#i had the most fun drawing skwisgaar

[marshmcore]

❤️‍🔥Dethklok in my fits!!!❤️‍🔥 (WIP)

This was deliciously indulgent, i had so much fun making these. As stated, this is a WIP, so please excuse the sketchyness (especially my poor attempts to draw my band tees lulz). I’m gonna color these once midterms are over with!

[skrunksthatwunk]

save me ladyklok save me

[imaginesofmtl]

The boys reactions to accidentally falling asleep with/on them?

Oh, this is such a sweet one! Thank you! (Also I feel like it’s so obvious which characters are my favorites to write for, I’m sorry lol)

Nathan feels your head thump down on his shoulder and looks at you in confusion. You fell asleep? So early? The two of you had been watching TV and sharing some junk food. He shrugs and tries to wake you up, but you’re out. Instead of turning off the TV, though, he clicks the volume lower and puts an arm over you. Once or twice you wake up for just a second when he laughs too loud at something, but otherwise it’s a peaceful rest and you feel secure with his heavy arm around you.

You and Pickles are smoking in his bedroom and having fun, sprawled out on his mattress and giggling together. You’re resting back on his stomach, using him as a pillow, when suddenly you just feel so tired. Pickles is in the middle of rambling on and on about some old band he used to party with, and when you don’t crack up at the end of the anecdote, he peeks down at you and realizes you fell asleep! A nap sounds pretty damn good, actually, so he puts out his joint and decides to doze with you.

Skwisgaar is playing his guitar in the back of the limo as he and the guys and a few friends of the band drive home from a long night out. It’s quiet and dark back there. The excitement is over for the day, and most everyone in the car are nodding off in one way or another. As Skwisgaar continues to softly play he notices your eyes closing and your posture relaxing. Just as you’re about to fall asleep at some weird angle, he pauses his playing to draw your head down onto his shoulder, and that’s where you stay until the limo pulls up at Mordhaus.

Toki wore you out big time today. An amusement park, dinner, dancing and drinking afterwards. Now the two of you are back at the hotel playing video games on the suite’s TV. Toki’s showing no signs of slowing down or getting tired, but you want to sleep so bad. You tell him you’ll sit the next round out and just watch him play, but you make the mistake of putting your head down on his lap. Within minutes you’re fading in an out, missing chunks of the game, but his thigh is just too comfy. Just before you really go under you feel a hand petting your hair like a cat.

Murderface has no idea what to do when you fall asleep on his shoulder. You’d been helping the guys with the new album, offering a fresh pair of ears on a few problem spots, but before too long Pickles and Nathan got into a long conversation and brought the rehearsal to a standstill. Skwisgaar and Toki went off and practiced their parts together, which left you and Murderface on the sofa, and now he’s blushing and silently panicking because your cheek is smooshed against his arm. He tries to raise his arm up, but that only invites you to snuggle in closer and put your head on his chest. He keeps trying to whisper “Guysch? Hey guysch?” as loud as he can in the hopes of getting some help, but to no avail. He’s stuck with you.

You and Charles don’t often pull all-nighters, but sometimes the work demands it, and you don’t mind helping him. But it’s tiring, monotonous work, with papers and folders spread over the table by the couches. Around 1 AM both of you start yawning despite the pot of strong coffee Charles has a klokateer bring up to the office. Finally he concedes...”Perhaps we should, ah, sleep in shifts. By all means, you go first.” You feel a bit guilty about taking a nap and leaving him to work, but you curl up beside him on the couch with a throw pillow. Before too long, though, you stretch out in your sleep and unknowingly drape your legs across his lap. An hour later when you wake up, there’s Charles, going through receipts and spreadsheets, using your shins as a second table.

The latest Klokikon was a bust, and Magnus is beside himself in anger as you help him pack up his stall. All the way back to his apartment he’s complaining, ranting about the band, the fans, anything and everything. And it doesn’t stop. Long into the night he’s still trying to hold your attention with conspiracy theories and rumors and whatever else his mind grasps at in its desperate rage. He sits at the edge of the couch, hunching over his laptop, furiously typing on some forum or another. You don’t know what to do to calm him down besides just listening to him and being there and waiting for him to run out of steam. You run out first, though, resting against his back where you’ve been looking over his shoulder at the computer. In the morning, you wake up on the couch covered in blankets. And there’s Magnus sitting on the coffee table, exhausted, the wind finally blown out of his sails, with a box of apology donuts.

[failedintsave]

Ok fine, fine ok. It's Nategaar hours around here today, and I need it to stay out of my current project so here's me purging it from my system til it resurfaces with vengeance in probably like a day.

You Spin Me Round

The rattling of the window panes was audible even over the bass of Murderface's boom box, rain blowing almost horizontally in tropical storm gales. But seasoned Floridians weren't afraid of a little stormy weather, as proven by the groups of drenched partygoers who continued to filter through the door of their crowded apartment.

Nathan weaved his way through the sea of bodies, returning from the keg with four Solo cups balanced overhead, trying his best not to spill everything down his arms. He squeezed into the corner where most of his band stood gathered around a wooden cable spool he'd taken from his dad's hardware shop, the tabletop littered with a scattered deck of cards, an overflowing ashtray at it's center.

"Who the fuck are some of these people?" He grumbled as he approached, passing out beers to waiting hands.

"Shit, man, idunnoe. I invited some chicks from deh show, and I know Magnus told some folks to come back, but deh rest?" Pickles shrugged. "Stuffs closin' fer deh weather I think, people lookin' fer something ta do."

He grunted, handing a cup over to Murderface next to him before reaching across the table to pass the last beer to Skwisgaar wedged between two fawning groupies.

"Shoulda put someone at the door to take money for cups, they're draining the keg." He took a slug of foamy beer, glaring down into the contents. "And there's no room to play games or do anything."

"Juscht play drink-the-beer, who needsch a game for that?"

"Auuuggh that's boring. And besides, I'm really good at that game and we'll run out of beer faster."

"He ams gots a good points."

Pickles rubbed his chin in consideration before snapping his fingers, a proverbial lightbulb going off over his head. "I gaht it."

He scurried off, slipping easily through the throng of bodies towards his room. They watched him disappear, barely a glimpse of fiery red hair visible over the shoulders of their so-called guests. After a few minutes he reappeared with a Cheshire grin and a green bottle of whiskey. He held up his first two fingers, a single die pinched between them.

"Alright, I've gaht a game fer us. First step, we empty dis bottle." He cracked the top and handed it to Nathan. "As you were deh inspiration fer dese shenanigans, you may do de honors."

"Perfect." Nathan tipped the bottle back and took a long pull, passing it off to Murderface to share around the circle as Pickles continued.

"Next t'ings, we need a couple extra players, ot'erwise dis will get real predictable quick." He stood on tiptoes, waving over a few familiar faces from their show. He flagged Magnus down, but the guitarist didn't move.

"What do you want?" He shouted across the room.

"Come play a game!"

"What game?"

"Russian roulette, whaddya think? A party game!"

"What game?" Magnus repeated, moving slightly closer.

"Spin deh bottle!"

That stopped Magnus in his tracks. "Nope. Not this again. Fool me once, shame on you. Hard pass."

Murderface sputtered as he handed off the bottle down the line. "Hold on, what wasch that?!"

Ignoring him, Pickles threw his arms up at the goateed guitarist. "Why not?!" Magnus shook his head and turned back, melting into the crowd. "Ah yeh fuckin' killjoy, fine den!"

Nathan frowned, tracking the bottle's progress around the circle. "Uh, Pickles. Why exactly did you think we'd wanna play that? Together? Do we look like middle schoolers?"

"It's fun! Dere's stakes!" He slapped the die onto the table, smirking around at his audience. "Me an' Tony an' de guys made up dis version back in deh day."

Skwisgaar wiped his mouth on the back of a slender wrist, handing the liquor down to the woman next to him. "Sos you always play deh kissingk games wif your bands?" To Nathan's ear he didn't sound put off, merely curious.

Murderface, meanwhile, was less impressed. "That'sch totally gay! We can't play thisch together, what'sch wrong with you?!"

"Eh, it's just a goof we made up, touring ain't all blowjobs and snortin' coke off tits, sometimes ya just wanna have fun." Pickles reached out and poked Murderface in the belly. "Wouldja lemme finish explainin' deh rules before ya quit?"

The bottle made it's way back to the drummer and he tilted his head back for several long chugs, holding the glass up to the light and sloshing the liquid around. He nodded and handed it off to Nathan again with a wink. Frowning, Nathan took another long draw. He wasn't going to be the first of them to back down from this idea, even if it was stupid.

"Okey, so here's why dis game is different. Dere's two parts." He indicated the die and the bottle with a flourishing gesture. "First you roll de dice. On a one, two er three, it's normal rules. Little smackaroonie. No big deal. Four an' five, ya elevate it a little bit. Makeout, pull some hair, whatever."

"Oooookaaay I think maybe Murderface was right about this." Nathan looked around at his bandmates. True there were almost twice as many girls at the table than them, but he wasn't sure he cared for the odds.

"Schee?!"

"Oh waaaaah, you buncha babies! Yer the one who said you were bored! Let's see whet you can come up with!"

"I'll plays."

Nathan's head jerked to face Skwisgaar across the table. The blonde wore an amused smirk as he focused on Pickles, a faint flush on his cheeks from the alcohol. He cocked his head to the side, accepting the drummer's challenge, golden waves cascading over his shoulder as he moved. Of course that smug bastard would play, this game sounded like a routine Thursday for him.

With a heavy sigh, Nathan's eyes shifted back to the drummer. "Alright. So what's six?"

Pickles grinned impishly. "Oh we call six 'Make It Look Good.' Thirty seconds on deh clock or til ev'rybody else makes ya stahp."

"What the actual fuck, Pickles."

"Ah-ah! Lemme finish! You have options!" He ticked off on his fingers. "One through three you can skip fer a shot. Four an' five you chug a beer. And six…"

The group around the table leaned as one, craning their necks expectantly in the drummer's direction. His eyes flashed as he snickered.

"If you want outta six, yeh gotta run a naked lap around the apartment building."

Thunder boomed outside as if to punctuate the final rule.

"Schon of a bitsch. We need more schotsch if we're doing thisch. I'm gonna get fucked up."

Pickles produced a second bottle and slammed it down on the table in front of him.

"Where were you keeping that?"

"Don't ask questions, are we playin' or what?"

The initial bottle finished it's second loop, landing in Nathan's palm again. With a grunt, he slugged the last of the booze and slammed the bottle onto it's side in the center of the table.

"God I wish there was room to play pong right now…" he picked up the dice and rolled.

The game didn't go nearly as badly as he'd expected, and after several rounds of making out with hot girls and taking shots to avoid kissing his bandmates Nathan was really starting to enjoy himself. Defying statistics, the only six rolled so far had been between two of the girls, and they'd all cheered like hooligans.

And then the fickle dice gods reconsidered their influence.

"Alrights, my toirns." Skwisgaar, who hadn't yet opted out of any of his rolls but was starting to get fairly tipsy regardless, snatched up the dice and shook it in Nathan's face, squinting one eye and grinning. He dropped it, four pips staring back up at him. Laughing, he gave the bottle a rapid spin.

It whirled and Nathan found himself holding his breath, eyes glued to the bottle, a little confused about what he was hoping would happen. Slowly, slowly the neck of the bottle came to rest pointing at Pickles.

"Uh-ohhhh, ya think the keg is tapped? Ya might be outta luck pal." The drummer laughed, pumping pierced brows at the blonde.

"Pfffft, shuts up." Skwisgaar leaned past one of the giggling girls, seizing a handful of Pickles' shirt and hauling him forward into an open-mouthed kiss. Nathan stared as they pulled apart, his skin heating and head swimming with whiskey.

"Well okey den," Pickles stroked his chin, nodding sagely. "Now I see whet all deh fuss is about, nyeheheh."

Swaying upright again, Skwisgaar clumsily flung his hair back over his shoulder. "Whats can I says, I ams a master ats everyt'ings I dedicates my times to."

"Scho like, two thingsch."

"Ams better den no t'ings."

"Hey!"

Nathan zoned out, staring at the table for the next few turns, snapped back to attention by Murderface's repeated 'No, no, no no!' as Pickles rolled a three and landed on him.

"A'right, yer turn Nate." The drummer smirked, sliding the bottle and the die across the table.

"Ugh, are we still playing this? When is it over?"

"Aw aments Nat'ans havingk any funs?"

He raised his eyes to the willowy guitarist across from him. Skwisgaar's thin arms were crossed over his chest, hip popped jauntily to the side. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his high forehead from the dense mugginess of the apartment, a teasing smile playing over his lips, bruised pink from being crushed against Pickles'. With an effort, Nathan tore his gaze away and redirected it towards the table.

"Fine. Whatever." He started the bottle spinning with more force than necessary, rolling the dice as it rotated.

Six.

Shit.

The rest of the table was already hooting in glee as the bottle spun down, slowing, taking an agonizingly long time to stop. Finally it came to rest at twelve o'clock.

Pointing at Skwisgaar.

The table erupted.

"OH SCHIT! Can't drink your way outta thisch one!"

"Nyeeeeheheheheh! Now's tha real show!"

"Oh dear sweet lord." Nathan covered his face with his hands, cheeks burning already.

"Hey you have an advantage, everything he does looks good." 

"Why t'anks you, what was you names again? Monicas?"

"Yeh could always take the second option agin?" Pickles offered, biting back a laugh as he patted Nathan's shoulder.

His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, and something like pre-show jitters fluttered in his stomach, arms and legs tingling. 

"Huehuehuehhue, ams lookingk pretty nastys out dere." Skwisgaar's drunken chuckle was underlined by another peal of thunder, window panes jumping in their casings. "Yous gonna gets blowed away."

Fuck that.

He dropped his hands away from his face, narrowing his eyes at the smirking blonde. "Fine. You dildoes want a show?"

His audience yelped as he reached down, grabbing the edge of the wooden spool and throwing it aside, playing cards and ashtray scattering to the floor, bottle toppling to the ground and shattering. Nathan lunged forward, relishing the shocked widening of blue eyes before impact.

Fighting against muscle memory of past football tackles, he grappled Skwisgaar against his broad chest, wrapping his arms beneath the other man's flailing limbs, his palms cradling bony shoulder blades. He walked the blonde backwards into the corner, pressing him into the wall.

"Timer! Start deh count!"

"No don't, I've scheen enough already, augh!"

As Skwisgaar recovered from the initial shock of being sacked, the natural showman in him awoke. Fire coursed over Nathan's scalp as calloused fingers threaded into his hair, holding his head steady as Skwisgaar turned to deepen the kiss. Nathan's clenched jaw unlocked and his lips parted before he could overthink it.

"...seven, eight, nine..!"

The sound of their onlookers counting faded into the background, drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears. He pushed a knee forward between Skwisgaar's thighs, catching a long leg as it wrapped behind his and hiking it up to his hip, leaving the blonde standing one legged like an albino flamingo.

"...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen..!"

Skwisgaar bit down on Nathan's bottom lip and something in him broke, a cage door swinging open on its hinges. A growl rumbled in his chest as he reached down and grabbed the guitarist's other leg, hauling it up to his waist, lifting the other man from the floor as easily as he would carry groceries up from his car.

"... twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…!"

Fingers clawed into the material of his shirt, scratching against his back. The sudden urge to carry Skwisgaar away from the party, to drag him back to his cave like a neanderthal, blindsided Nathan and his muscles locked. Sensing the end of their performance, Skwisgaar sighed into his mouth, the pressure of his lips softening as he started to pull back.

"Thirty! Dat's time!" Pickles howled a laugh. "Holy shit guys, dat's game. Ain't nobody gonna top dat act, even if you hadn't broke deh bottle!"

Nathan opened his eyes as they broke off, the heated blue gaze in front of him driving any and all coherent thoughts from his brain. Gingerly, he released one of Skwisgaar's legs, then the other, white boots touching down on the floor, toe-heel, toe-heel. Standing once again under his own power, a slow, crooked smile stretched across Skwisgaar's face, a breathy chuckle shaking his shoulders once. It took every ounce of willpower Nathan possessed to tear his eyes away from the curve of those full lips, and he turned to face the other two members of his band.

Murderface had his eyes squeezed closed, cracking one to peek. "Isch it over? Are they done?"

Frowning, Nathan grunted through his nose like a bull, stomping forward to snatch the second bottle of liquor from the bassist's hands. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he retreated wordlessly to his bedroom, passing Magnus on the way out.

The older guitarist shook his head, curly mane swishing. "I coulda told ya… every time Pickles tries to pl--"

"Just. Don't." Nathan pushed through the hall, evicting the gaggle of strangers standing around in his room and slamming the door behind him.

Hours later, after the storm had slowed to only a downpour and the party had fizzled out, Nathan lay awake on his back, staring at the ceiling. From the second his door had closed behind him, his brain had flipped from a crawl to light speed, hurtling through thousands of moments from the last couple of years, all of them centered on interactions with his lead guitarist. Slender fingers brushing against his own as he passed the tv remote, blonde hair tickling against his arm as they drove with the windows down, the nervous fluttery feeling in his belly at the sound of a dorky, throaty chuckle.

Nathan ground the heels of his palms against his eye sockets hard enough to see stars. How long? When did these thoughts start popping up? And when had he started stomping them down, locking them away without acknowledgement? Sure, Skwisgaar was hot, he wasn't blind, he could admit that much. But this wasn't that, this was...he didn't know what this was.

But he needed to find out.

Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he crept out to the door directly across the hall. He started to knock, then paused, not wanting to wake anyone else in the apartment. Nathan turned the knob and cracked the door enough to wedge his face into the gap.

"Hey. Psst. Skwisgaar, you in here?" Another thought struck him, an irrational jealous pang vibrating through him. "Uh, you alone?"

The red glow of a digital clock was the only source of light in the guitarist's bedroom, a faint silhouette shifted on the bed, backlit in flashes by the blinking 12:00.

"Nat'ans?" came a groggy voice from the covers. "What ams you doing up? What times am it?" He rolled to check the useless clock and groaned in exasperation.

"Can... can I..?" He didn't wait for an invitation, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, leaning back against it and clutching the door knob like an anchor.

As his eyes adjusted he could see Skwisgaar sit up, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to wake up. Nathan chewed his bottom lip, the flesh tender in an not-unpleasant way. For the second time tonight his mind blanked on him completely.

"What's de matters?"

He swallowed. "Uh."

"Nat'ans?"

"Uhhhh."

Skwisgaar waited, studying him in the dark, giving him time to organize his thoughts. It was something Nathan had always appreciated about the Swede, having (mostly) learned a second language, he understood the occasional difficulties Nathan ran into expressing himself verbally.

"I uh. Earlier."

"Ja."

"I didn't. I didn't think that."

Skwisgaar shifted on the bed, turning to fully face Nathan, still waiting patiently.

"That it would…"

"Hm?"

Nathan inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing the last words out in a rush. "Wouldbelikethatthefirstime."

He waited, certain that Skwisgaar would brush it off, dismiss it as nothing, a game. Or worse, that he'd laugh. Nathan held his breath, ready to bolt in embarrassment. This was stupid, he was stupid, what had be been thinking, it had been a game, it meant nothing.

"Ams you sayingk you wants a do-overs?"

He could hear the smile in the other man's voice, cadence low and teasing, but without cruelty. Playful.

"I-I uh." He'd used up his words for the day, instead opting for a jerky nod.

A ghostly white hand reached out in the dark, forefinger crooking, beckoning him.

"Come heres den." As Nathan shuffled forward he could see Skwisgaar's eyes shining like a cat's. "Ams a firm believer dats practice make perfects."

[little-murmaider]

@cthene @squeeto and @failedintsave have written three distinct flavors of Skwistok Apocalypse Fic and they all live in my head rent free so I felt like doing a lil end-of-the-world scene. (If a modified version of this pops up in the Stay Alive sequel that doesn’t exist shh shh shh shut up ❤️) 

The bunker didn’t offer much in the way of creature comforts. A holdover from the Cold War, it was 1500 square feet of steel buried beneath four stories of cement. There were suggestions it had been built for a group, but there was only one bed—a twin cot that only Pickles could fit on comfortably, though Toki made due if he tucked in his knees. The bar and the armory were fully stocked. A connection to the outside world was available via a 360-degree live feed of the surface, visible from a claustrophobic surveillance room. It wasn’t impenetrable, but it was a lucky find. And until they received marching orders from Offdensen, it was home. The only spray of color amongst the sterility was a faded, amateur mural canvasing the entirety of the southwest wall. A panorama of the snowy, mountainous Montana landscape. The proportions are all out of wack: Distant trees and prominent foreground boulders seem to have the same weight and dimension. Toki sits on the floor opposite it, eyes fixed on the blobby bug-eyed buffalo grazing the sorta serene-ish tableau. He thinks of the person who painted this. How they were probably really proud of it. How making it probably brought them some form of peace. How they were long dead. The despair makes him nauseous.  Skwisgaar is curled in the space between Toki’s legs, head resting on his chest, arms wound lightly around his waist. They all agreed to take turns “keeping watch” in the surveillance room.  But everyone was on-edge, everyone was scared, everyone was a little too focused on their own anxiety to notice how deftly Skwisgaar switched shifts. His impulse to assuage the others often tipped into the unhealthy territory but in the last few weeks it had made a full tilt into self-destruction. He’d been holed up in that room, delirious with sleep deprivation, for almost two days days before Toki caught on. He was only convinced to leave when Toki started crying. (He’s not proud of that tactic, but hey, it’s the end of the world. Lots of people are doing lots of things they’re not proud of.) As he idly plays with the ends of Skwisgaar’s hair, Toki hears the echo of footfalls drawing near. They’re so swift, so light, Toki knows exactly who it is well before the worn sneakers appear in his periphery. “Hey,” Pickles says. “Heys,” Toki answers. A half-empty handle of vodka dangles from Pickles’s fingers. He tips his chin at Skwisgaar’s sleeping form. “Why doncha take th’bed?” “Nathan’s using its.” Pickles nods and takes a long pull from his drink. A beat passes.  “…That buffahlo is pretty fucked up, huh?” “I can’ts stops looking at its.” “I’ve never SEEN a buffahlo in real life but I’m,” he pauses, squinting to calculate, “73 percent sure they don’ look like that.” “Onlys 73 per-cents?”  Pickles shrugs. “I mean, hey, maybe buffahlos look exactly like that, I dunno whut I dunno.” Toki’s silent laughter shakes him. But then a muffled moan vibrates against his collarbone. “Toki?” He murmurs, sluggishly starting to rise. He code-switches on instinct. To answer in English, with an audience, is too raw. “Jeg er her.” He cups the base of Skwisgaar’s skull and guides him back to his chest. “Gå tilbake til sengs.” Skwisgaar’s hold tightens. “Lämna mig inte.” “Aldri, elskede.”  He settles against him and sighs. “Tack, älskling.”  Skwisgaar’s weight sinks into him, and after a few moments his muscles relax as his breathing falls into a slow, even rhythm. Again, it is quiet. “Whut does it mean?” Oh right Pickles is here. “Whats?” “Th’ e word and th’ a word you guys use fer each other.” Toki freezes. “At least I think they start wit’ an e and an a, I can’t be bothered t’ look up th’ spellin’ in that elven language  a’yours.” He smiles crookedly but his eyes glass over. “That and we’re 40 feet underground and th’ internet doesn’t exist anymore.” “You’ve heards us says dat?” “Dood ya do it all’a time. I may naht know what yer sayin’ but I’m pretty good at pickin’ up patterns.”  He taps out an invisible rim shot, hissing the cymbal crash as he winks. Toki briefly considers lying. But he knows it’s a waste—Pickles is primed to hacksaw through all his bullshit. “It don’ts...translates, exactly, into English.” He waits a moment to see if Pickles accepts this as an adequate explanation. He doesn’t. Toki continues shakily: “Wells, it does but nots, um, de emotion…” He scrunches his nose and starts over. “Yous don’ts use it for everybodies, yous supposed to saves it for somebody who’s really…” Sighing, he thumbs Skwisgaar’s shoulderblade like it’s a lucky talisman. “I don’ts know whens we starts doesing it.” “A while ago, dood.” Oh.

“Oh. Um. Wells.” Heat rises to his cheeks. “Elskede in Norweigian means,” he winces, “beloved, and älskling ams kinds of de ex-quibbi-kent in Swedish buts it means, uh.” He tucks his chin to his chest and shields his eyes in embarrassment. “It means darling buts you don’ts use its de way you does ins English, it’s, um...” His thumb and middle and index finger squeeze into his eye sockets so hard stars flash across his vision.  “...It’s somet’ings you use for de poirson what ams most specials to yous, likes de poirson you mights maybe marry one days wowee saysing all dis outs loud makes me feel real stupids cans I please stops?” “Okey okey.” When Toki opens his eyes he sees Pickles waving his hands like he’s trying to break up a bad smell. “Asked an’ answered.” The tips of Toki’s ears burn, a shameful sludge spreading thickly behind his sternum. He tips his head back, skull thunking dully against the wall. “Don’ts tell de guys abouts dis, Skwisgaar will nevers forgive mes.” “Nah, dood, don’ worry, this stays in th’ vault.” The drone of the overhead fluorescent lights and the muted thrum of generators thrums like locusts. Skwisgaar inhales deeply, exhales sharply, and nestles closer. Toki’s gaze darts about the terrible mural, searching for something to latch to, but his focus swings as if by gravitational pull back to Pickles’s face. When he at last resolves to glance up at him, he’s braced for ridicule. But when he does, his tension deflates. Pickles doesn’t look like he’s about to make fun of him. Pickles looks like...Toki doesn’t know what Pickles looks like. “Whats dat face?” Pickles’s smile widens, head cocking to the side. “Stops dat! What’s dat face!” “What face! There’s no face! I don’ even have a face!” He bites his lower lip, muffling a chuckle. “Awright bud, I’m naht gunna lie, me and these other dooshbeegs have had our suspicions about the, errrr aaaah...” He cinches one eye shut. “...Nature of yer relationship. But none’a us suspected you guys were, y’know…” He rolls the wrist holding the vodka, liquid splashing to the floor. Toki stares at him questioningly. “...Fully in it.” Toki blinks. “In whats?” Pickles pinches his lips and squints as if to say, come on dude, but doesn’t press further. “Welp.” He kicks backwards to push himself off the wall and stand upright. “It’s almost sunrise. Or sunset, I dunno, this steel box has really fucked up my internal clahck. But I’m gonna watch th’ sun do somethin’ wit’ Murderface until my shift on watch.” He pivots to face the long corridor leading to the surveillance room. I’ll see ya around.” He pauses. He points a finger in the air, draws a small circle, and glances over his shoulder with a small smile. “Abviously.”  He’s gone as quickly as he arrived. Toki’s attention returns to the mural. The staticky grasslands. The angular mountains. The flat plane of the lake. Toki’s not an art guy but he knows this is bad. Still, it moves him. He doesn’t understand why. Maybe he doesn’t have to. He and Skwisgaar have always talked around it. They’ve always had an understanding, leaving little secrets and codes for the other to crack. They did, mostly. It’s the same, mostly. But it’s the end of the world and Toki needs to say it out loud. He buries his face in that soft golden crown and whispers, “I loves you.” “I loves you, too,” is the sleepy reply.  He was wrong. It’s different. It’s better.  “Is likes Pickle says.” He pushes himself up to press his lips to Toki’s neck. “We’s fully ins it.”

[sourbat]

And Then-

Words: 2800

Rating: T

Pairing: Toki Wartooth/Magnus Hammersmith 

Summary: “Hammertooth, as told by the Dethklok Minute.”

There was nothing that could be done to completely vanquish the paranoia, even with the presence of half a dozen committed klokateers, so Toki knowingly made a point to always bring a disguise, to try and play it safe and drink one less bottle than normal, take one less hit than he preferred, because the last thing he wanted to do was prove Magnus’ fears correct. 

Toki was there the first time it happened. Worse, he was with the whole gang, reclining comfortably in the hot tub, finished giving Skwisgaar a high five, when Nathan flicked the television on, revealing  The Dethklok Minute host’s marred face.

“Today I bring you a blast from the past. We’re talking ancient history here, folks! Famed rhythm guitarist, Toki Wartooth, was recently seen chatting it up with none other than ex-Dethklok, and failed solo artist, Magnus Hammersmith. The two were seen causing quite the scene outside of the Griffith observatory, resulting in them being kicked out from the premises. Apparently, Hammersmith couldn’t handle the extra attention. Real shame, Hammersmith, it’s as close to the stars as you’ll ever get!”

They laughed when they saw the images, the brief video clip of Magnus angrily grabbing and tossing someone’s phone off the cliff, and the hilarious tweets shared by fans that all seemed to focus on how desperate and loathsome Magnus was in comparison to him. There was nothing he could say, whine or threaten to calm the rest of the band down. The day only grew progressively worse as he checked his phone, spotting new threads and comments on all the platforms he frequented, but not hearing a single word from Magnus.

He must have sent a dozen messages, and earned no reply until late at night, when news had reached every corner of the internet.

Thankfully, Magnus took it rather well, or as well as anyone with little to no say in the matter could. When they finally got together, Magnus was clearly upset, but he was more ashamed at himself for causing a huge scene and threatening a bunch of regular jack-offs for poking fun of him, mad for setting himself up for this disaster, and regretted that he pulled Toki and Dethklok into yet another one of his messes.

Once it was out, they discussed the next step. The public knew they were together in some form, but how much was still up in the air. Romance was currently out of the equation, or wasn’t suspected. Magnus treated it as a small relief; Toki, on the other hand, viewed it differently. The mean gossips centered on Magnus wouldn’t just go away if people continued to treat him as Toki’s inferior. If they came out not as competitors, but as partners, as equals, as a real couple…

When Toki raised the idea to Magnus, he spun it differently. They should come out now before the world figures it out on their own. Rip off the bandage on their own terms, and get the rumors done and over with.

The world was going to talk about them whether they liked it or not, so… why not try to have fun?

Why hide it and pretend they were only friends?  

“Welcome back to the Dethklok Minute! Toki Wartooth and Hammersmith were seen together exiting Club Rhapsody on Sunset Blvd. The two barely made it five steps before Mr. Wartooth was bombarded by fans. It took several klokateers shooting down crazed fans to get their claws off Toki Wartooth. Meanwhile, here’s an image of poor ol’ Hammersmith, left out in the dust.  Good thing he’s already used to it, though!”  

That time Magnus was pissed. He hadn’t even done anything that night, and was the soberer of the two. Sure, they were both piss-drunk, but Magnus had been reasonable enough to leave his keys behind, to tell Toki they needed to leave once it got too crowded, and tried being civil despite the crowds, their disguises slipping off, and people flashing lights in every direction just to say they were in the same club as Toki Wartooth.

Unless given the orders, the klokateers didn’t bother trying to protect Magnus, or shoo away fans who had nothing better than to accuse him of trying to latch on to fame, being a parasite, or an unsightly thorn in Toki’s side. The burden always fell on Toki. He had to be the one to grab Magnus and reel him in, remind him to count to ten, to hold his tongue, to try and be the better man despite the rumors and open remarks.

It didn’t take long for forums to pose the much-feared question, one Toki hadn’t regarded until Magnus very frustratingly pointed it out:

How far back do they go?

Then Toki understood Magnus’ fears. With discussions digging deeper into their pasts, Toki knew it would only be a matter of time before rumors of his disappearance resurfaced, and people connected whatever dots they wanted to reach their preferred conclusions. 

The following months proved too challenging.

He couldn’t blame Magnus for all those close calls. Toki didn’t blame him when Magnus eventually did snap, and lash out. Magus never laid a finger on him, but the yelling…the yelling and the misdirected rage terrified him.

It was Magnus who suggested the break.

Once again, Toki couldn’t bring himself to blame Magnus, even when everyone else at Mordhaus did.

The truth stung. The loneliness ached. The rumors persisted. Toki waited and watched the news, counting the weeks until the much-needed silence finally died down. It never did. Though the conversations decreased, there was never a point in time where comments online didn’t lead to Magnus, tweets or tags that brought up the name, and the terrible rumors surrounding their relationship persisted. It was the suckiest time of Toki’s life as he waited for Magnus’ return, for the world to get over this strange obsession, and for things to return to the way it was before.

Two months later, Magnus returned from the shadows on his own accord, and begged for Toki’s forgiveness and yet another chance at proving he could handle the unwanted attention, so long as it meant keeping Toki’s. Almost immediately after they reunited, the pictures and videos returned, but this time Magnus made a point to ignore it, to do his absolute best to take it all in stride and make the most of their limited time together.

Toki welcomed Magnus with open arms, more relieved than anything that Magnus didn’t give up on the two of them, and was willing to try and make this work.

“While on tour in England, fans caught glimpses of Toki and Mr. Hammersmith just outside of the Tower of London, harassing the local avian residents, and later caught pissing into the River Thames. Well, you know the saying: boys will be boys. In bigger news, Nathan Explosion played the lead role at The Globe’s recent…”

Then, one day, Magnus was no longer the main story. He wasn’t the butt of the joke. He wasn’t the focus of any folly that took place between them. Now Magnus had a title. Now he was just another one of the boys. Maybe not a member of Dethklok, but someone within the circle. A person who demanded some respect.  

It took several months, but Magnus was accepted as another regular figure in Toki’s life. Like Dr. Rockso, Magnus was treated less as a person of interest, a living target, and more a colorful object that Toki took alongside him to various places, adding to the curiosity and allure of their already complex relationship. Unlike the clown, though, the well of controversy had long since run dry, and nasty statements about the older man were quickly replaced with random jokes, silly rumors about Skwisgaar being replaced, and then–

Magnus started smiling, really smiling, again.

And then– 

“Today I bring you none other than our favorite buddy-duo: Toki Wartooth and Magnus Hammersmith! The two guitarists were seen sneaking out the back of Cruachan’s, carrying a wasted William Murderface before being accosted by some rapid fangirls. Luckily for them, Murderface was there to scare them away. Hey, Murderface, didn’t anyone tell you three is a crowd?”  

It was already a big enough deal that Toki convinced Murderface to join in, drink and talk with Magnus, maybe reconcile some past grudges and start afresh. Now people were curious to know why Magnus was so well-liked. In the eyes of the fans, Dethklok was reaching out to Magnus, which meant Magnus couldn’t possibly be that bad of a guy. The focus on Magnus returned, but with a different change in tone. He was Toki’s buddy. A mentor. A reliable father figure.

Magnus read each new role, and grew paranoid for the one that he knew would soon arise from the depths of internet forums.

Another month went by, then another, and after doing their best to avoid the media, to pay extra attention when making exchanges, their reprieve arrived in the form of funny jingles and images depicting the two of them as nothing short of the best of friends. The host of the show played it well, acting as though he never had a hand in spreading lies about them, and treated their nightly excursions, trips and secret dates as just another blurb in the  Dethklok Minute. But as nice as two friends hanging out was, it didn’t draw the same number of crowds as before, and after waiting and waiting, the focus on the two of them finally died.

Nobody cared that Toki hung out with Magnus, and were far more invested in Pickles’ massive pub crawl across Europe, the recent paternity trials of Skwisgaar, Nathan’s up-and-down relationship with Abigail, or Murderface’s failed MLM scheme.

And then–

“Welcome to the Dethklok minute! Uh-oh, Toki-oh! After a huge and successful performance in Japan, Toki Wartooth was seen inviting Magnus Hammersmith into the lobby of the famous Ningen Isu Hotel. But what’s this? Take a look at this!  Though the picture is of poor quality, fans speculate the two are holding hands in the photo…”

A slip up. After months of touring, bad reception and shitty planning on his part, Toki called Magnus over, and in their haste to reunite, were caught in the act.

And then…

“Breaking news! You will not believe your eyes!”

The very thing Magnus feared happened. Toki expected a strong reaction from Magnus. He expected the walls to crumble and the world to feel like it was ending. However, he could not predict just how negative a response he'd receive from his billions of fans. Knees tucked into his chest, Toki sullenly scrolled through the thousands of tags with awful slurs and insulting remarks, now all aimed at him. Fans demanded to know if he hit his head, if he enjoyed giving head, if he was always playing for both sides, if he spit or swallowed, if he even liked girls, if he was drunk when it happened, if it was consensual, if Toki was sure he didn’t like breasts, if he was ok, or if there was something wrong with his eyes because he could do  so  much better than Magnus Hammersmith.

Nathan and the others warned him this would happen, but Toki never believed it. The fans loved him. He could do no wrong.

But, once it was out–

“While most remain torn, a growing number of fans have openly voiced their support of the two…”

Once it was out, it was Magnus who snatched the phone out from Toki’s hand, taking and stowing it in some drawer where it couldn’t bother them before doing the same with Toki, and carrying him off into the night in his arms and telling him it wasn’t worth their time.

“…Send your vote to this number to determine the name of this new, controversial celebrity couple!”

Much like those slow, intimate touches that kept Toki distracted long through the night, the horrible things fans said came to pass. Not much longer, Magnus showed Toki how those same fans that had attacked him, that posted videos and memes making fun of their friendship, that spread rumors and doubt, that tested their patience, were all now sending hearts and their best wishes. There were pictures, both hand drawn and professionally done, hashtags and gifs and essays filled with nothing but off-putting support. Toki found familiar faces and names, avatars and posts from those he remembered directing horrible things his way, and now they were acting as though they never stopped believing in the two.

Toki logged off and debated taking a break from social media.

Magnus beckoned him back to comforting sheets. 

The initial shock came and went, and before long, all that was left was empty support and praise. Wholesome quotes and pretty rainbow flags that meant nothing to Toki, even less to Magnus, and fan songs and imagery that Toki blocked, only to later openly mocked with the only man who understood better than anyone else how pathetic and empty-brained most people were, and how quickly everyone forgets.

The band had little to say, but offered their indirect support by reminding Toki the jack-offs were more than likely jealous. Toki had everything in the world, Nathan later said. It didn’t matter that he left it at that, abruptly ending the conversation before Toki had a chance to really take it in and appreciate the shreds of a hidden apology underneath it all.  Everything in the world.  To think it included Magnus made the half-assed apology more heartfelt, and Toki had to stop himself from getting too close to Nathan and thanking him for taking his side, for being there, for listening, caring in his own way.

And, finally…

“… and in other news, the world’s favorite musical couple celebrated Toki Wartooth’s birthday in upstate New York. After celebrating at Mordhaus, Magnus and Toki decided to take advantage of the band’s extended work sabbatical, and take a vacation together… Next week, I give you a very special Dethklok exclusive, starring none other than the famous couple themselves!”   

With an outstretched hand, Magnus reached for the remote, turning off the television with a short, but aggressive jab on the power button before snatching his keys and turning to Toki, who remained peacefully reclined on top of the hotel bed.

“Ready?” Magnus asked, fixing one of many heavy rings he had on his person as Toki slipped off the bed, hastily running past him to locate his socks and boots for the long day ahead. Magnus fingered a rather hefty skull ring adorned with gaudy, but bright and pointed gemstones. “So, who’s doing what again?”

“I holds him down,” Toki replied as he worked the laces on his boots. “When I gives the words, I jumps across and holds him down.”

Magnus picked up his sunglasses, donning his disguise before casually making his way out of the bedroom. “Uh-huh. And what’s the word?”

“Hmmm.” Toki chewed his inner lip as he searched for a random enough word. “Cinnamon?”

“Cinnamon?”

“Yeps,” Toki replied, standing up and following Magnus. He grabbed a small box of medical bandages and gauze, still in a plastic bag that rested on top of a recently cracked crystal table, and shoved both into his already cluttered fanny pack.  

Magnus reached in, snatching the gauze and stowing it into one of his pockets, leaving more room for Toki to rearrange his things. “And you’re totally fine with me beating the ever-lasting shit out of him?” he asked, earning a mischievous little glance from the younger man. “All by myself?”

“Wells, I’ms gonna to gets him first,” Toki contentedly pointed out, and earned a snicker from Magnus when he dared to smile at the thought. “Ams doing half the works. Also, lets me wear some of the rings.”

“Fine, fine.” Magnus offered his fingers up to Toki, amused when the young man stopped and hovered and admired the large, heavy steel rings bought for the sole purpose of rearranging another man’s face. He raised a brown when he saw Toki reach for a devilish ring adorned with curled horns. “Not that one, I like that one.”

“Evens better.” Toki pulled the ring from Magnus’ middle, sticking out his tongue as he tried it on, along with a few others, before earning a slightly sarcastic look of approval from Magnus.

“Ready?” Magnus asked again, admittedly smitten by how well the ring suited Toki.

“Waits, I forgots my hat.”

Magnus headed to the door, taking his time, stopping briefly to admire the view from the window and take in the magnificent view, while also picking up on rushed footsteps hitting the floor, Toki nearly tripping over himself and putting on the last bit of his outfit, then claiming Magnus’ free hand as his, and yanking him close into a brief, but passionate kiss. 

“Let’s go,” he said after slowly pulling away, eyes locked on Magnus as he opened the door, ready to be led into the light.

[izzy-b-hands]

Kloktober, Oct. 21st: Childhood or Hobbies

Decided to combine both prompts for this day! 

Synopsis: If pressed, Pickles would be hesitant to talk much about what he does outside of the band and partying. The downside, of course, is that that’s all anyone thinks he does. But it isn’t, or at least, it didn’t used to be that way. 

TW: Familial neglect/mentions of a bad childhood re: Pickles. Mentions of drinking and drug use as a coping method. Also a mention of hunting, but brief and with no real detail in regards to it, but that’s a trigger for me so I wanted to note it here too in case it’s a trigger for anyone else as well. 

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“You have to have another hobby,” Murderface said. “Everyone hasch hobbies.”

“I...smoke,” Pickles said hesitantly. 

“That’sch not a hobby!” Murderface shouted. “What a weirdo. Not any other hobbiesch, juscht drinkin’ and smokin’ and nothing else!” 

He knew he should ignore it. Murderface was in a shit mood, that was all. 

And he did have hobbies. Or he had, at least. 

He walked out of the living room as Murderface ranted on, though no one else in the room was listening to him, all of them busy with their own...

Fuck. Their own hobbies. 

Toki with his figurines and model airplanes and shit. 

Skwisgaar with his guitar, which was technically also his job, but one could easily argue that for as much work as he put into it outside of practice and concerts, it was also a hobby. 

Murderface had his weird murder memorabilia and war stuff, and complaining (even if he didn’t want to admit to that as one of his hobbies.) 

Nathan had a few different things, now that Pickles thought about it. The dude liked to fish, for fuck’s sake! 

What did he have, anymore?

He smoked and drank whatever he could get his hands on. He drummed, obviously, but not to the extent outside of work like Skwisgaar with his guitar. He...

“What the fuck do I do?” he muttered as he slammed his bedroom door shut. “I...do stuff.” 

But as he looked around his room, nothing jumped out at him. 

Hunting came to mind. But at the same time, it wasn’t something he did necessarily for fun. He did it because it was something to do; something that most people were entertained to see he could do while completely fucking plastered and high as a kite. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone out and hunted on his own; he only went out if some big shot celebrity called and requested he come with them, so they could watch him shoot better drunk than they could sober. 

To him then, that didn’t really count as much of a hobby, if he didn’t enjoy it and didn’t do it for himself. 

If he went back only so far, he could include makeup, and costuming. He had been the mastermind behind most of it, for Snakes N’ Barrels. 

But all the same, those clothes now stayed in the back of his closet, and a lot of his makeup had dried up or been tossed away ages ago. Sure, he had a few palettes and eyeliner sticks, but nothing like what he’d had before. 

So not that as a hobby, anymore. Not really. 

But going back further wasn’t any better. 

That hurt to think about. The things his parents had shamed him or made fun of him for being interested in (like puzzles. Who the fuck made fun of a ten-year-old for liking jigsaw puzzles?) The things his brother had done his damnedest to make him feel bad about, or flat out taken from him (he’d painted for a bit, until Seth burned all his pieces and canvases. His parents had yelled at him for having them out where Seth could get to them, as if a fuckin’ teenager couldn’t control themselves to leave that sort of stuff alone if it wasn’t theirs.) 

He didn’t even have any of that stuff leftover from when he was a kid. No half-finished puzzles to go back and complete. No half-finished canvases to tackle again. 

He dropped onto his bed, but only for a moment. 

He had eyeliner sticks, and he had spare paper. It wasn’t paint and canvas, but it was something. 

And with the way Murderface was (still, loudly) ranting, no one would come to bother him. There would be no one to make fun of him if he’d lost his touch for art, to ask why he was even bothering to do this. 

Truthfully, he realized it wasn’t just because of Murderface. He had triggered the thoughts about it, but as he worked, trying to make the right lines find purchase on the page, he knew it was more than that. 

He just hadn’t wanted to think about it until now. Still didn’t want to, really. But considering the alcohol and drugs only ever numbed him so far (not very much, after all the years of use), maybe this wasn’t the worst idea as another outlet, another thing to do. 

A hobby. 

If worse came to worse, he at least had control over it all this time, no one else did. He could burn or shred or do whatever he wanted to the drawings, whenever he pleased. 

For now, he put the sketch of himself and the guys, based off of a picture on his bedside table, on the top of his dresser. 

It wasn’t bad, and he looked forward to getting better. 

[izzy-b-hands]

Murder House, Part One

This is my @mtl-trick-or-treat for @enydart! I hope you like it; I had a lot of fun writing it! I also started something for your Treat prompt, so if you like this and want that one as well, just let me know and I will finish it and post it asap!

This was for the Trick prompt, asking for ‘something gross with Murderface.’ I went to something that most people find gross (though maybe not the Dethklok boys, since they see so much of it lol)-murder. But I had to give Murderface some fun and happiness too since he gets shit on so damn often, so hopefully this is gross enough!

Fic under the cut because this got long; RIP and my apologies to mobile users if the cut isn’t working on the app. I was actually going to try and fit the whole thing in one post, but found out there is a post length limit (who knew!) so I have split this into Part One and Two! I will post Part Two by the end of tomorrow at the latest (it just needs a few final touches!)

The ads for the haunted house played constantly from October 15th on . Radio, TV, even billboards plastered all over. He did his best to ignore them, even though he wanted to take a flamethrower to any billboard or screen that had the ad on it for even a second. 

The rest of the band, however, was harder to ignore. By the fifth night of the ads playing during their favorite evening TV shows, he was ready to snap listening to them comment. 

“Look at thats; you ams the most famous of us now,” Skwisgaar snickered as the ad played. 

Lights flashed and flickered on the big screen as it showed the haunted house actors depicting the murder-suicide that had sent him to his grandparents. There was even a chubby baby actor sat in the middle of the gore-’Baby Murderface looks on in horror!’ exclaimed the ad’s dramatic narrator. 

“Ams thats legal?” Toki asked, pointing at the screen. “To use your lifes like thats and makes a haunted house so...sads?” 

“Amn’ts even haunted really,” Skwisgaar replied. “Just sads. A sads house. What ams scary about thats?”

Pickles shrugged. “Well, someone sold their rights to their life story years ago. That’s scary, if you ask me. Cuz then they can do shit like this, and you’re shit outta luck to stop them. Ain’t that right, Murderface?” 

He wanted to just rage. To tell them to shut the fuck up, or he’d set fire to the living room just like he wanted to set fire to the haunted house and anyone who was involved with it. But he’d been upset constantly, since the ads had started. It felt strange, but he was almost tired of being upset and yelling about it. He just wanted to do something to get rid of it. 

“Whatever, juscht schut up about it. They were schupposed to make a cool movie out of my life,” Murderface sighed. 

Nathan chuckled. “You uh, you really thought they were gonna do that? Buying the rights to your life story; that was gonna make a really cool movie?” 

“Yeah, why the fuck not? People make movies about all kindsch of dumb schit; you can make a movie about anything basically!” Murderface spat back.

“Okay, Murderface, look--thing is, they gotta have a cool fun story, to make a cool movie. A movie about your life...that’d be pretty sad, dude,” Pickles said. “I mean, who the fuck would wanna watch that?” 

“Well, once he joins us, I mean...that’d be a cool movie,” Nathan said. 

“Yeah, but then that’s just a Dethklok movie,” Pickles replied. “And that ain’t what he wants; he wants a Murderface-only movie. But nobody’s gonna go see that, or if they did they’d like...I don’t know, cry themselves to death or something.” 

Murderface bit his tongue. They were in a rhythm now, going back and forth to talk shit about him. It was easier to try to stay quiet and ride it out. 

“Yeah, probably. Can you see it? ‘Saddest movie ever, millions cry themselves to death and stab out their own eyes’,” Nathan said. “Huh. Actually, that would be brutal as fuck. Murderface, you should call them--tell them to nix this haunted house bullshit and make the movie instead.” 

There were tears at the corner of his eyes, even though he didn’t want them there. He tried to look only at the TV, hoping no one would notice them. 

“Oh geez, look yous mades him cry now,” Skwisgaar tutted. “You eggs him on like this, when he ams already a big crysbaby, makes it worse. Ams you just a big baby Murderface? No, so knocks it off.” 

“He likes attention, that’s all he wants,” Pickles started. 

“Yeah, I says thats, like a big baby,” Skwisgaar interrupted. “Needings all this attentions.” 

 “Oh fuck you! You’ve got moviesch and booksch written about you!” Murderface protested. If anyone could talk about being an attention-needy baby, it was Skwisgaar. 

“Yeah, but I has to have them all takens down. Dids not authorize anys of thems, so they amnt’s accurate. I don’ts want them, but people makes them anyway.” Skwisgaar replied testily. “And does yous mean Toki’s book? Because that ams nots something I wanted either.” 

“Oh fuck yous, Skwisgaar,” Toki scoffed. “Yous ams just as bad. What theys calls an ‘attention whores’.” 

“Oh, and what ams yous, Mr. Gives-me-a-solo-rights-now-or-I-cries?” Skwisgaar shouted. 

It devolved from there, and he tuned it out. They’d forgotten to keep making fun of him, at least. But there was no watching the show with that much yelling over it; the cue to head in for the night. 

His boots thudded against the stone floors, and then against the wall of his room as he kicked them off and tossed them into a corner. 

“Schtupid executive asscholes. Schtupid Halloween. My life ischn’t scary, or schad, or anything--it’sch mine. How’d they like it if schomeone did that to them?” he grabbed an ancient dagger from its spot hanging on the wall and slashed in front of him. “Or better yet--Michael or Freddy or schomething could come and cut them down. Just schome creepy freak coming after them.”

He let the dagger clatter to the floor. “They’d never schee it coming...” 

And there it was. The perfect revenge, to make sure they’d never take anyone else’s life and turn it into some stupid attraction. To show them he wouldn’t take this lying down. 

Or that someone wouldn’t, at least. 

After all, Charles did have a few limits legally. He got them out of a lot of shit, but some of it was going to simply come down to being careful. There wasn’t too much work to do anyway--the website for the haunted house listed two main executives from the studio he’d sold his rights to, a team lead for the attraction itself, and if he could take out a few actors in the house too, well that was just icing on the cake at that point. 

It wasn’t a lot of murders for Charles to have to make disappear, but it was enough work if it was Murderface, famous bassist committing them. 

But a faceless, nameless boogeyman could get the job done. 

The outfit was easy to draw up, his ideas flowing like water. A little bit Michael with the black protective jumpsuit, and a touch of Freddy with the knives, all hidden in specially designed pockets so it wouldn’t look super bulky. The mask was fitting of any horror movie monster--blank and emotionless, unknowable.

Really, the mask was his masterpiece. Made of a flexible material so as to still be comfortable, with specialty coatings on the front to make it difficult for any victim to stab or shoot through it. It wouldn’t stop everything, but it would help keep him from getting outright killed. Not that he planned on giving them much of chance for that. Last, it would be painted a dark shade of blue, almost black, the color he figured would make it easiest to blend into any shadows. Only holes for the eyes and a few hidden ones near the nose--anything more felt too risky, too much of a chance to potentially be recognized. 

The bonus of being this rich was that no one would ask questions when he ordered weird shit. Hell, he commissioned random costumes for Planet Piss all the time. Charles would make sure the orders got processed as quickly as possible, and then his work could begin.

It was almost therapeutic, all of the planning and designing. It made falling asleep easier and quicker than it had been in weeks, and for the first time in awhile, he slept with a smile on his face.

                                          --------------------------

The three days that followed were all tense excitement. Excitement for waiting for the outfit to get there, excitement to get started. With the main businessmen taken out of the equation, it would be easy to get Charles to start the legal side of things--to file lawsuits for everything from defamation to claiming he never sold his rights at all. And then the thing would be shuttered for good. 

The suit arrived first. Thick material, meant for an industrial setting, slow to stain or tear. And it fit like a glove. 

“I’ll corner thosche asscholes in their penthousches, and paint the wallsch with their gutsch!” he crowed as he finished buttoning it. It was a bit weird not wearing his shorts, but some sacrifice would be required to pull this all off. 

Now he could only hope the guys wouldn’t question the deliveries he was getting. They almost always did--for anyone. Pure morbid curiosity, or hoping it was something fun to be shared. 

So of course, they asked. 

“Uh, you quitting on us or something?” Pickles asked on the morning of the fourth day after the Plan had started, as they all dug into their breakfasts. “Going into construction?” 

“Of coursche not,” Murderface replied. “How’d you find out what it was anyway?” 

Pickles shrugged. “I smoke up with one of the gals in the mail room. She lets me look at all the mail that comes through here. Kinda fun.” 

“What the fuck, how long has she let you do that?” Nathan asked, his fork still halfway to his mouth as he stared perturbed at Pickles. 

Pickles shrugged again. “Couple years now. Why, you ordering nasty sex toys or something you don’t want me to see?” 

Nathan flushed pink, and glared down into his pancakes. “Don’t be an asshole. Just don’t want you going through all my shit.” 

“Yeah, you’re ordering nasty shit. I’m gonna watch out for your stuff more now,” Pickles grinned. 

“Juscht fire her,” Murderface said, grateful the topic was drifting away from his mail. “Then he can’t get in there anymore.” 

“Nah, he won’t,” Pickles replied. “You guys all know her--the one with those green eyes.” 

“Damn it,” Nathan huffed. “She’s nice. Always leaves a little note on my mail when she brings it to my room with a smiley face. I can’t fire her.” 

“Told ya,” Pickles smirked. “So, ya going to your shitty haunted house or something? Making a spooky costume, Scaryface?” 

“Yeah, might use it for Halloween” Murderface snorted. “But, itsch really for Planet Pissch. Got a...concept album idea going.” 

“Ams it piss?” Toki asked. 

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes as he sipped his coffee. “Whats does you think, Toki. What’s else woulds it be?” 

“Wes should does a groups costume this year,” Toki said. “Then wes can all goes to sees the sads Murderface house!” 

“I woulds be ups for thats,” Skwisgaar replied. “Gots to be somethings cool though, Toki.” 

“No, no, what the fuck, no,” Pickles protested. “Thought you Swedes were antisocial, why the hell do you wanna do a group costume?” 

Skwisgaar glared. “Because I ams Swedish, I can’ts have friends? Wes can’ts have funs with a groups costume? Ams I meant to hates fun?” 

“I just figured you wouldn’t think it was cool,” Pickles replied. “Don’t gotta be a douche bag about it.” 

“Oh fines then, I goes as the personifications of nihilism,” Skwisgaar scoffed. “Ams that an acceptable costume for mes, Pickle?” 

Murderface ate in silence as the argument grew over the group costume idea. He’d get used to even more arguments if it meant they’d forget to ask him about what he was doing. 

Still, Pickles potentially seeing his mail made him worry. When the mask showed up later that day, he made sure the mail team knew to bring it straight to his room. 

But it was Charles who knocked on his door and had the package in hand. 

“Look it over, if you want changes made we’ll send it back right away,” he said, watching as Murderface tried to open the package without letting him see too much of it. 

“Serial killer...that’s a fun costume,” Charles continued as Murderface turned away to examine the mask.

“How would you know?” Murderface asked as he felt Charles sit on the end of the bed. “Can’t see you getting dressed up for Halloween much.” 

Charles only shrugged. “So...will it work?” 

Murderface turned and stared. Did he somehow know? How the fuck could he know? 

“For your costume?” Charles asked, an eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, yeah. Perfect,” Murderface replied, relieved. And it was, exactly the way he wanted it. 

“Good,” Charles said, a small smile on his face. “Have fun putting it together. I’m sure you’ll look great.” 

After Charles had left, he pulled everything on and stood in front of the mirror near his closet. The whole picture--suit, mask, boots, a pair of black leather gloves--looked good. 

Except...

His hair ruined it. Everybody knew his hair, the fucking curly triangle. He had to hide it.

A thick winter beanie didn’t help, and the mask fit funny then. Any other hats would likely be the same result. 

“You gotta go,” he told the reflection of his curls. “We’re ugly asch schit anyway, being bald ain’t gonna make a difference.” 

He called for a klokateer from the hairdressing department, and changed back into his regular clothes while he waited for them. 

The klokateer had to have run, she was so out of breath. “Sir, you needed someone immediately. How may I assist you?” 

He pointed to his hair. “Get rid of it.” 

Her eyes were only barely visible with her hood on, but he could see them go wide. “Uhm...maybe we could just try a different style? Going straight to bald is a big change, sir.” 

“I. Want. It. Gone,” he replied. She’d run to Charles in a minute, he was sure of it. 

“Uh, we’ll need the clippers, not these,” she said, holding up a pair of shears. “Just let me go get those.” 

He sat on his bed and waited for the phone to ring. She’d have run to Charles, begging for help as to what to do without being seen as being disobedient. A moment later, his Dethphone rang loudly. 

“Murderface, I’ve got a very scared and confused young woman in here saying you want to chop off all your hair. Is this true?” Charles asked. 

“Yeah,” Murderface replied. “Why’sch that a big deal?” 

“Well, it is a very sudden image change. We’ll have to do all new publicity photos, promotions. And it is a bit random--why do you want to do this?” Charles asked. 

“Want a change, that’sch all,” Murderface sighed. “Can’t a guy want to change schit up?” 

Charles sighed. “Of course. I’ll send another hairdresser to you. This one’s a bit too shaky to do the job now.” 

Murderface tapped the ‘end call’ button, and flopped back against his pillows. The guys would hate having to take new pictures, but they’d get over it. Besides, maybe they’d have to make a sacrifice or two to help his revenge as well. 

It was a male klokateer this time, silent as he sat down a chair and propped a broom and dust pan near the door. He was silent all the way through the cut as well, but that was just fine. 

When the klokateer had cleaned the floor of his curls and left, Murderface put the outfit back on. 

It made a world of difference. Now, he looked like a proper faceless killer. 

Now, all he had to do was start killing. 

                                          -----------------------

The next morning, he was glowing. There was no other way to put it. He was excited beyond belief to get started. Granted, he still needed to do a bit of research to figure out where each victim would be. But there were multiple social media accounts for each person, so it would be easy enough. 

The biggest worry right now was the reaction to his hair, or the lack of it. The guys did not disappoint as he joined them at the breakfast table. 

“What in the fuck dids yous do?” Skwisgaar asked, dropping his fork. “And why?” 

“I wanted to,” Murderface replied. “Felt like something different. Not bad, right?” 

“Ugggghhh,” Nathan whined. “We’re gonna have to do new promos now. I hate promo photos.” 

“Yeah, but they moved that green-eyed klokateer to the makeup team,” Pickles said. “Charles found out she was letting me in the mail room and uh...look, it was either move her or lose her. But you could talk to her more now, since she’ll be at the promos shoot.” 

Nathan smiled a very small smile. “Would be nice to say hi...” 

“Yeah, cuz you think she’s pretty. Even with the hood,” Pickles teased. 

“She is,” Nathan said. “Don’t make it weird when she’s around us, okay? We don’t wanna creep her out.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t ruin it for ya,” Pickles replied as he shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “You’ll get your chance with pretty mail girl.” 

“Not ifs Murderface gets it firsts,” Toki said. “Ams almost normal lookings now.” 

They all stared at Toki, then at Murderface. 

“Huh...you do look decent. I mean, still weird to see, but I don’t know, it works somehow,” Pickles said, breaking the brief silence. 

Nathan nodded. “Still not getting her number though.” 

“I won’t even try,” Murderface replied, rolling his eyes. He could worry about getting groupies with his new look after all his work was done. Normally, he’d have been all over the idea right away, but this was different. 

“Nots going to beats my numbers,” Skwisgaar muttered. “But yous looks okay. Almost goods, even.” 

“What can I schay, I know what looksch good,” Murderface smiled. “I was right about my schorts being schexy as hell, now with thisch--I’m gonna be irresistible.” 

He shoveled his food in quick as the conversation moved on to some bullshit about Toki wanting more groupies at the end of each concert. He had more important concerns. He’d get the suit ready with all of the knives he’d set aside for the project, and figure out where to go for his first target. If he could, he’d head out for it tonight. 

As soon as he was done with his plate, he dashed back to his room and started putting them away. It was fun, with so many hidden pockets to fill. He’d never get caught without a weapon, and once he was done it would go back to its spot--no murder weapons to be left behind. 

“Perfect,” he breathed as he finished the suit and held it up in front of himself. 

“Is it?” 

Charles’ voice made him jump. He hadn’t even heard him come in. 

“How the hell...what the...you should learn how to knock!” Murderface yelled, carefully folding the suit in close to his chest, as if he could somehow prevent Charles from seeing it any further.

“Sorry,” Charles replied, a smirk on his face. 

Murderface felt sweat pooling on his face. Charles wasn’t supposed to know about this part of things. Just to know when the assholes were dead, so he could start the legal paperwork. “Uh...now you know my costume is really perfect! I’m gonna look great!” 

“You will,” Charles agreed. “Also, 4242.” 

“What does that mean?” Murderface asked. 

“The first executive you’re going to kill. The code to his penthouse door is 4242,” Charles replied matter-of-factly. 

Murderface knew his jaw was hanging open, but he couldn’t help it. How in the hell had he figured it all out?

“All the details for your orders lead to someone far away from here. Some ass in Ohio who keeps trying to scalp Dethklok tickets. If the worst happens, and they start tracking anyone down to nail for these killings, it’ll be that jerk. Not you,” Charles continued. 

“How did you--” Murderface started. 

“Does it really matter?” Charles asked. “Point is, you’re doing a good job of keeping your tracks covered--I’m just going to make sure they stay covered.” 

“How do I know you aren’t gonna fuck me over though?” Murderface asked. If there would be anyone to turn him in, he would guess Charles would be the first to do it. 

Charles looked genuinely hurt at that. “Look, I get it. I’m not fun, I don’t seem like the type to let you get away with this. Just--just know I’ve got my reasons for wanting you to be successful in this endeavor. I won’t fuck you over.” 

“What, you’ve got bodies buried out in a desert schomewhere too?” Murderface asked, snorting. 

Charles didn’t laugh. Didn’t chuckle. Didn’t move an inch. That was scary as fuck. 

“Uh, never mind. You don’t gotta anschwer that,” Murderface said quickly. 

Charles sighed. ‘Look, he leaves for the Bahamas soon. So we need to get you out to him by this time tomorrow. And to the rest fairly quickly too, if we want this thing shut down by Halloween.” 

“You...you don’t like the haunted housche either?” Murderface asked. He’d figured Charles honestly didn’t give that much of a fuck about it. 

“Of course I don’t,” Charles scoffed. “Makes you look bad, and by association, the band. You don’t deserve it, and neither do the guys. But I haven’t found a way to touch them yet legally, so this...well, it’ll be perfect.” 

Murderface was struck. Granted, he was just as concerned about the band as he was for him, but...someone gave a shit. Honestly, truly, cared. 

“I’ll let you know when the plane is ready. Get packed,” Charles instructed as he turned and headed for the door. 

“You know where they all are?” Murderface asked. “You’re schure?” 

“I wouldn’t send you if I wasn’t,” Charles replied as he left. “I’ll have an alibi for your absence, in case any of the guys notice. So just go with it, okay?” 

Murderface nodded, and rushed to pack as Charles footsteps faded down the hallway. 

In six days time, all the assholes would be dead, and everything would be good again. 

The excitement was delicious.

                                            -----------------------

The plane ride was quick, yet not quick enough. Still, before he knew it, he was in front of the penthouse building. It wasn’t too far from Mordhaus, only about fifty miles. He’d expected to have to travel longer, but was glad he didn’t have to. 

It was a busy enough place that crowds bustled around him, and he could drift past people through the doors without anyone glancing at him. The security guard was asleep, and there was no one else in the lobby. He didn’t want to jinx it, but it almost seemed like it would be easy. 

Then again, it wasn’t like there was much to stare at. He looked like any other guy coming to stay with someone in the building, in a black tee and jeans that Charles had waiting on the plane for him. The black duffel bag that held his suit and mask looked like any other travel bag. He was just a visitor, no one to look twice at. 

It was an incredibly freeing feeling. He’d never thought he would miss being anonymous, but it was nice for a short time. 

The service elevator wasn’t even hidden; he found it down a hall just off of the lobby. On the ride up to the penthouse, he changed, his hands shaking. He stowed the bag in the small room that housed the upper level entrance to the elevator, then started down the hall to the door of the penthouse.

The design of which was gross even to him. It might have been called a penthouse, but it was technically the first two top floors--in his mind, it was bigger than a penthouse then. 

But he wasn’t there to argue exactly what this guy’s home qualified as. He punched the code into the door panel, grabbed a large kitchen knife from one pocket sheath, and started into the dark home. 

A bachelor, and it showed by the state of the penthouse. There was still a pile of coke laying on the living room table, which was just showy and ridiculous to Murderface. Erotic art covered the walls, and while he owned a few of the same pieces himself, even this was a bit of overkill. You could barely see the wall behind the art there was so much of it. 

A light shone in the darkness, probably a bedroom. He moved towards it, as quiet as he could manage. 

“Jasmine?” a raspy voice called out. “I didn’t expect you tonight, baby. I’m not gonna pay you for a surprise visit; I hope you know that. But I’ll be happy to have some company.” 

This was it. Murderface gripped the knife tight, and charged into the room. 

The executive was in a open robe and boxers, and stared in shock at Murderface. 

“What in the--” he started.

Murderface stepped forward and shoved the knife into his open mouth. It was hard to yank back out, but the choking noises were incredibly satisfying to hear as he stabbed again and again--the man’s fat gut, his chest, slashing across his arms as he back up and fell to the bed, raising them to try and defend himself. Blood was splattered across his mask, and sweat dripped down his face, but he was enjoying the exertion--which would figure. The only exercise he’d enjoy would have to be illegal. 

Finally, the executive stopped moving. His intestines were falling out of him, and blood drenched the silver silk sheets and painted the walls. It was glorious. 

“One down,” he muttered to himself. “Two and how many extras to go.” 

He checked three times for a pulse before he left. The walk out was as easy as the walk in too--he changed again in the elevator, using a rag in the bag to wipe his boots clean, and walked past the same guard who was still fast asleep. 

The air tasted sweeter outside. It was cliche, but so true. He felt good--he always talked about doing shit, but so often didn’t. It felt amazing to finally do something. 

And he was excited to do more.

                                      ------------------------

He slept on the plane ride home, not bothering or caring to check the time. He’d get home when he’d get home, and deal with any questions from the guys if any of them were up. He hadn’t left too late, so they were likely to still be stumbling around watching TV or something. 

Sure enough, they were all squished together on a couch, seemingly half asleep. They bounced back to wakefulness once he walked in though. 

“You dog!” Pickles shouted. “We heard about her; Charles told us everything! Toki was right, the hair was the problem. Now you’re getting models!” 

He grinned as Pickles charged towards him and slapped him on the back. He kept a tight hold of his duffel bag as he was steered towards the couch. He didn’t want any of them getting curious and searching through it. This was a hell of an alibi that Charles had given him. 

“So?” Skwisgaar asked expectantly. 

“What?” Murderface asked. “The model?” 

“Yeah!” Nathan exclaimed. “How was she?”

“Uh, amazing, of course,” Murderface replied, hoping he sounded less awkward than he felt. “Juscht wild, you know how models are.” 

“Looks at him,” Skwisgaar chuckled, and gently patted his cheek. “Still all sweaty and disgustings. Goods for you!” 

Murderface just nodded and smiled. This was all good and fun (though it would be more fun if Charles also could supply him with an actual model to date) but he was still tired. And he needed to get his stuff into his room and clean it all up. 

“Look at that grin,” Nathan laughed. “God, are you finally gonna be fun? That’s awesome, if you are.” 

“Yeah!” Toki added. “Then wes all gets ladies for afters our shows, and everybody ams happy! Oh wowee, we gotta takes you out to celebrates!” 

“Yeah,” Murderface agreed as he stood from the couch. “Schome night later this week maybe. Or hey, what about Halloween? Big night out to celebrate!” 

They cheered. They’d never been this enthusiastic for one of his suggestions before. Was it the hair, the alibi and fake accomplishment, or the real confidence from the murder that he’d been missing all this time to get them to really like him? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he wasn’t ever going back to what he was before. 

“That sounds like fun, and I hate to interrupt the planning,” Charles said, suddenly in the room. They needed to put a damn bell on him. “Can I borrow Murderface for a moment though? After all, I’m sure he needs to actually get some sleep now!” 

Their happy laughter echoed down the halls as Charles gently pulled him away from the couch and to his room.

He shut and locked the door, and gestured to two plush armchairs at one wall of the massive bedroom. “Have a seat. You deserve the rest. Scotch okay?”

Murderface nodded and took in the room. It was very...Charles. Richly yet plainly decorated. All black and red, almost something out of Dracula’s castle with the velvet everywhere, yet nothing stood out about it to declare it as Charles’. The chair was comfy, if nothing else. 

He dropped his back by him as he dropped into the chair, and gratefully took the glass of scotch from Charles. 

“So...how was it?” Charles asked. 

He took a breath. “It wasch...amazing. I can’t wait for the next one.” 

He felt his cheeks flush as Charles grinned. 

“I’m glad you had fun. I figured you would, but I wanted to check in just in case. I’m proud of you for this, you know,” Charles said. “This is quite an undertaking. But you’re doing wonderfully.” 

Murderface nodded. “Thanksch.” 

The silence sat for a moment before Charles broke it. 

“You want to know why I’m so invested.” 

He nodded. “I mean...I get it. You take care of usch, and all our bullschit. But this...you’re really exschited for this.” 

Charles tossed back the scotch in his glass and smiled. “Well. I can’t tell you everything. In fact, there’s more I can’t tell you than there is that I can. But I--I had my own reasons to do this sort of violence you’re doing now. The why doesn’t matter so much anymore, not to me at least. But that’s because the people I needed dead are in the ground, rotting, and no longer a threat to me. And that is...very freeing.” 

“You feel safe,” Murderface found himself whispering, so quietly his speech impediment didn’t have a chance to start. 

Charles nodded, but his eyes were on his empty glass. “Yes. I suppose that’s the best way to describe it.” 

“Did you enjoy it?” Murderface asked. 

Charles chuckled. “I think you know the answer to that already.” 

He nodded. “Yeah. Bet you’d be out here doing these yourschelf if you could.” 

Charles sat up a bit straighter. “I mean...it would be fun. To do it again. Even just once. But I don’t want to take away from your fun.” 

“I’ll need help at the haunted housche,” Murderface replied. “I’ve got to take out the team lead, but there’ll be a bunch of actorsch we can take down too...I don’t want to be overwhelmed by anyone fighting back. You could come with, if you think you can make it.” 

Charles looked happier than he’d ever seen him before. “If you really want me to; I’d love to. I don’t get out very often anymore.” 

“It schows,” Murderface scoffed before he could catch his tongue. He looked nervously at Charles, awaiting the lecture.

Instead, Charles threw his head back and laughed. “Fuck. It does, doesn’t it? All work and no play...Yeah. I’ll come with for the haunted house. You can have fun with the second executive on your own first though.” 

“I schuppose you’ll have all the info for me about him by tomorrow?” Murderface smiled. 

“Of course,” Charles replied as they slowly stood and went to the door. He unlocked it, handed him the duffel bag, and patted Murderface’s back gently as he walked out. “Get some good sleep--you’re going to need the energy.” 

“What? Isch this guy schome sort of Olympian-executive or schomething?” he asked. 

Charles shook his head. “But you should be well-rested before these, uh, little adventures no matter what. Better form, and then you won’t tire out halfway through things.” 

Murderface nodded. “Hey...uh, thanksch. For all of thisch. I mean, I’d probably be fine on my own too, but--” 

Charles just nodded back. “I get it. Have a good night, Murderface.” 

The door clicked shut behind him as he started down the hall towards his room. He was definitely ready to sleep some more. But the morbid curiosity was gnawing at him too--what other skeletons did Charles have in his closet, and what exactly had he done to put them there?

Maybe he’d find out after Halloween night, if he could get him to join them for celebratory drinks. He hoped he would. 

                                                 -------------------------