Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.
The Mordhaus rehearsal auditorium was hot and stuffy that summer night. They were all sweaty and tired and sober and wanted to go get wasted and cool off in the pool. The thing is, they all knew they should be rehearsing since their autumn tour—Blood-o-Lantern—was coming up fast and they still sounded like shit. Pickles couldn’t keep the guitarists together or vice versa, Toki was flubbing his rhythms, nothing new there, Skwisgaar was showing off and adding too many licks, ditto for that, and Murderface was just fucking improvising the whole time. Nathan’s last nerve had died hours ago and his patience had already been chucked in a six foot hole a few weeks before.
“Alright guys, ENOUGH,” he snarled, tossing his mic onto the stage where the others watched it crack into lots of pieces. “If you dicks’re not gonna be serious about this then just get the hell outta here and come back when you actually give a shit.”
“Fine,” chirped Pickles, who gratefully tossed his sticks behind himself and moseyed away. Toki and Murderface peeled off their guitars and followed the drummer, and Skwisgaar was in the process of removing his axe when Nathan walked over and wrapped his large hand around the neck of the X-plorer, holding it in place.
“Not you. You’re stayin’ here until you fix those licks.”
Skwisgaar immediately took offense. “What! What’s were wrong wis dems?”
“They sounded terrible.”
“Bullshits! Yours de one-”
“Your playing was loose and sloppy.”
“Who’s are yous to-”
“Like your mom.”
“Okay I agrees wis you dere but-”
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
Nathan nodded matter-of-factly. “That’s why. Here.” He pulled a flask out of his back pocket (he always had something to dampen his throat during rehearsals) and put it in Skwisgaar’s hand. “Take a few swigs and try it again.”
The Swede reluctantly did as he was commanded, wincing at the burn of the alcohol that poured down his gullet. “Ugh,” he muttered. “Taste like somebody’s drunk benzene and pisseds it into dis.” He handed the flask back to Nathan.
“From the top.”
Skwisgaar licked his lips and nodded.
Nathan counted off and the guitarist began his lead, attacking the licks with lesser focus than earlier, with some improvement. When they had gone through one song they moved on to the next. Sometimes they did the song twice before continuing, especially if Skwisgaar’s ad libbing went awry. Then they would go through it slow, then fast, then slow again. Skwisgaar began to show signs of steadily growing fatigue until he finally dropped his hands in the middle of one of the songs and gave Nathan a furious scowl.
“I’s are through,” he stated, just in case the frontman had any doubt. “I’m goings to de bed now.”
“Huh. I don’t think so. You’re stayin’ here ‘til we get this right.”
But the blond had already taken off his guitar and set it in its stand. He tossed his sweat-dampened hair behind his shoulder, smiled facetiously and uttered, “Fuck yous. I’s now leaving. Adjö och godnatt.”
Nathan would really like to see him try; he strode over and dropped his hand onto Skwisgaar’s head, gathered a fistful of hair and pulled it hard. Skwisgaar let out an angry squawk and his arms shot out, fists swinging. Nathan grappled him in both of his big arms, the Swede struggled and writhed, got turned around and accidentally knocked his teeth into Nathan’s chin. It was your average scuffle, nothing special about it. Then Nathan squeezed Skwisgaar close, tight up against him. Their hips suddenly pressed together and everything came to a grinding halt.
Blue eyes, now calm and placid, gazed up into smoldering green ones. “Oh,” Skwisgaar breathed, as if it all made sense now and everything was forgiven. “Okay.”
One hand still knotted in blond hair, Nathan pulled lightly and leaned forward, meeting those full lips halfway, eclipsing that slippery hot mouth with his own. He felt a pair of talented hands grasp his hips for leverage, and the kiss was returned with added hunger. An American tongue caressed a Swedish one; this was the only time Nathan was ever something like gentle. He didn’t like showing that side of himself, so Skwisgaar had learned to take advantage of such brief tenderness, knowing that things were going to get very rough very fast. He was always right about this.
Nathan pulled his lips away and reached around to grab that enviable ass of Skwisgaar’s, provoking an abbreviated bark of surprise. He squeezed hard, digging his fingers into denim and flesh, and nuzzled his face against Skwisgaar’s neck. “I wanna fuck you so bad right now,” he growled dangerously, pulling that ass towards him until a skull-shaped belt buckle was grinding against his fly. “Band’s driving me fuckin’ nuts…need some. Relief.” Another low growl. Nathan nudged his hips forward, making sure the other man felt the extent of his need. “I want you, Skwigelf. I wanna take you right now.”
Skwisgaar had gone quiet, a sign that he was already turned on and willing to yield himself to his bandmate’s desires. He always stopped talking when he got like this—the English-speaking part of his brain seemed to shut down, and all he could do until post-coitus was moan out broken sentences in a language nobody understood. Even Toki would’ve had trouble deciphering sex-drenched Swedish, and his and Skwisgaar’s motherlands were practically sisters. That made them cousins. Sort of.
The blond managed to pry himself out of Nathan’s crushing hold, and started to walk backwards with an arch grin teasing one side of his mouth, leading the way backstage. Nathan leered wickedly and followed, and once they had entered the semi-darkness the larger man grasped Skwisgaar by one wrist and one shoulder and pinned him against the wall.
“Right here. Right in this fuckin’ hallway. C’mere.”
He wrapped his big hand around Skwisgaar’s jaw and kissed him, pressing into him hard. The Swede snaked his bare arms over Nathan’s broad shoulders and allowed his bandmate’s thick thigh to rest between his legs. He nudged his hips receptively, indicating his compliance with Nathan’s dominance. He never had a problem with feeling inferior or insecure in his masculinity when it came to Nathan. Other men, maybe, but everyone knew that Nathan wasn’t a man.
He was an animal.
Nathan brought his free hand down to caress the thin fabric of Skwisgaar’s shirt. There came a broken sigh when the hand rubbed over something unnaturally hard, and Nathan grinned knowingly.
“You wore them today…”
He pulled Skwisgaar’s tucked-in tanktop out of his jeans and jerked it over his head, tossed it to the floor. Flyaway blond hair cascaded over Skwisgaar’s face, disheveled and beautiful, and the steel rings through each of his nipples gleamed red in the light of the exit sign above. Hard metal through soft flesh.
“I love it when you wear these,” Nathan purred like a flesh-eating beast, pinching one ring between his thumb and forefinger and tugging gently. Skwisgaar’s face melted into an expression of delirious lust, and he gripped Nathan’s biceps tightly. He uttered something that Nathan actually understood, having heard it moaned often enough during encounters like these.
“That’s right,” he snarled softly, grinding his hard-on against Skwisgaar’s narrow hips. “Keep begging, Skwigelf. Maybe I’ll listen.”
There came an answering moan with a few foreign words scattered throughout—the slender guitarist slipped his hand between his and Nathan’s bodies and worked his own jeans open as his bandmate continued to work the rings. Nathan helped Skwisgaar with his pants finally, hunching slightly to yank the denim down around his knees. That put him at a convenient height to attack those dusty pink nipples with his mouth—and he did.
Blue eyes rolled back for a moment and Skwisgaar leaned his head against the wall, stared at the ceiling, and grabbed a handful of blacker than black hair in his fist. “Gods damn it,” he groaned, feeling a slippery tongue tease one of the rings. Teeth clamped down on steel and skin, hard enough to produce an effect but light enough not to bleed. Skwisgaar was sobbing for breath at this point; wet lips parted, cheeks colored deeply, sex appeal defined.
But the foreplay wasn’t meant to last. Not when Nathan was this horny. He stood straight again, like a massive shadow rising to wreak havoc, and turned Skwisgaar around so that his cheek was pressed into the wall and his ass was jutting out vulgarly.
“Wait, Naten,” the Swede pleaded. “You’s have to-”
“I got it,” Nathan growled. “Stay still.”
Skwisgaar relaxed a little and waited patiently. By this point in time he’d found it necessary to carry a small thing of all-purpose lubricant with him in his jeans pocket; you never knew when you might need to oil a crankshaft or slip your head out of some rails, or grease up your mangina to accommodate your bandmate’s giant dick. For, as the saying goes, ‘tis better to have lube and not need it than to need lube and not have it.
Skwisgaar felt Nathan’s slippery hand between his asscheeks, large fingers gliding almost playfully in his warm cleft. They penetrated once or twice, just barely enough to make Skwisgaar want to scream for the cock, before retreating altogether. He half-smiled, half-winced in anticipation, bit his lower lip, bracing himself with legs spread wide. Totally and unabashedly wanting it.
Nathan guttered softly and rubbed his throbbing hot dick against Skwisgaar’s fleshy, perfect buttocks before guiding it down with his hand, positioning it just right, and ramming forward with all his might.
“Uh!” cried Skwisgaar. “Nh. Hah! Ah…oh.”
A couple more in-outs to smooth the way, and then there came that final thrust that slid sweetly into place, deliciously slick and tight and warm and right where it fucking counted.
The Swede reeled like a bludgeoned steer at the slaughter as the first shockwave of pure carnal pleasure hit him. “Fffahhh…fffahhhh!” He tried to swear but he’d forgotten how to speak.
Nathan held the narrow white hips in his big, meaty, tan hands as he pounded away like Thor at his anvil. “Gonna fuck you so hard,” he grunted between breaths, long black hair swinging pendulously as his hips thrust forward and back, “you’ll split. Two fuckin’ pieces.”
Skwisgaar pressed his forearm into the wall to have something to rest his head on, lest he get pile-driven through the drywall. He listened to Nathan’s words and reached down between his own legs with his other hand, stroking his straining cock.
These few moments of wallsex were interrupted when Nathan suddenly pulled Skwisgaar upright, turned him slightly, then forced him down to the floor. “On your knees.”
Skwisgaar obeyed, falling onto his hands and knees, but Nathan had other plans; the larger man grasped him by his slender arms and pulled him upright, until his narrow back was pressed tight against Nathan’s enormous chest.
“You’re not a bitch,” came the sultry growl in his ear. “Not till I say you are.”
Nathan brought his hands around to caress Skwisgaar’s lean torso, teasing his nipple piercings while the thrusts from behind came slow and deep. Nathan ducked his head down to rub his face against Skwisgaar’s neck and into his tangled blond hair, lapping and biting and sucking in such a way that the Swede would have done any-fucking-thing that Nathan asked him. And when Nathan pushed Skwisgaar’s hand out of the way and took that pretty cock in his own big fist, and started to stroke it in that way that made Skwisgaar moan like a virgin, it was on. Time for the hardcore, ass pounding, fuck-till-you-collapse final four minutes that was the whole reason two testicles-bearing bandmates had come together in the first place.
It happened fast; Nathan put all his weight behind each thrust, like he wanted to see the head of his dick crack through the top of Skwisgaar’s skull, and swore in single syllables with each rhythmic maneuver. Skwisgaar fell forward onto his palms, unable to steady himself on his aching knees alone, and chanted his worship of the cock that was making him feel so good, so so good. He came violently all over the floor and Nathan’s hand, and about a minute later Nathan came inside of Skwisgaar.
The two paused for a few moments, regaining their sensibility (ha) or something like that. Nathan pulled out, stood to his feet with a grunt and tucked himself in. Skwisgaar attempted to do the same but the vertigo got to him first, making him wobble worse than Pickles after an all-nighter. Nathan managed to catch him on his way back down to the floor, and Skwisgaar said to him, “Thanks.” Nathan steadied the Swede as he pulled up his pants and fastened his belt, retrieved his shirt from the floor and slipped it over his head. He didn’t say another word when he walked out of the hall.
Nathan grinned, watching him leave. He really liked Skwisgaar. He didn’t ruin the moment by fucking talking, he knew how to take the cock, how to suck it and milk it and ride it, and he didn’t stick around afterwards for any of that “cuddling” bullshit. He didn’t want commitment, didn’t want love. He just wanted to have sex, then roll over and go to sleep. Sometimes he even shared his cigarettes. He was every guy’s dream girl. Just cooler and penisier. All this made Nathan like Skwisgaar even more.
Later than night Nathan stopped by Skwisgaar’s room and found him sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in nothing, with his guitar in his lap. The amp was off and he was fingering the strings quietly. This was his before-bed routine.
“Thought you were goin’ straight to bed,” Nathan grunted.
Skwisgaar shrugged lazily. “Ah. Can’ts goes to bed wisout playings a little first.”
Nathan stood in the doorway a while, then walked over the amp sitting on the floor and clicked it on. The middle of Skwisgaar’s lick suddenly rang out in clarity, but the guitarist kept going. Nathan had to fight hard the urge to smile when he realized that the tune Skwisgaar had been having so much trouble with earlier that night was now as smooth and seamless as a pane of black glass.
He got a little bit carried away then and said, “You’re fuckin’ awesome.”
Skwisgaar looked up blankly and blinked. “Thanks.”
A lot of awkward ensued after that until Nathan drew a long breath and rumbled something about joining the rest of the guys at the jacuzzi. Then he left.
Skwisgaar stayed up a little bit longer, playing quietly, working on some new things he was going to try to incorporate into future songs. This idle tinkering was meditative, gave him time to think. He thought about lots of things now, but only one of them made him smile. In a little while he turned off his amp and the lights and went to sleep.
Even the perfect need a little bit of practice now and then.