Chapter Title: Insinuated Insult
Pairing: NathanxMuderface
Rating: K
Warnings: Terrible attempt at hinting slash.
Episode connection: Blueskok.
Good God, WHY?!: That little scene where everyone takes off their shirt. Yeah, Nathan getting mad at Murderface because he agrees he gained weight makes me lulz.
Disclaimer: I do not own Metalocalypse, Brendon Smalls and Tommy Blancha do. I am merely using their characters for my own sick enjoyment.
Shots of Murder
::Insinuated Insult::
"So you think I'm fat?"
"Wha-?" Two large hands tugged him almost off his Doc Martin covered feet. Not to mention rudely cut him off.
"You said I'm fat." Hurt. It was all over his face. Deep frown, eyebrows pointed at his long nose and those vivid green eyes glaring. Especially now, as upclose as they were, he could proper see those glassy little orbs of anger. He hated being the apparent cause to that face. Why did he have to take everything he said seriously?
"Scho what?" An unkept eyebrow rose in sarcastic questioning. Smaller yet fatter hands grabbed onto thick wrists bulging with muscles and veins. His other eyebrow furrowed in pain from being forced on his toes. Damn that asshole for having four inches on him. "You called me a dogface. We had to do it. Big deal."
Fingers tightened around dark blue cotton and shook from pressure. Oh shit, what did he do wrong now? Damn his mouth. "You ass. You called me fat before that old guy told us to do it. You think I'm fat, you think I'm fat!" That intimidating frown quibbled. Never in the ten years of being in the band had those thin lips quibbled. That was the opposite of brutal.
Curled lips revealed the gap in teeth. "Don't blame me, you called yourschelf fat. I juscht agreed." Ah, he was pissy because of the truth.
With the alcohol and junk food diet he had been on since he was twenty-four of course he would gain weight. The bitch couldn't have a perfect footballer's body his entire life. Although, as stubby fingers ghosted over thick forearms down to side that now squished when his calloused fingertips dug into them, he kinda wished the lead singer had stayed that way.
"You're schuch a fucking lady sometimesch, Nathan." Destination reached. Those stubby bass playing fingers pinched the butt checks hidden by too-tight jeans. Instantly his heels touched ground as the pinchee slapped the groping fingers away. Too easy. "Don't worry, you're schtill nice to look at. Even with those thin lipsch."
"Fuck you, Murderface!"
"You'd like to!"
The vivid blush on Nathan's cheeks and growled threats made the bassist laugh even harder as he walked away.