Author's Note: Sequel to my previous story "Surprise Visitor." I'd had no plans to write a sequel, or at any rate, not so soon; otherwise I would've made it a second chapter. Anyway, hope you all enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, please don't sue me.
Warnings: References to previous story, which contains non-con and abuse, though there's none actually in this. Also sex, profanity, mild homophobia from Murderface, and introspective ramblings.
Warming Up
It had been a little over a week since Tony's attack on Pickles. They'd moved on to different cities, different shows, and now that their tour had concluded, they'd returned to Mordhaus.
No one knew anything about it except Skwisgaar and Charles, the latter of whom, of course, always knew about everything. And the two Klokateers who'd intervened, but they were sworn to secrecy, and anyway, it wasn't as if Pickles knew them personally. He didn't have to care what they thought, and aside from that, there'd been all sorts of crazy attempts to get at the various members of Dethklok, and it was by no means the first time that their employees had had to clean up the aftermath.
The morning after it had happened, Pickles had woken up with a feeling of suffocation from some dream which, mercifully, he had not been able to remember. He felt a momentary shock at finding himself sharing a bed with Skwisgaar, who lay facing the opposite direction, tangled in some odd embrace with the duvet and several pillows. The drummer wasn't sure if Skwisgaar's position indicated that Pickles had misunderstood what the other man had said to him last night, or if that was simply the way he slept. Before he had much time to puzzle over this question, there was a knock at the door.
In a panic, Pickles threw off the portion of the blankets that had remained on his side of the bed, then remembered that he was in the habit of sleeping naked. As his hand shot out to yank the blankets back over him, he realized with confusion that he was, in fact, still dressed. Oh. Yes. That was right. Last night Skwisgaar had helped him off the floor, into bed. And held him until he fell asleep, told him—
His heart beating faster and a light blush suffusing his face, Pickles stood, hastily arranged the blankets to obscure the still-sleeping blonde, should anyone happen to look in, and went to the door.
He opened it, ready to give a stern dressing-down to whomever had disturbed him at this hour of the morning. He glanced back at the bedside clock. Only ten A.M. Disgraceful! He opened the door, already preparing a stream of virulent curses in his head, only to stop short.
It was Charles.
"Oh," said Charles, raising his eyebrows in slight surprise, because he never was one to betray more than a hint of emotion, "You're, ah, up already. Good. I've been meaning to speak to you, ah, privately, about something."
"Not here," hissed Pickles.
"Not—?" The manager's eyebrows rose again, but he didn't complete the question as the drummer slipped into the hallway and quietly shut the door behind him. "Shall we speak in, ah, my room?"
"Yeah," said Pickles. "Sure." Not that he wanted to have this conversation at all, since he already had a good idea—well, a bad idea, really—of what the subject was going to be.
Once inside, Charles didn't waste time with pleasantries. "It was brought to my attention that a, shall we say, former associate of yours—"
"Yeah. Yeah, that happened, all right?" Pickles paced to and fro in front of the window, avoiding meeting the manager's eyes. "There ain't nothin' else to say about it."
"Mr. Thunderbottom has—"
"Tony?"
"Yes, er—Tony," said Charles with something like distaste, "is currently in custody of our staff."
"He's not dead?" said Pickles sharply.
"Dead?" repeated Charles. "Oh, no. Of course, normally we would take most, ah, stringent measures against someone in his position, but in light of your, ah, previous affiliation with him, no action has, at this point, been taken…" He trailed off, waiting for a response from the still-pacing drummer. When none came, he went on: "I thought it would be best to consult you personally, to see how you wished the matter to be, ah, dealt with."
Pickles exhaled, looking defeated. He couldn't let them hurt Tony. He'd expected bad news, something that he could take in stride learning about it after the fact, if something had happened that he had neither ordered nor known about, a short statement from Charles which he'd nod at, suppressing any expression of pain, and accept. But this—no, he couldn't let them do anything to Tony, not if it was actually up to him.
"Let him go," he said softly. In response to Charles's uncomprehending expression, he explained: "I mean, I don't wanna see him. Have them keep him the hell away from me. But you gotta let him go."
Charles paused, then nodded. "Very well. And if you need, ah, someone to talk to, remember that Dr. Twinkletits is, ah, around…somewhere."
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," said Pickles, with no intent to do anything of the sort. "Can I go now?"
#
He'd gone back to his own room to take a shower, and found that Skwisgaar was gone. He assumed that the guitarist had simply gone back to his own room, which was true, but Pickles had no way of knowing that when Skwisgaar had woken up alone, shivering, all the cold had come rushing back to him—the coldness that he staved off by sleeping next to someone, anyone, even the most repellant groupies, the cold that seemed to permeate his flesh down to the very marrow of his bones, that he'd learned to ignore while in the company of others, to conquer, at least temporarily, by throwing himself into it by shunning warm clothing and lurking in the drafty rooms of Mordhaus.
#
Skwisgaar seemed to behave perfectly as usual for the rest of the day, and Pickles tried to, apparently with success, as no one questioned him. Skwisgaar wasn't giving any indication in front of the others that he knew anything, remaining aloof even toward Pickles, which the drummer appreciated.
Neither of them knew exactly where he stood with the other, but even at their new hotel, Pickles still couldn't face the prospect of lying awake in the dark by himself. He caught Skwisgaar by the arm as the band trooped down to the bar.
"Dood…you still gonna stay with me tonight?" He was aware of Skwisgaar's promise, but he couldn't hold him to it, still entertaining the suspicion that he'd promised to stay only out of pity or to calm him down.
"I—ja, all rights, if you wants," he'd answered coolly, though his heart leapt at the request. Perhaps Pickles had had some other reason for leaving, instead of just running out of an awkward situation or giving him the hint to get out, as he'd thought.
#
Skwisgaar had spent every night since then with Pickles, though nothing had happened between them except a lot of cuddling and some fairly chaste kisses. This was something utterly foreign to the guitarist, but he knew by instinct that to move too soon, after what had just happened, might shatter the older man's already brittle trust.
It was against everything in his nature to refrain from acting upon even the slightest feeling of sexual desire, but then, he'd never really had that kind of desire for anyone with whom there was some basis of friendship. Well, there'd been Toki, of course, but, as he'd briefly explained to Pickles, that hadn't gone anywhere. It wasn't that he was settling for the drummer because Toki was straight, it was just that he'd been so taken with the Norwegian from the beginning, entertaining a desperate hope, trying to reason with himself that Toki was young, that he didn't know himself, that he could be persuaded—Skwisgaar shook his head. He'd been foolish. You couldn't change someone. He'd realized that some time ago. Somehow, though, he'd been dazzled by the attractive younger man, and everything else had faded into a lackluster backdrop, including the seemingly endless series of women that he'd brought to bed out of some combination of loneliness and physical need and spite for the rhythm guitarist. Only since he'd finally given up had the rest of the world begun to regain its brightness, and this time he'd noticed Pickles, someone he'd never really thought much about before.
Of course he'd always respected the drummer as the most competent of his bandmates, as someone with more experience. But then he'd begun to pick up on little things that he'd never noticed before, like Pickles's delicate hands; the shape of his flashing green eyes, only complimented by the faint crow's feet at the corners; the confidence he had to go around dressed a shade less "metal" than the others without taking any shit for it. It hadn't taken longer before Skwisgaar had begun to imagine the graceful hands caressing his skin, and to wonder whether it felt any different to get a blowjob from someone with a goatee.
Now that they were back at Mordhaus, Skwisgaar wasn't sure if or when anything would change. That night, though, he would find out.
#
Late in the evening, as the band filed into the living room, Pickles had hung back and whispered to Skwisgaar, "Don't come to my room tonight."
"What? But I thought—" began the Swede, unexpectedly hurt by this rebuff, but before he could finish the thought, he was cut off by Murderface.
"Hey! Guysch! Are you coming in here or are you juscht going to schtand around being gay?" the bassist demanded.
Skwisgaar very nearly jumped at this. Surely he couldn't know—
But Pickles merely rolled his eyes. "Yeah, dood, 'cause it's totally the most—uh, like, not-gay thing in the world to be sitting in a hot tub with four other naked men." He wandered in casually, followed by Skwisgaar, as Murderface began his usual bluster that convinced no one.
Saddened by the drummer's sudden change of heart, Skwisgaar couldn't seem to concentrate on anything that was said to him, nor did he feel the usual need to let his nervous hands run ceaselessly over his guitar. He felt cold and dull on the inside, more so than usual. So this was what rejection felt like. Not rejection due to incompatibility, which he could write off as having nothing to do with him, but real rejection. Pickles seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him, and after three instances of being asked whether he was all right (in the most metal manner possible—"What the hell's your problem, asshole?"), he decided to retire to his room.
Sighing and sitting on the edge of the bed, he still couldn't bring himself to do anything but stare at the wall. Might as well go to sleep, he decided. At least then he wouldn't have to think. But damn it, he would miss having the little redhead next to him after they'd shared a bed for close to two weeks. Skwisgaar wasn't sure whether he could remember having ever slept next to the same person on more than one occasion before.
Just as he was trying to convince himself that, if he planned to go to bed, he really ought to get up and undress, there was a knock at the door.
He didn't want to talk to anyone, except Pickles, who obviously would not be at his door, considering recent events. The best course of action, it seemed, would be to pretend that he were not there.
The knock came again. Probably Toki. He had no sense of timing. Skwisgaar sighed. "Goes away," he called.
"You sure? I was just—" Then, defeated, "Yeah, okay. I'll go."
"Waits!" He sprang to his feet and threw open the door. "I thought you weres—I was not expectings you."
"Dood, that's what I was tryin' to tell ya. Not to show up at my room 'cause I would come to you." Pickles slipped into the room and not only closed, but also locked the door behind him.
"Wait, you means—I thoughts—" Skwisgaar shook his head. "Never minds. I was mistakens." Uncharacteristically, he drew the smaller man closer to him and caught him in a hug.
"Whoa, what're ya doin' there?" said the drummer in surprise, but wrapped his arms around the blonde, and let a smile creep onto his face as he rested his head against Skwisgaar's shoulder. "'s nice," he added.
"I—I was missings you," mumbled the guitarist. Not to mention that he'd leapt to the conclusion that he'd never have the chance to do this again, and had been kicking himself for not doing it properly while he'd had the chance. "Why ams you lockings the door?" he inquired.
Pickles grinned. "Because now we're back here, we know we won't get walked in on. Um. I mean, if ya wanna," he added uncertainly.
"Of course I ams wantings to! You amnest not knowing this?" Skwisgaar stepped back from him, astonished.
Pickles shrugged. "I didn't wanna assume. I mean, you never—"
"I was giving you times!"
The drummer's eyes opened wider as he looked up at the taller man. "Aw, dood, that's—I mean—you were?" He didn't want to say that he'd never expected it of the insatiable guitarist, although that was the truth. Few others had shown him similar consideration throughout his life. "That's real nice of ya."
Now it was Skwisgaar's turn to shrug. "Was onlies tryings to be decent," he said, embarrassed. This was all new to him, trying to do things like respect people's feelings, or, even to remember that they had feelings, after years of putting on an act of being brutal and unfeeling—because, after a while, one didn't need to act anymore.
He was interrupted in these reflections by Pickles laying a hand on his arm. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"
"Nothings," he said hastily, and, as the drummer's hand travelled up to move a lock of blonde hair from his face, Skwisgaar leaned down and kissed him. To Skwisgaar's surprise, Pickles threw his arms around his neck and pulled him closer as he kissed back, eagerly, almost greedily, moaning as the other man's tongue entered his mouth.
With one hand at the drummer's waist, pressing him closer, Skwisgaar moved them both backwards blindly, until he ran into the bed and fell back onto it, partly assisted by Pickles pushing him.
Before Skwisgaar could react, Pickles was atop him, straddling his hips, his eyes glinting ferociously as he leaned down to kiss him again and again until they both were gasping for breath.
"Pickle," panted Skwisgaar, "I hads no idea you ams so aggressives."
"I'm not," he said, grinning. "Only when it's somethin' I've wanted for a long time. But, uh, I'll tone it down if ya want me to."
"Oh, it was nots meant as a complaints."
Pickles leaned down again, and trailed hot urgent kisses up the guitarist's neck, ending with an unexpected bite. Skwisgaar cried out. It stung, but it also made his already erect cock even harder. His hands flew to the smaller man's hips as he thrust upward with a sudden desperation, in need of some kind of contact.
"I knew it," whispered Pickles, his face flushed. "I knew you were into that." Roughly he pulled up the guitarist's shirt and began to kiss and bite his exposed skin. As Skwisgaar whimpered and arched upward, Pickles took the opportunity to rake his nails down his exposed back, making him moan with lust.
"You need to gets unsdressed," he said, grabbing Pickles by the shoulders and sitting up. "I know exactlies what I ams going to do with you."
Pickles raised one pierced eyebrow. "All right, I'm interested."
"I wills tell you," purred Skwisgaar. "But firsts, lose the clothings."
They both undressed hurriedly, after which Skwisgaar approached Pickles, intending to kiss him, but then paused, running a hand over his bare skin in some combination of amusement and admiration. Both men were pale, of course, but while Skwisgaar's skin was an icy hue that showed the blue of his veins, Pickles's was a creamier milk-white, and of course dotted with freckles.
"Pfft, you haves spots, like somes kind of leopard, onlies not very brutal," said the Swede in a tone of mock disapproval.
"It's called freckles, dood."
"Ja, I know," he said with a sly grin, "Goes with your hair."
Before the drummer could make any indignant retort, Skwisgaar kissed him, and they moved closer together. While it took Pickles longer to become fully aroused physically, he was having no problem mentally, and let his half-hard member rub against the taller man's thigh.
"So…" said Skwisgaar casually, "Hows do you feels about sixties-nines?"
"Sixty-nine? It's been a while since I done that, dood. I mean," Pickles considered, "I'd probably have to be on top."
"Ja, that ams what I expected," agreed Skwisgaar, and led him back to the bed. He lay down, and with some awkwardness, Pickles positioned himself above him. Placing his hands against the drummer's narrow hips and moving him into a better position, Skwisgaar then took just the tip of his penis into his mouth. Pickles gasped as Skwisgaar flicked his tongue unhurriedly over the slit a few times until it occurred to him to reciprocate. Looking down, he realized that Skwisgaar was just as well-endowed as was rumored. He licked teasingly at the head a few times, then, without further hesitation, plunged as much as he could manage into his mouth and throat, making Skwisgaar gasp.
Now Skwisgaar did the same, having an easier time of it, as Pickles was a more average size. He moved one hand up to fondle the other man's sac, simultaneously making it easier for him to quickly work the drummer's cock in and out of his mouth. Pickles began to moan and whimper around Skwisgaar's length, which added a new and unexpected sensation to the blowjob, not to mention that the redhead's muffled sounds of pleasure turned him on even more.
Pickles, in turn, noted Skwisgaar's occasional deep moans, and tried, as much as he could, to take him in deeper, licking, sucking, and skillfully applying the faintest contact with his teeth every so often. Skwisgaar, wanting to hear more from the drummer, began to move faster, and regretted only that he couldn't see his face. The way he was squirming and nearly screaming was almost too much for Skwisgaar to take; that in itself was almost enough to make him come. But he moved even faster, now holding Pickles still so he wouldn't thrash out of his grasp, hitting just the right spot with his tongue until the drummer could no longer concentrate on what he himself was doing, and had eased off of Skwisgaar's cock, unable to do anything except offer an erratic, distracted handjob while screaming out almost continuously at the brutally rapid pace at which he was being fellated. Soon, he finished, shuddering as he emptied himself into the blonde's willing mouth.
After a moment, Pickles disentangled himself from Skwisgaar and flopped over onto his side next to the guitarist. "I ain't done with you," he assured him, trying to slow his breathing, "Just gimme a minute."
Skwisgaar hoped that this was true, since his dick was now almost painfully hard from what Pickles had started, but, most unfortunately, not finished. He shifted his own position so that he lay the same direction as the drummer, and traced one finger over the line of his jaw, eliciting a sideways green glance from him, but nothing further. Not satisfied with this, Skwisgaar leaned over to nuzzle at his throat. Of course, Skwisgaar being Skwisgaar, what started as a gentle gesture of affection quickly progressed from nuzzling to kissing to impatiently nipping at Pickles's neck.
"All right, all right." Pickles sat up, moving unexpectedly fast from the bed to the floor, motioning Skwisgaar to come towards him, but frowning as he tried to kneel on the cold flagstones. Skwisgaar offered him a pillow as he joined him at the edge of the bed. Pickles took it and placed it under his knees. With that problem solved, he ran a hand up Skwisgaar's thigh, making him tremble involuntarily.
"You got any lube?" he asked, his voice husky.
"Ja. Ins the drawer there," Skwisgaar nodded to indicate the nightstand.
"Get it for me, would you?" Pickles murmured, and licked slowly up the underside of his shaft. Skwisgaar froze mid-reach, then, as Pickles paused before doing it again, hurriedly leaned further to retrieve the bottle, then handed it to the drummer.
"Mm, thanks."
Skwisgaar was too distracted by the extremely enjoyable things that Pickles was doing to his dick to even notice the other man coating his fingers with lube—that is, until Pickles reached up to ease him forward on the bed, and then began gently circling his entrance.
"Wh—what ams you going to do?" gasped Skwisgaar. Unfortunately, in order to answer, Pickles had to remove the blonde's penis from his mouth. As he did so, Skwisgaar went on quickly, "You wants to fucks me?" Although he was undeniably turned on by the idea, it was also a scary thought
"Nah, I was just gonna finger you. Unless you really want me to, but I dunno if I can manage it after ya already got me off once."
"I don't knows. Maybes. I—I never ams has done so befores."
"What? Come on, dood, I know you've slept with guys before," Pickles pointed out.
"Ja, but I means—I fuck them."
"Oh," said Pickles. "Oh. So, you've, like, never taken it before?" His eyes lit up as he began to imagine the possibilities. "Well, how about we leave that for next time, if you still wanna, and this time I'll just do this and see if ya like it."
Relieved, Skwisgaar nodded. "Ja," he said. "Okays."
For the next few moments, Pickles concentrated on the guitarist's cock, slowly taking it in as deep as he could, then, still slowly, coming back up. He kept his left hand wrapped around the base, stroking lightly, and with his right, he teased the sensitive area around the blonde's asshole until Skwisgaar spread his legs further and moved against the drummer's hand of his own accord, breathing heavily.
Taking this as his cue, Pickles removed Skwisgaar's cock from his mouth and began to press one finger gently into him. "Ya gotta tell me if it hurts, all right?"
Skwisgaar nodded, looking apprehensive, but not expressing any objection. Pickles paused as he felt the muscles clench around him, waiting until the guitarist relaxed, then worked his finger in and out until he could fit in a second one. "See, dood, that's all I'm gonna do. No more."
"You haves small hands," said Skwisgaar appreciatively.
"How ya feelin' so far?"
Skwisgaar considered. "It ams….okays. Nothing greats." Honestly, it felt a bit weird, and he failed to see the appeal, but, as he had remarked, Pickles had small hands, and it had only been slightly uncomfortable at the beginning. He was always up for trying something kinky. Maybe this was something of an acquired taste. All right, perhaps he did like it a little, he admitted to himself as Pickles took him into his mouth once again. Oh. Yes. With the blowjob it was sort of a pleasant accompaniment.
Pickles began to move his fingers again. Skwisgaar wasn't exactly sure what he was doing, but it was at least mildly pleasurable. Then—he gasped and had to grab hold of the bedsheets.
"What—so that ams why—unhhh," he didn't care about finishing the statement anymore, just leaned back and closed his eyes as Pickles increased his pace, stroking harder, moving his head faster on his dick, touching him at a spot inside that was like nothing he'd ever felt before, intensifying everything.
"Mmmm….oh Gods….Pickle….ja, faster….ahhhh….ja, ja!"
Skwisgaar found himself moaning and babbling nonsense and thrashing wildly on the bed, but managed to sit up slightly and grab Pickles hard by the shoulders just before he came, screaming the drummer's name.
Once Skwisgaar had finished completely, Pickles eased off of his still-twitching cock and slid his fingers out of him, giving a slight hiss of pain as Skwisgaar let go of his shoulders. He reached for the bedsheet and then, on second thought, wiped his hands on his own discarded underwear before joining Skwisgaar in bed.
Even though they'd been sharing a bed for days now, even though he knew it was absurd, Pickles suddenly felt timid, and wasn't sure exactly how to act now that they'd had sex, so he lay on his side at the edge of the bed, facing the wall, trying to get his thoughts together. Maybe, suggested a small voice at the back of his mind, maybe that was all that Skwisgaar had been after. Maybe he'd stuck around so long for the sake of conquest and nothing more. Maybe it was true that no one—
His thoughts were interrupted by the touch of Skwisgaar's hand on his arm, urging him back toward the center of the mattress. He rolled over and rested his head on the Swede's shoulder.
"That ams better," said Skwisgaar quietly, stroking the smooth skin of the drummer's back. He was afraid he'd blush, but proceeded anyway, with almost audible reluctance, "It was lonelies over here withouts you."
"Mm-hm," said Pickles in mock disbelief, but with a smile, knowing full well how embarrassing it must be to Skwisgaar to express affection.
"Wait, whats ams this?" Skwisgaar's voice was suddenly serious as he propped himself up and examined the faint bruises of his fingerprints on the redhead's pale skin. "I was not meanings to hurt you."
"Huh?" Pickles had to twist his neck to an odd angle to see what Skwisgaar was talking about. "Oh, that. Eh, it happens. I bruise all the time."
"I still ams nots wantings to hurt you." He said it with an intensity that surprised Pickles.
"I—thanks, Skwisgaar," he said quietly, and the way he looked up at the guitarist with surprised gratitude for what Skwisgaar had taken to be simple courtesy touched something deep within his near-frozen heart.
"Oh…Pickle," he whispered, sadness creeping into his voice. "People have nots been nice to you."
Pickles shrugged. "Yeah, well…I'll be all right."
"Ja," agreed Skwisgaar. "I have you nows." His arms encircled the smaller man, holding him closer. He himself was surprised to feel Pickles hugging him back, something that did more to ward off the ever-present cold than a sauna or a fur blanket ever had.