Authors Notes: I do not own Dethklok, ding dong doodily doo.

Warning: gore, suicides, murder, fun shit like that. What else do you expect from the band Dethklok? Sheesh. Sorry this chapter is short. More to come shortly!

Skwisgaar came back up the stairs, finding Nathan and Pickles thoroughly baked, and Murderface was drunk off his ass. Suddenly, he wasn't in the mood anymore to drink. The Swede just drifted through the living room and made his way to his bedroom. He sat down and stared at the wall for awhile.

His head fell into his hands, his face curtained by his long, wavy gold hair. He was now officially royally fucked. Odin, he was so fucked now. He was okay with entertaining the thought of the Norwegian having a crush on him, but nothing prepared him for Toki to confess being in love.

Odin, strike me down now. Please.

He was used to sluts throwing themselves at him. He was used to the aloof affection of cougars and GMILFS. He could handle the desperateness of young, single moms trying desperately to regain their lost teen years before parenthood set in, in one-night stands in the bathroom of some seedy bar. He didn't mind "climbing the mountain" of very voluptuous women, who were always happy for attention of any kind. He could fuck them all without a care in the world, his head and heart free of any guilt. He would, and he did, fuck them any which way from Sunday, in semen-soaked mattresses, in seedy bathroom stalls that sported more DNA samples then a set of CSI. That was all okay in his little black book. Experienced women, married or not, always flocked to his side. He could fuck their tiny little STD-riddled brains out, and leave them in the morning, hair mussed, mascara smeared, and no worse for wear. They already had jaded pallets, and even more jaded hearts. Those jaded hearts were already broken, damaged before he ever met them. Their hearts could handle one more crack, one more tarnish. He was just one more on a wilting daisy chain of lovers, though he liked to think he was among the best.

He wasn't used to this. Anything but this-Toki, laying sprawled out with full-blown pupils, his lips slightly parted and moist, hair dishelved, clad only in a adorably adolescent pair of boxer-briefs that could barely contain his budding erection. The red glow of the lava lamp made it seem all too perfect, like a high-class porno. The look in Toki's eyes-that was the problem. It was the look of devotion, hopes, and worst of all, true love. It was that kind of look that was soul-shattering, something that was deeper then Skwisgaar thought possible.

Skwisgaar bit his full lower lip, nibbling on it, shredding it slightly. He looked down at his pale, long fingered hands. He clenched, then released it after a bit.

Love.

He couldn't deal with this shit.

In his younger days, yes, he knew the game, he liked to teach the young, nubile girls, guide them down the path of debauchery, kick them further down the paths to becoming whores that would rival even his own mother. But quickly, tears and virgin blood spilt hardened his heart-he made no promises, offered no pleasing words of love, devotion and destiny. They fell from grace on their own accord, burnt their own wings to ash to bask in the burning flame of Skwisgaar's cold passion. They would throw themselves at him, wailing like a heartbroken harpy, clawing at his chest, tearing his threadbare tee shirt with their painted nails. They clung to him, desperate for his love, his affection, hell even his recognition.

He didn't offer any.

He couldn't.

And he would just smile scornfully down at them.

They fell; they were the ones who soiled themselves, tossed away their innocence so cheaply. Whores. He spoke only truths, offered no sweet lies to take away the pain stabbing their hearts. He told them, they knew who he was, what he offered. His body offered comfort, little more. Whatever damage was done, it was on the women. They knew the price. He merely gave them exactly what they wanted-pleasure, and nothing more. He was to merely be the first of so many, that was all, nothing more.

Sometimes, a girl would go off the deep end, screaming about destiny, about broken promises, and threaten to take her own life unless the Swede said those three magic words. It was so funny- they wanted him to confess his love when they didn't even fucking love him. What a joke.

He would laugh, the girl backed into a corner with her weapon of choice. A razor, pills, a long rope, gun flashing silver in the dim light. It was all the same. Coward. Bitch. Hypocrite.

Just do it, he screamed. Fucking do it, you worthless whore, do you value yourself so little? You're the one that took what I offered! I said nothing about love, made no promises! You made your own choice!

The first one always haunted the Swede, brains and blood splattered against the wall of a cheap, nondescript hotel room, somewhere, sometime long ago. He didn't even know her name, or remembered what she looked like before the bullet tore through the side of her skull, exploding on impact, bone shattering everywhere. Her blood spattered so beautifully against the wall, making its own art even as her lifeless body collapsed.

The others were nothing special-slit wrists in the bathtub, collapsing in the kitchen clutching a bottle of pills, calls late at night from a pay phone, desperateness oozing out of every pore. Could he come? They all said the same thing, breathing heavily into the phone. They just wanted to talk-could he come? He would always show up, his hair messed and slightly hung over. . It was always the same conversation- the same accusations, the same wailing like a banshee while they abused him with their tiny fists as he stood there looking like a damn demigod. It would always escalate to the breaking point, no matter what the Swede did. It was inevitable. Sometimes he got there in time, other times he merely phoned for an ambulance, gave the address. Sometimes those women would get creative-hurling themselves from various landmarks, making street art below, or disemboweling themselves and writing his name with their lower intestines. That one was rather interesting-he had been locked up for two days while trying to explain that to the local authorities.

He swaggard down his own path, leaving behind pools of virgin blood, and the bodies of those stupid enough to try to confuse his lust with his love.

He stopped trying to care. If they wanted a piece of him, it was on his own terms, and soon he gave up on anyone remotely reeking of innocence. He welcomed, instead, all the damaged ones, the unwanted ones. He lavished his attention on the old, the fat, the obviously undesired as part of his atonement for crimes he never committed.

He no longer kept count, the nameless faces melted into each other, the old, the young, fat and thin, none of it mattered but the squeeze on his cock, and his own pleasure. He took pleasure and gave it back, he had a reputation to uphold after all.

This was different, now. This was something more deeper, something more intense. It was Skwisgaar's turn to fall, let his wings get burnt to ash, his fall from grace. It was too late any way, he was tainted, soiled, filthy and wretched.

Unworthy

Hands fisted at his golden hair and he bit back a moan. This was so fucked up, fucked up bad.

He didn't know what to do anymore.

God, he needed to talk to Pickles for advice. The older drummer always knew what to do about nearly everything. Being in the most successful glam rock band of the 80's made Pickles a master of discretion and a fountain of wisdom. He had been around the world, he had done nearly everything, did every drug currently known to man, (unless you count Krokidill-but no one was retarded enough to try that shit) and seen it all.

Pickles will know what to do.