It was not an emotion that Skwisgaar was accustomed to.
He didn't understand the powerful, shadowy feeling that would arise in his chest when he saw him performing. It made him feel ever so slightly inadequate, ever so slightly less than he knew he really was. He was honestly unable to put a name to the emotion until he saw it glaring out of Toki's pale blue eyes one night during a show as the rhythm guitarist's fingers flew to keep up with Skwisgaar's world-class playing.
Jealousy, Skwisgaar thought, and despite his relief at finally understanding himself, he felt disgusted that he had even allowed himself to give in to such a base feeling. Why should Skwisgaar Skwigelf lower himself to be jealous of anyone?
Especially William Murderface?
At first glance, there wasn't much about Murderface for one to be jealous of. He was nothing too wonderful to look at—Skwisgaar had the body, the face, the hair of a god. While Murderface was obviously a very talented bassist, his playing was nowhere near on par with Skwisgaar's. The Swede was in a class of his own that no one could touch. There was nothing enticing about Murderface, nothing to warrant Skwisgaar's violent jealousy, except one thing—
The bassist's cock.
It was fascinating.
It wasn't so much the cock itself, although Skwisgaar felt his own dick shriveling in embarrassment every time he saw Murderface whip his hog out to play his cockslap bass solos (lengthwise, Murderface had him beat by a good inch, and those calluses added some girth). No, it was the fact that Murderface possessed the strange ability to play a musical instrument with his penis.
No one else in the band could do that, although they had all secretly tried at some point. Hell, as far as any of them knew, no one else in the world could do it. Murderface was the world's only cockslap bassist, and Skwisgaar was powerfully envious.
The Swede endured the feeling of inadequacy as long as he could bear it, but not only was he used to being the best at everything, he felt he deserved to be the best at everything. There came a point where he could no longer stand it.
It was midnight. Murderface was sitting in his room, polishing his weapons in the silent company but soothing company of Jose Cuervo. He was drunk, horny, and immersed in a wave of self-loathing…a combination that put him in a rather dangerous mood, especially when he was surrounded by various types of sharp weaponry .
It was at this most inopportune moment that Skwisgaar walked in without so much as a knock and made his bizarre demand.
"I wants yous to learns me cockslaps playingks!" he declared, the heavy door to Murderface's room slamming shut behind him.
Murderface stood up, one of his daggers clenched in his fist. He intended to either slice the Swedish snobbery out of his bandmate or throw the skinny bastard bodily out of the room—he hadn't quite made up his mind yet.
"Schay again?" Murderface asked, his brown eyes narrowing.
"Cockslaps playinks. I wants to be teached and yous is goingks to be da teachers!" Skwisgaar repeated.
"It'sh not schomething I can teach you, blondie—" Murderface began, but Skwisgaar cut him off.
"Yous can be teachingks me! I's seen you do its t'ousands of times, and it can't be dats hard if yous can do it—"
Murderface's temper was short in the best of situations. Tonight he had drunk three fourths of a bottle of tequila, and his temper was nonexistent. He shoved the taller man into the wall before Skwisgaar even had the slightest clue what had happened, his big dark body effectively subduing any struggle the blond attempted to make.
"Scho if it can't be that hard, why can't you do it, blondie?" Murderface asked, "You juscht can't schtand schomeone bein' better than you, huh? Eschpecially if that schomeone is me, right?"
Skwisgaar sputtered and stuttered, but the words that came out of his mouth were so garbled that Murderface didn't even make an attempt to unravel them. He didn't care what the Swede had to say, didn't care what excuses he was making—he only cared about making Skwisgaar sorry he had ever asked to be taught anything.
He shoved the blond to his bony knees simply by throwing all his weight behind the motion—Skwisgaar may have been six and a half feet tall, but he weighed less than Murderface. He sank with a sharp hiss of pain, and Murderface smiled crookedly.
"Scho you wanna learn t' play with your cock, am I right?" the bassist asked, the dagger still clenched in his fist. If Skwisgaar decided to bolt, the knife was between him and the door.
Unable to think of a coherent response—his skin was still crawling from the full body-to-body contact a moment earlier—the Swede simply nodded into Murderface's stomach.
"Well here'sch lesschon one—don't dischreschpect your teacher, got that?" he planted the ivory-handled weapon into the wall just left of Skwisgaar's ear. The blond nodded, hard, trying desperately to remember the last time he had seen Murderface in such a blood rage. He couldn't.
"Good. Lesschon two—if you wanna learn t' play with your cock, you better learn t' play with mine firscht."
Skwisgaar's pale face grew even whiter, and Murderface couldn't suppress a slightly maniacal laugh. He was drunk, so drunk, and he had been trying to ignore the half-stiff sensation in his pants for the past twenty minutes. Skwisgaar was going to save him an embarrassing phone call to the local escort agency.
The knowledge that he was about to bring the Swedish snob down a few pegs was more than enough to get the blood flowing, and the cock he shoved in Skwisgaar's stricken face was throbbing and rigid.
"What're you schtarin' at, blondie? Did you think I juscht usched this thing for the schtage?" he snarled, snatching the dagger out of the wall and pointing it at the hollow of Skwisgaar's throat. When the blond swallowed, his Adam's apple grazed the sharp point.
"Open wide, fucker," Murderface muttered, and pushed Skwisgaar to his hands and knees before he shoved himself into the Swede's mouth. The force of the thrust would have had any other man screeching in pain. Teeth grazed over his length and he barely noticed—a slightly calloused cock was handy like that.
Skwisgaar felt himself choking in protest at the invasion, but when he tried to pull back to escape he felt the cold edge of Murderface's dagger pressed to the back of his neck.
He had a moment of panic, a moment of sheer desperation where he tried to get to his feet, tried to pull away despite the knife at the back of his neck, but the position Murderface had him in was impossible to escape. One heavy hand had buried itself securely in the hair at the very nape of Skwisgaar's neck, just above where the blade of the knife rested. When Skwisgaar tried to move, the edge of the knife sliced ever-so-shallowly into his skin, and the hand in his hair jerked. A million pinpricks of pain ran along the base of his skull and he gave up. Skwisgaar moved his head forward, slowly, sliding Murderface's cock down his throat, until the hand in his hair jerked him backward again.
"Never fuckin' done thisch before, have ya blondie?" Murderface mumbled harshly, "Always had the groupiesch doin' it for you—how doesch it feel, Schkwisgaar?" he asked, thrusting himself deeper into the blond's mouth, watching in twisted pleasure as Skwisgaar's pale blue eyes clenched shut.
"Do you like it, asschole? Do you?!" Murderface pulled himself out for a moment, and the muscles just below his stomach twitched—his cock slapped against Skwisgaar's cheek with surprising force.
Skwisgaar tried, even in his current state of degradation, to hold on to the ragged ends of his pride. He kept his mouth firmly closed, refusing to answer Murderface's question, no matter how many times he was cockslapped. He held out until Murderface, using the Swede's long blond hair as a handle, yanked him to his feet and steered him into the bassists work table, shoving him into a bent-over position and pressing the bloody edge of the dagger against the more vulnerable part of his throat.
It was then when Skwisgaar's legendary pride vanished—it dropped out of existence the moment he, fear stricken and horrified, complied with Murderface's command to drop his pants.
It wasn't as if he didn't know what was coming next. Murderface had ceased to be Murderface—the whole connotation of the name had changed now, and the voice that used to be the object of so much disdain, so much disgust for Skwisgaar was now making him shiver, making him quake like a little girl. It wasn't as if he didn't know what was coming next…but the pain still surprised him, still made tears leak from the corners of his eyes, still made him scream until Murderface ordered him to be silent.
He obeyed, digging his teeth into his lip as Murderface shoved inside him, each thrust harder, more cruel than the last. When he felt the moist, spreading warmth inside of him, his gorge rose—it was all he could do to keep from puking.
Murderface tore his cock from inside Skwisgaar, then flung the taller man to the floor and grinned.
Skwisgaar's blond hair was lank and stringy with sweat, and a thin line of blood trickled from his throat. His once-pale cheeks were now high with color, and his pants were still pooled around his ankles, revealing a startlingly white cock that was standing at full attention.
Murderface laughed again, maliciously, hiking up his shorts and planting the bloody dagger in the wood of his worktable.
"Schick motherfucker," he said, "You liked it. You fucking liked it."
Skwisgaar tried to protest. He opened his mouth to speak, but found that he couldn't. He had felt sick, had felt disgusting every moment of the ordeal…but his cock was hard, throbbing, and beginning to distract him.
"Get outta my schight," Murderface said suddenly, picking up the bottle of Jose Cuervo he had abandoned earlier and guzzling the rest of the contents.
"Get outta my schight," he repeated, as Skwisgaar stood, pulling up his pants and tucking his aching erection into the waistband. "But tell anyone about thisch…I know where you schleep, motherfucker."
Skwisgaar only nodded, backing slowly toward the door, unwilling to turn his back on the monster that had once been his bandmate.
"Be back here tomorrow night," Murderface added suddenly, "And don't make me come find you."
Skwisgaar nodded, and fled.
Murderface took out his Dethphone, and deleted the number to the escort agency.