Small Favor
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Do not allow a camel to put his nose under the edge of your tent, for soon you will have a camel in your tent. 
–Arabian proverb

Nobody knew why they were having a meeting today at 11:00 in the morning. It was practically the middle of the goddamn night by Mordhaus standards. Toki was still in his PJs and Pickles, in his tighty whities, hadn’t stirred from his position draped on the meeting table with his head cradled in his arms. Murderface was carving intricate patterns into the mahogany surface—the equivalent of doodling while you’re on the telephone—as he listened to Ofdensen drone on about something-or-other policies and updating waivers and W-2s for the employees and all of that corporate bureaucratic bullshit that turns sane people into axe murderers.

Nathan glared at their manager and tried to keep his eyelids from falling closed. He, like the rest of the band, was tired and hungover and just wanted to crawl back into bed like any normal man and wake up when the hour was decent. Like around 2 PM. Skwisgaar, guitar oddly absent, sat with his arms crossed and no expression on his face throughout the whole meeting, which was already two forevers too long. Mercifully it ended to the relief of all, and Ofdensen headed out the double doors followed by the members of the band who seemed to be walking the pace of a funeral dirge. Nathan was the last to leave his seat, stretching as he did so and cracking a few joints in his neck, somehow failing to notice the anxious way that a certain pair of eyes were looking at him.

“Naten,” said the Swede difficulty, “I needs to asks yous…a small favour from yous.”

Usually the dark haired man would mutter “piss off” or “do it yourself, asshole”, but there was a high note in Skwisgaar’s normally smooth, low voice that he had never heard before. Made him think something was wrong. Nathan was right of course, but he wouldn’t find out until later.

“Yeah?” he asked hesitantly.

Skwisgaar, same old Skwisgaar, same shirt jeans boots belt Skwisgaar, same pale skin wavy blond hair blue eyes Skwisgaar, stood there and stared at Nathan. Then he said something. Couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7 words, always sounded like more with Skwisgaar. Words that were not same.

Nathan didn’t breathe for two beats. Then he laughed once, harshly. Fucking wiseass. Then he saw the serious expression and everything suddenly got real quiet. Heart rate skyrocketed. Heat rose. Palms sweated. Mouth dried.

“You…really,” he stated, not questioned.

Skwisgaar nodded resolutely.

Four minutes later the Swede was leaning over the table, moist palms skidding on the lacquered wood, pants bunched around his knees, clenching his teeth and purring as Nathan fucked his sweet, tight ass. The table thumped hollowly with each thrust; Nathan dug his fingers into the pale-as-sugar thighs and watched with voracious satisfaction as his cock slid in and out of that warm pink hole, a hardened rouge muscle undulating between those two fleshy mounds of vanilla.

He was salivating like a dog who had caught the scent of fresh meat, more surprised at himself and what he was doing than what Skwisgaar was allowing him to do; the guitarist was as promiscuous as that tawdry slut he called a mother, so it didn’t really surprise Nathan that he would ask for this. He didn’t know why Skwisgaar would ask it, didn’t want to know, didn’t care to know. Don’t question anything that’s free.

Skwisgaar moaned softly, little grunts and sighs, when Nathan changed his angle or shoved himself all the way inside. Slender back arched, shirt riding up and revealing the line of gentle lumps that was his backbone. Thin muscles shifting beneath the skin. Blood and bones and flesh. Just another human body. But Skwisgaar’s. Lean fingers went shaking rigid; he would have put 10 marks in the table if he had any nails, but they were all chewed down to the quick. Hidden anxiety. Everybody saw but nobody asked. They all had demons. Skwisgaar was no exception. Maybe nobody gave a damn anymore. Too busy trying to manage their own shit to care about anyone else’s.

Nathan finally spoke, and it was the only thing he said during this whole process: “I’m about to cum. You wanna-”

“Insides,” Skwisgaar interrupted roughly. “In me. Do its.”

Nathan swallowed, thought about his dick, about Skwisgaar’s tight little boy-pussy, about cumming all up in this body that had probably never been cum in before. He grunted, groaned, squeezed Skwisgaar’s hips in his big hands and slammed in out, in out. Skwisgaar pinched his lips tight and shut his eyes, the pain sometimes drowning out the pleasure. It would happen in waves, making it worth it and also so fucking crazy—why was he doing this, not now, don’t think, just bite your lip baby and never mind those tears, you’re not bleeding so bad…

Restraint gave way and he let out a sob that turned into a low-pitched wail, the friction taking place in his body too much to bear silently. One sweaty hand slipped, went out from under him, he fell forward and his face and upper chest collided with the table. He hit his nose hard and bright blue-red blossoms exploded behind his shut eyes. Nathan kept going. The angle had changed; it was a lot more intense now, the pain and the pleasure. There was a soundtrack of gasp, yelp, moan, yelp. And then Nathan came at last, pouring his load into Skwisgaar and growling deep in his throat like thunder. He leaned forward hard, pressing his pelvic bones into the squishy flesh, making sure that the Swede felt every last centimetre of the cock inside him. A few more courtesy thrusts and he pulled out, wiped off, tucked in, zipped up, stepped back.

Skwisgaar let out a gentle whoosh of a sigh, lifting himself on shaking arms and turning to face Nathan. He leaned back against the table and avoided the questing green eyes of his bandmate, combing a few locks of blond hair behind his ear uncharacteristically.

“Hey,” said Nathan quietly, tapping a thumb to his own nose to indicate Skwisgaar’s. The guitarist quickly lifted a hand to inspect it,  somewhat startled to find a thick rivulet of blood running down his upper lip; faceplanting into the table must have torn something delicate. He tried to wipe it off and only succeeded in smearing red all over his mouth.

Nathan watched the motions with curiosity, then his eyes travelled downwards to the pants that were still bunched around the slender thighs, noticing that Skwisgaar was still hard—he’d never orgasmed. Now Nathan felt a little bit guilty; he was supposed to do Skwisgaar the favour but instead it had worked out more to his own advantage…and at least he didn’t have a bleeding busted nose. Skwisgaar deserved a little something for letting Nathan cum inside him.

He stepped forward, Skwisgaar’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Nathan put his hands on the bare hips and lifted him easily, sitting him on the edge of the table. Skwisgaar didn’t resist; his hands automatically landed on the broad shoulders and stayed there. Blue eyes met green ones as Nathan reached down and grasped Skwisgaar’s cock in his large hand, evoking an almost inaudible grunt. He began stroking and pulling, and he felt the hands on his shoulders grip the fabric of his shirt.

“Yous don’t…haffs to do dis,” said the Swede lowly.

“I need to,” Nathan muttered, then let go of the cock and held his hand to Skwisgaar’s face. “Spit.”

But he didn’t spit—he licked. Opened his mouth and dragged his wet tongue across Nathan’s palm, eyes half closed, though it seemed more methodical, an act of necessity rather than passion. Nathan watched, felt his dick throb in his jeans and was surprised at himself. It was sexy, no doubt about it, but it still wasn’t right. Then again, what the hell was “right” anyway?

With hand moistened, he gripped Skwisgaar’s erection and set to work, trying to find out what he liked best. Silently learning little things about him that nobody else ever bothered to ask, groupies and friends alike, what few friends he had. And they were few. Groupies were even worse: nothing but brainless dick fodder, nameless fuck toys that were more objects than people. They had only labels—MILFs, GMILFs, FBLs—but they didn’t care. Getting nailed by an insanely rich and talented young man, who would? It was a shallow business, sure, but people weren’t interested in love anymore. It was cheap and full of holes. Love had gone to Vegas and died there. Life went on.

Nathan inched closer and Skwisgaar pulled him forward a few more. Their closeness was dangerously intimate, full of silent and terrifying thoughts that the human mind couldn’t help thinking about. Skwisgaar began to breathe raggedly through his blood stained lips, eyes falling half closed. “Jaaa,” he whispered, drawing the word out in a tremulous breath.

Nathan’s free hand slipped around Skwisgaar’s side, under his shirt, painted fingernails scratching the small of his back lightly. Somehow the Swede’s face found its way to the warm crook of Nathan’s neck, his arms wrapped tightly over the larger man’s shoulders. Dangling boots were slyly shucked off, dropped to the floor. Tangled pants soon followed, and then those slender milk-white legs wrapped themselves around Nathan’s warm hips.

There was no red line that spoke of how far was too far. That was the problem. There were no stages, no steps, no levels, no clear definition of what was reasonable. The process just naturally occurred; once something had been achieved it only made sense to continue until the goal was met. Nathan was trying to get Skwisgaar to cum but it was more difficult that he thought. So he tried different tactics, one after the other.

Skwisgaar lost his shirt and was now naked but for his black socks. Nathan pressed his cheek to the Swede’s and nuzzled, his cock growing harder and hotter with every passing second. Soon their lips met and a red flag seemed to raise, but they found a way to sneak around it. Nathan licked the blood from Skwisgaar’s mouth, a carnal gesture. The licking turned to sucking turned to kissing and suddenly there wasn’t an inch of space between their two bodies anymore. Pressed flush against one another they started to grind, Skwisgaar mumbling wordlessly at the hard pain he received from the crotch of Nathan’s jeans. That led to the cock coming out again, which in turn led to a change in focus, which ultimately led to Skwisgaar being laid flat out on the table with his legs wrapped around Nathan as the frontman fucked him for a second time.

The cum already inside Skwisgaar made it much more comfortable—Sloppy Seconds, but sloppy was good in this case. Nathan could see the expressions on the guitarist’s face, more wanton than pain-filled this time around. Skwisgaar raised his arms and stretched his lean, wiry body across the width of the table, pale gold hair spread in tangled tendrils beneath him, smiling slightly as he was rocked by each thrust.

“Jaa,” he repeated hazily, almost to himself. “Du känns så bra inuti mig1

Seeing the Swede so pleased made Nathan feel better. He didn’t realise how far this little favour had taken him, was taking him, would take him. If he’d known beforehand where this would lead, he would never have agreed to it. But he didn’t know beforehand, so that was nothing more than a fantasy now.

The lithe back arched, blond eyebrows pushed together, and Skwisgaar uttered Nathan’s name as he came. Hard. Thick drops spattered on Nathan’s belly, most of it on Skwisgaar. Watching his bandmate writhe in the throes of ecstasy, hands spasming and chest heaving, limbs trembling, Nathan came shortly thereafter, filling Skwisgaar again.

As the guitarist lay there limply, panting for breath, Nathan felt the urge to touch him. So he did. Large hands rested gently on the Swede’s chest then massaged their way down, feeling the rise and fall as he breathed, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, feeling the smooth and sharp contours of flesh and bone. A human being. Skwisgaar’s nail-chewed and gifted hands landed on Nathan’s and stayed there. After a while he sat up gingerly, they parted, and Nathan bent down to retrieve Skwisgaar’s clothes. As he dressed they never once looked at each other. It wasn’t shame that prevented this, but fear of something else entirely different.

Skwisgaar pulled his shirt over his head and adjusted his unruly hair. His nose was still seeping blood but Nathan had licked most of it off. They’d just swapped DNA and acted as if it wasn’t really that big of a deal. It wasn’t really, was it? It was just a favour.

“T’ank yous,” Skwisgaar said awkwardly. “I really needsted dat.”

“No problem,” Nathan grunted.

A brief silence fell. Skwisgaar looked at Nathan but Nathan didn’t look at him. “Its were really goods. Maybe I’s…ones day do somet’ings to makes de favour returns, ja?”

Nathan raised his head and tried to glare but found it impossible. A bond had already been formed. Grain of sand in an oyster. Irritating and horrible, painful even. But in the end…

“Whatever,” Nathan muttered.

Next month Skwisgaar needed another favour. The next month two. Three weeks later one in the rehearsal auditorium. Two weeks later another in the Mordhaus garage. Six days later Skwisgaar went into Nathan’s room and didn’t come out until the next morning.

A year had now passed. The game of favours was still being played. Everybody had to know by now. Maybe they knew and didn’t care. It wouldn’t surprise Nathan. Shit like this happens all the time. 

Chapter Endnotes: 1. Swedish; "you feel so good inside me".

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