgaar's full, flushed lips around his dick. Dis can'ts be happenings… oh gods, oh Freya, he's actually doings it…

Skwisgaar's hands reached up to clench the sides of Toki's thighs, and the Norwegian's breath caught in his throat. A flash of heat raced through his body, shooting down his arms and chest and into his crotch, and his mind instantly went blank to everything but the ecstasy of feeling and the sight—the fucking impossible sight—of Skwisgaar bent down on spread knees, eyes closed, mouth wrapped around his cock. The Swede's long hair, darkened by the water, cascaded down his back in a waterfall of honey-blonde waves, and his eyebrows were knitted in concentration.

"Oh…"

It was the only word Toki could manage as Skwisgaar's lips loosened, and in the dim light, he caught a flash of white teeth and the hint of a smile before the Swede ran his tongue along the underside of his dick all the way to the tip. Toki felt his abdominal muscles stiffen and he flattened his palms against the shower wall as Skwisgaar flicked at his slit, teasing him, and then curled his mouth around his head. Toki closed his eyes, losing himself in the strange and breathtaking feeling of Skwisgaar's mouth surrounding him. This was infinitely better than anything his hand had ever been able to do. This was… this was better than girls, better than guitar, better than—oh gods—better than anything.

He felt himself sinking, giving into it fully—and with the physical sensations there came a palpable rush of longing, of buried desires suddenly laid bare for Skwisgaar to know, to see. He couldn't have fought it off if he'd wanted to.

The Swede hummed, sending sweet, buzzing vibrations all throughout his lower body, melting him, and Toki watched as he reached a pale hand down between his spread legs and began to caress his own erection. The sight sent another wave of heat to Toki's groin and he moaned, unconsciously curling his fingers into Skwisgaar's hair and pushing him closer. Watching Skwisgaar pleasure himself while going down on him nearly sent Toki over the edge. There was fire shooting through his body and his head was spinning; Skwisgaar was too talented with that mouth and he was going to come soon if he didn't hold himself back… he wanted to enjoy this for as long as possible, before he woke up again…

But it wasn't a dream—why couldn't he make himself believe that? Toki's heart raced as Skwisgaar took him deep into his throat, swallowing as much of him as he could, and then pulled back out again. The Norwegian's legs began to tremble as the blonde's other hand brushed across his abs and then lower, stopping to run through the wet patch of dark brown hair before wrapping around the base of his cock and pumping slowly as he sucked at the head, still humming. Water streamed over Toki's chest and into Skwisgaar's open lips, but the Swede didn't seem to mind. Toki pushed deeper into Skwisgaar's mouth, moaning with each thrust, as the Swede worked his cock with hand and tongue.

He could feel Skwisgaar's mouth loosen slightly as the Swede's humming transcended into stifled moans, and Toki glanced down to see Skwisgaar's expression relax as his own hand brought him increasingly closer to orgasm. Toki pushed his head back against the wall, panting as he felt his own orgasm began to build. Skwisgaar was about to get off, right there, with him—with his dick in his mouth—it couldn't be real—but it was—

Oh please, gods— never lets dis end—

—and then all of Toki's muscles seemed to jerk at once as a fierce, shuddering wave overtook him and he thrust into Skwisgaar's mouth with a strangled cry. Skwisgaar held tight as he came, moving along with Toki as his hips lurched upward, as though he already understood how the Norwegian's body worked.

I'll see you in Valhalska, Skwisgaar had once said to him. But to Toki, it felt like they were already there.

Skwisgaar pulled away gently, and Toki's eyes fluttered open to see the Swede brace himself against the floor, fingers splayed out against the wet marble as he turned his attention to his own dick. He was too close to stop. The sight of Skwisgaar bent over on the floor, dripping head bowed, pumping his long, hard cock awakened something hungry and slightly predatory inside of him, and Toki had barely caught his breath before he dropped to the floor and pushed the surprised Swede backwards against the wall. He clambered in between his slippery legs, needing him, wanting him so fiercely it frightened him—begging to return the favor—to do anything, anything to make him stay.

Toki tasted the sharp, gooey tang of cum on Skwisgaar's tongue as he pressed his mouth to his and cradled the back of his head in his hands; he hadn't spit it out, which made Toki all the more determined to make him come. Skwisgaar tipped his head back and moaned against Toki's mouth.

"Please…"

The word, when it slid out from between the Swede's quivering lips, sounded even more imploring than it had in the bathroom at the club.

Toki lowered his head in response and took the Swede's length in his mouth. He moved his lips and tongue up and down the shaft, relishing the rock-hard feel of the blood-filled organ against the back of his throat, and Skwisgaar—who Toki could feel was just inches away—groaned in pleasure.

"Ja, dat's good," he purred encouragingly, tangling his fingers into Toki's soaked chestnut hair.

Toki eased Skwisgaar's foreskin further down with his fingers and swirled his tongue around the head, drawing a gasp from the Swede, and then licked gently at the glans before plunging back down, caressing the shaft with long, broad strokes of his lips and tongue.

It was exhilarating—and terrifying—to be this close, to know that the lingering buzz in his groin and the grind of Skwisgaar's cock against the roof of his mouth meant they'd crossed a line and could never go back. He only hoped he was good enough to make Skwisgaar want it again—to make him want to come back for more. Toki already knew that nothing would ever make him feel the way he'd felt with Skwisgaar's mouth on his lips, on his cock—it was, by far, the best orgasm he'd ever had, and he was already aching for more.

First, though, he had to show Skwisgaar that he could give as good as he'd gotten.

Toki moaned against the Swede's hard flesh and cupped his balls in one hand, kneading them gently.

"Ahh, ja… you's doingks it goods, Toki—"

He thrust his head down, pulling Skwisgaar deep into his throat, and then felt, rather than saw, the Swede's head slam back against the wall, and his dripping fingers tightened around Toki's head as he bucked against his mouth, half-shouting, half-moaning:

"Fuck ja!"

The exclamation sent tingles down Toki's spine as the hot jet of fluid shot onto the back of his tongue and he swallowed it eagerly, loving the warm rush, the hard jerk of Skwisgaar's dick, even the thick, salty taste of his cum—just because it was Skwisgaar.

Toki gave a final lick along the top of Skwisgaar's head and looked up through his wet, messy hair at the Swede, whose eyes were still closed. His head lolled back against the wall as he shifted his hips and exhaled deeply. Toki ran his hands along the sides of Skwisgaar's legs, savoring the hard press of muscle beneath the soft, slick skin; he wanted to memorize how he looked at this moment, long legs spread wide apart, palms planted flat on the shower floor, water streaming down over his chest and shoulders as he wallowed in sweet, post-orgasmic tranquility.

Toki had always thought Skwisgaar beautiful, but there was something about the way he looked right now that transcended beauty, and he felt possessed by it. He wanted to preserve it, to contain it somehow—he was fairly sure no one saw Skwisgaar like this, not even the women he brought to his bed. This was different. This was special. And it was all for him.

"Was I goods?" he asked hopefully, climbing out from between Skwisgaar's legs.

Skwisgaar, still panting slightly, opened his deep-set eyes and focused them on Toki. A half-smile played along his lips as he brushed his wet hair back from his forehead.

"Ja, you's goods, Toki. Can'ts argue with dats."

Thrilled by the compliment, Toki just grinned.

Skwisgaar gingerly pushed himself off the floor and grabbed Toki's hand as he stood up, pulling the Norwegian to his feet.

"Let's dries off and go's to bed, ja? Or watch TV, whatevers. I don'ts cares. I's tireds."

Toki's smile grew ridiculously wide as the Swede reached around him to turn off the taps. He could hardly believe his ears. Skwisgaar had just asked him to come to bed with him. He wanted him to stay. The thing he'd longed for so badly, so hopelessly, had finally come true—how or why he didn't know, but he wasn't going to push his luck by thinking too hard about it.

"Toki? You wants come alongks?" Skwisgaar's voice broke through his thoughts and he looked to see the Swede, who already had a fluffy gray towel wrapped around his waist, holding out a fresh towel for him.

"Oh! Ja," Toki answered, smiling sheepishly as he stepped out of the shower onto the thick bath mat. Water streamed down his legs, plastering his dark hair against his skin and leaving a trail of clear drops on the fuzzy white rug. He accepted the towel gratefully and ran it over his entire body, luxuriating in the thick warmth of the fabric as Skwisgaar combed out his hair in the mirror and then proceeded to brush his teeth.

Toki stared in fascination as he tied his own towel around his waist and ran his fingers through his damp hair. Watching Skwisgaar get ready for bed felt like the most natural thing in the world. 'Cept, dis probably de only times you gets to sees it, a small voice inside his head cautioned.

Toki swallowed and looked away from Skwisgaar's reflection. He shouldn't hope for too much. Thinking that this might happen again—that Skwisgaar would want to do things with him, then take him back to his bed—was dangerous. He was only fooling himself if he thought the Swede was ready to give up his playboy lifestyle to shack up with his rhythm guitarist.

He timidly joined Skwisgaar at the vanity and squeezed out a dab of toothpaste onto his finger, then swished it around in his mouth with some water as the Swede flossed. He spit into the second sink and rinsed as his body slowly cooled; they'd been in the shower a long time and his skin was hot and flushed. The Norwegian wiped his hand across his now-minty-smelling mouth and closed his eyes. His eyelids felt heavy, as though they were made of lead. The combination of too much alcohol, the earlier nap, and the wild excitement of what he'd just done with Skwisgaar were starting to take their toll on his body. He was exhausted.

A warm tug on his arm surprised him, and he looked up to see Skwisgaar staring at him with those bright blue eyes, brows raised in questioning.

"You comingks or whats, Toki?"

"Ja," Toki answered faintly, and allowed himself to be led into the bedroom, where the soft fur of Skwisgaar's blanket and the comforting warmth of the Swede's body was promised to him—for tonight, at least.

-----

Having abandoned their towels and agreeing to forego the television, Skwisgaar and Toki lay naked together, huddled up under his big white blanket. It was still snowing outside, and occasionally a drift of snowflakes would blow in through the open window and settle on the dark stone floor, shining like little stars in the weak moonlight before melting into small puddles.

Being of Nordic descent, neither of them minded the cold as much as the rest of the band did, but it was still below freezing outside and the temperature of the bedroom had dropped considerably as the night had worn on. Skwisgaar's arms were curled around Toki's back and the Norwegian's head rested against the crook of his neck. The Swede could feel Toki's breath whispering along his skin as he exhaled, and the sensation pleased him. He absent-mindedly played with a strand of Toki's long, silken hair and tried to rationalize what had just happened.

He'd started the day out as Toki's guardian and ended up in bed with him. As if this wasn't strange enough, he'd enjoyed himself immensely. More than he could really understand—or even admit—right now. He'd seen the way the Norwegian had looked at him when he'd kissed him in the restroom at the club; had felt him give into his desperate seduction as though Toki knew it was the last thing in the world he should do.

And yet, Toki had seemed willing enough when he'd gotten him home; and what he'd done to him on the shower floor, after Skwisgaar had made him come, had been raw and unrehearsed and fucking hot as hell. It had opened up a part of his mind he hadn't known existed—along with a wild, hungry urge to do other things to the little rhythm guitarist that he'd never before imagined doing. He was surprised and a little amused with himself, but no longer embarrassed—there was no reason to be, now that he knew Toki wanted him, too.

He couldn't explain how it had happened. He'd woken up with a plan to go out and get as much pussy as he could handle, and had ended up feeling completely satisfied after one short (but incredibly intense) blow job.

From a man.

From Toki.

He didn't understand how something so far out of his realm of sexual experience had succeeded in captivating and filling him so entirely, so that the thought of asking Toki back into his bed tomorrow night—and the night after that—seemed perfectly normal—compulsory, even.

No, he couldn't explain it—but there were two things of which he was sure. He was going to watch out for Toki from now on. He should've been doing it all along—there were things about the rhythm guitarist that only Skwisgaar understood, as a fellow Scandinavian and victim of an unhappy childhood—and now that they'd… crossed the line between friends and lovers, he felt doubly responsible for keeping Toki safe. Skwisgaar had never felt that way about anyone but Toki, even before tonight; he wasn't used to being protective. But somehow the little Norwegian's helpless adoration and cheerful naiveté had, over the years, aroused that instinct in him, and he'd been surprised to discover that he didn't mind it.

The second thing of which he was sure was that he'd never wanted anything—or anyone—this badly in his life. Maybe learning how to play guitar… that he'd wanted almost as badly. But he could do that already, and this was new and enthralling and a little frightening. He wouldn't have been able to resist pushing Toki up against that wall and kissing him even if he'd wanted to. Sometime during the day a switch had been flipped inside him, and now everything about the Norwegian suddenly intoxicated him. He craved the sweet taste of his lips, the sound of his voice, the feel of his body even though he was laying right next to him. It was bewildering, to say the least, and it sounded crazy even to him. But it was true—that much he knew.

"Skwisgaar?" Toki's tired voice broke the stillness of the room and silenced the perplexing circle of thoughts in the Swede's head.

"Ja?" he replied softly, brushing his fingers along the scarred skin of Toki's back.

"Does you wants to maybe… you knows… do dis agains sometimes?" His voice was stilted and uncertain, and there was a fragile quality to his tone that told Skwisgaar he wasn't the only one who was confused.

Without hesitation, he answered, "Ja, I do's."

Toki fell silent for a moment, and Skwisgaar continued to graze his fingertips along Toki's skin, tracing imaginary patterns into his flesh over the scars: guitars, snowflakes, stars.

After a minute, Toki spoke up again, and this time he sounded a little more confident. "Whens?"

Skwisgaar pulled his head back and lifted the Norwegian's chin with the tip of his finger so that he could see into his pale blue eyes. The light from the window wasn't much, but it was enough for Skwisgaar to make out the fragile, pleading expression on Toki's face that said, Please tells me you wants me. Please don'ts lets dis end.

Skwisgaar smiled. He'd been worried all day that Toki would think he was ogling him (which he had been), and here it was Toki who was afraid he wasn't wanted. Gods, this was confusing.

He took a deep breath. "I makes deals with you's. You don'ts drink, and we's do dis agains tomorrow nights."

"Really?"

"Ja. And we keeps doingks it as long as you stays on de boat."

Toki giggled. "I tinks you means 'da wagon'."

"Whatevers," Skwisgaar said dismissively. "Just… gets better, Toki." Skwisgaar looked deep into the other guitarist's eyes and cupped his chin in his hand. "For me, okays?"

"I woulds do anytings for you, Skwisgaar," Toki whispered earnestly, and in the weak light the Swede saw a faint flush creep over the Norwegian's cheeks.

"I knows," he answered, and pressed his lips softly against Toki's.

Bare, 2/3 [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:54:48 GMT

Title: Bare, 1/3
Author: Cycatryx
Artist: igloomy
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Summary: Skwisgaar is put in charge of a very drunk Toki for the evening. Rather than change his plans, he decides to take Toki out to the clubs with him.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Part 1

Still half-asleep, Skwisgaar rolled over and stretched out his arm, seeking the edge of his fur blanket to pull up over his shoulders. The air seeping in through the window was chilly, but the bed was warm, and he just needed a few extra inches of fur to cover his bare skin—

—he froze as his hand came to rest on something warm and slightly furry—something that was definitely not his blanket. His eyes instantly popped open, but it was dark in the room (how long had he been asleep?) and he couldn't see what he was touching. He tentatively trailed his fingers down the soft, warm thing, but then jerked his hand away in alarm when it communicated to his brain that he was, indeed, fondling a dick—Toki's, judging by the girth. Oh gods. Please don'ts let him wakes up.

But Toki stirred and yawned, and then sleepily murmured Skwisgaar's name, and the Swede, who was now wide-awake, was obliged to answer.

"Ja?"

"Hi."

Skwisgaar's eyebrows shot up at the Norwegian's drowsy greeting. Maybe Toki hadn't been awake when he'd touched him. Tack Odin… Still, Toki had fallen asleep next to him, unabashed and uninvited. He had to put a stop to this now.

"Toki. You's sleepingks in my bed."

"I knows… you tells me to sleeps and I didn'ts knows what to do 'cause you's already sleepings dere. And I's so cold after dat shower—waits, you's not mads, is you?" Now Skwisgaar could faintly see the rhythm guitarist's face, the outline of his nose, his pale eyes, his forehead scrunched in worry.

"No, I's not mads—just surpriseds," Skwisgaar answered, swallowing hard and willing away the warmth that was spreading across his cheeks. Although, in truth, he'd been a little more than surprised to wake up groping another man's dick. Alarmed? Definitely. Unsettled? A little. Intrigued?

(Don'ts go dere.)

…Well, possibly.

(Dammits.)

Toki interrupted Skwigaar's thoughts as he eased himself into a sitting position, creating a gentle dip in the mattress. "Boy, is dark in heres. What times is its?"

The Norwegian yawned again and rubbed his eyes, and Skwisgaar, whose eyes had by now adjusted to the darkness, scooted toward the edge of the bed, as far away from Toki as he could. He eyed Toki surreptitiously as he moved, noticing that the blanket had slipped down to reveal the other guitarist's bare chest, and a hint of curved ass and muscled thigh. He'd been sleeping next to a very naked Toki Wartooth for Odin knows how long—but the thought didn't repulse him as much as it should have. In fact, it didn't repulse him at all.

For the second time that day, a zing of heat shot through the Swede's core and straight to his groin, and he silently cursed Nathan for putting him in charge of Toki. Jävlar, satan, och helvete, did he really have so little self-control? Or was his body trying to tell him something that he couldn't even begin to comprehend? He hoped to Odin it was the former and not the latter. He could only imagine what Pickles and Murderface and Nathan would say if they could've seen them, cuddled up in bed together like teenage lovers.

"Skwisgaar?" the sound of his name snapped the Swede back to attention.

"Whats!"

"You knows what times is its?"

Skwisgaar glanced at the digital clock next to his TV and was surprised to see the numbers 8:46 staring back at him—tiny lines of neon blue in the blackness of the room.

"Is almost nines."

"Shit. We's asleeps long times."

"Ja, no kiddingks."

They both fell quiet for a moment. Then Toki looked over at Skwisgaar, face obscured by shadow, and asked, "Whats you wants to do nows?"

"Dat depends. You's still drunks?"

"Don'ts tink so."

"Den we's go's to de clubs, listens to some musics, and gets some ladies." Talking about music and pussy was just what Skwisgaar needed right now to take his mind off the feel of Toki's cock in his hand. The more he thought about women, the less he'd think about Toki and the way he looked out of his clothes and the press of his naked flesh against the sheets.

"Wowee! Let's go!"

"But you's gots to promise you don'ts drink and don'ts say anytingks stupids around de ladies."

Toki hesitated. "Whatevers," he muttered, sounding slightly wounded.

Skwisgaar stood up from the bed and winced as the cold night air curled around his naked torso, giving him goose bumps. He placed both hands on his lower back and stretched, provoking a crescendo of tiny pops. Ahhh… dat's better.

A mass of soft, dark clouds was visible through the window, floating silently across the moon and blocking out any light that might have filtered in through the bars. Skwisgaar went over to the wall and flicked on the overhead lamps, illuminating the room. Toki was sitting up with his arms clasped protectively around his blanketed knees, blinking sleepily in the harsh white light.

"Hey! Is snowing!" he cried suddenly, pointing at the window on far wall. Skwisgaar followed Toki's gaze. So it was. And it was too damn cold in here to be without a shirt. (Or pants, or boxers, or anything else Toki was currently not wearing.)

"Why don'ts you get dressed?" Skwisgaar asked as he rummaged through his drawers and pulled out a stretchy, long-sleeved, black shirt and a pair of tight black pants that shimmered in the light. He always dressed to kill when he went out to the clubs, and tonight was no exception. However, as the weather commanded that he cover up more of his skin than usual, he'd have to make do with slightly warmer clothing.

"Eh, Toki? You hears me?"

Skwisgaar turned to Toki and saw that he was blushing.

"I's uh… I didn'ts has clean clothes after da shower, so I's still, uh, nakeds," he answered, smiling sheepishly at Skwisgaar, as though he was afraid he might yell at him.

Skwisgaar sighed. Toki's informing him of his current state of nudity was a sure sign that he wasn't aware Skwisgaar had grabbed his dick while he was sleeping, which was a good thing. But jävlar, was he going to have to dress him, too?

…Actually, that wasn't a bad idea.

"S'okay, Toki. You don'ts have de rights clothes for dis, anyways. You's wear somethingks of mine, okays?"

"Really?" Toki squeaked. The sound made Skwisgaar smile.

"Really," he answered, turning back to his drawers. He dug through piles of expensive jeans and a store's worth of fitted tees and sleeveless tops before he found exactly what he was looking for: his favorite pair of black leather pants, the ones he'd practically lived in from the ages of twenty-six to twenty-eight. They were still in good condition for the wear, and would probably fit—he'd weighed a little more back then. He also grabbed a fitted black tee shirt, a pair of socks, and a studded belt, and brought the whole mess over to the bed and threw it down next to Toki, who still hadn't moved. Probably don'ts wants me to see him nakeds again, Skwisgaar thought with a smirk. He nudged the pile toward Toki.

"Heres. Puts dese on."

Toki stared at the clothing laid out before him. "No underwears?"

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "No, Toki, you's not wearingks my underwears. You's can makes it one nights withsouts dem."

"Okays… turns around den."

"Fine. I's changingks my pants, so you's turns arounds, too."

"Fine."

Skwisgaar turned his back to Toki and unzipped the jeans he'd worn to sleep as the Norwegian crept out of the bed. The Swede could hear the rustle of the sheets against Toki's skin as he slipped out from between them, and the sound tempted him to look, to peek over his shoulder, to see. But he wouldn't—he couldn't. That wasn't what this was about. They were going to the clubs. They were going to get high. And they were going to fuck some women. That was all. They were band mates—friends (well, sort of)—and he needed to remember that if he was going to get through the rest of the night without thinking about things he didn't (shouldn't) want.

Skwisgaar slipped off his jeans, pulled on the shimmery black pants, and buttoned up the crotch, then stretched the soft polyester shirt over his arms and head. It fit snug against his torso and emphasized his long, lanky frame and narrow waist—two asserts he was particularly fond of showing off. Finally, he threaded his belt through the loops and fastened the skull buckle over his crotch, making sure it was secure. He enjoyed watching the younger, less experienced girls struggle as they tried to pry it off—their ineptitude was as much a turn-on as was the flash of a seasoned slut's quick fingers as she tore the buckle away and tugged down his pants in the fraction of a second.

"You's dressed?" Skwisgaar asked, turning his head just enough to see Toki pulling the tee shirt over his head.

"Mmmphf," Toki mumbled as the collar brushed over his mouth, and Skwisgaar caught a brief flash of chiseled abs and the thin, brown hair trail beneath the guitarist's navel before the shirt was pulled into place. Toki shook out his hair, which was still partially wet, and held his arms out at his sides.

"How's I looks?" he asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Skwisgaar stared, forgetting to breathe. Rarely did Toki dress all in black, but it suited him incredibly well. The soft cotton tee shirt clung to his chest, emphasizing his muscular torso, and the fitted sleeves made his powerful arms looked even stronger. The Swede's eyes traveled down to the shine of black leather against Toki's thighs. The pants were a little long in the legs, but his boots would hide that. And, as Skwisgaar's hips were narrower than Toki's, the pants fit tight against his ass and crotch—tight enough to make the unrestrained bulge at his front scream for attention. Skwisgaar swallowed. Ja, Toki was definitely ready to go clubbing.

"Uh… ja. Looks goods, Toki," he said nonchalantly, hoping that Toki hadn't noticed the awkwardly long pause in between his question and Skwisgaar's answer, but the Norwegian just smiled and began tugging on his boots. Skwisgaar did the same, tucking the legs of his pants into his Fryes, and then suddenly remembered the snow outside as a chilly draft of snowflake-laced air hit the side of his face.

"We's needs coats," he declared, striding to his closet.

"And foods," Toki added, walking up behind him and rubbing his stomach. "I's hungry."

Skwisgaar fished out a black trench coat and tossed it to Toki, who promptly tugged it on, apparently grateful for the extra covering. For himself, he pulled out his long suede coat with the fur collar—a little flashy, perhaps, but wasn't that the point of clubbing—to look good and be seen?

"We's gets some foods on de ways out. Now run a brush through dat hairs and let's go," Skwisgaar commanded, pulling Toki away from the closet. The night was still young, but he didn't want to miss a single minute of a good party—and it was also, he thought, high time they got the hell out of his bedroom.

-----

On the way to the club, Toki and Skwisgaar shared a sausage-and-olive pizza in the Dethmobile, which was actually a spacious, black limousine (Dethklok owned five—one for each band member, in case they got sick of each other and wanted to travel separately), although Toki had to be content with soda to drink. He was fairly sure Skwisgaar had specified to the Klokateer who'd taken their food order not to supply any alcohol, which both annoyed and intrigued him. It seemed Skwisgaar really was intent on watching out for him tonight. He supposed that was mainly due to Nathan, though—the singer could be scarily persuasive when he was aggravated.

It was just as well they didn't have any booze, because after they finished the pizza Skwisgaar rolled a large joint, and they proceeded to hot box the Dethmobile until they were both giddy and loose-limbed and could barely breathe. Toki loved getting high with Skwisgaar. It didn't happen all that often, but when it did, everything between them became lighter and more balanced. The Swede always seemed to be affected by the drug much more than he was, but Toki didn't mind; he enjoyed seeing Skwisgaar laugh and listening to him crack jokes. At those times, it felt like a real friendship.

Toki glanced out the tinted window as the Dethmobile crawled to a stop in front of a tall, imposing-looking building with floor-to-ceiling windows that were draped in red velvet curtains and a large, vertical, neon sign that screamed "KLUB ÜST" in bright red letters.

"Dis da place?" he asked timidly as Skwisgaar rolled the window halfway down and waved the pot smoke out into the cold night air.

"Ja," he answered as the Klokateer who'd driven them came around to Skwisgaar's side of the Dethmobile to open the door. Skwisgaar flashed Toki a grin and popped on a pair of dark sunglasses. "Gets ready for de cameras."

"Wha—?" Toki began, but before he could speak, Skwisgaar had grabbed his wrist and whisked him onto the red carpet that had been stretched out from the car to the doorway of the club.

"Don'ts looks at dem," the Swede hissed in his ear. "Pretends likes you don'ts even care. Dey loves it."

Toki followed Skwisgaar in a daze up the red path to the entrance. Cameras flashed and snapped and blinded him, and the paparazzi and reporters lunged at him, shoving microphones in his face and shouting a million questions all at once, making him feel dizzy. He reached for Skwisgaar's arm, but there was nothing there but air.

Toki lifted his face to see the blonde saunter through the entrance, suede coat flapping behind him as he vanished inside the tall iron doors, and he hurried to catch up, ignoring the crush of people around him and the whirl of voices. Skwisgaar liked to make a grand entrance—not exactly Toki's thing, but it was to be expected. The Swede liked attention, and plenty of it; this was one of the (many) reasons he was Dethklok's lead guitarist. Toki only hoped the inside of the club would be less chaotic.

The musky smells of perfume and sweat hit his nose when he passed through the doors into the entranceway, and the dark, thumping beat of an industrial song assaulted his ears. A few curious faces turned to peek at him as he looked around for Skwisgaar, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Toki felt suddenly uncomfortable. What was he supposed to do? He didn't like being stared at—didn't like standing here alone, looking lost. He didn't know anyone at this place, but everyone knew him—a circumstance of his celebrity that Toki had always detested. He would've been happier at home with a bottle of vodka and a video game to keep him company, instead of all these strange, unfriendly-looking people that seemed about ready to pounce.

Out of nowhere, a sharply-dressed Latino man around his age stepped up to him and gestured toward a red-lit staircase at the back of the room.

"VIP room this way, Mr. Wartooth," he said, flashing a mouthful of absurdly white teeth.

Toki gratefully followed the man past the bar, past the clusters of patrons that turned and whispered excitedly to each other as he walked by, past the sea of scantily-clad, twisting bodies in the middle of the giant, illuminated dance floor. Toki gawked at the swimming mass of people and thought he'd never seen anything so shamelessly erotic in his life. Everywhere he looked there were pelvises grinding against knees, fingers tangled in hair, bodies crushed against one another in arousal—everything short of actual sex. He gulped and willed himself not to ogle. He could see why Skwisgaar liked this place. No one hid their intentions here.

Toki made his way up the stairs to the top floor of the club, noticing how the red strips of light at the base of each stair reflected on the toes of his boots, casting a crimson shine on the hard leather. The Latino man escorted him down a skinny hallway to the VIP room, which was adorned with a shiny black bar and tables to match; curvy, velvet-skinned booths; and low gold lights. The room overlooked the dance floor through a wide panel of dark glass that spanned an entire wall. The dark atmosphere, sensual furnishings, and tinted observation window gave the room a surreal, voyeuristic feel that made Toki feel slightly out of place, but he was glad to finally be somewhere.

Toki spied Skwisgaar sitting at the round table in the middle of the room, smoking a long, black cigarette and surrounded by a small throng of women who had (no doubt) been hand-picked by the club manager just for him. One of the women—a voluptuous, dark-skinned girl in a tight, gold dress—was whispering something in his ear while simultaneously picking an olive off the end of a toothpick with her teeth. Another—a black-clad redhead with enough eyeliner to serve as a convincing imitation of Dethklok's corpse paint—was caressing his leg, which was propped up on the table amid a scattering of glasses and bottles. It looked like the party had been going on well before he and Skwisgaar had arrived.

Toki's smile faltered as he stood in the doorway and watched the women fawn over Skwisgaar. The redhead's nails were long and sharp; she looked as if she wanted to claw him. What's he sees in dem, anyways? he wondered. These girls looked like they would've been happy to eat him alive—only Skwisgaar was too damn skillful for that. He'd keep them hovering around him for half the night until he decided which one (or two, or three) he wanted to fuck, and then turn the rest of them away, no longer concerned with their attentions or desires. Toki knew it wasn't cruelty that drove him to treat women so casually, but arrogance—and the fact that he could. It was always about the thrill of the chase for the Swede—seduction was his trademark, and as far as Toki knew, Skwisgaar had yet to be turned down.

The thoughts swirled darkly in Toki's marijuana-blurred mind, bringing on a shameful, sinking feeling that could only be cured with alcohol. It had been stupid of him to fall asleep in Skwisgaar's room, and an even stupider idea to go out with him. So he could what?—watch Skwisgaar get it on with a bunch of horny sluts in the VIP room? Maybe the Dethmobile was still parked outside. Maybe—if he left now—he could make it back home before Skwisgaar even noticed he was gone.

Through the fog of his thoughts, Toki heard the Swede call his name. He looked up and forced a smile as Skwisgaar fixed his bright blue eyes on his and beckoned, with a wave of his hand, for Toki to join him at the table.

Toki shrugged off his borrowed trench coat and tossed it into an empty chair, then squeezed uncomfortably into the plushy velvet booth next to the redhead, purposely throwing her arm off balance and putting an end to her scratching at Skwisgaar's thigh.

"Heys," he said, keeping his eyes on Skwisgaar and refusing to look at the redhead, whom he was fairly sure was giving him a dirty look.

"Heys! Dis great or whats?" the Swede answered, smiling triumphantly and tapping his cigarette on the glass ashtray on the edge of the table.

"Uh… ja."

Skwisgaar's forehead creased as he registered the uncertainty in Toki's voice. "You wants sometingks? Dey gets anytingks—or anyones—you wants here."

Toki looked down and picked at the callus on his thumb. He wanted to say, How's abouts gettings dese girls out of heres and just you's and me's hangs out? but instead muttered, "Ja, I tinks I needs a drink."

Skwisgaar frowned. "Toki, you remembers what Nathans said," he reminded him quietly, leaning across the redhead and blowing clove smoke out the other side of his mouth.

Toki bowed his head. "I knows."

Skwisgaar settled back, and, in a louder voice, encouraged, "Den has some funs! Go dance, talks to someones—just leaves de bar alones."

"Ja, okays," Toki answered absent-mindedly as the gold-robed woman to Skwisgaar's right pressed her hand to the Swede's chest and began nibbling on his ear. Skwisgaar chuckled softly and closed his eyes, and Toki stared at the two of them for a moment until the redhead elbowed him, snapping him back to attention.

"Do you mind?" she said irritably, pointing to the place where Toki's leather-clad thigh was pressed up against hers.

"Oh, sorries," he apologized, and scooted further down in the U-shaped booth. He looked away as the long-nailed, red-lipped girl went back to work on Skwisgaar, who was practically purring with enjoyment. He didn't feel like watching the two sluts climb all over the smiling, lascivious Swede; he'd already seen enough.

He stood up and adjusted Skwisgaar's too-long leather pants, which were sticking to his legs. He never realized leather could be so hot. Maybe he'd go down to the dance floor and see if there was anything interesting to do. If he was lucky, maybe he'd find a pinball machine or an arcade game to play. Or maybe… maybe what he needed to do was find a girl. A sexy, pretty girl that would make Skwisgaar jealous and show the lead guitarist he wasn't the only one who could go to a club and pick up women. That's what he'd do. After all, how hard could it be? The girls in this place weren't exactly shy.

With a last look over his shoulder at Skwisgaar, who was sensually stretched out beneath an overlay of glittering female hands, Toki headed out of the VIP room and made his way back down the lighted stairway to the club below to see what—or who—he could find.

-----

Skwisgaar lolled his head back and hummed contentedly as the redhead who'd been fondling his crotch for the last ten minutes slipped her fingers beneath his belt and speedily undid the clasp on his buckle. No hesitation there—a seasoned slut, for sure.

He'd allowed the girls to pet and talk to him for a while before he'd noticed Toki's absence, then excused himself and traveled down to the first-floor bar to get a beer and see if he could find the rhythm guitarist. He'd scanned the dance floor for a full five minutes before giving up and going back upstairs. It was a big club, and if Toki was nowhere to be seen, that likely meant he was off having a good time. Hopefully he wasn't passed out drunk in a corner.

Ah well, he'd let this girl suck him off and then go look for Toki again, and when he found him he'd bring him back to the VIP room and get one of the other girls to do the same for him.

What's makes you tinks he's not off gettingks some alreadies? a voice inside his head smirked, and the thought sent a hot, unexpected spasm of feeling through his body. An image arose in his head of Toki's hands buried deep in some big-titted girl's hair as she bobbed up and down on his cock, and Skwisgaar's eyes flew open as his stomach gave a rough jerk. What de fuck's wrongs with you? another voice—a deeper one—spoke up. Who gives a flyingks fuck if Toki gets his rocks off with some girl? You's abouts to do de same ting.

"Is everything okay?" the redhead asked, looking up at him with her black-ringed eyes from between his legs. He gave her a half-smile and settled back against the booth.

"Ja, fine. Go aheads," he said lightly, closing his eyes, but his thoughts had been taken far away from the blow job he was about to receive. What was that—that feeling he'd just had? Was it anger? Jealousy? But why would he be jealous of Toki, of all people?

Wait—that wasn't exactly right. He wasn't jealous of Toki; he just didn't want to share—

He wanted Toki all for himself.

Oh gods.

What the hell did that mean?

A sting of fear trickled down his spine and he sat up suddenly, whisking his half-unbuttoned fly out of the redhead's hands and staring frantically through the tinted glass at the dance floor below. There were so many bodies down there, it was impossible to pick a single person out of the crowd. But he had to find Toki. Had to (what, tell him?) do something.

"But I thought you wanted it!" whined the redhead as she slunk out from under the table to a chorus of laughter from the remaining girls in the room, most of whom were too drunk to stand and were draped across the booths and chairs, hanging half-out of their clothes.

No longer caring about the redhead or her companions, Skwisgaar quickly buttoned up the crotch of his pants and stalked out of the VIP room and down the hallway to the stairs. His eyes roamed the crowd of dancers as he wandered along the rows of tables bordering the dance floor, ignoring the furtive glances and whispered exclamations that followed his every move, but there was no sign of the long-haired, black-clad rhythm guitarist.

Skwisgaar was just about to go check one of the other rooms when he saw them.

In the thick of the mass of heaving, gyrating bodies, Toki was moving—dancing—with a tall, thin blonde in a tight black dress and thigh-high boots. Skwisgaar stared, open-mouthed. He'd never seen the Norwegian move like that. Toki's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, but he was smiling, and the leather pants Skwisgaar had leant him were clinging to his thighs in a decidedly sinful fashion.

The girl laughed as Toki curled his arm around her waist—why was it always skinny blondes?—and pulled her to him, pushing his fingers into her long, shiny tresses. Before Skwisgaar could do anything, Toki's mouth was on the girl's, and he was kissing her—he could actually see their tongues moving—and he breathed in sharply as he watched the blonde's hand reach down from around Toki's neck and slide silkily down his chest—and then plunge into the front of his pants.

The strange, overwhelming feeling that had been welling up inside Skwisgaar suddenly rose and broke, washing over him in a wave of rage. Eyes flashing, he stalked onto the dance floor, roughly pushed his way through the crowd of twisting bodies, and clapped his hand on Toki's shoulder. The Norwegian turned his face from the girl's in surprise and opened his mouth to speak, but Skwisgaar cut him off.

"Comes with me. I needs talks to you. Now!" he hissed, and, without waiting for an answer, grabbed Toki's arm and dragged him away toward the restrooms, leaving the stunned-looking blonde behind.

"But—I's—can'ts just leaves dat goil!" Toki fumbled, looking back over his shoulder as Skwisgaar hauled him along with ferocious strength. Skwisgaar scowled and didn't answer; the skinny slut could find herself another man to grope.

The Swede punched open the door to the men's restroom and pulled Toki into one of the stalls, letting the door swing shut behind them. The Norwegian looked startled as Skwisgaar pushed him up against the wall and pinned his wrists against the silver-gray metal.

"Whats you doingks with dat girl?" he yelled, knowing that anyone who came in would be able to hear him, but he didn't care.

"I's just havings funs! Like you says to! Fuckings hell, Skwisgaar—what's is dis?" Toki's wide-eyed look of surprise gave way to a scowl, and his eyebrows furrowed as Skwisgaar clamped down tighter on his wrists. "Ow! You's hurtings me!"

"A slut likes dat don'ts deserves you!"

"And dose sluts—" Toki jerked his head in the direction of the second-floor VIP room, "—dose sluts deserves you?!"

A look of pain crossed Toki's face as he glared accusingly at Skwisgaar with his too-pale eyes, and the Swede relinquished his hold on Toki's wrists, feeling suddenly weak, as though all the strength had just drained out of his body in the space of a second.

"I's just—I can'ts—" Skwisgaar faltered, raking his fingers through his hair in aggravation.

"Whats? You's wishings you didn'ts brings me now, right? You's sick of babies-sittings me? Well, I's not your kid brother! You don'ts gots to drag me arounds! I don'ts needs you!" An angry flush crept over Toki's face, turning his cheeks red. He wiped at the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand and stared defiantly into Skwisgaar's eyes.

"But I needs you, dammits!" The words came out of Skwisgaar's mouth much harsher than he'd intended them to. A choked sigh escaped his lips as he leaned in close to Toki, twisting his fingers into his soft, chestnut-colored hair, and murmured one word, gentler this time:

"Please."

Skwisgaar's mouth was on Toki's before the Norwegian could say anything, and his body jerked reflexively beneath the Swede's but he didn't pull away; Skwisgaar teased Toki's moist, flushed lips apart with his tongue and kissed him deeply, pouring all the frustration and uncertainty and tension of the last eight hours into the most passionate kiss he could conjure.

He pressed his body against the Norwegian's, and his cock, which was already half-hard from the redhead, grew all the way stiff—and through the layers of fabric and leather, Skwisgaar could feel a rising bulge in Toki's pants, as well. The brunette gave a small moan as Skwisgaar's tongue grazed along his teeth, but after a few moments Toki laid his hands on the Swede's chest and gently pushed him away.

Skwisgaar opened his eyes and searched Toki's face for an explanation.

"Skwisgaar—please—don'ts do dis. Not when you's drunk," he pleaded, swallowing hard and looking away. Skwisgaar thought he saw tears spring into the Norwegian's eyes.

"Whats makes you tink I's drunk?"

"Because you's kissing me."

Skwisgaar laid a slender finger on Toki's cheek and turned his face back to his. "Toki. I's has one drink tonights. I's not drunk. I's kissingks you 'cause—" (Good question—why was he kissing him?) "—'cause I wants to."

Toki sniffed. "Whatevers. You wants get nosebleeds from dose sluts, too."

Ignoring Toki's customary mix-up between blow jobs and nosebleeds, Skwisgaar looked him in the eye so he would know he was serious.

"Listens to me. I wants to, okays? I wants to—to do more dan just kissingks you. You feels dis?" Skwisgaar took Toki's hand in his and pressed it against his erection. "Dat's what you do's to me. You's been doingks it all damns day. I can'ts pretends is not dere." It was the most brutally honest and unprepared confession Skwisgaar had ever made, but Toki still looked unconvinced.

Skwisgaar drew back. "You—you don'ts wants me, too?" he asked, a slight edge of panic in his voice.

"No, dat's not it," Toki said quietly.

"Den what's dis abouts?" Skwisgaar asked, coyly stroking Toki's cock through his pants and feeling it grow harder. The action made the Norwegian's shoulders go limp, and he breathed in sharply.

"Stop. Nots here," he whispered, closing his eyes. Two small tears squeezed out from beneath his eyelids and rolled down his cheeks, and Skwisgaar moved his hand away. He didn't want to do anything to make Toki more uncomfortable than he apparently already was.

"Where's you wants to go's?" Skwisgaar asked gently.

"I's just… I's wants to go home," Toki sniffed, wiping a tear from his cheek and avoiding Skwisgaar's concerned gaze.

"Okay. We's go, den. I takes care of you," Skwisgaar said firmly, and guided Toki out of the restroom and back into the club, and quickly led him around the perimeter of the dance floor to the entrance.

"Leaving so soon?" asked the smiling, green-eyed hostess who'd taken his coat at the door, but Skwisgaar simply nodded (he wasn't in the mood for conversation), and the girl went to retrieve his suede coat from the cloak room. She handed it to him and he looped it over one arm, then put his hand on Toki's shoulder and tugged him gently toward the door. The little Norwegian was silent as Skwisgaar led him out onto the snowy walkway, through the throng of the waiting paparazzi, toward the waiting Dethmobile. Just before they reached the car, however, Toki stopped.

"Skwisgaar—your coat! I forgets it upstairs!"

"Leave it," Skwisgaar said levelly, and draped his fur-collared coat over Toki's shoulders as they climbed into the Dethmobile. He couldn't care less about an old trench coat—his dick was still throbbing with the intoxicating memory of Toki's mouth on his lips, and right now he wanted to get home just as badly as (if not more than) Toki.

Skwisgaar rapped on the driver's window. "Takes us to Mordhaus," he instructed, and fell back against the soft leather seat, entwining Toki's cold fingers in his. Toki lifted one side of the coat and pulled Skwisgaar close, awkwardly wrapping the heavy fabric around both their shoulders. Skwisgaar snaked his other arm around Toki's waist and, edging his hand beneath the hem of the borrowed shirt, danced his fingers along the Norwegian's skin and willed himself to wait until they were safely locked inside his room to kiss him again.

Naturally, it didn't work.

-----

Part 3

Bare, 1/3 [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:52:30 GMT

Title: Bare, 1/3
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Summary: Skwisgaar is put in charge of a very drunk Toki for the evening. Rather than change his plans, he decides to take Toki out to the clubs with him.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Nathan was hunched down next to Toki at the foot of the stairs, waving a meaty hand in front of his face. Toki blinked and pushed himself up with his elbows.

"Wha—?" he asked, grimacing as a flash of pain shot through his neck. He tenderly explored the back of his head with his hand. No blood. No bumps. Then why did it hurt so damn much?

"Fingers. How many?" Nathan repeated, wagging the three middle fingers on his right hand. Pale skin and smudges of black nail polish swam in front of Toki's eyes as Skwisgaar, Pickles, and Murderface crowded behind Nathan, casting looks of worry and annoyance in the drunken rhythm guitarist's direction.

Toki ignored the question. "How's I gets at da bottom of da stairs?" he asked, his eyes growing wide and his lips curling into a smile. They all looked so concerned—and the fact that it was about him seemed, for some reason, fantastically funny.

Skwisgaar folded his arms and exhaled loudly—whether in relief or irritation, it was hard to say. Toki giggled. The way Skwisgaar's lips pursed when he was pissed always brought a smile to his face.

Nathan sighed. "Okay, I'm gonna make it easy for ya. How many fingers?" The singer shoved one—the middle digit—in Toki's face and scowled, which made the Norwegian shrink back against the bottom step as the realization slowly dawned on him that the rest of the band didn't find whatever had just happened nearly as amusing as he did.

"Uh, ones. Just da ones," Toki answered quickly—then, unable to help himself, he let out a loud, alcohol-fueled belch. He covered his mouth, grinning, as Nathan scrambled backwards like a crab.

"Fuck, Toki! That was foul!" Nathan growled, waving his hand wildly in front of his face and prompting a hearty burst of laughter from everyone but Skwisgaar and himself.

Murderface snorted as Pickles tried to cover up his high-pitched hee-haw with a cough.

"I'm glad you all find this so funny," Nathan grunted, turning to glare at the bassist and the drummer, and then at Toki.

"You falls down de stairs 'cause you's too drunks! Agains!" Skwisgaar snapped angrily, and the lead guitarist's scathing tone made Toki instantly regret having pounded two beers after finishing off the last third of his vodka.

"Sorries," Toki mumbled apologetically, but Skwisgaar just rolled his eyes and looked away. What Toki didn't notice—or rather, couldn't tell in his inebriated state—was that Skwisgaar's sky-blue eyes showed more than his seeming disdain; they were laden with concern and frustration, as well.

"You try babysitting him for a change," Nathan admonished as he pushed himself to his feet, still glowering at Pickles and Murderface, whose chortling had quieted to muffled snorts.

"Oooh, sorry dood. Ceean't," Pickles said quickly. "I… uh… gotta date tonight! With a real haht chick."

"Me too!" Murderface chimed, nodding vigorously.

"Oh really?" Nathan asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Uh… I don't think you know 'er, dood," Pickles said warily, scratching his chin.

"Yeah, schee doeschn't hang out in your schircles," Murderface added, with an emphatic nod.

Skwisgaar smirked. "Whats, you both goingks on dates with same ladies?"

"Uhhhh…" Pickles and Murderface stared at each other, clearly at a loss for words.

Toki struggled unsteadily to his feet as Nathan sighed. "Look," he said, his perpetual scowl deepening and his green eyes growing dark. "I was with him all day yesterday. It's somebody else's turn."

Toki hiccupped and gripped the stair railing with both hands as he blinked, trying to regain his focus. His head was spinning and it still hurt a little, but that was no surprise if he'd actually fallen down the stairs like Skwisgaar had said. Drinking so much so early in the day had probably not been the best idea.

"Skwisgaar, you can hang out with Toki tonight, since these two dicks are so fucking busy," Nathan said grumpily, crossing his arms over his broad chest and nodding in Pickles' and Murderface's direction.

Skwisgaar shook his head. "Can'ts. I's goingks out."

"The fuck," Nathan mumbled angrily under his breath, and then, "Where?"

"Clubs."

Toki looked from Nathan to Skwisgaar. They were clearly talking about him—but why? It sounded like they all had plans. There would be no one left to party with Toki tonight—again. He turned his eyes to the floor and sighed. He missed the days when the band would hang out all night in the rec room, playing video games and watching TV and filling their stomachs with pizza and beer. Lately, though, there had been less and less of those days—ever since Norway—ever since his father—

No. He didn't want to think about that. That was what the vodka was for.

"Well, then, you can take Toki with you," Nathan said decidedly, fixing Skwisgaar with a threatening stare as if to say, Go ahead. Try and push me.

But Skwisgaar already knew he'd be sorry if he did that. Nathan had a habit of making life very unpleasant when he was angry.

The lead guitarist rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said, grabbing Toki by the shirt sleeve. "But I's not babysits on him while I's dere," he warned, and threw Nathan an irritated look as he dragged the baffled, intoxicated Norwegian away with him down the hall.

-----

Skwisgaar stared straight ahead as he pulled Toki behind him, annoyed and slightly relieved at the same time. It was true that he didn't really want Toki tagging along with him to the clubs, but at least he'd be able to keep an eye on him that way—make sure he didn't fall down another flight of stairs under someone else's watch.

Ever since they'd gotten back from Norway, Toki's constant drinking had rendered him nearly functionless. Not surprisingly, this had disrupted Dethklok's practice and recording schedules—so much so that Nathan had told Toki, none too gently, that he could forget playing with the band unless he was sober enough to get through a whole song without either throwing up or passing out.

They knew something needed to be done, but they hadn't really wanted to take the booze away from Toki, either—no one in Dethklok had been particularly thrilled with the idea of a sober household. Besides, Toki was a grown man and could make his own decisions. It wasn't up to his band mates to tell him what he could and couldn't do.

Even so, Toki still managed to get himself into trouble—he'd nearly burned off his arm the week before while trying to prepare something on one of the gas stoves in the kitchen. What Toki had been doing there in the first place when they had a renowned French chef and a full kitchen staff to cook for them at all hours of the day and night, Skwisgaar couldn't guess.

A few days after that, Pickles had walked in on Toki burning holes in his arm with the tip of his hot glue gun. His excuse was that he'd been testing it to make sure it worked, but his band mates knew better. And now today, with the stairs. If Toki didn't watch out, he was going to get himself maimed or killed. Which was exactly why Charles had quietly put him under suicide watch, designating the rest of the band to keep an eye on him at all times.

It was only temporary, of course. They all knew (hoped) that Toki would snap out of it in another week or two, the way he always did after visiting with his parents. It was only a passing phase, a funk, Skwisgaar kept telling himself. But as days went by with no change, the Swede began to wonder if his father's death hadn't broken something inside the little Norwegian that couldn't be fixed—not by excessive drinking, anyway. If that was the case, it was buried too deep for any of them to touch. Toki would just have to work it out on his own.

"Whats we doing?" Toki asked warily as Skwisgaar pulled him inside his room and kicked the heavy door shut with the heel of his boot.

Skwisgaar released his grip on Toki's tee shirt and strode to the bathroom, leaving the Norwegian standing in the middle of the room with a bemused expression on his face.

"You's goingks to takes a cold shower," Skwisgaar said, his voice muffled as he reached inside the linen closet and drew out an oversized gray towel. "And den you's goingks to takes a nap."

Skwisgaar returned, shoving the towel into Toki's hands. "And den we's goingks to de clubs tonights, so if you's already havingks plans, forgets dem."

Toki's eyes grew wide as he hugged the towel to his chest. "You means we's goings to hangs out?"

Skwisgaar frowned. "Ja. But don'ts gets too exciteds. I's goingks for de ladies—I can'ts be hangingks arounds you de whole times."

But Toki didn't seem to care. "Oh boy!" he exclaimed, and for the first time in days a real smile stretched across his face. "We's going to da clubs! You's and me! Togethers!"

"Ja, togethers," Skwisgaar said testily, grabbing his guitar from its stand and sitting down on his bed. "Now gets in de shower. You smells like beer."

Toki grinned and shuffled off to the bathroom to do as he'd been told. Skwisgaar picked at his guitar and scowled. So now he was in charge of watching Toki the whole day. Fine, but he would've preferred a quiet, melancholy Toki to a bouncy, drunk one. Hopefully a cold shower and a few hours' sleep would do him good. And food—he'd have to get Jean-Pierre to make some food to soak up the alcohol floating around in the little guitarist's stomach.

As he compiled a mental list of things he'd need to do to get Toki sober enough to be out in public, Skwisgaar caught a flash of something pale and curved in the bathroom doorway. He looked up, and there was Toki—naked from the waist down and in the process of tugging off his tee shirt, his discarded pants and boxers lying in a crumpled pile on the white marble floor.

Skwisgaar quickly looked away, but it was too late—the image of Toki's strong, slender thighs, rippled abs, and toned ass was burned deep into his retinas. What was even more disturbing, the sight had sent a shock of heat through his belly that had landed in a very curious and very wrong place between his legs. Holy fuck. Maybe his eyes had played a trick on him—maybe they thought they'd seen a naked woman standing in his bathroom.

Except, as Toki pulled his dark blue tee shirt over his head and turned to drop it onto the pile, the bare expanse of muscled chest that assaulted Skwisgaar's field of vision in no way resembled anything remotely feminine. The long, chestnut-colored hair, perhaps; but that perfectly-chiseled body—and the large, flaccid cock hanging in between his legs—definitely not.

"Skwisgaar?" Toki's voice jerked the lead guitarist back to reality, and he hastily shifted his gaze from Toki's dick to his face.

"Whats?" he asked impatiently, and before Toki could answer, he snapped, "You's supposed to be gettingks in de shower."

"Uh… ja… okays," Toki said slowly, his intrigued and slightly puzzled expression melting into an unsmiling mask of obedience.

Toki went to turn on the shower, and Skwisgaar felt a twinge of relief as the Norwegian's naked body disappeared from his sightline. That… had been weird. Too weird for comfort. He made a mental note to never look at Toki like that again and played a quick, furious riff on his guitar.

"And don'ts you makes a mess in dere, or use all de soaps!" he called loudly after his band mate, whose only answer was the thud of the shower door and then the gentle sound of splashing water.

If he messes up de shower I kills him… Skwisgaar thought crossly to himself, in an attempt to replace the disturbing buzz in his groin with something more familiar—something more characteristic of his usual feelings for Toki. Which, as everyone knew, were equivalent to those a big brother might have for an annoying, younger sibling.

They all felt that way toward Toki, more or less—it was hard not to, with him being the youngest and acting so damn silly most of the time. And yet, Skwisgaar had to admit that he felt more than a little protective toward the other guitarist at times. Maybe it was because they were the only two Scandinavians in Mordhaus; or maybe it was because Toki had never had someone to watch out for him when he was growing up, which had given his parents free reign to abuse him as they'd seen fit. Whatever it was didn't matter; as annoying and immature as Toki could be sometimes, Skwisgaar was intent on keeping him safe.

A tiny curl of steam issuing from the bathroom doorway interrupted his thoughts. Gritting his teeth, Skwisgaar threw his guitar on the bed and marched into the bathroom.

"I said cold, Toki! Hot shower just makingks you drunkers!" he yelled over the rush of splashing water from the many small shower heads jutting from the ceiling.

Toki slid open the shower door with one hand, beads of water dripping from his arm as he stared at Skwisgaar through a mess of wet hair.

"Whats?"

"I said co…ld…" Skwisgaar retorted, his voice trailing off as his eyes instantly locked on Toki's slippery, shining flesh; the faint curve of his narrow waist; the bulge of his bicep as soapy fingers reached around the back of his neck to scrub. Skwisgaar had a sudden impulse to reach out and touch that arm, to wrap it around his waist and let its wet heat soak through his shirt, but he quickly shook the thought away and looked Toki square in the face. This was getting way out of hand. He had to get himself under control and stop acting like a moony-eyed groupie. It was just Toki, after all.

He repeated, more firmly this time, "You's has to takes cold shower, Toki. To makes you un-drunks."

"But I don'ts like cold showers," Toki whimpered petulantly, and the spell was suddenly broken. Toki was Toki again—just a whiny, drunk kid who'd been so fucked up by his parents that he needed supervision.

"Do it, stupids, or I's kicks you outs of my room," Skwisgaar threatened, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows in a no-nonsense expression.

"Fine," Toki grumbled, and reached down to turn the hot tap all the way to the left.

Walking back to the bedroom, Skwisgaar smiled as Toki yelped as the cold water hit him, and he let loose a string of curses in Norwegian that would've made even Nathan blush. That's teach him to be gettingks drunks all day, he thought smugly.

Skwisgaar carefully placed his Explorer back on its stand, then kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his vee-neck tee, leaving on his jeans. He could use an afternoon nap himself. He'd have at least a few minutes to sleep while Toki finished up in the bathroom.

Curling up beneath his white fur blanket, Skwisgaar laid his head on his elbow and closed his eyes, and thought hard about pussy and how much of it he was going to get tonight. He liked women. So did Toki, as far as he knew. Maybe the rhythm guitarist would score some, too. Skwisgaar chuckled inwardly at the thought. Nej, Toki would have better luck at finagling a solo out of Skwisgaar than getting a woman into bed. He just didn't have the finesse it took to keep a girl interested for more than a few minutes.

Although, come to think of it, Toki didn't often pursue women, either—it was almost as if he didn't consider them worth his time. There'd been that one girl—the slim, ditzy blonde whose name Skwisgaar couldn't remember—but he'd lost interest in her after a few weeks. From the way Toki had talked about it, the feeling had been mutual. The Norwegian definitely wasn't the type to just screw a girl and never talk to her again, but he didn't seem to be terribly happy in relationships, either. Skwisgaar half-wondered if Toki might be—

—but that probably wasn't the best thought to be having after all the nudity and awkward staring of the last ten minutes.

Skwisgaar flipped onto his other side, trying to jar the thought from his head. He clearly needed some sleep if he had nothing better to think about than Toki. His brain was probably just overtaxed from staying up until four a.m. and the fact that he hadn't fucked anyone last night. That was it. He'd think about pussy, and guitar, and drift off to sleep for awhile and then go out with Toki later and round up some sluts for a late-night romp in the sack… nothing unexpected or uncomfortable, just another night of drugs, drinking, and blow jobs in the VIP room. Toki could just… fend for himself.

-----

Toki wrapped the gray, fluffy towel around his waist, glad for the minimal warmth it provided after the icy bite of the cold water. His flesh felt raw and taut with the chill, and his head was definitely beginning to feel the effects of sobriety as it crept over him—namely, a dull, throbbing headache. Skwisgaar had been right about one thing—a cold shower was a sure-fire way to kill off a vodka buzz.

He might've been more upset about Skwisgaar's forced detox if he wasn't getting to hang out with the Swede later, but the promise of an entire evening together was far more alluring than alcohol. Toki inevitably felt less miserable anytime Skwisgaar paid attention to him—criticism or compliment, it didn't matter. Talking with the blonde, sitting next to him, watching him laugh or listening to him complain was addictive enough in itself. And although he never would've admitted it aloud, the fact that Skwisgaar wanted him to come out to the clubs with him made him feel pretty damn special. He'd long ago grown accustomed to his subordinate standing to the lead guitarist, and although he didn't always like it, it was better than nothing. Better than being without the band. And infinitely better than being without Skwisgaar.

Toki sauntered out of the bathroom, damp hair plastered to his still-wet back, and was met with the sight of a sleeping Skwisgaar stretched out on his back in his massive white bed. Toki smiled, charmed at the picture of the Swede's closed eyes and long blonde hair trailing across his shoulders and chest. He began to undo the knot in the towel around his waist and then frowned, suddenly remembering that he had no clean clothes and that Skwisgaar had instructed him to take a nap as soon as he was out of the shower. Had he meant in his own room, or in the big white bed with—with—

Toki froze. Drunk as he'd been, the way Skwisgaar had looked at him earlier had not escaped his attention. But had it been merely a surprise reaction, or—dare he think it—something else? The thought rolled around in his mind like a pinball, electrifying everything into which it crashed. This was one road he didn't need to go down again, not right now—not after Norway.

But against his will, memories rushed to the surface; thoughts scattered and then assembled themselves into a painful and embarrassing montage of daydreams and rejections, fights and longings. The quiet desperation he felt as he stroked his cock at night and envisioned soft blonde hair brushing the back of his neck and long-fingered hands curled around his hips; the angry visions of those same hands caressing the wrinkled or bulky tits of women who didn't deserve their touch. It was too much to handle right now. Too much to think about—too much to remember.

He let the towel drop quietly to the floor and stood naked in the middle of Skwisgaar's cool, dim room, head bowed. His body cast a pale shadow in the weak and fading sunlight; the sky was darkening with thick, whitish-gray clouds and the air had taken on that crisp, pure smell that meant snow was on its way. His skin, already chilled from the shower, barely registered the difference, but his nose knew the scent all too well.

The sound of his fellow guitarist's slow, steady breathing crept into his ears, pulling him toward the bed. Skwisgaar had told him to sleep, and he wanted to—but the bed, with Skwisgaar in it, was like an illusion—an invitation to explore that, in the end, would only deceive him as to what was really going on.

Nevertheless, he found himself pulling up the furry white blanket and easing himself in next to the Swede. Not too close—he didn't want to disturb him, or give him the wrong impression when he awakened—but close enough that he could feel Skwisgaar's heat on his skin, could smell the deep, intoxicating scent that was his and his alone. There was something fresh and at once intense about it—like a mixture of rain and cedar, but without the pungency, which made lying next to him all the more soothing.

Toki timidly brushed a stray strand of hair away from Skwisgaar's cheek, but then bit his lip and curled his hand back against his chest, willing it to stay put. He couldn't let the Swede catch him doing this. Not to mention that it was just wrong. To Skwisgaar, Toki was only the stupid younger brother, the inferior guitarist. To think that he, Toki, could do anything to change that was foolish. And dangerous. Because if he allowed himself to think there might be a chance—even a slim one—that Skwisgaar might ever look at him any differently, he knew that he would break if (when) he found out he was wrong.

Toki closed his eyes and exhaled gently against the mattress; bereft of pillows, it was a little uncomfortable to sleep on, but he didn't really mind. This was likely the one and only time he'd be allowed in Skwisgaar's bed, and he wanted to savor it.

He cleared his mind of everything but the feel of the blanket against his bare skin; the chill winter wind wafting in through the open window and the warm contrast of Skwisgaar's heated body less than a foot away… the small ache inside his chest that said touch him and the rational part of his brain that sleepily reminded you can'ts. He could lie here forever and not move, never drink another drop or play another note. There was nowhere else he'd rather be, and no one else he'd rather—

Just no one else.

-----

Part 2

Drabbles [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:47:32 GMT

Title: Ten Drabbles
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Ratings: PG to NC-17 (individually labeled)
Summary: Ten S/T drabbles of varying lengths and shmexiness :)
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Facing the Music
Rating: PG

"Skwisgaar—Skwisgaar—just a quick word! Tell us—what's the secret of Dethklok's success?"

Amid the jostling of dozens of photographers and cameramen, the reporter managed to shove the microphone in his face, nearly losing her balance in the process.

"Say it!" Toki hissed in his ear. Skwisgaar grimaced and took a swig from the mostly-full bottle of whisky in his hand, trying his best to look severely intoxicated.

"Dis Toki Wartooth… my best friends. Dethklok be deads, if nots for Toki."

The reporter's eager smile faltered as a puzzled look flitted across her face, but she pressed on.

"I see. Well, the sales of your new album have gone through the roof, as I'm sure you know. Would you say that's mostly due to Toki's influence, then?"

Skwisgaar shot Toki a sideways, pleading look, but the Norwegian shook his head.

The lead guitarist sighed. "Toki's de best guitars players I's ever knows. He makes de album sounds brutal."

Toki stomped on Skwisgaar's booted toe, sending a sharp spike of pain through his foot.

"Oofs! Whats I's means is, Toki makes it sounds brutaler dan anyones, evens me."

The bright-eyed reporter cocked her head, eyed the liquor bottle curled in Skwisgaar's fist, and then turned to Toki.

"Would you like to comment on your role in Dethklok's most recent success, Toki?"

The rhythm guitarist grinned happily. "Noes. I tink Skwisgaar says its all."

The security guards held back the media as the two guitarists were ushered into the arena where Dethklok was scheduled to play a show later that night. As they walked in, Skwisgaar turned to Toki and whispered harshly, "You just makes me looks like dildos on nationals TV!"

Toki, who had an unusual spring in his step and a broad smile on his face, replied cheerfully, "Wells, that's teach you to lose bets!"

Skwisgaar shut his mouth and scowled.

At least Toki had let him pretend to be drunk.

Learning Swedish
Rating: PG-13

"Min stora kärlek."

Skwisgaar froze in mid-step, putting a hand out against the stone wall to steady himself. Someone in Mordhaus was speaking Swedish. And, judging by the stilted Norwegian accent, that someone was Toki.

He backtracked down the hallway and peeked inside Toki's bedroom door. The brunette was sitting cross-legged on the bed with a pair of headphones over his ears and a beat-up old tape player in front of him. His eyes were closed in concentration; his lips formed the syllables with care, although they were already familiar to his Norwegian tongue.

"Säg något sexigt."

Skwisgaar smiled. Toki looked so sweet and innocent sitting there like that, he almost felt bad that he couldn't pass up the opportunity to torment him.

He strode across the room to the bed and lifted up one side of the headphones, then let it snap back against Toki's head with a sharp thwack.

"Ow!" Toki yelped, his eyes flying open as he yanked the headset down around his neck and covered his stinging ear. The Norwegian looked up at Skwisgaar, and a light blush slowly crept across his cheeks.

"Who's you wants say somethingks sexy to you, huh?" Skwisgaar asked, grinning and leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

Toki squirmed uncomfortably. "I's just practicing."

"For whats? Romantiks comsdesdies? Pornos?"

"For yous, stupids! I tought you mights like it… you knows… if I's—" Toki twisted his hands together, looking more embarrassed by the second.

"If you says Swedish tings to me in bed," Skwisgaar finished. Toki nodded.

Skwisgaar smirked. "I likes it better when you don'ts talk."

Toki's pale blue eyes went wide, and a hurt look came over his face. "Why you say dats?"

"Because dat uskually means you's gots my cock in your mouths."

Toki's jaw dropped as a darker shade of crimson colored his cheeks. Words formed on his lips, but no sound came out.

Skwisgaar chuckled and turned to leave, his work done. In the doorway he paused and tossed a smile over his shoulder at the stunned little Norwegian.

"Do you knows whats is de Swedish word for 'crazy?'" he asked playfully.

Still speechless, Toki shook his head.

"Tokig. And I bets you remembers dat one!"

Bubbles and Pickles
Rating: NC-17

Toki giggled as he straddled Skwisgaar's hips, feeling the hot, bubbly water from the hot tub jets shooting out along his thighs. Skwisgaar silenced him with a wet kiss, sucking his lower lip between his teeth as he cupped the back of Toki's damp head in his hands and pulled him closer.

It was late and they were the only ones up, so a little messing around in the hot tub wouldn't attract anyone's attention. Besides, they'd been doing this for months now, and although the rest of the band hadn't said anything, Skwisgaar and Toki were fairly sure they knew that they were sleeping together.

Toki moaned quietly as Skwisgaar's hard cock ground against his ass, and he moved to suck at the salty skin of his lover's neck as Skwisgaar reached around and eased a finger inside his asshole. The warm, fizzy water made the normally uncomfortable act feel deliciously sensual. Toki continued to lick and bite at the Swede's pale throat as he positioned himself higher on his lap, relaxing his muscles and readying himself for Skwisgaar's dick.

Before it could happen, however, the sound of noisy, stumbling footsteps reached their ears, and Skwisgaar and Toki froze. The Swede lifted his head and threw the Norwegian a surprised, panicked look, and they broke apart just as Pickles staggered into the room.

Toki scooted away from Skwisgaar as the red-haired drummer drunkenly called out, "Hiya!" and promptly began to strip down to his underwear.

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. "Pickle, what's is you doingks?" he asked, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice.

"Aw, dood, my back's jeest killin' me! Can't sleep. Or mebbe it's the twelve-pack I drank before I went ta bed. I dunno. Either way, hot tub sounds pretty good right about now."

Toki grimaced. Tanks for da wet blankets, Pickle, he thought crossly.

"Can'ts you come backs in, like, halfs hour?" Skwisgaar pleaded, the hint of a whine creeping into his voice, but Pickles didn't seem to notice.

"I jeest needa git in here for a few, then I'll be alright," he said, sinking down into the water next to Skwisgaar.

"Whoa, hey!" Pickles exclaimed suddenly, jumping up and rubbing the small of his back.

"Whats now?" Toki asked, rolling his eyes.

"It's these jets, dood! Shit, I didn't reealize these things were theeat powerful. Mind if I turn 'em off fer a bit?"

"Uhh…" Skwisgaar stalled as he met Toki's awkward glance. If Pickles turned off the jets, he was going to be in for an unexpected surprise—like two very naked Scandinavians with two equally hard cocks.

"Maybe dat's not such a good ideas, Pickle," Toki interjected. "I mean, I tink dere's someting with da chlorines… or da bubbles… not supposed to… um…"

"Whats Toki's try to says is he's afraid you breaks it," Skwisgaar said, kicking Toki's foot under the water.

"Dood, it ain't like I heeaven't adjusted this hot tub before," Pickles said reassuringly, and pulled himself onto the edge of the tub. Water streamed off his pale, red-haired legs and dripped from his saggy white underwear.

The drummer pushed himself to his feet and headed over to the wall where the hot tub controls were located. Toki tossed Skwisgaar a frantic look, and the Swede knew he had to do something.

"Pickle!"

"Dood! What?"

"If you wants knows what's is goods for you, don'ts turn off dose jets!"

Pickles turned and squinted at them—seeing, for the first time, the tightly-drawn line that was Skwisgaar's mouth and Toki's guilty, downcast eyes—and understanding crept upon him slowly, and then all at once, like a pack of rabid yard wolves.

"Ah… okay. Lemme jeest… I'm gonna jeest… yeeah. Where's those clothes? I gotta go."

Pickles hurriedly grabbed his shirt and pants from off the floor and, stuffing them under his arm, made a hasty exit from the room.

After the drummer's footfalls had receded, Skwisgaar turned to Toki, and with a flirtatious grin, asked, "Now wheres was we's?"

Christmas at Mordhaus
Rating: PG

"I's gots you a present, Toki. Merries Christmas."

Skwisgaar, who was draped across Toki's bedroom doorway, tossed a flat, rectangular package across the room at the Norwegian, which he caught with one hand.

Toki's eyes grew wide as he clutched the handsomely-wrapped box in his hands, hardly daring to breathe. He couldn't believe it. Skwisgaar had gotten him a Christmas present.

"Cans I opens it now?" he squeaked excitedly.

Skwisgaar smiled. "Go rights aheads."

Toki tore off the red ribbon and threw it to the side, then ripped open the silver wrapping paper with trembling hands. Inside was a DVD. He turned the case over to read the front, and his eyes were greeted with a picture of a familiar-looking blonde and the words "The Complete Skwisgaar Skwigelf Advanced Fast Hand Finger Wizard Master Class" in large red bubble letters at the top.

Toki looked up at the lead guitarist, who wasn't even attempting to hide the toothy smirk that was spreading across his face.

"You likes it?" Skwisgaar asked sweetly.

Toki swallowed slowly and gritted his teeth. "Skwisgaar?"

"Ja?"

"Yous goings to be wantings a running start."

Calm after the Storm
Rating: R for language

Skwisgaar slides the balcony door shut with his elbow and walks to where Toki's sitting in the lawn chair, knees curled up to his chest, combing out his wet hair with his fingers. The condensation from the beer bottles he's holding drips along his arm as he hands one of them to the Norwegian, along with the jar of peanut butter and the spoon in his other hand.

"Yum!" Toki says appreciatively, and tucks the beer between his knees and unscrews the lid on the peanut butter. Skwisgaar takes a seat in the chair next to him and wrings some of the excess water from his hair with the white towel draped around his shoulders. Shaking his head, he cracks open his beer as Toki dives into the peanut butter, licking it off the spoon. Skwisgaar takes a sip and swallows. The cool, biting liquid feels wonderful going down his throat.

"Didn'ts knows you likes peanuts butters dat much," he says, chuckling as Toki goes in for another heaping spoonful.

"I's always hungry after sex," Toki says happily, smacking his lips.

Skwisgaar smiles to himself and looks out over the trees dotting the landscape of Mordland. Their branches wave restlessly as the wind kicks up—a sea of green rustling in the dark and heated sky. It's one of those humid, end-of-summer afternoons and they've just taken a hot shower after a long and sweaty fuck. He holds the beer bottle to his bare chest, lets the icy beads of condensation drip down his skin, making him shiver. It's about to rain any minute, and the coolness of the glass against his flesh is refreshing.

Skwisgaar glances at Toki from the corner of his eye. He's a little hungry, too, now that he thinks about it. He could do peanut butter.

"Hey, shares," he says, motioning for the jar and spoon. Toki hands them over and then pops off the top of his bottle with his thumb—a trick Skwisgaar can never manage without hurting himself; he doesn't have Toki's magnificent calluses, despite his near-constant playing.

Skwisgaar digs a hunk of peanut butter out of the half-empty jar and licks at it as Toki takes a swig of his beer. They eat and drink in silence as the wind blows violently through the trees, shaking their limbs to and fro.

Then, without warning, the wind stops, and all at once the sky opens up and the rain comes down—a few drops at first, and then a solid sheet of water that turns the air into mist and cascades off the balcony roof in a long arc. Skwisgaar and Toki peer out at the storm together, both feeling as if they're watching from behind a waterfall.

Lightning rips across the sky, sending a blinding flash of white zigzagging over Mordland. The accompanying boom of thunder startles Toki and makes him spill beer down his chin, just as Skwisgaar knew he would, and it makes him smile. A dense, electrical smell hangs in the air; the lightning had been close.

Somehow the onset of the storm makes Skwisgaar feel even hotter, despite the drop in temperature. But it brings a sense of excitement, too—a kind of relaxed anticipation. He scoops up another spoonful of peanut butter and nibbles on it thoughtfully. Damn, he'd forgotten how good this stuff was. He'd prefer crunchy, but still. Leave it to Toki to reintroduce him to such a small, silly pleasure.

"Was it hards growings up without a dad?" Toki asks suddenly.

"Why's you be askingks dat?" Skwisgaar replies.

Toki shrugs and bats at a mosquito hovering near his ear. "I dunnos."

Skwisgaar pauses. Had it been hard? He can't really remember. All that comes to mind is the endless parade of boyfriends his mother kept around the house. He'd never had to learn their names—they were never around long enough. In truth, the Swigelf household had always felt more like a brothel than a home. Even as a boy, when he'd bring friends over to hang out, a barrage of lewd gestures, whistles, and leers would ensue whenever his mother walked by—usually because she was dressed like a hooker, but sometimes because she swiveled her hip and winked at them. At fucking ten-year-olds. But Serveta Swigelf didn't mind; she liked the attention. It didn't matter who gave it to her.

The thoughts zoom through Skwisgaar's head in a fraction of a second, but he doesn't speak them aloud.

"I's guess," he answers simply, and takes another sip of beer.

Toki confiscates the peanut butter jar from Skwisgaar's hands and trails the tip of the spoon along the inside ridge at the top, scooping out the tiny brown lumps caught there.

"I wish you tells me 'bouts your growings-up sometimes. You knows everytings 'bouts Norway, but I don'ts knows anytings 'bouts you. And we's even meets your moms."

Skwisgaar frowns and gazes at the thick gray clouds racing across the horizon. "She's a fuckingks bitch. You knows I hates talkingks 'bouts her."

"Ja, I knows," Toki mumbles through a mouthful of peanut butter. "Sorries. Just wonderings."

Skwisgaar closes his eyes and swallows, trying to banish the sour image of his mother's face from his mind. He tilts his head, allowing the breeze to dance along his skin and thinks of his guitar, of the feel of its strings beneath his fingers, and it calms him. He opens his eyes and breathes in deep, and the clean, cool scent of the rain fills his nose. He turns in his chair to face Toki.

"So nows I's ask you's a question."

Toki sucks the last of the peanut butter off the spoon and licks his lips. "Okays."

"You tinks you's be happier if you didn'ts haves a dad?"

Grimacing, Toki drops the spoon into the empty jar and sets it on the concrete floor. He picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans and doesn't answer.

Toki's hesitation makes Skwisgaar sorry he asked. "Bah, you don'ts has to answer dats one," he says, propping his feet up on the balcony railing. The rain, which has slowed to a steady patter, splashes intermittently on his toes. They sit in silence, letting the cooling wind dry their hair.

But a few minutes later, Toki speaks up. "Noes, I… dont's tinks I woulds. Be happier." The Norwegian runs his fingers along the bare flesh of his lower back. His nails trip over the criss-cross of scars, remembering.

"I wouldn'ts leave Norway, maybe, if tings was better," he says faintly, and his eyes are far away. "And den no guitars. No band. No you."

Skwisgaar clears his throat. "You means you's happy you grows up with dat crazy fuck?" Thinking about Toki's father always makes him angry. He should've known better than to bring up the subject.

But Toki looks over at him and smiles, and although there's a trace of sadness in his face, his pale blue eyes are hopeful. "Only 'cause it gots me to you."

Skwisgaar feels a sudden urge to lean over and kiss him, but the combination of beer and peanut butter makes him think better of the idea, so he settles for his hand instead.

"Ja," he answers, and it's all he needs to say to make Toki know he understands, and that, in a way, he's glad, too.

Outta the Bag
Rating: R for language and violent noises

"Where the fuck are Skwisgaar and Toki?" Nathan growled, wiping a smear of barbecue sauce off his chin.

"Aw, they think juscht 'cause they're European it meansch they can be faschionably late," Murderface grumbled as he picked at his bass.

Nathan grunted in acknowledgement and took another swig of Explosion Sauce as Pickles absent-mindedly tapped out a staggered rhythm on his snare.

The three American members of Dethklok had been waiting for the two Scandinavian guitarists to show up for rehearsal since noon. Now it was twelve forty-five. After the first twenty minutes had passed with no sign of either the Norwegian or the Swede, Pickles had cracked open a forty as Nathan indulged himself in barbecue sauce (his favorite snack), and Murderface had stretched out on the couch and commenced to scowling at nothing in particular and complaining about the fact that they had to come to rehearsal in the first place.

Now they were getting impatient. Dethklok was not used to waiting around for anything or anyone, even its own members.

"Meeybe we should, like, yanno—go look fer 'em?" Pickles proposed, crumpling the empty beer can in his fist and dropping it on the floor, where a Klokateer would no doubt find it later and throw it away.

Nathan grimaced. "Yeah, Pickles, that's an awesome idea. Because Mordland is only a billion acres long—I mean big—wide—whatever!"

Murderface sighed. "Schtill, what elsche are we gonna do? Schit around here all day and wait?"

"Arrrrrgh!" Nathan roared, wringing his hands. "Fine! Just as long as I can beat them both with their guitars when we find them!"

Pickles chuckled. "Fine by me, dood!"

Murderface tossed his bass on the couch and followed Nathan out the door, and Pickles hopped down from his drum kit and ran after them. Once in the hallway, however, they halted.

"Uhhh… scho, where are we schupposched to look?" the mustachioed bassist asked, turning to the drummer. Pickles glanced sideways at Nathan, and the singer stared back at both of them, his emerald-green eyes flashing.

"Why the fuck're you asking me?" Nathan exclaimed, eyeing Murderface crossly. "You're the one who plays guitar. Where would you go if you were a missing guitar player?"

Murderface snorted. "I know where I'd be if we didn't have rehearschal—fuckin' titty bar!"

Nathan's scowl deepened, spreading across his face like a scar, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Okay—hey—how about the rec room?" Pickles quickly interjected. "They're prabbly jus' wahtchin' TV."

"Fine," Nathan agreed, uncurling his fists and taking off down the hallway in the direction of the Mordhaus rec room.

But when they got there, it was empty. Silent. The many televisions had been turned off, their blank, gray faces staring out like so many dead eyes at the three band mates as they gazed around the vacant room in disappointment.

"Maybe they got hungry?" Pickles said hopefully, and the three trekked down to the Mordhaus dining room, where five empty thrones and an equally bare table greeted their eyes.

"Aw, you know what?" Murderface exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with mischief. "I bet they're bothsch schtill aschleep! We schould go wake 'em up!"

Nathan smiled evilly. "I call dibs on tea-bagging Toki!"

The singer, the bassist, and the drummer quickly made their way over to Dethklok's constellation of bedrooms at the far end of Mordhaus, eagerly anticipating the rare chance to screw around with their sleeping band mates. However, as they strode down the hallway leading to their rooms, loud, angry noises assaulted their ears and slowed their steps.

A muffled, desperate cry sounded from behind a door—Skwisgaar's room, from the sound of it—and Nathan, Murderface, and Pickles turned to look at one another, eyebrows raised in concern. Whatever was going on in there didn't sound good.

"—fuck you!—ja, fuck!" came Skwisgaar's voice, high and angry, and this was followed by an unintelligible jumble of heated curses.

"Don'ts! Stops!" came Toki's frazzled, desperate plea, and then the sound of something crashing, and the sharp smack of flesh against flesh.

"Dood, are they, like, beatin' each other up in there?" Pickles asked, frowning.

"You likes how dat feels?" Skwisgaar growled from behind the door. There came another sickening smack, and then a thudding sound as something toppled to the floor and Toki howled.

"Soundsch like a fischtfight," Murderface whispered, his eyes growing wide. They were accustomed to listening to Skwisgaar and Toki bicker, but the two Scandinavians didn't usually resort to blows—and Skwisgaar certainly had never intentionally tried to hurt Toki.

Nathan gritted his teeth. "Whatever the fuck it is, it's gonna end right now." The singer reached out to grasp the doorknob—but just as his fingers brushed the metal, something slammed against the door so hard that it rattled in its frame. The sound took them by surprise and caused Nathan to jump back as though he'd been shocked, but what they heard next was even more alarming.

"Oh fuck! Ja, gods—Skwisgaar—awrghh!" and then a moan so achingly sexual there was no possible way it could've been mistaken for a cry of pain. The steady, pounding thrusts against the door caused the wood to vibrate and left only one explanation as to what was going on—

"Well, I guessch we're not gonna have rehearschal, after all."

Nathan and Pickles stared at Murderface, mouths hanging open.

"What? I'm juscht schtating the factsch."

"Dear god…" Nathan murmured, eyes frozen wide in surprise.

They fell into a momentary, shocked silence, until it dawned on them that they were still standing in front of Skwisgaar's door, listening to their lead and rhythm guitarists having incredibly rough and incredibly loud sex a mere two feet away.

"Dood, d'ya think they've, like, done it in the hot tub, too?" Pickles snickered.

"Aw, Pickles! Didja really have to go there?" Nathan roared, covering his ears with his hands and causing the noises on the other side of the door to stop abruptly.

"What de FUCK?!" Skwisgaar snarled, and there was a frenzied rustling from within, followed by a furious string of curses in Norwegian.

The singer, the drummer, and the bassist threw panicked looks at one another. Without waiting to be confronted by the two very pissed-off (and probably naked) Scandinavians, they took off down the hallway, running as fast as their legs would carry them.

Charles appeared suddenly as they rounded the corner, but he halted as soon as he caught sight of the three band members charging toward him, wide-eyed and frightened. He stretched out his arms in an attempt to stop them, but they ran past without so much as an acknowledgement.

"Guys! Wait! I've been looking all over for you—we've got to talk about the promos for the new album! Where are Toki and Skwisgaar?" he called after them feebly.

Only Nathan bothered to answer, and his voice was heavy with warning as he shouted over his shoulder, "Believe me, you don't wanna know!"

Lure
Rating: PG for fluff

"Toki! Whats you do with my DVD?"

The Norwegian looked up from the model Blue Angel in his hands to the lanky Swede, who was standing in his doorway, arms folded tightly, foot tapping a staccato rhythm against the floor.

Toki brushed several strands of light brown hair out of his face with the hand that was clutching the Angel's left wing. "Whats DVD?" he asked innocently.

"De Evils Dead 2 DVD you has for a months now!"

"But I's not watches it yet," he pouted, fixing beseeching blue eyes on the Swede. He was, of course, lying—he'd seen Evil Dead 2 over a dozen times already, both on TV and DVD—but Skwisgaar didn't know that. Toki had asked to borrow it several weeks ago, knowing that Halloween was coming up and that Skwisgaar always watched Evil Dead 2 around Halloween, along with an assortment of other zombie and vampire cult movies. It was only a matter of time before he'd ask for it back.

"So? I wants watches its tonight," the blonde retorted huffily.

Toki went back to dabbing glue on the airplane wing, feigning disinterest. "Wells… I tink I knows wheres it is."

"Ja, dildos? Den gives its to me."

Without looking up, Toki said quietly, "If you wants watches it tonights, den maybe we watches it togethers."

Skwisgaar chuckled. "You's already gots a dates with your airs-planes."

Toki blushed at the word "date," but he pressed on. "Planes not so important. And maybe I wants watches it with yous." He kept his head down and his eyes on the Blue Angel in his hands, waiting for Skwisgaar to say something. He hadn't planned on actually confessing that he wanted to spend time with his band mate—but it was better than fumbling for an excuse and saying something stupid that would make Skwisgaar roll his eyes and walk away.

The Swede sighed. "Alrights, Toki—but no planes in de bedrooms! De furs and glues don'ts mix."

The Angel wing slipped from Toki's hand and clattered onto the desk, forgotten. "Wowee! You means it? We really watches de movie togethers?"

"Ja, I really means it," Skwisgaar said, a smile curling onto his lips. "So bring de DVD. And de popcorns."

The Swede sauntered back to his room, and Toki jumped up from his desk and quickly procured the DVD in question from beneath his pillow. Then he hurried off to find a Klokateer to make them some popcorn.

Ten minutes later, clad in cloud-print pajama pants and carrying a steaming bowl of buttery popcorn and the Evil Dead 2 box, Toki entered Skwisgaar's imposing white room, tiptoeing into the pristine and rather chilly space as though it were a church. Skwisgaar had already turned on the TV and dimmed the lights, casting a semi-inviting glow over the Spartan bedroom. The Swede was curled up at the foot of the bed atop a landslide of oversized, white and gray pillows, and he patted the space next to him invitingly when he saw Toki standing in the doorway.

Toki set down the bowl of popcorn by Skwisgaar, popped the DVD into the open tray, and then crawled over to the little nest the blonde had made for them on the floor. He couldn't help but feel giddy that Skwisgaar had suggested they watch the movie in his bedroom; he'd even fixed up a comfy spot for them to sit. Together.

Whatever he'd done to deserve such a delightfully unexpected invitation didn't matter; Toki vowed not to push his luck. He'd simply watch the movie and then leave. Maybe they'd even go the whole hour and a half without fighting, since no guitars were involved. Now that would be something.

Toki plopped down next to Skwisgaar on the pillow-bed and sunk his hand into the popcorn bowl between them.

"I hope dis good… I's tired. Needs something to wakes me up," Toki muttered through a mouthful of popcorn as smoke billowed across the screen and the Book of the Dead magically appeared.

Skwisgaar stretched his arms in back of his head and rested them against the edge of the mattress. "Ja, well, you's better nots be fallingks asleeps on me."

"I won'ts. Promise," Toki said, and fell silent as the familiar, black-and-gray vortex swirled into the picture and with it the monsters of the evil worlds beyond, and then a vast sea of blood that cast the entire room in a red, eerie light. He became instantly lost in the movie's dark magic, forgetting the popcorn, the chill of the room, even Skwisgaar. He moved his lips silently along with the dialogue, relishing every corny, heroic line. He'd already learned all of Ash's speeches by heart; the words were as familiar to his tongue as the notes of Dethklok's songs were to his fingers.

Before long, however, his eyes began to grow heavy, and he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on the movie. What he wouldn't give to lay his head down on a fluffy white pillow, and curl up under a soft, furry blanket and sleep…

He allowed himself to close his eyes. Just for one seconds, he told himself. And den I leaves and goes to bed…

Skwisgaar, who himself had become engrossed in the movie, was startled when Toki's head dropped onto his shoulder.

"Toki?" he said sharply, looking sideways at the Norwegian and discovering that his eyes were closed and that he was breathing peacefully against his arm. For a minute, Skwisgaar thought about pushing the little guitarist away, about waking him up and telling him to go sleep in his own room. But Toki did look pretty content—even cute—all snuggled up like that. And anyway, there was really no need to kick him out—it wasn't as if either of them had anywhere else to be.

Skwisgaar chuckled quietly and grabbed the edge of his fur blanket, pulling it off the bed. He tucked it carefully around both of them, taking care not to disturb the sleeping Norwegian.

"You's a bad liars, little Toki," he whispered, and kissed him softly on the forehead. In his sleep, Toki smiled.

Laundry Day
Rating: PG

The tee shirt came out of nowhere, flying through the air and landing directly on his head. More specifically, over his face. Which meant that he could no longer see the TV screen, and instead of sending Mario into a hang glide, Toki dropped him off the edge of a cliff with a slip of his finger.

"Aw, tanks, Skwisgaar! Just makes me dies! Agains!" the Norwegian shouted as he tore the faded red tee shirt off his head. The video game chirped and beeped, informing him that, yes—he had indeed just died. As if he hadn't noticed.

"Well, stops puttingks you's dirty tings in my laundries! Why's you plays dat stupid old games, anyways? Is all you ever do."

Skwisgaar, clad in a fluffy black bathrobe and lugging a basket full of freshly-dried clothing in his too-skinny arms, cocked his head and gave Toki a scathing look.

Toki frowned. "'Cause I likes it, dat's why. Why you's plays guitar all days long?"

The Swede shifted the basket to his hip and took a long drag off the cigarette that was hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Because I's good at it," he said coolly, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Toki's direction.

"Yuck!" Toki exclaimed, wrinkling his nose and waving the smoke out of his face.

"Anyways, I's not doingks your laundries for you anymores. I's not de maid. You does it yourself—not dat hards."

"Ja, well, I don'ts gots any monies," Toki pouted, folding his arms across his chest.

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Is only seventies-fives cents!"

"I gots to eats, too, you knows! And pays rent!"

The Swede sighed and tapped his cigarette on the edge of the green glass ashtray on the kitchen table, one leg of which was propped up with a telephone book to keep it level. "Den do your laundries in de tub. I don'ts cares. Just stop sneakingks it in de basket when I's not lookingks."

"Whatevers. You done talkings at me now? I wants to beat dis level."

"Fine. But you needs a job, Toki. Just 'cause you's in a band now doesn't means you's goingks to be auto-masticscally rich and famous."

"We's gonna be famous somedays," Toki replied matter-of-factly as his eyes followed the tiny cartoon plumber hopping across the screen. "I just knows it."

"Pfffft. You's just be happy you's not livingks in aparts-ments with rats anymores," Skwisgaar retorted, balancing the laundry basket under one arm and his cigarette in the other hand and heading toward the bedroom.

He made a point of walking in front of the TV on his way out—none too quickly—which elicited a groan of frustration from Toki that followed Skwisgaar as he headed down the hall. The noise was accompanied by another pitiful-sounding series of beeps from the video game that let the Swede knew Toki had died. Again.

Skwisgaar smirked. Maybe if he just made Toki lose enough times, he would start doing his own laundry. "Stupid dildos," he chuckled, shaking his head and smiling.

Refuge
Rating: PG-13 for language

"Skwisgaar?"

He felt a slight pressure on the left side of the mattress as something climbed on top of it, stirring him from his sleep.

"G'way," he murmured, turning away from the source of the disturbance, but then the something began poking at him.

"What de fuck?—Quits it!" he cried harshly, now fully awake. Who could be climbing into bed with him at such a late hour? He hadn't invited any women to stay over, and Toki was sound asleep on the—

"Couch is freezings. Whole place is freezings. What's happens to de heat?"

"Get offs my beds," Skwisgaar promptly commanded, rubbing his eyes with his fists. The pressure on the mattress subsided as the Norwegian obliged, sliding back onto the floor.

Skwisgaar opened his eyes and looked at Toki, who was standing in the half-darkness of the room, his face faintly illuminated by the red light seeping in through the blinds from the neon sign on the bar across the street. He had both arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was shivering in his too-thin tee shirt and boxers.

Skwisgaar rolled the blanket down just enough to feel icy prickles of air hit his bare skin. Fuck. It was cold in here. He quickly jerked the blanket back up over his shoulder.

"I guess it wents out agains," he replied, referring to their heater, which had been on the fritz for the past few weeks. Their landlord was cheap and had found every excuse not to fix it, despite their repeated complaints.

Now it was the middle of December and Skwisgaar had just been rudely awakened at four-thirty a.m. (according to his bedside alarm clock) because Toki was cold. Just great.

"Is really freezings out dere… I don'ts tink I cans sleep," Toki continued, his voice sounding small and pitiful in the chilly stillness of the room.

"Wells, what's you wants me do's abouts it? You's de one says you sleeps on de couch. Dat's why you pays less rent."

In the red half-light, Toki's face fell.

"I knows," he said, his voice wavering. He shuffled his bare feet against the hardwood floor and wrapped his arms tighter around his shoulders. "Is just dat—well, my blanket's so old and holey and I's don'ts gots another one…"

Skwisgaar sighed. He'd known from the moment Toki woke him up that he wasn't going to leave until he invited him to stay.

"Fines. You sleeps with me tonights. But tomorrows you's calls de lands-lord and gets him to fix it!"

A grin erupted on Toki's face as he uncurled his arms and jumped back onto the bed.

"Oh takk! You's de best! I never forgets it!" he exclaimed happily as he slid underneath the blanket next to the Swede.

"Just one nights," Skwisgaar cautioned as Toki nestled into the double bed with his back to Skwisgaar and attempted to put a respectable amount of space between them without falling off the edge.

"I knows. One nights. I promise."

"Den you calls de lands-lord."

"Den I calls him. I swears it."

Toki sighed happily into the thick, fluffy blanket as Skwisgaar closed his eyes and settled back against his pillow. Before long, Toki's breathing became a quiet, steady cadence, a soothing rhythm that drowned out all the outside noises—cars, police sirens, people talking on the street, the occasional thump of a stereo.

After he was sure Toki was asleep, Skwisgaar curled his arm around the Norwegian's shoulder and pulled him closer, delighting in the extra warmth his body provided.

"I wouldn'ts let you freeze, silly Toki," he whispered, and nuzzled his nose into the Norwegian's long hair. Ja, spooning with your rhythm guitarist might not be metal—but it was a sure-fire way to beat the cold.

Snip
Rating: PG

"Just stays still!"

"You's hurtingks me!"

"I wouldn'ts be hurtings you if you stops moving!"

"Godsdammit, Toki. I hates you. You knows dat?"

"Just—don'ts move!"

Toki dug his fingers into Skwisgaar's long, golden-blonde hair, which was currently matted together with a large, pink wad of bubblegum. He hadn't really meant to spit his gum at the lead guitarist—it had just sort of happened after Skwisgaar had called him a dildo-licking schoolgirl and turned his back to him, providing a perfect target for Toki to unleash his revenge.

But the gum-wad had missed its mark (he'd been aiming for Skwisgaar's lower back) and had ended up in the Swede's hair, and it had all gone downhill from there. Now Skwisgaar was straddling Toki's desk chair and squirming impatiently as Toki tried to comb out the bubblegum with his fingers, but every time he moved the wad become more firmly embedded.

"Does you haves to pull it likes dat?!" Skwisgaar huffed, jerking away from Toki's hands and turning to face him, blue eyes flashing. "I's shoulds be de one to do's dis. You's just goingks to mess it up likes you do's everytingks else!"

Toki, who was genuinely sorry about having gotten gum in Skwisgaar's hair but becoming more than a little frustrated with the Swede's insults and complaints, planted his hands on the sides of the guitarist's head and turned his face forward.

"Just gives me a minutes! You's expectings me to fix dis while you's jumpings all around and yellings at me?" he asked heatedly.

"Ja! And you's better do it soons! I's better tings to do's dan sits here all day," Skwisgaar grumbled, folding his arms defiantly across his chest.

"Okays, okays—just lets me tries again!" Toki picked at the bubblegum with his nails and came up with only a few small, stringy bits of pink goo that clung to his fingers and made his hands sticky. But he diligently dived back in, parting the hair every which way and trying to decide how best to free Skwisgaar's thick mane from the gummy, spreading mess.

The more he poked and prodded, however, the more apparent it became that the pink stuff wasn't coming out—not unless Nathan could conjure up a genie that could make gum magically disappear. It wasn't likely, but stranger things (like the summoning of a Finnish lake troll) had happened.

There was only one solution. Skwisgaar would just have to understand.

As the Swede sat and sulked, Toki quietly whisked the pair of blue-handled scissors off his desk that he used for cutting construction paper. Gathering a chunk of hopelessly-tangled, bubblegum-matted hair into his hands, he snipped it off near the root in one quick, fluid motion.

Skwisgaar froze at the sound. "You's dids not just do's what I tinks you's dids."

Toki dangled the fistful of hair in front of Skwisgaar's face. "I's got de real bad parts out. Dere's still some gums left, but it probably washes out in de shower," he said brightly.

Skwisgaar reached behind him and tentatively touched a hand to the back of his head.

"You's just... cuts… my hairs," he said in a choked voice, as though he couldn't quite believe the bright blonde lock hanging before his eyes.

"Ja, but don'ts worry. Hairs grows back—just like teeths!" Toki replied, glad that the struggle was finally over.

Skwisgaar stood up from the chair slowly, one hand still covering the freshly-shorn portion of his head. His other hand curled into a fist as he turned to face Toki.

The Norwegian felt his heart jump a little as he saw how flushed Skwisgaar's face had become and the fierce, angry light shining in his bright blue eyes. Toki's smile faltered, and he began to back away slowly as Skwisgaar staggered toward him.

"You—"

"I has tape!" Toki cried flimsily, in a last-ditch effort to appease the Swede, but Skwisgaar's expression only grew darker, and his eyes narrowed to small slits.

"I's goingks to count to five, and if you's still in Mordhaus when I's done, I wills finds you and I wills kills you."

"Waits!" Toki pleaded. He couldn't fathom why Skwisgaar was so angry (hair did grow back, after all), but there had to be a way he could fix this.

"Ones."

"Skwisgaar—just listens to me—"

"Twos."

"Please don'ts be mad! It's was de only ways!"

"Threes."

"Waits! I gots lots of hats! From Norway! Snow caps! You's can haves dem all—wear dem while your hairs is growings back!"

"Fours." The Swede smiled—but it wasn't the haughty, I'm-better-than-you smile he usually had on his face when he was around Toki; this was a grin of pure evil that curled across his lips like a snake.

Toki whimpered. He was out of ways to persuade Skwisgaar not to kill him, and it was too late to run away. "Shits!" he squeaked as a lump rose in his throat.

"Fives." The last syllable dropped from Skwisgaar's lips like the whoosh of an axe-blade.

Toki gulped. "Can I has five more counts? Please?"

Skwisgaar's smile deepened dangerously as he took a step toward him. "No, little Toki. But I hopes you likes Vikingks funerals."

Broken, 3/3 [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:36:25 GMT

Title: Broken, 3/3
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Summary: Skwisgaar realizes he's made a terrible mistake, and Dethklok prepares to wrap up the tour.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Part 1

Part 2

"Malfunction eats through these dreams, shapes me into three. Memories beat my head.
Yeah, the race and the lies, the ruined life; destruction unfold of different shapes that explode the night. I push it further in the light; pulls me to the edge of where I lie."

–Velvet Acid Christ

The next morning, Skwisgaar left the studio before Natalia woke up, taking care not to disturb her sleeping form as he slid out from under her arm. He dressed quickly and grabbed his guitar, made his way out to the street, and flagged down a cab to take him back to the Dethcopter.

Skwisgaar rested his head against the cool glass of the cab window and stared at the foggy Paris streets whizzing by in a kaleidoscope of color. The champagne had given him a slight headache, and there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was fairly sure had nothing to do with the alcohol or the leftovers he'd eaten for dinner.

The sex had been satisfying—memorable, even—but the fact that it had not been with Toki sent unfamiliar waves of guilt through his body until he felt so nauseous he wished he could just throw up and be done with it. He didn't like this strange, new sense of shame, of having done something wrong; it was both unexpected and intensely unsettling. Ja, well you wouldn'ts be feelingks dis way if yous keeps your dick in your pants, an unfriendly voice inside his head scolded, and Skwisgaar realized with growing unease that he'd have to tell Toki. He pressed his palms to his forehead, trying to push the thought away. He couldn't deal with this right now. He needed time to think. Hopefully the rest of the band would be asleep—or still out partying—when he got back.

He was out of luck, however, as a very drunk Pickles and Cilice were lounging on the floor of the Dethcopter's rec room, passing a joint back and forth and attempting to sing all fifteen verses of Nick Cave's "Stagger Lee" while Nathan and Murderface wolfed down a heaping plate of banana pancakes at the breakfast table.

"Wouldja lookit theat! The prahdigal son returns!" Pickles exclaimed as Skwisgaar walked into the room.

"Hey Skwisgaar," Nathan growled through a mouthful of food.

"Hi," Skwisgaar answered blankly, rubbing his eyes. Fuck he was tired.

Murderface, eyes shining with mischief, stabbed his fork into a layer of pancake and asked, "Scho, where were you lascht night?"

"Uhh… outs," he answered, pulling his guitar strap over his head and setting his Explorer down on the couch near the table. He sniffed, detecting the faint scent of alcohol.

"Dat is vodka on dose pancakes?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Only way to eat 'em," Nathan answered, taking another giant bite.

"Drensched in boozsche," Murderface added, then cocked his head and grinned. "Scho, did ya sleep witsch 'er?"

Before Skwisgaar could answer, Pickles—waving the joint in one hand and his whiskey bottle in the other—called out, "Dood, of course he did! Look at 'is face! That's the look of a guy who jeest got laid, if I ever saw one."

Skwisgaar glared at the red-haired drummer. "Shut de fuck up."

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" Nathan growled, only it came out sounding more like Wufuffongifoo? since his mouth was full of liquor-soaked pancake.

"Aw, he's prabably jeest got PMS," Pickles giggled, passing the joint to Cilice.

"Seriouskly," Skwisgaar said angrily, but before Pickles could get another word in edgewise, Skwisgaar's Dethphone—which he'd hooked on the back of his pants before leaving the previous evening—rang shrilly. Glad for the distraction, he unhooked the phone from his belt and pushed talk before looking at the caller ID.

"Skwisgaar? Hey!" Toki said brightly, and Skwisgaar's stomach gave a lurch.

Shit.

"H—hi," he said, his mind racing. Whats should I's say? Should I's tells him? Maybe he's can already tells. Fuck.

"Guess whats? I finish dat songs I's writings! You wants hears it?"

"Who's that?" Pickles asked, coughing as the marijuana smoke exited his lungs. "Yer new FBL?"

Cilice snorted. "Hey man, pass it here," he slurred, reaching for the joint, which Pickles handed back to him.

"Fuck off," Skwisgaar hissed, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. But Pickles had reached the point of drunkenness where courtesy and civility no longer mattered, and anything that could be turned into amusement was fair game.

Craving the privacy of his bedroom, Skwisgaar turned to leave as Pickles stumbled to his feet, lurched across the floor, and grabbed the phone from Skwisgaar's hand.

"Yoo-hoo! Who's this?" Pickles yelled into the phone, and his red-rimmed eyes brightened as he realized it was Toki.

"Dood, Toki—how's it goin'?" Skwisgaar clawed at the phone, but Pickles swiped unsteadily at the Swede with his liquor bottle, forcing him a step back.

Pickles laughed at Toki's reply, then shouted, "Dood, you shoulda seen the photahgrapher chick Skwisgaar jeest banged! Bona-fide Italian sex goddess. Think Monica Belluci, but like fifteen years older and fiddy pounds featter. Fuckin' piece!"

"Gives me dat phone!" Skwisgaar thundered, taking a threatening step toward Pickles, but the drummer held out his arm, barring him from coming any closer.

"What?" Pickles squeaked into the mouthpiece. His forehead wrinkled as a confused look sprang into his eyes. "You wanna talk to Skwisgaar? Yeah, yeah, okay! Just a sec!"

Pickles held the phone out to Skwisgaar, eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Says he needs ta talk to ya. Right now."

Fuming and wanting nothing more than to smash the drummer's whiskey bottle into his face, Skwisgaar grabbed the phone from Pickles' hand and turned his back to the band.

"Toki? Yous dere?" he asked timidly.

There was a moment of silence. Then Toki said, "Pickle being funnies with me?"

Skwisgaar swallowed. "Uh… no." The confession sent a spike of pain to his chest, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the onslaught that was sure to follow.

Instead, Toki said calmly, "Please tells me yous was really, really drunks."

"Not too drunks, no," he answered honestly. He retreated into the hallway, away from the others, and slumped down against the wall. What difference did it make if he lied now?

"So yous was really fucking high, den."

"No."

A silence, sharp as the edge of a knife, seemed to sever the space between them, and in that moment Skwisgaar could feel every tender feeling he'd ever had for Toki rising up inside him, smothering him. He had betrayed his lover—no, the one he loved—and he could feel Toki slipping away just as surely as he could feel his stomach churning.

In a desperate attempt to say something, anything, to make Toki understand, Skwisgaar blurted out, "It's was—she's just some sluts! It didn'ts mean anytingks!"

"You just couldn'ts wait, coulds you?" Toki seethed. "You has to haves everytings you wants, whenevers you wants it!"

"I… didn'ts…" Skwisgaar said weakly, rubbing his temple with his free hand.

"Dont's calls me anymore," Toki said, his voice wavering, and the silence that followed after he hung up reverberated with a finality that was louder and more crushing than any solo Skwisgaar had ever played.

-----

Several hours later, Skwisgaar sat alone on his bed as the Dethcopter was lifting off to take them to Berlin. He picked aimlessly at his guitar, not really in the mood to play but having nothing else to distract him from thinking about Toki. Everything was ruined, and it was all his fault. They would go back to bickering and hating one another—or perhaps they wouldn't talk at all—and it would be as if the last six months had never happened.

There was a knock at the door, and Cilice peeked his head into the room. "Hey man—wanna get high?" he asked, holding up a tightly-rolled spliff.

Skwisgaar's first inclination was to say no—he'd gotten into enough trouble with Italians lately—but smoking always relaxed him and he needed something to take his mind off Toki.

"Ja," he answered, gesturing for Cilice to come in.

Grinning, Cilice shut the door behind him and pulled the white, retro-style leather chair from the desk over to the side of the bed, and plunked down. Skwisgaar noticed a healthy growth of stubble on the guitarist's face, and his hair looked as though it hadn't been combed.

"Late night, ja?" Skwisgaar said casually as Cilice placed the spliff between his lips, snapped open his skull-and-crossbones Zippo, and lit it.

"Yeah," the Italian replied after a few seconds, exhaling a pungent cloud of smoke and passing the joint to Skwisgaar. "We met up with the guys from one of the bands I used to play in—hung out at a club that just opened up on Rue du Pont-Neuf. You should've come, man. It was a good time."

Skwisgaar sucked the pot smoke deep into his lungs and held it, then exhaled slowly. He took another hit immediately afterwards, and felt a quiet buzz begin to creep over his consciousness. Good shit. He hadn't been getting high very often since he and Toki had been together—the sex was so good, it was almost like a drug—and his tolerance level had clearly dissipated. Well, he supposed he could rule out ever having sex with Toki again. Good-bye lover, hello marijuana.

"Sounds likes a real parties," Skwisgaar mumbled, passing the joint to Cilice.

But instead of smoking it, the Italian held the spliff between his fingers and eyed Skwisgaar with concern. "You okay, man? You look kinda… upset."

Skwisgaar looked down at his hands. Hands that could play the guitar faster than anyone else's, hands that had caressed the plump tits and asses of thousands upon thousands of women, hands that had been on and inside every inch of Toki's smooth-skinned, rock-hard body—hands that knew that body even better than his own.

"Ja," Skwisgaar admitted, no longer caring about the invisible barrier separating himself and the other guitarist for whom he'd developed a bizarre disdain. "I's fucks somethinkgs up with somebodies. Big times."

Cilice exhaled and held the joint between his thumb and forefinger. He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Can you fix it?"

"I don'ts know."

Cilice handed the joint back to Skwisgaar. "Can't you just explain things? You know, like, in person? That usually helps."

Skwisgaar shook his head. "Won'ts talks to me. Besides, Tok—I means, dat person isn't heres."

Skwisgaar sucked greedily on the half-smoked spliff, wanting nothing more than to get high as fuck and then fall asleep. He didn't notice the surprised expression that flitted across Cilice's face, or the sympathetic look of understanding that settled there afterwards.

"Does this have to do with what Pickles said about that girl?" the Italian asked tentatively, taking the offered joint from Skwisgaar's hand.

"Dats would be it," Skwisgaar said, nodding. What did he give a fuck if Cilice knew he'd screwed someone over by sleeping with Natalia? After all, it wasn't as if anyone knew he and Toki were together.

"Maybe you could try talking to the rest of the band about it?" Cilice urged carefully.

Skwisgaar smirked. "I don'ts tinks so. Dey wouldn'ts understand."

Cilice shrugged. "You never know, man. You'd be surprised at how understanding friends can be sometimes. I've gone through some pretty fucked-up shit in my day, but the guys in my band were always there for me. They never let me down."

"Ja, wells… dis not somethingks easy to explains. Dey wouldn'ts like it."

Cilice did not respond, and Skwisgaar did not pursue the subject. They passed the remainder of the joint between them, the Italian seemingly deep in thought and the Swede growing more stoned by the minute, until the spliff had burnt down to a smoldering stub.

"Tanks for dat," Skwisgaar said as Cilice pinched out the roach and tucked it away in the plastic bag of weed he produced from his back pocket.

"Hey, no problem, man. Nice to talk to you, for a change." Cilice flashed a lopsided smile. "I've been a huge fan for years—seen all the Advanced Fast Hand Finger Wizard Master Classes on TV."

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. "Ja?"

"Man, Dethklok was the reason I wanted to play in a metal band. You guys inspired me."

Skwisgaar smiled. The kid might be kind of a goofy dick, but at least he knew his music.

The Italian stood up and pushed the chair back in its place at the desk. "Well, I'm gonna get some sleep before the show. Let me know if you want any more of that weed, okay?"

Skwisgaar nodded. "Ja, I's do dat."

Before Cilice opened the door, he turned and eyed Skwisgaar knowingly. "Sometimes people forgive, too. You won't know until you ask."

Skwisgaar picked up his guitar and stroked his fingers down its long, smooth neck. He felt a sudden urge to play. "I's keeps dat in mind," he replied, meeting Cilice's gaze and giving a short nod.

"See you tonight, man."

"Laters."

-----

The last week of shows crawled by at a turtle's pace. After his conversation with Cilice, Skwisgaar found that he wasn't as bothered by the guitarist's onstage antics or the crowd's enthusiastic reaction to him; he was young—he should get to have a little fun during his once-in-a-lifetime stint with the biggest band in the world. However, when no one was looking, Skwisgaar made a point of tuning down the Italian's Firebird before they played, which made the rhythm guitar sound muddy and allowed him to keep his promise to Toki, however belatedly.

But while Cilice and the rest of the band kept up their all-night partying, Skwisgaar continued to spend most nights alone, writing music or watching TV. He didn't have the energy to go out and pretend like he was having a good time, when the absence of Toki's voice and the lost promise of a happy homecoming to Mordhaus were silently tearing him up inside.

He didn't dare try to call Toki—he couldn't face the thought of another hang-up or the tongue-lashing he knew he deserved—but Skwisgaar was able to persuade Nathan and Pickles to call and check in on him. Both times, when he asked how Toki was doing, the answer was, "Drunk."

Skwisgaar thought about telling Charles that Toki was drinking on heavy pain meds, but he held his tongue. Toki was a big boy and could make his own decisions, and Charles wasn't his father. Besides, Skwisgaar didn't want to clue anyone in to what was going on—if this was, indeed, the end of them, it would be better if the band never knew about it in the first place. That way there were no awkward questions, no uncomfortable looks—everything would go back to the way it was before.

Except that Skwisgaar knew he would never be able to look at Toki again without feeling guilty; without being hit by a frustrating sense of longing for something that was no longer his. This pissed him off almost as much as it saddened him, because he didn't like the strange new sense of responsibility he'd acquired since sleeping with Natalia behind Toki's back. He'd grown so used to playing the part of the egotistical, dick-swinging metal god that when he'd had to choose between being selfish and being loyal, he'd chosen what he wanted instead of what was right. He could see that now, and the stupidity of his choice frightened him. Was he really that much of an asshole? Skwisgaar had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to find out when he got back to Mordhaus.

-----

As soon as the Dethcopter touched down on its landing pad at Mordhaus, Skwisgaar felt a familiar clenching in his stomach. He'd have to face Toki now—there was no escaping behind the music, the tour, the silence of his Dethphone. And he was, for the first time in his life, nervous to see the little rhythm guitarist. If the circumstances hadn't been so depressing, it might almost be funny.

Skwisgaar and the rest of the band had said good-bye to Cilice in Milan, where the guitarist had decided to catch up with some old friends, although Nathan and Pickles and Murderface were reluctant to let him go. The replacement guitarist had become almost like a member of the Dethklok family during the tour, and Skwisgaar knew that he—and his friends' wild parties—would not soon be forgotten.

Skwisgaar clutched a copy of the October edition of Playgirl, which had been delivered to the Dethcopter the night before, fresh off the presses. His photo spread was the last thing on his mind, however, as he followed Nathan and Pickles across the rooftop toward the helipad entrance to Mordhaus, peering through the growing darkness for any sign of Toki. Of course he's nots up heres, you dildos, a voice inside his head chided. Why woulds he be waitingks for you?

Skwisgaar forced his legs to carry him all the way downstairs to the band's cluster of bedrooms, and prayed that Toki would be there—awake, and preferably sober.

He hesitated outside Toki's door. He'd grown used to barging in; they'd stopped knocking after they'd started sharing a bed. But, under the circumstances, it didn't seem right to just walk in unannounced. Skwisgaar rolled up the Playgirl copy and shoved it in his back pocket, combed his hands through his hair, and knocked.

Silence.

He knocked again, harder this time.

"Who's dere?"

"Uh… it's me."

"Fuck d'you wants."

Skwisgaar pushed the door open an inch and peeped inside. Toki was lying on the bed against a small mountain of pillows, wearing only a pair of black cotton boxers and attempting to play a video game one-handed, judging by the cartoonish shooting noises that were coming from the TV. An open bottle of Captain Morgan sat on the table in back of his head, and empty chip bags and candy wrappers were strewn across the floor.

The scar along Toki's collarbone had healed considerably and the stitches had been removed, although his eyes were dark underneath and it looked like he hadn't shaved in days. Skwisgaar winced. Not only could he not stand a mess of any kind, but it looked as though Toki hadn't been taking care of himself again. The thought that he might be the reason sent a fresh, sickening wave of guilt through Skwisgaar's body.

"Cans I talks to you?" Skwisgaar asked levelly.

Toki sighed, keeping his eyes glued on the TV. "Talks about whats."

Skwisgaar took the reply as an invitation to come in, and picked his away across the wrappers and dirty clothes that littered the floor until he reached the bed, where he made space by shoving a pile of crumpled-up papers and beer bottles onto the floor. Fuck, it smelled bad in here, too. This was worse than he'd anticipated.

After a moment, Skwisgaar said gently, "Toki, you knows you can'ts drink on dose medicines."

"Since whens do you cares?"

"I always cares abouts you!"

Toki turned to glare at him, and his eyes were dark and hurt and angry. "Is dat why you sleeps with goils on tour? 'Cause you cares abouts me?"

The words hit Skwisgaar like a slap in the face, even though he knew they were coming and that he deserved them.

"Listens to me. I knows I's fucks up. It was stupids of me. I… I know I's can be assholes sometimes—"

"It's too lates," Toki interrupted.

Skwisgaar shut his mouth abruptly. His face felt suddenly hot. "Please don'ts say dat," he said, desperately trying to catch Toki's gaze, but the Norwegian refused to look at him.

"Ya. Wells. I just dids. Deals with it."

"Toki, tells me what I's gots to do. Anythingks. You names it. I don'ts wants to lose you."

"Hmpf." Toki paused his video game and set aside the controller. "Ya? And why is dat?" he asked defiantly.

"'Cause I—" Skwisgaar took a deep breath and swallowed. "I tink—I mean, I do. Loves you. I loves you."

Toki's eyes brightened suddenly, and the briefest of smiles flickered across his face. But his expression quickly turned stormy again, his eyebrows furrowed.

"You has funny ways of showings it."

Skwisgaar panicked, twisting his hands together as a lump rose in his throat. He'd thought saying the actual words would change everything.

"But—"

"Dat's still nots goods enough."

"Whats is goods enough?" Skwisgaar asked, his voice cracking. His frayed nerves felt like they were about to explode. It was no wonder so many people avoided monogamy like the plague—conversations like this could shorten a lifespan.

Seeing Skwisgaar's obvious discomfort, Toki's face softened slightly. "Yous tink of something," he said dismissively, and turned back to the TV. "Now leaves me alones. I wants play dis game."

Without a word—for he was afraid he'd start crying if he said anything else, and that couldn't happen; Skwisgaar Swigelf did not cry in front of people—the Swede left Toki's room, nearly tripping on a pair of jeans on the way out, and headed toward his own bedroom. Before he opened his door, he wondered absent-mindedly if Toki had been using his bed as a personal trashcan as well, but he walked inside to find the room exactly as he'd left it. The bed, which he knew Toki had slept in while he was away, had even been made.

Tossing the Playgirl in the corner (he didn't even feel like looking at it now), Skwisgaar sank down onto his white fur blanket and rested his forehead in his hands. What could he possibly do to prove to Toki that he was serious? That he was sorry for having slept with Natalia, and that he would never—no matter how alluring the woman—do it again? He'd apologized; he'd admitted his faults; he'd even told Toki the thing he'd struggled for weeks to say and never had the guts. And yet there had to be something else, or there would be no more Toki.

And then suddenly he knew. It had been staring him in the face all along. Toki had suggested it before he'd left; even Cilice had mentioned it—unknowingly, of course. He had to tell the rest of the band about him and Toki. If he wanted this thing between them to be real, he had to stop pretending like it wasn't and be honest with the people who deserved to know. After all, he and Toki slept (well, used to sleep) together every night; how the other band members had failed to notice that one of them was always missing from his room in the morning was a mystery.

Skwisgaar sprang up from the bed, intent on finding Nathan and Pickles and Murderface and telling them right away. Deys mights not likes it, Skwisgaar thought as he strode out of his bedroom and down the hall in the direction of the first-floor rec room, but deys gots to deals with it.

Skwisgaar almost felt like he was back in the Dethcopter when he walked into the rec room. Pickles was on the internet on an endless quest for porn (the kinkier the better), Nathan was playing with his tape recorder, and Murderface was sprawled out on the couch in front of the TV, bass slung over his shoulder.

Skwisgaar drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat. "I wants to talks to you. Alls of you," he said. His palms were sweaty and his stomach felt like it was still lost at sea, but he didn't care—it was now or never.

"Dood, what's up?" Pickles asked, eyeing him over his shoulder. Nathan snapped his head up, face frozen in its trademark scowl, and Murderface, who'd been nodding off, wiped a string of drool off his chin and looked over at Skwisgaar, head bobbing drowsily.

"I's gots to tells you somethingks dat… wells, it's times you knows it."

"Yeah?" said Nathan gruffly.

"Spit it out, dood."

"Yeah, schpit it out!"

"Toki and I's—we's, uh, been togethers for awhiles. We's uh… keeps it secrets 'cause, you knows, we don'ts knows how you feels about it."

"Dood, we already know that."

"Whats?!" Skwisgaar felt the tension drain out of his body in one large whoosh, and in its place arose a discomfiting sense of confusion.

"Yeah, we know. It's kinda weird, don't get me wrong—but don't worry, we're cool with it, man," Nathan growled. The use of Cilice's favorite word was not lost on Skwisgaar.

"How's you knows dat? And why's you tells Toki about dat girl if you knows it?!" Skwisgaar shouted, glaring at Pickles.

The drummer threw up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Whoa, dood, dood—Cilice told us what was goin' on. We didn't know 'til a few days ago. Trust me, I felt like a total fuckhead after I found out you and Toki was fightin'."

Skwisgaar folded his arms across his chest. Cilice had told them? But how did he know? Skwisgaar's memory zoomed back to the conversation they'd shared over the spliff, and he suddenly realized that the Italian must have put two and two together when he'd slipped up and almost said Toki's name. Either that, or he was one damn good guesser.

Jävlar, satan, och helvete, that pissed him off. It wasn't Cilice's place to tell anyone anything about Skwisgaar's personal life—especially when it was only speculation. On the other hand, he supposed hearing about it from a slick young kid they'd grown to respect and admire had made it easier for the band to accept. Jävla idiot. Not that it mattered now.

"Wells den. I's guess dat's all I's needs to say."

"Scho, are you guysch like, still togetcher? After… y'know." Although Murderface rarely passed up an opportunity to be facetious, Skwisgaar could see that his concern was genuine.

"I don'ts know. Is up to Toki," Skwisgaar replied, looking away. It felt good to know that his band mates accepted the fact that he and Toki had been fucking—however strange they might think that was—but having three pairs of eyes boring holes into his skull was becoming slightly uncomfortable.

"Well, good luck, dood," Pickles said, turning back to the computer. "I promise you can kick my eass if it don't work out."

I's mights takes you up on dat, Skwisgaar thought crossly as he turned and headed back to his bedroom. All the nervous anticipation and guilt of the last week had left him exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to dive underneath his fur blanket and sleep. Besides, he doubted Toki would want to see or talk to him anytime in the next week, much less a second time tonight.

Skwisgaar kicked off his boots and shed his clothes, dropping them onto the floor as Toki would've done, and slid under his furry comforter with a tired sigh. The sheets were crisp and cool, but the pillows still smelled like Toki. He pushed them to the corner of the bed, as far away from himself as possible. He didn't usually sleep with them anyway (he only kept them for Toki, who absolutely refused to go to sleep unless he had at least two tucked under his head), and the olfactory reminder of Toki's presence in his bed—a thing of the past?—was too much to bear.

Skwisgaar closed his eyes and shivered. His body ached, and his nerves were shot. The last time he'd felt like this was when he was coming down from a bad acid trip. But this was no hallucinogenic overload—this was real life. Fragility magnified by the sweetest and bitterest of tastes: love and loss. Would there ever be an end to this terrible uncertainty? He prayed to Odin there would be; he wasn't sure he could take much more.

As he lay there, alone and chilly for the lack of a warm body beside his, a wave of grief washed over him, and for the first time since he was a little boy, Skwisgaar Swigelf curled up into a ball and silently cried himself to sleep.

-----

Early the next morning, Skwisgaar was awakened by a tug on his blanket. He groaned and rolled over, not wanting to open his eyes. The shadows of bad dreams clouded his mind like a cold, black fog, and his back was killing him. Thank Odin he didn't need to get up for another sound check.

Then he froze as the mattress dipped and a body—warm and naked—slipped in next to his.

"Toki?" he asked, holding his breath.

"Shhh," Toki hushed. "Dont's wants to wake dems up."

Skwisgaar rolled over to face the little Norwegian, who still looked tired and smelled vaguely of rum, but whose pale blue eyes were soft and alert.

Toki studied Skwisgaar's face for a quiet minute, and then declared, "You looks like shit."

A flood of relief washed over Skwisgaar as he reached out and ran a finger down the side of Toki's face, smoothing his long chestnut hair. "Yous do too. Still."

Then he paused, remembering—with a sharp, sudden ache—their conversation from the day before, and drew back his hand. "But I's thought… you didnt's wants to sees me."

Toki licked his lips. "I changes my minds. Anyways, I's colds."

Skwisgaar fell silent a moment, allowing himself to drink in the sight of his lover's face in the half-light of dawn—the high Scandinavian cheekbones that mirrored his own; the delicately arched eyebrows that turned into upside-down U's when he laughed; the perpetually-lopsided smile and finely-curved lips that always tasted faintly of candy. He tentatively rested a hand on Toki's good shoulder, savoring the goose bumps that arose on Toki's flesh at his touch.

"I dids somethingks for us—for you. Somethinkgs you wants for a long time. I told de guys abouts us."

Toki's eyes grew wide. "Whats dey say?"

Skwisgaar smiled sheepishly. "Dey's fines with it. Nobody tinks it's bads. Weird, maybe, but not bads."

The Norwegian glanced across the room, and his forehead creased as a small frown appeared on his face.

"—If you still wants to be, you knows, togethers," Skwisgaar added quickly, hoping against hope that he wouldn't say no.

Toki looked back into Skwisgaar's eyes, and as blue met blue, Skwisgaar could see in those bright orbs the pain he'd caused; it was as fragile and fresh as sunlight on new fallen snow.

"I's afraid dis happens, you knows."

Skwisgaar shot him a questioning look. "Whats?"

"I didnt's wants you to leave, 'cause I tinks—I tinks maybe you sleeps with somebody. But den I's so happy 'cause you calls me every day, I tinks you keep tinking of just me, and dat you waits. But you didn'ts." His voice cracked on the last word, and Skwisgaar's insides curled into a tight, painful little ball that threatened to work its way up into his throat. This was worse than the vague, discomforting pangs of guilt he'd been experiencing over the past week. Hearing it straight from Toki's mouth was absolutely nauseating.

But Toki continued, his voice growing stronger as Skwisgaar's guts continued to squirm. "I dont's tink I's forgives you—not yet. Maybe somedays. But I's still rather hates you for a little whiles and haves you, dan hates you and not haves you."

Skwisgaar gazed into the Norwegian's face, and it felt as if everything inside him crumbled at the same moment. Toki looked even more broken than he felt. His heart throbbed weakly inside his chest, and he half-wished that it would just fold up and quit. Even dying would be better than having to face this pain, this complete and utter disappointment.

"Besides, I still has to lives with you, right?" Toki finished, smiling weakly despite the half-hidden hurt in his colorless eyes. He captured Skwisgaar's gaze and held it, and in that moment Skwisgaar knew that this was his last chance. And yous betters not fucks dis one up.

"I's…" Skwisgaar hardly knew what to say. What could he say? There was no magic word to make this all better; nothing he could say to undo what he'd done. But he could still try to be sincere.

"I's don'ts fuck up like dat agains. If yous still be with me, I promise you dat." His promises weren't worth much these days, he knew; but that wouldn't prevent him from trying to keep them.

"I tinks about its. But if we's do, I has conditions," Toki said matter-of-factly.

"Ja?"

"Firsts, you has to promise dats yous never, ever sleeps with anyones agains. I knows how you gets around goils, but you can'ts be like dat anymore."

"Whats about you? Does I gets to sleeps with you?" Skwisgaar teased, anxious to break the oppressive band of hurt and sorrow encircling them.

"Shuts up."

"Okay, okay. I's only be with you. Promise."

"Seconds, you has to gives me some solos."

"Fines. But yous better plays dem right."

"I always plays dem right!"

"Pffft. Whatevers."

Undaunted by Skwisgaar's addendum, Toki continued. "Thirds, you lets me fucks you more." He blushed, slightly embarrassed at the bold request.

But Skwisgaar just grinned. "I's wish you woulds."

"And also, I gets to see your pictures."

Skwisgaar grimaced. Thinking about the Playgirl shoot only made him feel guilty again.

"Nots… nots yets. Buts somedays," Toki added softly, nodding to himself.

"Whatevers you wants," Skwisgaar answered, trailing his hand under the blanket and down Toki's thigh. "But I's has conditions, too."

Surprised, Toki raised an eyebrow. "What's dat?"

"Forst, I wants you to stays here de rest of de mornings. Seconds, you lets me cleans you up and fix your rooms. Thirds, you plays your song for me. And fourths, I gives you de best blow job yous ever had in your lifes." He might not be able to fix things overnight, but it was a start.

Toki's catfish grin spread across his face like a rainbow. "Deals," he agreed.

Skwisgaar moved closer, and his body felt comfortably warm and loose as his limbs pressed against Toki's. He cupped his lover's stubble-grazed chin in his hand and whispered in a low voice, "And you gots to lets me kiss you. Rights now."

Toki pulled Skwisgaar to his mouth in a silent yes; and as the Swede pressed his lips against the Norwegian's, he felt a hot, longing ache rise into his loins and slowly spread throughout his entire body. Toki snaked a hand around his back, pressing him closer as Skwisgaar cupped Toki's ass with one hand. Jävlar, how he'd missed that.

Toki let out a small moan as Skwisgaar covered his neck in kisses—the soft, feathery kind that made him squirm with pleasure. And as he moved further down—past the downy hair on his lover's chest and the perfect six-pack, to where Toki's stiffening erection was begging for attention (so, who cared if they were doing things out of order?)—he knew that this was real. This was perfect. And yes—this was worth waiting for.

Broken, 2/3 [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:33:51 GMT

Title: Broken, 2/3
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex (including het) and language
Summary: The band discovers some surprises on tour, and Skwisgaar receives an interesting business proposal.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Part 1

"I don't exist when you don't see me. I don't exist when you're not here.
What the eye don't see won't break the heart; you can make believe when we're apart.
But when you leave, I disappear… when you don't see me."

–Sisters of Mercy

The next morning, Pickles cornered Skwisgaar before they boarded the Dethcopter for Portugal.

"Dood, where were you leeast night?" he asked, his eyes dewy with liquor. "You missed out on one seeriously fucked-up party!"

"I's hangingks outs with Toki," Skwisgaar replied briskly. He hadn't slept well on Toki's cramped, uneven bed, and wasn't especially in the mood for conversation.

Pickles raised a pierced eyebrow. "Jeezus Skwisgaar, I thought you kinda—ya know—couldn't stand the guy."

Skwisgaar bristled. "Whens did I say dats?"

Pickles shrugged. "Dood, don't take it personal or nuttin'—just meakin' an observation."

Skwisgaar picked up his guitar case. "Anyways—Toki's is not doingks too goods. He's sicks from all de, uh, medicines. I's just beingks friendlies."

"Ah, whateaver. He'll be fine by the time we get beack," Pickles said, waving his hand as though to push Toki and his problems to the side. "He's just mopin' right now, that's all."

Skwisgaar folded his arms. "Maybe he's is upsets because he can'ts go on tours. Dids you ever tink of dats?"

Pickles scratched his head. "Eh. Dunno. Didn't really give it much thought, t'be honest. But he'll be fine, Skwisgaar. Besides, we all know just about aeenybody can play 'is parts." Pickles chuckled and bent down to grab the blue canvas bag that housed his folded-up stands and sticks, and Skwisgaar thought briefly about clocking him over the head with his guitar case. Reluctantly, he decided against it. It wouldn't be any help to Dethklok if both their rhythm guitarist and their drummer were incapacitated.

"Hey man!" An unfamiliar voice greeted Skwisgaar's ears as he followed Pickles into the Dethcopter, and he turned to see Cilice, guitar case in hand and duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hurrying up the ramp after him. Spiky tufts of black hair stuck out at odd angles on his head—a style Skwisgaar loathed—but he was coolly dressed in dark jeans, black Frye boots, a white undershirt, and several layers of jewelry that accented the silver piercings in his ears and nose.

The young guitarist smiled and held out a hand. "I'm Cilice. We didn't really get to meet at the audition." His speech had the rhythm of someone who'd lived most of his life in America, but the slightly-trilled L's gave him away as Italian-born.

Skwisgaar grudgingly shook the guitarist's hand, causing the many chain bracelets on his wrist to clank together. He wasn't normally a hand-shaker, but he didn't want to seem like an asshole. After all, it was probably the kid's biggest dream to play in Dethklok—what musician wouldn't sell his soul for a night onstage with the world's most brutal metal band?—and Skwisgaar couldn't fault him for that.

"Ja, hello." Skwisgaar didn't know what else to say. "So… yous ever beens in helicopters before?"

"Yeah, I took a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon once. Oh, and the Alpine glaciers. Man, that was a ride." Cilice chuckled as he set his duffel bag on one of the luggage racks inside the Dethcopter's main entrance.

"Ah."

"I traveled a lot after I quit school. Never regretted it. Spent two years backpacking all over the US, then Eastern Europe for a year. Let's see… got stuck in France and Germany for a few months after that, then made it through most of the Middle East. You ever been to the pyramids?"

Skwisgaar stared at the young musician. He didn't know people could talk this much this early in the morning. "Uhh… noes, but we's planningks a shows dere," he lied.

"On the Giza plateau? Shit, that would be amazing!"

"Ja," he answered, and took a seat with his guitar case on one of the several black leather couches lining the sides of the massive Dethcopter's front room, hoping the guitarist wouldn't follow. But Cilice plunked down on the couch next to him, obviously set on continuing their conversation.

"All clear for take-off!" The Klokateer pilot's voice crackled noisily out of the overhead speakers, and as the Dethcopter swung up into the sky, Skwisgaar used the opportunity to interrupt Cilice's rambling by leaning over to open his case and free his Explorer from the confines of its red velvet-lined bed.

"What type of pickups d'you have on that thing?" Cilice asked casually, leaning back against the couch and folding his arms in back of his head. Before Skwisgaar could answer, however, Charles appeared in front of them, wiping his glasses on the scrap of red silk he always carried in his pocket.

"Welcome to Dethklok, Cilice," Charles said, nodding at the reclined musician.

"Thanks, man—happy to be here."

Charles pushed his glasses back into place and turned to Skwisgaar. "You've, ah, received a business proposal."

"Oh ja?" Skwisgaar asked, sending his fingers flying down the neck of his guitar. "What kinds?"

"You've been… ah… well, it's—"

"Spits it outs!" Skwisgaar commanded, irritated at the CFO's unusually hesitant demeanor.

"Playgirl wants you for their October European feature. They want to do a photo spread."

"Hm." Skwisgaar turned the idea over in his head as his fingers whizzed along the strings. He'd been photographed nude before, but never for a magazine as widely-circulated as Playgirl.

"Dey wants just me? Nobodies else?"

"Apparently the magazine held a poll back in August asking readers which member of Dethklok they'd most like to see, ah, in the buff, and they chose you. Or so their photographer told me. If you want to do it, we'll fit it in between Paris and Berlin."

Skwisgaar smiled. He didn't need polls or photographers to tell him he looked good; the number of groupies that threw themselves at him nightly (despite his refusals) and the way Toki's eyes roamed over his body when he thought Skwisgaar wasn't looking was proof enough. Why not throw out a little treat for the ladies?

"Sets it up," he told Charles, and fished out a notepad from the bag he'd brought on board. The unexpected ego boost had made him feel like writing. Besides, if he looked like he was busy doing something for Dethklok, maybe Cilice would find someone else to bother.

He was wrong.

"Wanna trade some riffs? You know, just to make sure we sync onstage," Cilice said good-naturedly, producing his shiny black Firebird from its case.

"Ja. Sure," Skwisgaar replied, although he would've much preferred some time alone with his Explorer. He could already tell it was going to be a long flight.

-----

Red lights blinded Skwisgaar's eyes as the crowd roared, ripping at their clothes, calling for blood. Pickles threw a drumstick at them instead, which spurred a wrestling match between a teenage girl and a beefy security guard over who'd caught it first. Nathan slung a colorful string of insults at the fans as the lead and rhythm guitarists broke into the opening notes of "Thunderhorse," which was next on the set list.

Cilice had proved himself worthy at rehearsal earlier that day, but Skwisgaar found himself watching the Italian from the corner of his eye as he played to the crowd, grinding his pelvis into his guitar as though it were a woman. The kid played each note as though it might be his last, and it showed. Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he concentrated, summoning riff after unearthly riff from the strings of his Firebird, and the fans cheered for him as he dropped to his knees at the edge of the stage, legs spread wide apart, guitar rocking wildly against his crotch.

Skwisgaar felt a twinge of irritation at Cilice's bravado. Dethklok normally didn't cater to the crowd like this; the brainless masses were guaranteed to worship them no matter what they did, and it was so much easier to just ignore them. Besides, he was the lead guitarist—showy shredding was his specialty. Toki never tried to upstage him—not only because he couldn't, but also because he didn't have the nerve to parade around as though his guitar-playing was something out of the ordinary, because it wasn't. This Cilice, though—he had girls writhing in ecstasy on the ground before his guitar as though it—or he—was some kind of pagan idol.

Skwisgaar moved closer to the raging crowd as he sent his fingers flashing over the strings of his Explorer with dizzying speed, commanding a crescendo of sex-drenched, silver-sweet notes that ended in an extended, fiery scream. The Firebird grated underneath the melody as Skwisgaar thrashed his head in time to the beat, whipping his blonde mane to and fro, and launched into one of the song's more complex solos. This was a guitar battle he'd only ever performed with Toki, and it felt strange to play with such wild abandon next to a stranger. But Cilice kept right along with Skwisgaar's lead, never wavering or missing a note.

As the song ended with a shriek of fury from Skwisgaar's Explorer and a final, snaking riff from the rhythm guitar, the crowd exploded in a frenzy of cheers and screams, and a small flood of panties and bras began raining onto the stage from the throng of women in front of Cilice. Skwisgaar watched in annoyance as the dark-haired guitarist waved and blew a kiss at the girls, then picked up a lacey G-string at his booted feet and slid it over his head so that it hung down like some absurd necklace over the smooth expanse of chest that peeked out from the top of his sweat-soaked undershirt.

This action elicited a second barrage of cheers from the females in the audience and hearty laughter from the rest of the band. Skwisgaar, however, didn't find it particularly amusing. Who did this guy think he was? Fucking Hendrix? Him? He half-expected to see Cilice set his guitar on fire right then and there, but instead Nathan gave the nod to start the next song.

Cilice launched into the heavy, hammering intro to "Castratikron" as Skwisgaar concentrated on wrangling the most brutal, unholy sound from his guitar as physically possible. He was going to have panties around his neck by the end of the night too, by Odin, or his name wasn't Skwisgaar Skwigelf.

-----

Not only had Cilice upstaged Skwisgaar during the show, but the rest of the band couldn't stop talking about the young guitarist the next day. The members of Dethklok—minus their replacement rhythm guitarist, who'd gone out to party after the concert with some friends who lived in the area and hadn't yet returned—were lounging in the docked Dethcopter, which served as second home to the band while they were on tour. The 'copter had bedrooms for each of them, a kitchen, and a rec room that was a smaller version of the one in Mordhaus.

"Do you guysch know what a cilische is?" Murderface asked airily as he thumbed through a picture book of medieval torture devices.

"Isn't it, like, another werd for suitcase?" said Pickles, who was porn-surfing on the computer.

Nathan looked up from his notebook, where he'd been transcribing lyrics from his tape recorder. "I thought it was, uh, that stuff they make blankets out of."

Skwisgaar skittered his fingers across his guitar strings. Who's cares, he thought to himself—although he was tempted to blurt out, Another names for dildos.

"Nope! You're both wrong. Saysch here a cilische is a schpiked metal belt or cshain worn around the lower back or upper thscigh as a form of corporal mortificaschion."

"What's cor—cor-po-ral mort—mortif—whatever?" Nathan fumbled.

"Dood, it's, like, seelf-punishment. Like that guy in the Da Vinci Code. Y'know—whippin' yerself fer God an' stuff," Pickles answered, not taking his eyes off the computer screen.

Skwisgaar scoffed. "Dat's stupids."

"No way—that's totally metal!" Nathan declared loudly. "I guess it's, like, his stage name or whatever. Fucking brutal."

"Why don'tsch we have cool schtage names?" Murderface asked, scowling, but there was a hint of awe in his voice.

"Hey Skwisgaar—what's the name of the chick who's gonna do yer photo thing?" Pickles interrupted.

Skwisgaar looked up from his guitar and shrugged. "How shoulds I's knows?"

Ignoring him, Pickles called across the room, "Hey Charles—what's the lady's name who's doin' the Playgirl shoot?"

Charles, who was tucked away at the breakfast table in the corner with a newspaper and a cup of coffee, answered promptly, "Natalia Hellini."

"Whys you wants to know?" Skwisgaar asked, frowning.

Pickles chuckled. "'Cause I wanna see the chick who's gonna be takin' pictures of yer dong, dood."

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "You wants ask her, I's sure she's take pictures of yours, too."

"Whoa!" Pickles exclaimed loudly, causing every head in the room (except Charles') to snap up in curiosity.

"Whats now?" Skwisgaar sighed.

"Dood, take a look at this chick! She's smokin'!"

"Found some more pyro porn, Pickles?" Nathan joked.

"No, ya douchebag," Pickles retorted. "The photographer lady! She's like, feamous or somethin'. Website says she werked for Rolling Stone, Spin, Magnum—and, like, a hunnert other magazines in the past tirty-five yeears."

"So? Whats that gots to do with anythingks?" Skwisgaar interjected.

Pickles turned and stared at Skwisgaar as Nathan and Murderface crowded around the computer.

"Because a hot, old chick's gonna be takin' pictures of you naked, dood. Do I hafta spell it out for ya?"

"Wow, schee is hot!" Murderface crowed.

His curiosity piqued, Skwisgaar put down his guitar and joined them at the computer. On the screen was a picture of a sensuously curvy, middle-aged woman with sculpted black hair, heavily-lidded eyes with a hint of crow's feet at the corners, and a golden Italian complexion that had not been ruined by her age. The sleek black dress revealed just enough cleavage to tease, but not to appear unprofessional.

She was striking, it was true; but Toki was waiting for him at home, and Skwisgaar didn't appreciate Pickles' insinuation that, just because he was a famous musician, he should sleep with every woman that came across his path. (Not that he'd ever turned down a girl before hooking up with Toki—especially not one as beautiful as this.)

"Ja, ja, okays—I gets it. Yous wants me fix you up on dates," Skwisgaar said, clapping Pickles on the shoulder. "I's sees what I's can do."

Skwisgaar retrieved his guitar from the couch and left the room before Pickles could respond, content to let them ogle at the photographer's picture. They didn't have anything to worry about—they had new groupies every night of the tour with which to amuse themselves. But thinking about Toki had reminded Skwisgaar that he needed to call and check in at Mordhaus.

Skwisgaar quickly made his way to his makeshift bedroom, which was decorated all in white, just like his room back home, and shut the door. He didn't want anyone listening in on this conversation. He pulled out his Dethphone from the drawer in the bedside table and speed-dialed Toki's number, crossing his fingers that he wouldn't be asleep.

The phone rang once, twice, a third time—and then the sound of Toki's groggy voice sloshed out of the mouthpiece.

"Hmmho… whoozhis?"

"It's me, you dumb dildos."

"Skwisgaar!" Toki exclaimed brightly.

"Did I's wakes you?"

"Noes… I's just dozings, watchings TV… in your beds."

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth twitched up in a half-smile. "Why's you in my beds?"

"Oh… you knows… 'cause I misses you."

Skwisgaar started to say, I misses you too, but he stopped himself just before the words spilled out.

"Yous silly," he admonished.

"I knows," Toki giggled.

"Hows you feelingks?"

Toki cleared his throat. "Tireds, you knows—from all dose medicines. And everytings still hurts. But I starts writings a song!"

Shocked, Skwisgaar blurted out, "Yous playingks guitars again, Toki?! Yous knows you can'ts do dat!"

"Noes, noes—I's just fooling arounds on da keysboard!" he chuckled. "Lefts hand only. I hads to play somethings—I gets too bored without yous guys."

"Oh. Well, whats you writingks songs for?" Skwisgaar asked, slightly amused. He sat back on the bed and kicked up his booted feet on the rolled-up comforter. The day Toki wrote a listenable metal song would be the day pigs flew and people stopped buying Dethklok albums.

"I can'ts tell you," he said in a tiny voice.

"Oh ja?" Skwisgaar teased. "Yous goingks to take over da songwritingks from now on, dens? Gives me vacations so I's don'ts needs to keep shittingks gold all days long?"

"Pffft."

"Pffft yourselfs."

"How's da show?" Toki asked, deliberately changing the subject. They both knew there was no use arguing with Skwisgaar where his songwriting skills were concerned.

"Oh, it's was… goods," Skwisgaar said hesitantly.

"Really goods?" Toki asked, his voice sounding small and forlorn.

"Goods enough."

"Did yous… yous know… fix de guitars?" he whispered.

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "No needs. He sounds like dildos anyways."

"Skwisgaar! Yous promise!"

"Wells, I's forgets."

"Hmpf."

Now it was Skwisgaar's turn to change the subject. "Guess whats? I's has a surprise."

"Whats surprise?"

"I's goingks to be in Playgirl."

"For reals?!"

"Ja, dey goingks to do de photos in Paris."

"Wowee! Dat's pretty cool, Skwisgaar," Toki said, sounding genuinely impressed. Then, with a hint of shyness, he asked, "Can I's see dems?"

"Only if yous promise nots to jerks offs at dems," Skwisgaar teased.

"Skwisgaar!"

The Swede laughed, imagining a bright pink blush creeping across Toki's cheeks.

"So, yous eatingks and sleepingks like I's tells you?" he asked, delighting in his influence over the little Norwegian. Keeping tabs on Toki was more fun than he'd expected.

"Lots of sleepings. Some eatings," Toki answered matter-of-factly.

"Dat's good, Toki. You has to eats and sleeps if yous wants to gets better."

"I knows," Toki sighed.

"Okay den." Skwisgaar paused, unsure of what else to say. "I guess… I goes backs and sits around now."

"Oh. Okay," Toki said. Was it Skwisgaar's imagination, or did he sound slightly disappointed?

"Feels better, Toki," Skwisgaar said and started to pull the phone away, but stopped as Toki's tinny voice called out of the receiver:

"Skwisgaar?"

"Ja?" the Swede asked, pushing the phone back against his ear.

"Comes back soons."

Skwisgaar's voice caught in his throat, and he had to swallow before he could answer.

"Go backs to sleeps, Toki. Hej då."

-----

As the tour stretched on, Cilice's influence over Dethklok grew more apparent. The skillful, charismatic musician seemed to have friends in every city they played, and upon hearing that Dethklok usually hung out in the Dethcopter after their shows (due mainly to Charles being concerned about their safety and having nowhere else to go), he began inviting the band to all-night parties where moderation, in any form, did not exist. The drinks flowed freely, the drugs were abundant, and every girl looked like a Playboy centerfold.

Although Skwisgaar—who usually elected to stay home, claiming fatigue or an upset stomach—and Charles weren't particularly pleased about the rest of the band's all-nighters, the guys were eating it up. They were so used to being holed up in the Dethcopter or the Dethtrain after shows—and Mordhaus the rest of the time—that the sudden opportunity to party with people besides themselves and groupies had sent them into overdrive.

Skwisgaar might've said something if Pickles' drumming and Murderface's playing hadn't actually improved on the copious quantities of speed they'd been consuming. But there was another reason, too—he was finding (to his chagrin) that he was actually the tiniest bit jealous of his band mates. If Cilice wasn't so irritatingly good onstage (and so pleasantly laid-back offstage), or if Skwisgaar's unspoken promise to Toki not to sleep with anyone wasn't keeping his dick firmly tucked away inside his pants, he probably would've been out every night, drinking and fucking and getting high with the rest of them. As it was, however, Skwisgaar more often than not found himself cradling his guitar and a bottle of red wine as he drifted off to sleep at night, rather than a juicy French or Spanish plus-sized model with big, bouncy tits and an ass to match.

He continued to make private, daily phone calls to Toki, reassuring him that, although the tour was going fine, it wasn't the same without him. This was only partly a lie. The band dynamic was certainly not what it was when Toki was around, but Dethklok's music had been taken to a new level by Cilice's precise, energetic performances.

Skwisgaar wouldn't have gone so far as to say that Cilice outplayed him, but his involvement of the audience and his seasoned displays of musical fervor had added a whole new dimension to the band's stage presence that Skwisgaar was finding difficult to top. And the worst part was that there was absolutely nothing he could say or do about it. If Cilice's presence made Dethklok's music more exciting, it was the rest of the band's fault for not being more dynamic in the first place.

Skwisgaar could only hope that Nathan's and Pickles' and Murderface's infatuation with Cilice would end when the tour was over. No one had yet mentioned permanently replacing Toki, but he could tell from the occasional hushed conversation between Nathan and Charles that the idea had been raised. All this Skwisgaar took great care to keep from Toki, for the injured rhythm guitarist was already in a fragile state and seldom took bad news well, even when he was feeling his best.

Another half-dozen shows and a matching number of physically-taxing parties took place before Paris—and Skwisgaar's Playgirl photo shoot—approached. The evening of the shoot (which everyone else had off), the lead guitarist found himself alone in the Dethcopter. Most of the Klokateers were out celebrating a rare day of freedom, Charles had gone off to the Champs de l'Eysee for coffee and shopping, and Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface were out with Cilice, exploring the city and probably getting trashed.

They'd all eaten at Altitude 95 in the Eiffel Tower the night before (Nathan and Murderface had declared the imposing steel interior of the restaurant "pretty brutal—for France"), and as there was no one around to cook for him, Skwisgaar wolfed down the rest of his leftover shark filet while flipping aimlessly through the TV channels. Nothing on but French soap operas. He could've done with a nice porn; it had been nearly three weeks since he'd gotten laid, and jerking off to nothing but his own thoughts had quickly grown boring.

After turning down most of Cilice's offers to party and spending too many nights with only his guitar for company, Skwisgaar had come to the frustrating conclusion that being alone—in bed or otherwise—really wasn't his cup of tea. He wondered if Toki had been this bored while they'd been on tour. Skwisgaar thought about calling him, but then realized that he'd probably be asleep anyway, as it was after midnight at Mordhaus and Toki had been going to bed early the past few weeks.

So he fiddled with his guitar until the limousine that was scheduled to take him to Natalia Hellini's studio arrived. On the way, he treated himself to the complimentary bottle of champagne Playgirl had provided. He might as well get buzzed, since he was about to strip in front of a beautiful, renowned photographer and a roomful of assistants and lighting techs and Odin knows who else.

Except that when he arrived at the studio, guitar in tow, it was just Hellini and another woman whose name he didn't catch and who left shortly after Skwisgaar and the photographer were introduced.

"So, we's goingks to do de shoot right heres?" Skwisgaar asked, looking around the small, expensively-furnished studio that was lined with damask couches and heavy drapes to block out the setting sun. A four-poster bed dressed in white silk sheets and a red velvet duvet was tucked in the corner—presumably brought in for the shoot.

Hellini laughed and ran a braceleted hand through her jet-black hair, which hung in loose, soft curls around her face, in stark contrast to the carefully-coiffed style of her website photo.

"I usually shoot high-profile clients at the larger studio near Saint-Chapelle, but since Charles said you preferred an evening appointment, and given the level of your celebrity, I thought you might find this a little more comfortable."

"Is nice," Skwisgaar said, leaning back in the cushioned leather chair and casually crossing one leg over his knee. "Privates."

"I prefer private for nude shoots. It helps cut down on inhibition. Also, I like my subjects to feel relaxed before we begin, so please feel free to… indulge yourself in anything you wish."

Was it his imagination, or had she just winked at him?

Skwisgaar smiled handsomely. "I's already hads some of dat champagne. Please tanks Playgirls for me, Ms. Hellini."

"I had the champagne sent for you. Like I said, I like my subjects to feel relaxed. And please, call me Natalia." The photographer pulled out two cinnamon-scented cloves from a pack on the table beside her and lit them both. She held one out to Skwisgaar. "Cigarette?"

"Why nots?" Skwisgaar said, taking the smoking clove from her hand and putting it to his lips. He could taste her scented lip gloss and the warm wetness of her mouth where she'd dabbed the end of the filter with her tongue, and as the spicy smoke filled his lungs his muscles seemed to relax all at once, and a peaceful warmth filled his body that he hadn't experienced in some time. Skwisgaar had given up smoking as a regular habit long ago, but he enjoyed the gentle buzz it gave him every now and then.

Natalia watched him exhale, studying his hands and mouth with the calm intensity of a hawk. Then, arching one dark, curved eyebrow, she asked, "Shall we begin?"

"Ja," Skwisgaar answered, standing and blowing a cinnamon-scented cloud of smoke into the air.

He felt her eyes on him as he undressed and continued to smoke, expertly managing to do both at the same time. He didn't look at her, however; the setting might be intimate, but it was still just business.

After he'd shed his last scrap of clothing, Skwisgaar stubbed out his clove in the bronze pedestal ashtray nearby and waited as Natalia got her equipment together and adjusted the spotlights. He watched her curvy hips and strong thighs move beneath her short, black, silk dress and imagined what those thighs would feel like wrapped around his waist. Mmmm, mamma mia—now dats woulds be nice. Skwisgaar felt perfectly justified in his right to fantasize; after all, he wasn't betraying Toki if he only thought about it.

"Okay, I think we're almost ready," Natalia said, turning to him. Her eyes immediately zoomed to Skwisgaar's crotch, and he realized, with embarrassment, that he'd managed to give himself a slight erection.

"Oh. Sorry," he mumbled in apology and crossed his hands over his groin, but Natalia waved dismissively and pulled her tripod over to the corner of the bed.

"Don't worry. That's perfectly normal. Especially if you're not used to doing this."

Gettingks naked, or beingks in de pictures? Skwisgaar mused as Natalia directed him onto the bed and proceeded to guide him through several sets of poses. She walked around the bed, studying every angle, memorizing every curve of his body it seemed, until she'd found whatever it was she was seeking. She snapped away, coaxing his confidence with the camera, praising his form in words Skwisgaar had only heard artists and sculptors use.

Occasionally she would come around the front of the camera and use her hands to position him exactly how she wanted him. Her touch was gentle, guiding; and Skwisgaar found himself enjoying the feel of her small, neatly-manicured hands against his skin. They were so different from Toki's, whose fingers were rough and calloused from his guitar strings and whose hands often grabbed onto him so tightly in mid-orgasm that Skwisgaar was left with small, round bruises on his hips.

After they'd finished shooting a series for the cover with Skwisgaar's guitar placed provocatively in front of his crotch, Natalia shrugged off her cropped sweater and tossed it onto the couch, exposing an abundance of cleavage.

"God, it's hot in here!" she exclaimed, fanning herself. "That was really good, Skwisgaar. How about a break and then we'll take a few on the couch?"

"Sounds goods," he replied, setting his guitar against the wall and climbing onto the bed. He leaned back against the cool silk sheets and stretched his arms above his head. He did feel a bit warm, but whether that was because he'd just spent the last several hours posing naked in front of a very fuckable woman or because the room was actually hot, he didn't know.

Natalia lit another couple of cigarettes and, sitting down on the bed next to Skwisgaar, handed him one. He gratefully accepted the offering, and they smoked in silence for a few minutes.

Then Skwisgaar spoke up. "Dis is nice, doingks dese photos. De only peoples I's gets nakeds around uskually is groupies and—"

—and Toki, he'd almost said, but he caught himself just before the words tumbled out of his mouth.

"And who else?" Natalia asked, her eyes shining with curiosity as she casually blew a smoke ring.

"Ah… pretties much just groupies," Skwisgaar said, grinning sheepishly.

Natalia placed a hand on his thigh—a touch so whisper-light it gave him goosebumps. "I don't see why you haven't done this before. A man like you—with your fame, your sex appeal—could stand to expose himself a little more."

Skwisgaar's face went warm, and he lifted his cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply. "Maybe I's just tinks no ones wants to sees dis."

Natalia traced a finger down his thigh, straying dangerously close to his crotch. "Are you serious? You're as close as the music world—no, the world—has to a god these days, Skwisgaar. You could have anything—anyone—you wanted, at the snap of your fingers. No one in their right mind would refuse you—no one could."

She looked into his face—her deep, heavily-lidded eyes flashing silent messages to his—and as he looked back at her, Skwisgaar felt a familiar warmth start to spread throughout his body and settle in his groin.

"You—you really tinks dat?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave as his cock began to grow stiff just inches away from Natalia's hand.

"Of course I do," she answered huskily, and, continuing to hold his gaze, slid the straps of her silk dress down over her shoulders, exposing her round, heavy breasts and taught nipples.

Skwisgaar lifted his hand—stopped—then, tentatively, reached out a finger to stroke a lazy circle around Natalia's left nipple. "Nice," he whispered, letting the burnt-out stub of the cigarette in his other hand fall to the floor.

Natalia arched an eyebrow and smiled seductively. "Do you want to…?" she asked, the words dripping like honey from her lips. Suddenly, the image arose in Skwisgaar's head of a bruised and naked Toki, standing in a puddle of clothes, face upturned, blue eyes staring adoringly into his own and asking, "Do yous wants me to…?"

Skwisgaar hesitated. His body was telling him to surrender, but his loyalty to Toki was pulling him back. He didn't know what to do—he'd never been in such a confusing situation before.

Natalia apparently took his silence for a yes, because she climbed on top of him and pressed her half-clothed form against his naked body and her mouth against his. The sister scents of age and experience wafted from her like the heady perfume of a fading flower, and the taste of cinnamon still lingered on her lips, which were full and wet and smooth—although, it felt admittedly strange to kiss and not feel the brush of whiskers across his cheek.

He gave a low moan as Natalia snaked a hand beneath her body and began stroking his cock. This was happening too fast to make a decision—and oh gods how good it felt to have a hand on his dick besides his own. As Skwisgaar's fingers automatically moved to push up the bottom of Natalia's dress, a dirty sense of shame stole over him that felt surprisingly as good as it did bad. He was the fastest guitarist in the world, and (according to Playgirl) the sexiest one, too—a veritable god among men. Why shouldn't he allow himself to indulge in the rewards fame had brought him?

Besides, the last thing Skwisgaar needed was a boyfriend. Toki might make him come—helvete, sometimes he even made him happy—but a real, lasting relationship could never work—not with the band, not with the fans, not with the music. After all, Dethklok had an image to keep up, and he was fairly sure that image didn't include the lead and rhythm guitarists sharing romantic dinners over candlelight.

Skwisgaar surrendered himself to hot, swimming lust as he slid deeply into Natalia's body. He closed his eyes, rocking with her, as the heat from their bodies and the cries that escaped their lips filled the room with a heady warmth that lingered long after they'd both come, collapsing afterwards in a sweaty, disheveled heap on the soiled silk sheets.

-----

Part 3

Broken, 1/3 [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:31:59 GMT

Title: Broken, 1/3
Author: Cycatryx
Artist: igloomy
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex (including het) and language
Summary: Toki is unable to go on tour, and the band is forced to find a solution while Skwisgaar comforts him.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

"Come into this night; here we'll be gone. So far away from our weak and crumbling lives.
Come into this night when days are done; lost and astray in what's vanished from your eyes."

–Opeth

"This is exactly why I discouraged you from playing football in the first place. Especially since none of you seem to want to wear proper safety equipment."

Charles looked disapprovingly from Nathan to Toki, who lay against a pile of pillows on the white-sheeted hospital bed with a vacant, unhappy expression on his face. His right arm rested in a sling, the hand wrapped tightly from fingertip to wrist, and a large gauze pad covered the fresh stitches across his collarbone.

"Hey, it's not like I knew this was gonna happen," Nathan said defensively, crossing his arms. Skwisgaar chewed his lip and stared at Toki as Pickles shoved his hands in his pockets and avoided looking at anyone. Murderface turned and kicked the visitor's chair at the foot of the bed, sending it skidding violently across the floor.

"Well, sschit."

Murderface spoke for them all. Ever since Nathan's thirty-ninth birthday two months ago, football games with the band (minus Skwisgaar, who hated the heat and the outdoors, and despised football even more) and a team of eager Klokateers had become something of a regular event. But no one had expected Toki—whose occasional, epic displays of strength both on and off the field had made him practically invincible in the eyes of the other players—to get hurt. Three yards from the end zone, he'd been tackled by two Klokateers who were both bigger than Nathan and twice as heavy, and had emerged with a broken collarbone, a broken right hand, a sprained wrist, and three bruised ribs.

After Charles had "dealt with" the guilty Klokateers—which likely meant that no one would ever see their black-hooded faces again—the band's CFO had joined them at the Mordhaus hospital while Toki underwent emergency surgery to repair his collarbone. Thankfully, Toki had survived the surgery, and the rest of Dethklok had survived the four-hour wait in the sterile, brightly-lit emergency room (but just barely). Now, however, the dilemma was not whether or not Toki would live, but how the band was supposed to go on a three-week European tour in less than a week with a rhythm guitarist who wouldn't be able to play for at least four months.

"I've got an idea," Nathan growled, his nostrils flaring. "Why don't we just cancel the tour? Fuck the fans! They can wait until Toki's better."

"Yeah! Mebbe if he drinks enough milk hee'll be able to come beeack sooner'n four months!" Pickles exclaimed.

Nathan turned his fierce green eyes on the drummer.

"What the fuck does milk have to do with anything?"

"Ceealcium," Pickles replied, nodding his head sagely.

"Aw, he schould jschust drink more beer," Murderface said, casting a look of sympathy in Toki's direction.

Charles sighed. "Well, see—that's the problem. The fans, uh, can't wait. I was on the phone with the president of the European Union all afternoon. He's worried about mass suicides breaking out in response to a cancelled tour, so it's not really an option at this poi—"

"What?!" Nathan roared. "Whaddaya mean it's not an option? Everything's an option. We're Dethklok!"

Tired of arguing, Charles just shook his head.

Toki looked up at Nathan and then at Charles, and in his pained blue eyes Skwisgaar read a look of misery. Defeat. He hated to see Toki like this. He felt the urge to sit down beside him and take his unbroken hand in his, but that wasn't really an option, either. No one in the Dethklok circle knew they were fucking, and both of them had agreed to keep it that way—largely on Skwisgaar's urging. Things were chaotic enough between the members of Dethklok without the drama of an inter-band affair.

"Well, if Toki can'tsch play, we'll have to find a replacshement," Murderface said crabbily.

Toki raised his eyebrows.

"Juscht temporarily, of coursch," the bassist quickly added, and looked to Nathan for affirmation.

"Hm," Nathan grunted, clearly uncomfortable with the idea but unable to think of a better solution.

"I hate to say it, but I think that's what we're going to have to do," Charles said quietly.

Toki, who'd barely said a word since he'd gotten out of surgery, studied the sickly green tile floor as though it was the most interesting thing in the world. His left shoulder slumped in dismay, although the right one remained stiff due to the titanium plate that had been screwed on to keep his collarbone in place. He looks miserables, Skwisgaar thought to himself. I's be miserables too, if I's was hims.

"Can'ts we use a recordingks of Toki? Likes, in de backgrounds?" Skwisgaar proposed, knowing it was a bad idea but desperate to say something—anything—that would wipe that wounded look off Toki's face.

Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface stared at him as though he'd just suggested they all go back to the rec room and have an orgy in the hot tub.

"You wantsch us to lip-syncsch… to metal?" Murderface asked in an awed voice.

"No, stupids—lips-sychking is pretendingks to singks, not pretendingks to plays guitars!" Skwisgaar snapped, glaring at the bassist. Sometimes he wondered if Murderface had any brain cells left.

"No way, dood." Pickles shook his head. "It'd never work. Dethklok has to be a hunnert percent live. Think about it—one missed beat an' everything's off."

"Beschides, it'sch scho not metal," Murderface insisted, sneering at Skwisgaar.

"I don't like it either, but we'll have to find someone else. Just until Toki's better," Nathan said, effectively ending the discussion.

Skwisgaar looked down at Toki's pale face, noting his puffy, cut lower lip and the dark purple bruise on the side of his cheek where one of the Klokateer's helmets had crashed into his head, and he had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that this was not going to turn out well.

-----

Toki was released from the hospital two days later. His homecoming to Mordhaus was somewhat uneventful, as he'd been loaded up with more painkillers than he'd ever taken for recreational purposes and wanted only to sleep.

While Toki was recuperating, Skwisgaar attended the auditions for a replacement rhythm guitarist with the rest of the band. However, his mind inevitably wandered to Toki, alone in his room with a broken, beat-up body, and he barely heard anything the over-eager performers played.

Nathan, looking to Skwisgaar for guidance, kept asking the lead guitarist what he thought as musician after musician played and then was escorted from the room by the attending Klokateers. "Uh, ja—goods," Skwisgaar mumbled dismissively, or else raised his eyebrow in a vague attempt to appear as though he'd been carefully scrutinizing each performance.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to notice when Pickles got up to congratulate one of the guitarists.

"Weelcome to the fold, dood!" the red-haired drummer exclaimed. The words snapped Skwisgaar's attention back to the audition room, and to the tall, wild-haired Italian whose hand was being vigorously pumped up and down by Pickles. The man's Gibson Firebird was slung carelessly over his shoulder, and he had more piercings in his ears and face than Skwisgaar would've thought humanly possible.

He turned to Nathan. "Dids we just hires dat guy?" he asked.

Nathan stared at him. "Don't you remember nodding when I asked if he'd be a good replacement for Toki?"

"Uhh… ja. I's just tired, dat's all." Skwisgaar folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. "So, who's he is, anyways?"

"His name's Cilice," Nathan grunted. "Played in Mutil-8 and Corpsefinger, so he's got experience."

"Cilice?" Skwisgaar asked incredulously. "Dat's ridikskulous. Cilice whats?"

"Dunno. I think he just goes by the one name," Nathan answered as he pushed his chair away from the table and joined Murderface and Pickles to talk with Dethklok's new guitarist.

Skwisgaar sunk lower in his seat and stared at the group. He didn't feel like making nice with Toki's replacement. Besides, it appeared that Nathan and Pickles and Murderface were paying enough attention to the young, overly-pierced guitarist for all of them.

Cilice looked in the direction of the band table and caught Skwisgaar's gaze. He smiled casually, one eye obscured by a stray tuft of hair, and gave a small wave. Skwisgaar nodded in acknowledgement. He knew it was probably selfish, but he didn't like the thought of another man onstage in Toki's place. The very idea made his stomach sour.

-----

That evening, Skwisgaar made his way up to Toki's room to let him know they'd found a replacement. His visit had a dual purpose, of course; they were scheduled to leave for Lisbon tomorrow, and it would be their last night together for the next three weeks.

Toki was lying in bed, watching TV, when Skwisgaar peeked his head in the doorway. "Wants companies?" he asked.

Toki gave a faint smile and beckoned with his good hand for the Swede to come in. Skwisgaar sat down on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on Toki's covered thigh.

"What's you watchingks?"

"Umm… dunno. Some movies."

As Toki stared insipidly at the TV, Skwisgaar wrestled with himself over whether or not to tell him about the audition. He restlessly cracked his knuckles, relishing the sharp pop that came with each bent joint.

He already knew that Toki would blame himself if anything went wrong while the band was on tour—a broken guitar string, a misplaced pedal—and he didn't need the added guilt of knowing that, if Dethklok sounded uncharacteristically bad, it was because he wasn't onstage to back them up. Conversely, if the tour turned out to be a huge success—well, Skwisgaar didn't want to think about how that would make Toki feel. Oh wells, he's goingks to finds out anyways. Might as wells gets it overs with.

"Stop dats," Toki said, batting at Skwisgaar's hands. "Dat sound makings me wants throws up."

The Swede ignored him. "So deys—we's—founds de guitars guy for de tour."

Toki shifted his eyes to Skwisgaar.

"He goods?"

"Don'ts know… didn'ts pays attention," Skwisgaar answered honestly.

"He betters dan me?"

"I don'ts know, Toki."

They fell silent for a moment. Then Toki spoke up.

"Skwisgaar, I wants yous do me a favor."

"What's dat?" Skwisgaar asked, lifting an eyebrow and studying the little Norwegian, whose face was a crumpled mixture of jealousy and despair.

"Makes sure his guitars outs of tunes. Just a littles."

Skwisgaar balked. "Yous kiddingks me?"

"Just do its," Toki said through gritted teeth.

"Alrights, okays!" Skwisgaar assented, seeing that Toki was serious.

Then they were quiet again, and for the first time the silence felt awkward. They stared at the television, each lost in their own thoughts and not paying attention to the movie flashing across the screen.

"You wants me gets you some foods?" Skwisgaar asked, after a moment.

"Nah… I's not hungry. Dose anties-bisotics—dey makes my stomach hurts," Toki replied, yawning.

Skwisgaar hesitated, then said brightly, "Well, you has plates in your chest nows! Dat's somethingks, ja?"

Toki shrugged. "I guess."

"Oh comes on, Toki—dat's totally metals. You knows it," Skwisgaar teased, nudging Toki's good shoulder.

"Yeah. Totally metals," he said absent-mindedly, scratching his head.

Skwisgaar suddenly noticed how limp and knotty Toki's hair looked. Had he even taken a shower since getting out of the hospital? The question formed on the lead guitarist's lips, but he couldn't bring himself to ask; he didn't want to sound like he was mothering Toki. And yet—someone needed to take care of him, because he clearly wasn't doing it himself.

Since he'd come back, Toki's catfish grin had all but disappeared; he barely slept at night due to the discomfort his bruised and broken bones caused him; and he'd grown listless and apathetic toward everything but the television. However, Toki's current condition presented a dilemma for Skwisgaar. He'd never really been gentle—physically or emotionally—with the little guitarist, and wasn't quite sure how to go about it.

Skwisgaar tried to think back to the nicest thing a bedmate had ever done for him, but all he could come up with were fleeting images of complex Kama Sutra positions. Think. Somethingks besides sex. Toki couldn't do that right now, anyway—he was in too much pain. But there had to be something he could do for Toki that didn't involve music or fucking.

Then he had it.

"How 'bouts I gives you a bath?"

Toki looked over at him, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Yous would do dats for me?"

Skwisgaar smiled. "'Course I woulds. And Valhalska, you smells like you needs it."

Toki mock-punched him in the side with his un-bandaged hand, and Skwisgaar jumped up to start running the water, glad to finally be of use.

Kneeling down next to Toki's claw-footed tub, Skwisgaar noticed, for the first time, that the taps were actually miniature devil's heads cast in chrome, with an 'H' and a 'C' branded into their foreheads. Huh. Dat's pretty brutal, he thought admirably, and, after starting the taps running, went to search for a sponge. He found one in Toki's bathroom cabinet—it was a little blue sponge in the shape of a fish—along with a whole mess of bath salts and soaps and many other things for which he didn't know the names. Apparently there were things about Toki he had yet to learn.

"I's finds your secrets stash of ladies' bath tings," Skwisgaar smirked as he strode back into the bedroom.

"Dey's not secrets," Toki said as he eased himself out of bed and padded barefoot across the floor. Skwisgaar noticed how the Norwegian winced with each movement. "I likes smelling good. Goils likes it, too."

Skwisgaar grinned. Toki's sense of humor had returned for a cameo. "Ja, well, you don'ts needs to worries about de ladies anymore," he said affectionately, stopping to help Toki with his clothes.

He guided Toki's left arm through the worn blue fabric of his favorite tee shirt, then pulled it over his head, mussing his hair even more. Delicately, Skwisgaar slipped the shirt over Toki's right shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Amid a scattering of rainbow-hued bruises he could see the red, angry line that stretched from one side of his collarbone to the other, held closed with stitches so large and black they almost looked fake. Just beneath the wound, barely discernable, were two tiny bumps in the flesh—the screws on the metal plate the doctors had joined to his bone. Toki would have a new scar now—and another painful story to tell.

Skwisgaar brushed his fingers across the Norwegian's rippled abs, marveling at the way the strength of muscle and bone could instantly give way to such frailty. Toki looked up at him, and Skwisgaar could feel the drowsy heat from his body, the whisper of Toki's breath against his skin. He gently pulled the brunette close and, cupping a hand around his chin, tipped up his head for a soft kiss. With the other hand, Skwisgaar unbuttoned Toki's pants and unzipped his fly. As Toki's clothing slid down around his thighs, Skwisgaar eased a hand inside his boxers, caressing his growing erection as their tongues explored each other's mouths.

After a minute, Skwisgaar broke away from Toki's lips and continued kissing all the way down his chest, avoiding the place where his ribs had been bruised. He swirled his tongue along the little trail of hair on his belly, simultaneously sliding Toki's cargo pants and boxers down his legs and onto the floor, where they lay in a puddle at his feet.

Toki looked into Skwisgaar's eyes as he stood up, then down at the crotch of the lead guitarist's pants, where a bulge had arisen despite his best efforts to suppress it.

"Do yous wants me to…?" Toki asked, and in his pale blue eyes Skwisgaar saw, underneath the fatigue, an eagerness to please that only Toki could pull off as sexy and innocent at the same time.

But Skwisgaar shook his head and circled his hands around Toki's hips. "No, I's takingks care of you now," he said firmly, and guided his lover into the bathroom, where a hot, spicy-smelling tub full of bubbles awaited.

Skwisgaar took Toki's good hand in his and helped him into the tub.

"Mmmm…" Toki hummed as he slid carefully into the water. "Dis feels good."

As Toki got situated, resting his tightly-wrapped hand and wrist on the lip of the tub to avoid wetting the brace, Skwisgaar peeled off his own shirt and tossed it onto the sink. It was steamy enough in the bathroom without a naked Toki stretched out in the tub before him.

Skwisgaar kneeled down in back of Toki's head and soaked the little fish sponge in the water as the Norwegian hugged a puffy heap of bubbles to his chest. Skwisgaar smiled, glad he'd decided to use the bubble bath, even though he personally found the stuff to be somewhat messy and obnoxious. He squeezed the sponge over Toki's shoulders, letting the warm water flow over his skin and down the front of his chest.

"How dat feel? Not too hots?"

Toki sighed. "Dat's perfect."

Skwisgaar swept Toki's hair to the side and ran the sponge along his back, tracing the outlines of his shoulder blades as though he were painting on them; then he pressed it against the back of his neck, allowing the soapy water to run through the delicate strands of dark brown hair at the nape.

"Skwisgaar?"

"Ja?"

"Shoulds we—you knows—tells dem abouts us?"

The question buzzed like a mosquito in Skwisgaar's brain. After a pause, he answered, "I don'ts thinks so, Toki. Dat stuff can mess everybodies up. You knows how it is."

Toki leaned back to rest his head against Skwisgaar's chest and, sighing languidly, closed his eyes.

"I wish you didn'ts haves to leave tomorrows."

The simple, yielding gesture sent a pang of regret to the lead guitarist's heart, and as he gazed down at the tangled mess of soft brunette hair splayed across his torso, he suddenly wished he didn't have to go on tour. Being here, now, with Toki was worth more than all the attention and excitement and fame. No drug or groupie or doe-eyed Italian guitarist would ever be able to replace the thrill he felt playing next to Toki—watching his fingers (slow though they were) dance over the strings of his guitar and knowing exactly what those fingers felt like on his skin; tossing Toki a furtive "fuck-me" look in the middle of a particularly flashy solo; grinding his hips into his Gibson, high on the music and the crowd and the promise of post-show sex from the one person in the world who always made him want to come back for more.

But Skwisgaar just kissed the top of his lover's head and replied, "I's be back befores you knows it."

He let go of the sponge and pushed it towards Toki. "Here. Plays with your fishies while I fix dis hair."

Skwisgaar lifted Toki's head from his chest and began combing through his hair with long, clever fingers, carefully untangling the knots as he found them, while Toki dabbed at his stitches with the sponge.

"Toki, you gots to promise me yous eats and sleeps and take baths whens I's gone," Skwisgaar said in an offhanded tone, although he was dead serious.

"Yeah, yeah," Toki said dismissively.

"I means it!" the Swede threatened. He pulled the fish out of Toki's bath-wrinkled hands and, in one quick twist, dumped a spongeful of sudsy water over Toki's head.

"Heys!" Toki whined, turning to glare at Skwisgaar, but the blonde stared back at him defiantly.

"You has to wash your hairs, too," he said, digging his hands into Toki's wet, chestnut-colored tresses and working them into a soapy lather. Toki stayed mad for approximately ten seconds before he gave up, yielding to Skwisgaar's persistent hands as they rubbed at the base of his neck, where Toki's muscles were nearly always sore from his guitar strap. The Norwegian butted against Skwisgaar like a cat, delighting in the feel of having his head massaged.

"Yous too goods to me," he purred, relaxing under Skwisgaar's expert touch.

The lead guitarist smirked. "Don'ts you gets too used to it."

-----

After he'd finished washing and rinsing Toki's hair, Skwisgaar gave him a thorough towel-drying so he wouldn't have to move his shoulder, then sent the little Norwegian into the bedroom while he drained and rinsed the tub. Toki would thank him later, when he didn't have soap scum to ruin his next bath—which Skwisgaar sorely hoped would be soon, as he didn't like seeing Toki let himself go like this. Skwisgaar prayed it was just a temporary depression over not being able to go on tour, and not something more complicated. Toki's doctors had prescribed a solid regimen of bed rest, dizzying amounts of pain pills, and as little physical activity as possible for the next three weeks, and had absolutely forbidden him to tag along with the rest of the band—an order that both Nathan and Charles staunchly supported.

"Skwisgaar, can we sleeps in heres tonight?" Toki asked in his trademark, questioning lilt, his pale blue eyes half-closed with drowsiness. They usually slept in Skwisgaar's room because the bed was bigger, and because Skwisgaar was leery of sleeping beneath a fleet of sharp-cornered model airplanes and helicopters that were tacked onto the ceiling with pieces of old, unraveling string. But Skwisgaar was willing to sacrifice a little space and security to make Toki more comfortable. For tonight, at least.

"Ja," Skwisgaar said as he stripped off the remainder of his clothes and kicked them into a pile next to Toki's, tossing his skull belt on top. Toki yawned and shed his towel, dropping it onto his desk chair over his Deddy Bear.

"Good, 'cause I's tired," Toki said as he clambered unsteadily onto what was normally the foot of his bed and pushed a pillow against the wall to support his right arm. Skwisgaar clicked off the lamp on Toki's desk and went to join him, feeling the coolness of the stone floor beneath his feet give way to the fuzzy warmth of the carpet.

He pulled up the sheet and slid into bed next to Toki, who had to lie flat so as not to jar his broken collarbone. Toki stretched out his good arm to pull him closer, and Skwisgaar nestled against his lover's body as comfortably as he could without hurting him.

The quiet darkness settling over the room always made Skwisgaar feel like he should say something. But the only things that came to mind were things he couldn't—or wouldn't—say. Not in English, anyway. So he listened instead to the restless sounds of Mordhaus—the ever-present humming of hidden machinery; the dim echoing of the Klokateers' footsteps as they patrolled the halls; the occasional howl of a yard wolf.

From the rec room below came the faint rise and fall of laughter—Skwisgaar could hear the ring of female voices alongside Nathan's loud guffaw—and the sharp clink of pool balls. The rest of the band was probably having a kick-off party for the tour, and Skwisgaar felt a small sting of irritation that no one had come looking for him.

Then someone turned on the stereo, and the muffled crescendo of Robert Plant's unearthly howl drifted up through the floor. "Valhalla, I am coming..."

Not tonights, though, Skwisgaar thought, pushing away the twinge of disappointment that arose. He couldn't ask Toki, who was obviously exhausted, to take care of his needs tonight—and certainly not in his present condition.

Skwisgaar turned his thoughts to the tour instead. He wondered if the new rhythm guitarist would be any good. Silently he vowed that, even if the Italian could play, he'd tell Toki the guy sucked dildos. After all, the stand-in would be out of their lives after the tour and there was no sense in making Toki worry that he was going to be permanently replaced. The Norwegian fretted about it enough as it was (less so since they'd been sleeping together, though, it seemed), and Skwisgaar knew that Toki, who was as curious as the proverbial cat, would want to know all about his replacement and how he was doing.

The Swede closed his eyes and breathed in the spicy, comforting scent of his lover's skin. Poor little Toki. Skwisgaar couldn't imagine what he'd do in his position. Playing music was all Skwisgaar knew; it was his life. If someone or something were to take that away from him—even temporarily—he wouldn't know what to do with himself.

The thought sparked a question, and Skwisgaar found himself suddenly wanting to know more about Toki's past.

"Dids you always wants to be in a band?" he asked, lightly running his fingers across the Norwegian's muscled chest.

"Noes," Toki answered sleepily, after a moment.

"Wells? Whats else yous wants to do?"

"I wants to be a pilots once."

"Oh." Skwisgaar couldn't imagine a more boring occupation.

"I tinks dats, maybes, if I's just gets my own plane, I's fly aways from Norway. For good."

Skwisgaar remembered, with a sudden, furious pity, the feel of Toki's scars beneath his guitar-calloused fingers. He hated the Reverend Wartooth for what he'd done to Toki—his Toki. He hoped the mamma knullare would get cancer and die a horrible, lonely death. That, at least, would make him happy.

"Well, yous has us now," Skwisgaar said encouragingly, and reached for Toki's good hand, which he squeezed in a gesture of reassurance and—what?—friendship? Affection? Or did it go deeper than that? Skwisgaar frowned. There it was again—that nagging feeling of uncertainty; of navigating uncharted territory. Even on those rare occasions when his confidence failed him, Skwisgaar knew he could still fake his way into or out of any situation that arose. But this was different. Toki was his bandmate turned bedmate; they'd never really been friends—at least not in the conventional sense of the word. So why did his heart feel so full?

He wasn't used to this sensation—this quickening of the pulse when Toki looked over at him while they were playing, this aching feeling in his chest when they lay together at night after a long, sweaty fuck. What was happening to him? He wished he knew. Then maybe he'd understand this deep, hungry urge to say those words in English that he'd only said once to Toki in Swedish, right after their first, impulsive kiss; words he hadn't said to another person since he was a boy and his mother was still a goddess in his eyes; words that had only just begun to have meaning again—Jag älska du.

Skwisgaar sighed. Jävlar, these thoughts were hurting his head. His eyes were getting heavy; he didn't want to think anymore. He nuzzled his nose deeper into Toki's soft, damp hair and listened to the rise and fall of his lover's broken chest as he breathed, slow and deep, having miraculously drifted off to sleep—the bath had done him good, apparently.

Whatever he and Toki were—whatever they'd become—was something he didn't need to know right now. These things had a way of sorting themselves out, in time.

-----

Part 2

Last Laugh [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:26:02 GMT

Title: Last Laugh
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Summary: Dethklok, football, and Scandinavian love—what more do you need?
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

It was Nathan's birthday, and the rest of the band had agreed to humor him by playing football. Dressed in lacrosse shoulder pads two sizes too large (Murderface), a bright red umpire's chest protector that clashed with his hair (Pickles), and yellow cricket pads (Toki), the members of Dethklok looked like they'd just waged a war on Sports Authority—and lost.

Surprisingly (or perhaps not), this was all Mordhaus had to offer in the realm of sporting equipment; left-over relics from the days of the Dethklok employee athletic association, which was quickly dissolved by its members after Murderface had declared it perfectly acceptable for players to kill one another. After all, you couldn't be too careful around masked men.

There was one Dethklok member who wasn't so keen on the idea, however. Skwisgaar sat at the picnic table with his guitar, wondering if it was really a hundred and twenty degrees outside or if it was just his imagination. Running around under the hot sun after an oblong leather ball with his hair flying every which way was not his idea of fun.

Skwisgaar ran a hand absent-mindedly through his long blonde mane as he watched them play. Now that Nathan had hit thirty-nine and was on the verge of middle age, he was more concerned then ever about "getting in, uhh, shape." Or was it thirty-eight? Skwisgaar sighed. He couldn't be expected to remember these things. That was Charles' job.

"Go long!" Nathan yelled at Pickles, and drew back his arm to throw. Nathan had been a lineman in high school, but he was playing quarterback (or was it fullback? Skwisgaar could never remember; damn Americans and their football) in this game. Pickles ran (well, stumbled, really) deep into Toki-Murderface territory. He was so intent on getting near the chalked-out end zone that he forgot to turn around, and was promptly hit in the back of the head with the ball. Pickles went down in a heap of waving arms and legs, prompting Murderface to howl with laughter.

"Didsch you guysh schee that??" he snorted.

"Arrrrgh!" Nathan growled. "Pickles, you have to catch the ball to make a touchdown!"

Toki ran over to where Pickles was sprawled on the grass. "Pickle? You okay?" he asked worriedly as the drummer slowly wobbled to his feet, rubbing the back of his skull.

"Dood! Dat hurt!" Pickles called crossly to Nathan, and then swatted at Toki, who was trying to pry Pickles' hand off his head to have a look at the damage. "Dood, I'm fine. Leave it alone."

"Sorry Pickle!" Toki said sheepishly, crossing his hands behind his back and stepping away from the irritated drummer.

"Okay, let's try that again," Nathan commanded, motioning with a beefy arm for Pickles to come back to their side of the field.

"Didsch you schee that? He didn't even try to catsch it!" Murderface smirked with glee, nudging Toki as the Norwegian reluctantly rejoined his teammate.

On the sideline, Skwisgaar rolled his eyes and sent his fingers flashing down the neck of his guitar. This was starting to resemble a Dethklok recording session. Just with more heat and the sound of birds to ruin his solos.

"Nathan—to be honest, dood, it's, like, a little hard to play football with four people," Pickles said as he jogged over to him.

Nathan scowled.

"Yeah! Why don'ts we gets Charles to play?" Toki called out.

Nathan turned from Pickles to Toki. "You don't think Charles has better things to do than play football?" he growled, fixing the rhythm guitarist with a threatening stare.

"Sorries! Bad ideas!" Toki squeaked as he picked up the football and tossed it back to Nathan.

"Natschan, wait." Murderface held up his hand as Nathan clutched the ball between his fingers, getting ready for another pass. "Pickelsch hasch a point."

Nathan lowered his arm and stared blankly at the bassist. "I mean, itsch not really a game if we don'tsch have more people."

Nathan rubbed his chin as Toki scratched a smiley face in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. Pickles continued to rub his head and check his palm every few seconds to see if there was any blood. Above the field, a lone crow cackled.

"Uhhhhhh…okay," Nathan answered. "So?"

"Scho, why don'tsch we just getsch schome of the Klokschateersch to play? Then we can have twelvsche guysch to a side."

"It's eleven, Murderface," Pickles interjected.

"Whatschever."

"Okay. Fine. I guess we can try that. Hey you!" Nathan growled, turning to the Klokateer at the barbecue grill that was catty-corner to the picnic table. The masked man's head snapped up at Nathan's call.

"Go find like, uhh, twent—wait…two, three, four—" Nathan frowned as he counted on his fingers, football tucked under one arm "—like, eighteen guys who know how to play football and bring 'em here."

"Right away, Señior Explosion," the Klokateer replied, nodding.

"Whatsch wasch that? Are you like, Schpanish now or schomesching?" Murderface asked as the worker scurried off to do Nathan's bidding.

Nathan shrugged. "I told Charles I wanted the employees to call me Señior on my birthday. It sounds more metal than 'mister'."

"Thatsch not metal at all," Murderface insisted, crossing his arms.

"Not as metals-soundings as 'Mista Murderface'!" Toki exclaimed gleefully.

Nathan rolled his eyes.

"Fuck dis. I need a drink," Pickles declared, and stalked off to the sideline, where a cooler full of beer labeled 'PICKLES'S SHIT—DON'T TOUCH UNLESS YOU WANNA LOSE A HAND, DOOD' stood waiting for him.

A short while later, the Klokateer had assembled two full teams of Dethklok employees to play in Nathan's football game. Murderface eyed them warily as they streamed onto the field and assumed their positions. "Aw, man—thisch isch totally unfair! These guysch have maschks!" he cried, pointing at the Klokateers' hoods.

"Dood, they're not, like, helmets or anything. You think a piece 'a black cloth is gonna protect 'em if someone throws a football at their heads?" Pickles said pointedly, glancing sideways at Nathan.

"Okay guys, let's just play. It's like a hundred degrees out here. Let's play this game and then go inside and have a beer," Nathan encouraged, his voice rumbling with impatience.

"I schtill thinksch we're at a disadvatangsche," Murderface said to no one in particular as the bandmates split up and took their places.

Over at the picnic table, Skwisgaar was growing hotter and more annoyed by the minute. If he wasn't playing, what was he doing out here? He was already starting to sweat, and he hated getting sweaty unless he was in the middle of playing a show or getting laid.

"Dis boringks," he muttered under his breath and played another plingy-sounding riff on the muted strings of his guitar. He really should be inside. This harsh sunlight was no good for his pale Swedish complexion.

Skwisgaar stood up, adjusting his guitar strap as he did so, and watched as Nathan threw a short pass to one of the Klokateers, who then took it all the way down the field past Murderface. The bassist cursed and waved his hands at the hooded man as he charged by, and Toki just jumped out of the way.

"Boringks, boringks," Skwisgaar sighed to himself as Nathan clapped his hands and yelled, "Yeah! Now that's more like it! Touchdown for the Explosions!"

Hoping no one would notice him leave, Skwisgaar started off towards Mordhaus with his guitar tucked protectively at his side. Before he'd walked five steps, however, Toki's high-pitched whine came floating across the field.

"Skwisgaar! Where yous goings?"

Skwisgaar wrinkled his nose. "Craps," he muttered, and turned to face roughly two dozen pairs of inquisitive eyes.

"I's just goings for…uh…a drinks. Is hots out here," Skwisgaar explained, hoping the answer would suffice and he'd be off the hook until Nathan's party later that night.

"Skwisgaar, comes and plays! Please?" Toki pleaded, his pale blue eyes dancing beneath his dark eyebrows.

Damn. He'd have to stay now. At least sit at the picnic table and watch, if not get into the action.

"Nos. I's too hots to play, Toki." Skwisgaar didn't understand how someone who'd grown up in a place as cold as Norway could stand to play anything—whether it be football or guitar—in this heat.

"If you're not gonna suit up, Skwisgaar, sit your butt back down at the table," Nathan broke in. "Unless you want that guitar shoved up your asshole."

Toki giggled, and Skwisgaar flashed him a sharp look. He didn't like being talked to like that, and he especially didn't like being laughed at because of it. Maybe Nathan figured that, since it was his birthday, it gave him free reign to insult anybody and everybody.

Skwisgaar shrugged. "Sure, fines. Whatever you says, Nathan," he said nonchalantly, and slid back down onto the wooden bench. Toki flashed puppy-dog eyes at him once more, begging him to join the game, but Skwisgaar shook his head and fingered his strings. He wasn't going out there. Not with all those drones on the field. He'd never been particularly athletic and didn't feel like making a fool out of himself by getting trampled by Dethklok employees. Not that he would have admitted it, of course.

The Klokateers and the rest of the band got back into position as Skwisgaar continued to amuse himself with his guitar. However, before Nathan could get another play off, Toki started yelling.

"Times out! Huddles!" he shouted, waving his arms. Skwisgaar clenched his jaw as a warm bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and stung his eye. Was Toki trying to make this game last twice as long as necessary just to piss him off?

Toki and the other players converged in the middle of the field and crowded in close. Skwisgaar watched with mild interest, keeping one eye on the huddle and the other on his hands as they flew over his guitar strings, wondering if his skin was getting sunburned. He hadn't the slightest idea what Toki had called a conference about, but judging by the muffled laughter and bobbing heads, it must be exciting.

"Hey! You wants to lets me in on za big secrets?" Skwisgaar called, feeling mildly annoyed that he was being left out, even though he was the one who had insisted on not playing.

But Toki just flashed a grin at him as the huddle disbanded and the players returned to their spots. The barbecue Klokateer, who Nathan had selected to be the referee, blew his whistle and the game was on. Pickles ran down the sideline and waved his arms at Nathan.

"Dood, here, here! I'm open!"

But Nathan, as though he had anticipated Pickles' set-up and didn't care for it, instead tucked the ball firmly under one massive forearm, gritted his teeth, and ran down the field. The singer crashed through several lines of Klokateers, knocking them aside like bowling pins, as he made a mad dash for the end zone—and straight for Toki.

Skwisgaar watched Toki's eyes go large and frightened as Nathan charged towards him with the speed and fury of a pissed-off rhinoceros, but the rhythm guitarist didn't move. It was as if Toki's feet were rooted to the ground. Skwisgaar jumped up, his guitar forgotten. It was obvious that Nathan was hell-bent on making a touchdown; Toki obviously couldn't tackle him, and if he didn't move out of the way…

With an audible slam, Nathan crashed head-on into Toki. Skwisgaar watched in horror as the rhythm guitarist crumpled like a flower and fell to the ground, rolling over twice before he came to rest on his back.

Pickles tore off his umpire's shield and ran over to Toki as Nathan spiked the ball into the end zone, surrounded by cheering Klokateers. The drummer bent down next to Toki's still form and lightly slapped his face.

"Toki! Dood! You okay?"

Seeing that Toki wasn't moving, Murderface hurried over to Pickles and pushed him out of the way.

"Letsch me try," he insisted, and stood over Toki with his hands cupped around his mouth. "TOKI WARTOOTSCH. I KNOW YOU CANSCH HEAR ME. WAKE THE FUCKSCH UP, MAN!"

"Murderface, I don't think shouting at 'im's gonna make much difference," Pickles admonished, and butted back in to slap at Toki's cheeks in a vain effort to elicit a response.

By this time, Nathan had come down from his celebration high long enough to notice that something was wrong with Toki, and he ran over to the three figures as quickly as his elephantine bulk would allow. The Klokateers hovered at a distance, eyeing each other uncomfortably.

Nathan bent down and put his ear to Toki's chest, then flicked the guitarist's eyelids open with his middle and index finger. No reaction.

"Guys, I don't think he's breathing!" Nathan said anxiously.

Skwisgaar's heart flip-flopped inside his chest.

"Should we try CPR?" asked Pickles as Nathan held a finger under Toki's nose.

"Thatsch only worksch with a mirror," Murderface said sagaciously, and Nathan fixed him with the same look of death he'd given Toki earlier.

Skwisgaar, whose limbs had been paralyzed the moment he saw Toki fall, suddenly sprang into action.

"Toki!" he cried, throwing his guitar on the ground and racing across the field to where the Norwegian lay, unmoving.

"Gets outs of here! Gives me rooms!" Skwisgaar commanded, pushing the rest of his bandmates out of the way and falling on his knees at Toki's side. The guitarist's face was ashen and his head rested limply on the grass. "Toki!" Skwisgaar shouted, shaking him by the shoulders, but all this did was make his head bounce around like jelly and his eyes roll back in his skull.

"Fuck!" Skwisgaar screamed, shoving his damp hair out of his face and eyeing Nathan threateningly over his shoulder. "What da fuck dids you dos?"

Nathan shrugged, his eyes wide. "I…I dunno. I just figured he'd, you know, get out of the way. I didn't even really know I hit him. He just…went down."

"Well, somebodies calls nine-ones-ones or a fucking doctors!" Skwisgaar ordered, placing a trembling hand over Toki's heart. He didn't usually yell at his bandmates like this, but Toki was hurt—hell, he might even be dying—and Nathan and Pickles and Murderface were just standing around like dildos, looking worried and not lifting a finger to help.

Suddenly, Skwisgaar thought he felt a tiny twitch beneath his palm. If Toki was still alive, then there was something he could do. Skwisgaar pulled his thick blonde hair to the side and, using one hand to prop open Toki's mouth and the fingers of the other to pinch his nose shut, placed his lips over Toki's.

Skwisgaar exhaled into his mouth, counted to three, and exhaled again. Then, curling his hands together over the lower tip of Toki's breastbone, Skwisgaar pumped rapidly on his chest. Charles had taught them all how to perform CPR in case one of them OD'ed backstage and he wasn't around, and the lesson came flooding back to Skwisgaar with perfect clarity—which was unusual, as he typically didn't listen very closely to their manager when he was talking.

Another three counts, and then Skwisgaar pushed his mouth back onto Toki's, praying, praying that this would work. Please don't lets me fucks this up…

Then suddenly, Toki's hands were around his shoulders, pulling Skwisgaar to him in a rough embrace and he was kissing him—kissing him!—with the overblown enthusiasm of a horny teenager. Toki rolled over on top of the lead guitarist and held him down as he molested his mouth with lips and tongue and teeth.

Skwisgaar struggled as Toki's tongue dove deeper, and he could hear the sound of Murderface's broad guffaw and Nathan's gurgly chortle and Pickles' high-pitched snigger on top of the laughter of two dozen Klokateers who were witnessing Skwisgaar Swigelf, the fastest guitarist in the world, be mouth-raped by his bandmate. That's what Toki had called the huddle for—they had all been in on it.

Toki was known for his stupid antics, and so the fact that he'd tricked Skwisgaar into thinking he was hurt just so he could stick his tongue halfway down his throat appeared to strike the workers and the rest of the band as funny, rather than disturbing. Everyone, that was, except for Skwisgaar.

"Gets OFFS me!" he sputtered, trying futilely to push Toki away, but the little guitarist had him solidly pinned, and Skwisgaar half-wondered if he'd been watching WWWF with Pickles again.

"Toki—TOKI!" he shouted as he wrenched his head to the side, finally breaking Toki's hold on his mouth. "THATS WAS NOTS FUNNY!"

Skwisgaar glared up at Toki as the rhythm guitarist licked his lips and smiled, his ice-blue eyes shining with mischief.

"Oh come ons, Skwisgaar. We just wants you to haves a little funs with us, dat's all," Toki entreated, and then allowed himself to be dumped on the ground as Skwisgaar scooted out from under him and stood up, brushing strands of grass and crumbles of dirt off his clothes.

"Fuck you, Toki," he said levelly, trying to keep his anger from boiling over—it was Nathan's birthday, after all, and he didn't want to start a fight in the middle of his beloved football game. But he couldn't stay here or he'd explode.

"See you laters," he said, and with a stiff nod at Nathan (who was trying not to chuckle), Skwisgaar stalked over to the picnic table, picked up his guitar, and left his bandmates to exchange confused looks as he made a swift exit towards Mordhaus.

-----

Skwisgaar was lying on his bed with his arms crossed under his head and his fur blanket pulled up to his stomach, staring at the flicker of the candlelight on the ceiling, when Toki came in.

Skwisgaar had left Nathan's birthday party early, after a clan of bleach-blonde groupies had started fighting over which one of them was going to sleep with Dethklok's lead guitarist first. Then Pickles, who'd already finished off a bottle of Jack Daniels before the party and was working his way through another, had stripped down to his underwear and started chasing two of the girls in a circle around the hot tub as Nathan unsuccessfully tried to assemble the band for an impromptu jam.

Skwisgaar had made a quick exit then and there, as he was decidedly not in the mood to be ripped apart by horny groupies or forced to play next to Toki, who he'd been avoiding for most of the night. He was, admittedly, still pissed about Toki's little stint on the football field. Besides, sitting in the sun had left him with a slight headache, and he hated listening to Nathan sing when his head hurt.

The band had eventually joined up for a few songs, and Skwisgaar had listened with a measure of amusement from the sanctity of his bedroom, for not even the mighty walls of Mordhaus could keep that unholy noise from filling every labyrinthine corridor and hall.

Toki had fumbled through Skwisgaar's solos with intense effort—it was as if Skwisgaar could feel his concentration through the floorboards—and Pickles was clearly drunk off his ass, as the beat was completely off. It didn't seem like Nathan cared, however; Skwisgaar could tell by the rise and fall of his voice that he was having a good time.

Now it was after three a.m. and the party had disbanded; the members of Dethklok had gone off to their respective rooms with two or three groupies each to keep them company. Everyone except Skwisgaar and Toki, that was.

Toki kicked off his boots in the half-darkness and stumbled over the rug. Skwisgaar could tell he'd been drinking, but he hadn't made it anywhere near Pickles Territory, which was a good thing. Toki got sloppy when he drank too much.

He heard the rustle of fabric as Toki pulled his shirt over his head and slid out of his pants. He Toki always left a trail of clothes behind when he got undressed—it was one of the many things about the little Norwegian that Skwisgaar found equally annoying and endearing.

"Oof," Toki sputtered as he bumped into the corner of the bed. Skwisgaar remained silent as Toki's hands patted the mattress, seeking a pillow or the edge of the blanket—something to give him an indication of where he was. Toki's hands found Skwisgaar's leg instead, but the blonde guitarist did not move.

Toki climbed over him to his place on the left side of the bed, nearly putting his knee into Skwisgaar's face in the process. Skwisgaar scowled as Toki wrestled with the covers, trying to get comfortable. It was something he did every night when he went to sleep, but Skwisgaar found it especially irritating tonight.

"Toki."

Toki started, obviously unaware that Skwisgaar was awake.

"Skwisgaar! I didn't knows yous was up. Oh waits—did I wakes yous?"

Toki rolled over and scooted close, nuzzling his head into Skwisgaar's shoulder. He still smelled warm and outdoorsy, like sunshine and honeysuckle, despite having showered after the football game.

Skwisgaar flinched. Toki lifted his head, presumably to look at him, although it was difficult to see each other in the darkness. "What's wrongs?" he asked, his voice small and uncertain in the stillness of the room.

Skwisgaar sighed and embraced him with one arm, pulling him close. The way Toki asked questions never failed to melt him.

"Dats was not funny, you knows," he scolded.

"Whats yous talking abouts?" Toki asked innocently.

"You knows what I's talkingks abouts, Toki. Don't play stupids with me."

Toki was silent for a few moments. "Okay, I admits it—I plays joke on yous. But we also plays joke on Nathans and Pickle and Murderface! I gets to kiss you in fronts of dem and dey thinks it's all funs and games!"

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Toki, it's nots a joke if we's the only two who knows whats really goingks on."

"Oh."

Toki scratched his stubbly chin and laid his head back down on Skwisgaar's shoulder. "Is you mad?"

Skwisgaar paused. Was he mad? How could he possibly answer that question honestly without saying, Don'ts you ever do thats to me again, you nearly scares me to death and if I lost you…well, I don'ts know whats I would dos. But he couldn't say that—wouldn't say that. He'd always had better luck with people when he didn't tell them how he really felt.

He had to admit, though—for someone who'd tried every kink in the book, he'd certainly been surprised the first time something had happened between him and Toki. It was good. It was better than good—it was fucking amazing. He'd never been with a man before, but one night, a little over four months ago, he and Toki had gotten into a pre-concert face-paint fight and Skwisgaar had kissed him, on the spur of the moment, without really knowing why. They'd ended up in bed later that night, after finishing off a bottle of bourbon between them.

Skwisgaar smiled as he remembered how they'd stumbled up to his bedroom, heads spinning, fingers tangled in each other's belt loops—so drunk they nearly didn't make it to door before they began to devour one another; so drunk they both passed out immediately afterwards, naked and sticky, arms and legs hanging halfway off the bed. They'd blamed it on the alcohol that time, but the second time it happened they were both sober and fully conscious. Ever since then, Skwisgaar hadn't been able to stop thinking about dick—which was as titillating as it was embarrassing.

And since they'd been sleeping together, something had changed. Neither of them had taken other bedmates, although they lied to the rest of the band about it to keep them from asking questions. As far as Nathan and Murderface and Pickles knew, Skwisgaar and Toki were still getting their rocks off with different girls every night.

It wasn't as if Skwisgaar was no longer attracted to women, either—he still had the occasional urge for pussy—but it no longer mattered. Simply put, Toki was all he needed. Despite this fact, the little asshole still deserved to be punished for making Skwisgaar think he was hurt.

"C'mere," Skwisgaar purred, wrapping his arms around Toki's back. He turned Toki over on his stomach, and the Norwegian snuggled into the pillows Skwisgaar kept on the bed just for him; he himself couldn't care less about head support.

Skwisgaar straddled Toki's thighs, savoring the way the other man's skin shone like amber in the candlelight, and with a finger he traced the scars on Toki's back left by his father's whip. The sight of the frenzied, criss-cross pattern always made him a little sad, but he kept moving upward with light, feathery touches until he reached Toki's neck.

Skwisgaar bent over to inhale the scent of his lover's hair—clover and nutmeg, and a faint woodsy smell that was all Toki's own—and then began to rub his hands along Toki's shoulders in circles, working the soreness from his muscles.

"Mmmmm…" Toki murmured. "I guess yous nots mad at mes."

In the darkness, Skwisgaar smiled. Just wait.

As he moved to Toki's lower back, where the lightest of the scars were, Toki flinched.

"Whats?" Skwisgaar asked, his hands freezing in mid-stroke.

"Ah… I didn'ts tell you, but I tink Nathans bruise mes."

Skwisgaar moved his leg to the side and peered at Toki's backside. Sure enough, there was a faint bruise extending all the way from his right hip to the back of his thigh. Serves you rights for lettingks yourselfs get runs over, Skwisgaar thought, but he didn't say it aloud.

"That's goingks to be blacks and blues tomorrows, you knows," Skwisgaar whispered as he nibbled at Toki's ear, relishing the feel of the small, fleshy lobe between his teeth.

"I… I hopes it isn't…" Toki said faintly, trailing off as Skwisgaar licked and sucked his way down Toki's neck, stopping to brush his tongue delicately across the other man's lips and grinning as Toki rolled onto his back to free his growing erection, putting them belly to belly, crotch to crotch.

Skwisgaar sank down against his lover's body, and the feel of Toki's warm flesh pressing against his own sent shivers down his spine and a flash of heat straight to his groin. Toki moaned, low and soft, as the Swede flicked his tongue over his nipple. Skwisgaar didn't usually pay this much attention to Toki in bed, and he could tell he was enjoying it immensely.

He moved down, down, through the sweet-smelling patch of hair at the base of Toki's cock, straying to lick at the fuzzy dip in the flesh between his hip and belly. Toki was squirming now. Good. He wanted him hot and bothered.

Skwisgaar opened his mouth and swirled his lips delicately around the head of Toki's dick, to which Toki responded by knotting his hand into Skwisgaar's hair and pulling him closer. Skwisgaar obeyed Toki's guiding touch, taking his full length into his throat in a single, fluid movement. Toki gasped, and Skwisgaar began moving his tongue up and down Toki's shaft, lightly enough to toy with him but firmly enough to make him throb with pleasure.

"You makes dat feels so good," Toki panted, and Skwisgaar knew it was time to make his move.

Before Toki knew what was happening, Skwisgaar had flipped him back onto his stomach, then pulled him up to his knees, kicked his legs apart, and pinned his arms behind his back. Skwisgaar ground his own hard cock against Toki's ass and whispered in his ear, "Jokes is on you, Toki."

"W-what da—?" Toki stuttered, glancing fearfully over his shoulder at Skwisgaar's grinning face. His eyes grew wide as Skwisgaar, clenching Toki's wrists together in one hand, spit into the other and quickly lubricated himself. He eased his cock partway into Toki's ass, allowing the muscles a second to adjust to the intruder, and then—without warning—drove inside with the force of a battering ram.

Toki cried out, half in pain, half in pleasure, as Skwisgaar pumped into him again, and again, and again—harder each time. He bucked against Skwisgaar's thrusting body, trying to break the Swede's hold on his wrists, but Skwisgaar had them pinned as firmly against his back as Toki had pinned Skwisgaar against the ground earlier.

Skwisgaar's forehead began to sweat as he felt his orgasm building—Toki's helpless, lusty cries and alternating groans of pleasure were sending his nerve endings into overdrive—but he didn't allow himself to come, not yet. He was going to make sure Toki remembered this for the rest of his life.

He roughly pulled Toki's body to his chest and pushed his head back, exposing his throat and twisting the Norwegian's spine into a C. Toki whimpered, and Skwisgaar hooked one finger into Toki's open mouth and pushed the tips of the others against his neck.

"How. Does. Dat. Feel?" he asked, punctuating each harshly-whispered word with a stiff thrust. Toki moaned and squirmed against Skwisgaar's chest. Skwisgaar knew the angle was uncomfortable for him—but that was precisely the point.

"What's dat? What's dat? You wants to get backs on your elbows?" Skwisgaar taunted, and pushed Toki down so hard that the side of his head smacked into the mattress.

"Please—oof!—not so roughs!" he yelped.

"Oh comes on, Toki. Tis isn't rougher than footsballs," Skwisgaar teased, sliding his fingers into Toki's damp hair and tightening them around a swath of chestnut-colored silk. He pulled back on the lock of hair, causing Toki to hiss in pain. Skwisgaar pounded into him harder, feeling the fiery knot in his groin tightening uncontrollably. He would come soon, but first—

Skwisgaar released his iron grasp on Toki's wrists and, keeping his left hand firmly fixed in Toki's hair, drew back the other and laid a hard smack on the side of Toki's ass—right atop his blossoming bruise.

"Fuck! Skwisgaar!!" Toki yelled, and the sound of his lover screaming his name was enough to send Skwisgaar over the edge. His thoughts scattered, reality disappeared, and all that was left was the hot, thrilling surge of ecstasy as he came, arcing into Toki's hot, wet body with a wild, wordless cry.

After it was over, Skwisgaar released his hold on Toki's hair, trailing his fingers listlessly across his lover's scalp and down his back as he sunk onto the bed in an exhausted heap. Skwisgaar closed his eyes and licked his lips. Ja, that had been good.

Then: "Skwisgaar?" came Toki's timid voice.

Skwisgaar opened one eye to see a very sore- and lascivious-looking Toki kneeling in front of him in the half-darkness, rubbing his wrists where Skwisgaar had clenched them together. Skwisgaar's eyes swept over the well-defined abdominal muscles, the strong thighs, and the hard, throbbing cock that, judging by Toki's pitiful expression, was in need of some attention.

"Ja? Whats you wants?" Skwisgaar asked playfully, rolling onto his back.

"I…uh…I wants to apologize for playing jokes on yous. And, um—"

"And whats?" Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms in back of his head.

"Wells…"

Skwisgaar shook his head. "You haves to say its."

"Oh please Skwisgaar! I's sorry I tricks you! Now you tricks me too and we's evens, so…"

"Sos what?" Skwisgaar taunted, fully enjoying the experience of seeing Toki squirm under his control—for the second time that night.

Toki looked about ready to explode. "Please sucks my cock, okays? Don't leave mes like dis!"

Skwisgaar gave an exaggerated sigh and propped himself up on one elbow. "All rights, Toki. If you insists…"

Toki lay down beside him, gingerly resting his back against the hump of pillows. Skwisgaar took his cock in his mouth and worked it over loosely, then with more pressure, skipping the gentle licks and nibbles he'd bestowed upon it earlier. Toki wanted to come—and soon—and Skwisgaar was going to make sure he did.

Toki's throaty hums turned into long, low moans as Skwisgaar worked him over generously—pulling out every trick he'd learned about dick-sucking in the past four months—and in a few short minutes Skwisgaar had him straining against his mouth, begging him to go faster, deeper, mmm—ooh, that was right—right there—good, yeah.

Then suddenly Toki's breathing changed, his muscles went rigid, and Skwisgaar gripped his lover's hips with both hands as Toki's back arched and a flood of warm, salty fluid filled Skwisgaar's mouth. There was no exclamation this time, no screaming of obscenities—just the hot, jerky feeling of Toki's body releasing inside him and the post-orgasmic shudder that followed, and then the blissful descent of relaxing muscles beneath Skwisgaar's now-gentle hands.

The candlelight sputtered as if disturbed by an unseen breath, illuminating Toki's lumpy, contented smile and flushed cheeks as Skwisgaar crawled up beside him and pulled him to his chest.

"Now dat… was great," Toki said happily as he tangled his arms and legs around his lover's. Skwisgaar brushed Toki's hair out of his face and planted a light kiss on his forehead.

"Betters than footsballs?" Skwisgaar asked.

"Way betters," Toki agreed, and the two huddled close as the night grew old, needing nothing else for warmth but the heat from each other's bodies and no other sound to lull them to sleep but their steady, quiet breathing in the drowsy darkness of the room.

Kiss and Make-up [Metalocalypse]

Sat, 09 May 2009 20:13:06 GMT

Title: Kiss and Make-up
Author: Cycatryx
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Toki is trying to get ready to play a show, but Skwisgaar won't leave him alone.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Toki dabbed his index finger in the little pot of black goo on the marble countertop and glanced into the bathroom mirror. He drew a rough circle around one pale blue eye, then the other, as he hummed absent-mindedly to himself. He wanted a milkshake. Playing concerts always made him thirsty and sweaty, and he knew a cold, chocolate-and-vanilla-swirl milkshake—with Oreo crumbles!—would make him feel better afterward. He'd tell Jean-Pierre to make him one after the show. But first he had to get ready to play.

Sighing, Toki closed his eyes and ground his knuckles into his eye sockets, spreading the goo around and causing bright yellow and red flecks of pain to dance up from the darkness. Whose ideas was it anyways to use black makeups? he wondered as he gingerly opened his eyes and peered into the mirror at his splotchy raccoon face. The blue-and-white-tiled bathroom behind him looked blurry. Dis damn stuff…dis thick enough to skates on.

He wrinkled his nose at his reflection as a shirtless Skwisgaar unexpectedly strode into the room. Toki glanced at Skwisgaar's reflection, noting the pale, arcing curve of his collarbone, the delicate strength of his torso. He swallowed uncomfortably as the Swede folded his arms and smirked.

"Pfft. Yous not evens ready yet," the lead guitarist scoffed and tossed his head, shaking his long blonde mane so that the overhead light caught its shine.

"Whats you want, Skwisgaar?" Toki asked, looking in the mirror at the tall Swede behind him and trying not to ogle. The problem with Skwisgaar was, it was hard not to stare. But Toki wasn't in the mood to wrestle with his demons just now, and if Skwisgaar was trying to turn this into another pre-concert picking-on-Toki session, he didn't want any part of it.

Skwisgaar leaned against the wall. "I's all out of face paints. I sees you has some."

Toki scowled and turned to face him. "We never runs out of makeups! Every times I uses one up, another ones is there. Like magics!"

Skwisgaar laughed. "You thinks dis make-ups? You is a lady, Toki."

"Shut up, Skwisgaar!" Toki fired back, his voice louder. "Go borrows face paints from somebody else, then!"

Skwisgaar frowned. His shoulders slumped, and he looked suddenly sad. "But I cames all dis way. You really going to turns me outs, Toki?"

Toki rolled his eyes. "You knows your room is right next to mines! You walks maybe ten steps, Skwisgaar!"

Skwisgaar sighed. "I knows it…and my feets is already tired," he lamented, but there was a hint of deviousness in his expression, in the way his mouth twitched up at the corners.

Toki's eyes grew wide—for this was the way Skwisgaar's face usually looked before he made a nasty joke or threw a bottle at someone—but suddenly the Swede launched himself at the vanity and Toki found himself pinned against the marble by Skwisgaar's hips. Skwisgaar grabbed the jar of black goo from the sink and held it high above his head.

"Maybe I just takes your lady-makeups and keeps it for myself!" he taunted as Toki squirmed between his crotch and the edge of the vanity. Toki could tell that Skwisgaar knew it hurt, but it was unclear whether or not he cared.

"I hates you, Skwisgaar!" Toki yelled, and shoved him—hard—so that the Swede fell back unsteadily and toppled into the claw-footed tub that was still full of Toki's bath water. The jar of paint flew from his hand and skidded across the tile, and Skwisgaar's splash caused half of the tub's sudsy contents to spill out onto the floor. As he came up, sputtering and groping blindly at the edge of the tub, a giant smile spread across Toki's face.

"Sees, yous can'ts just push me arounds when you feels like it!" he crowed, and punched the air with his fist. However, the look on Skwisgaar's face as he climbed out of the tub—soaked from pale blonde head to knee-high boot—made Toki instantly regret having done so, and he shrank back against the sink as Skwisgaar approached, dripping fists clenched at his sides.

"Toki, you shoulds not have dones dat," Skwisgaar said threateningly. He brushed his now wet and tangled hair out of his face, and, smooth as a cat, bent down to pick up the jar of goo with one long-fingered hand. Skwisgaar drew it to his chest and dipped his fingers into the black glop as he straightened up. "I don'ts think yous finished with your lady-paints yet," he continued, smiling devilishly (deliciously, Toki's mind supplied, in spite of his fear).

Skwisgaar lunged at him again, teeth clenched, black-stained fingers spread wide, and before Toki knew it there was paint in his hair, on his face, in his Fu Manchu, and—try as he might to wriggle away—Skwisgaar even managed to wipe a long, black streak down the front of his shirt.

"Hey! Dis my only clean shirt!" Toki bellowed in dismay. Grabbing Skwisgaar's wrist and pulling it down, he dug his fingers into the pot and scraped out a handful of goo, which he then slapped across the Swede's face, staining him from forehead to chin.

Skwisgaar spat as the black paint ran down his neck and onto his slick, wet chest. "Spffft! Dis tastes horribles!" Skwisgaar cried, stepping back and wiping a hand across his lips, smearing the goo across his cheekbones. Toki giggled.

"What so funnies, eh, lady?" Skwisgaar scowled at the black-streaked rhythm guitarist as Toki covered his grin with both hands.

"You totally looks like Bravehearts guy," Toki squealed, imagining Skwisgaar clad only in leather gauntlets and carrying a sword. The image was much more appealing than it should have been.

"Toki, you—" Skwisgaar yelled, lunging at the Norwegian and grabbing a fistful of chestnut-colored hair.

"Ahhhhhh!" Toki screamed as Skwisgaar yanked his head down so that it was parallel with the marble vanity. Oh PLEASE don'ts let hims bash in Toki's head, he prayed to Forseti and any other Norse god who would listen.

Just then Charles walked into the room and nearly slipped on the wet floor. "Shit!" he exclaimed as he grabbed at the bathroom wall in an effort to steady himself.

Toki and Skwisgaar froze. Charles looked from Toki to Skwisgaar and then back at Toki, eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"May I…ask what you two are doing?"

Toki tilted his head to look at Skwisgaar, who still had a chunk of his hair wrapped around his hand. Skwisgaar eyed him back, then looked guiltily at Charles.

"You do realize you have to play a concert in less than ten minutes?" their manager asked in his trademark monotone.

"Uhhh…we was just gettings ready for da show?" Skwisgaar offered sheepishly.

Nathan's perpetually-scowling face appeared suddenly behind Charles, taking in the messy bathroom, the soapy floor, and the two oddly-painted guitarists in a single sweep.

"Whoa!" the singer exclaimed, his black-rimmed eyes widening. "Were you two fighting again?"

"Skwisgaar started its!" Toki yelped as the other guitarist tightened his fist around his hair. "Stop its! Yous going to pulls its out!" he pleaded, squirming in Skwisgaar's grasp.

"Oh ja, 'cause you can't be a lady widout your long, pretty hairs," Skwisgaar smirked under his breath.

"Boy, I really really hates you today, Skwisgaar," Toki hissed.

"Hehe," Nathan scoffed, the gravely timbre of his voice buzzing against the tile. He turned and walked out as Charles shook his head. Skwisgaar relaxed his grip on Toki's hair, looking slightly embarrassed at their manager's disapproval.

Nathan poked his head back into the bathroom doorway. "Oh yeah—I forgot to say you guys look really stupid." He paused, scratching his head and halfway grinning. "Uhhhh, yeah. That's all."

With a whoosh of his long, black hair, the singer disappeared again.

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, nudging his glasses askew, and sighed. "You go onstage in five minutes. Clean yourselves up and get ready. And please stop trying to kill each other, at least until the show is over."

He turned on his heel and pulled the door shut behind him with a bang.

Toki and Skwisgaar glared at each other.

"If you just gives me what I ask for in da forst place, I wouldn'ts be doing dis right now," Skwisgaar snarled, curling his fist back into Toki's hair and causing prickles of pain to dance along his scalp.

Toki's eyes widened. "Yous serious? If yous wasn't an asshole, yous wouldn'ts be all wets right now!"

The Swede jerked the Norwegian's head to the side and moved closer.

"Ja? Well if you would listens to me once in a whiles, maybe we wouldn'ts fights with each other so much."

Toki smiled sadly. "You fights with me anyways, Skwisgaar. You loooves to picks on Toki. Everybodys know dats."

Skwisgaar's eyes turned dark (they reminded Toki of the color of the sea during a storm) as he inched closer, closing the gap between them and nudging Toki up against the sink. An uncontrollable rush of heat flashed through Toki's body and settled in his groin. He closed his eyes. Toki could feel himself starting to tighten, and, against his will, he arched against Skwisgaar's hips as the Swede released his hold on his hair and moved his hand to cup the back of his head.

Toki opened his eyes. Skwisgaar's face was dangerously close—his thick, haughty lips were only inches from his own—but that wasn't what this was about; they were in the middle of a fight, for Odin's sake, and he'd better not do anything to give away how he really felt about the position in which they'd wound up.

"You know, Toki—I only fights with you because—" Skwisgaar stopped, and a strange expression came over his face that was a cross between bewilderment and enlightenment.

"—because whats?" Toki asked, not daring to breathe. He didn't want to say anything that was going to get his hair pulled again. Or worse.

But then Skwisgaar's mouth was on his, and things like hair and makeup and wet floors and concerts no longer mattered. Toki's tongue moved along Skwisgaar's smooth, stained lips, not caring about the taste of the paint, only the wet richness of his mouth; and Skwisgaar's hands in his hair, gentle this time; and the burning ache in his loins where the Swede's body pressed up against his. Toki sank into the kiss like a drowning man sinks into the sea when his life has left him; and he could feel goosebumps rise along Skwisgaar's damp, cool skin as he pressed his hands against his back, drawing him into a full and grinding embrace.

But just as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss was over—Skwisgaar broke away, grinning and licking his flushed lips, and the horrible thought crossed Toki's mind that it had all been a joke—just Skwisgaar messing with his head again. But the tall, blonde guitarist tousled the Norwegian's hair playfully and said, "Emedan jag älska du."

"Whats?" Toki sputtered. Skwisgaar grabbed Toki's bath towel from the rack by the tub and draped it over his wet hair. "Whats you say?" Toki cried as the Swede swaggered towards the door. Had he done something wrong again?

With one hand on the doorknob, Skwisgaar turned and fixed his heavily-lidded, gray-blue eyes on Toki's ice-blue ones, and said simply, "Because I hates you too, Toki."

Toki smiled, the first real smile he'd given in a long time, and Skwisgaar, arching one wet, blonde eyebrow, gave him a look that let Toki know he wouldn't be drinking a milkshake after the show that night.