Momento Mori

by ThatWritingHo

Olive Axworthy was just trying to live her life, working in the morgue and staying as far away from her family as possible, but when opportunity strikes, she can't resist dropping it all for the chance to work with her favorite band. The Inner Fangirl always wins. Reverse Harem, Dethklok style. OC-centric, morally grey main, eventually Pickles/Oc

9. Chapter 8

A/n: *shows up 11 months late with Starbuck*

Hell of a year, huh guys? Hopefully this monster of a chapter makes up for at least a bit of my absence

---

"So what's dis one? Some kinda Egyptian god, right?"

Fighting back giggles as Pickles tickled over her sternum, Olive couldn't control the permagrin that had stretched her cheeks since finishing their shared morning joint, after which the drummer had begun an inspection, and subsequent questioning, of every tattoo his fingers sought out.

Falling asleep the previous night, he worried he had pushed her too far, gotten carried away and been too harsh on her for their first time together, that she would run off the moment his consciousness slipped. Olive's mental fragility the day prior hit close to home; the skittishness, the fidgeting, the far off looks, avoiding eye contact; her body language screamed high anxiety, that she wasn't fully present. Pickles knew all too well the signs of being trapped by memories, and sex always helped when he felt that way.

Er, well. It was a good distraction, at least.

To say his intentions were solely for Olive's benefit would be lying, of course. Pickles had wanted to get this girl in his bed since day one. But, hey, she obviously hadn't wanted to talk about it, so he did the only other thing he thought might help. Luckily, the morning greeted him with arms around his shoulders and tits in his face, so he guessed it had worked.

"Yeah, Nekhbet. She's basically considered the goddess of creation. I have a few others from Egyptian mythology, too..."

Twisting up her right leg, Olive presented her calf as best she could while laying next to the redhead, "Anubis here, I'm sure you know he's the god of death," swapping her right for her left, she continued, "and Sekhmet, a warrior and goddess of healing."

"Heh. Y'really are a nerd, huh?"

The playful upturn of his lips was enough for her to know she was only being teased, but still he received a half hearted smack on the arm for the comment. Pickles' smirk only grew, and his eyes continued to roam her skin, the(much too early) morning sunlight streaming through his window bringing out the warmth of her skin tone, and enticing his fingers all the more.

"What aboot this?" His fingers trailed down her right arm, gliding along the swirls and flowers surrounding the koi that made up her sleeve, "Looks Japanese."

"Yeah, it is. I lived in Tokyo for a few years."

"Whoah, so you got it dere? Did yeh do the tap and poke shit?"

"Yup."

Green eyes lit up at the prospect, smile stretching his cheeks in an almost childish wonder.

"No shit? What was it like?"

"God, dude it took forever , so much longer than a gun. And it hurt like a motherfucker."

"Yeah? I fuckin bet, ya can't even see yer skin at all," he twisted her arm this way and that, wanting to fully take in the piece, "It looks awesome, though, rehl badass."

"Glad to have your seal of approval. Makes it worth it."

Her sentence was delivered deadpan and devoid of inflection, and Pickles barked out a laugh, moving his hand from her arm to absentmindedly fiddle with her fingers, the callused pads of his digits sending chills up her spine.

"I thought only gang members got stuff like dat done?"

Olive just shrugged, "Eh, I mean, that's why I got mine. But it's one of those things where like, not everyone in the yakuza has a tattoo, and not every person with a tattoo is involved with the yakuza, yknow?"

Fidgeting fingers froze, giving her a disbelieving look.

"Yer shittin' me. You?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Jest, yer so… yahknow…" awkward was the word, but it seemed too harsh, too real, so instead he went with something he knew would receive a more light hearted reaction, " shy ."

As predicted, Olive prickled, snatching the pillow from behind her and whacking the smug drummer square in the face, and he flopped back onto the bed dramatically, peels of laughter ripping from his throat as he tossed the pillow away.

"I'm not shy , you jackass!"

"Right, sure," Pickles managed to wheeze out, "den why're yeh blushin' so hard?"

Olive pouted, crossing her arms over her chest with a huff, face blazing a fiery inferno.

"You're the worst. I quit."

"Nooooo, don't say dat!" playing along, Pickles sat back up, taking her hands in his in a pleading gesture, "yeh can't quit, what if I have some kinda medical emergency huh? What den?"

Struggling to keep a straight face, Olive turned her nose up, looking away in mock dismissal, "Then I'll make sure to tell everyone what a jerk you are in my eulogy."

"Baaaaaaaabe," Pickles whined, throwing his arms around her, her shoulders beginning to shake as she held back her laughter, "c'mahhhhhhhn, dat'll make the funeral strippers sad."

Finally letting herself drop the act, she dissolved into giggles, the both of them soon weak with weed fueled laughter, leaning against each other for support until they composed themselves.

"Ok, ok, really, though, who else did you think I worked for?

"Shit, I don't know, the fuckin' government or somethin'?"

"Like the US government?" Olive stuck out her tongue, pretending to gag, "gross, no way."

"Alright alright, point taken, sheesh," Pickles reclined back against his headboard, stretching his legs out with a contented sigh, "so which one's yer favorite?"

"...which government?"

"No, ya high-ass. Which tattoo?"

Olive grinned, big and stoned, humming in consideration, then turned her opposite side to him and raised her arm, thankful for how swiftly he averted his eyes after they were drawn to the uneven skin of her ribs.

"This guy."

Below the scars on her side lay inked a headless skeleton, hands up in motion, juggling five skulls all wearing different expressions.

Tracing the laughing skull with a soft touch Pickles grinned, lazy and lopsided.

"I like it."

"What about you?"

Pickles had less tattoos than she had expected, but there were a few scattered across his body at random, most of them silly one offs from flash sales and a few faded stick and pokes.

His grin turned mischievous, before he folded forward his front lip, revealing a lightly faded, but still legible 'BITE ME' inked on the sensitive flesh there, receiving a laugh in response.

"Wow, dude. Super classy."

"Yeahhh. I thought so too."

Grinning impishly, Olive leaned forward, capturing his bottom lip between her teeth as the ink suggested, sucking lightly and drawing a groan from the drummer as his fingers delved into the hair at the back of her head, guiding her into an open mouthed kiss.

Pickles was a sloppy kisser, but in the best way; all tongue and teeth and spit and want , leaving his partner with no room for interpretation, no question of his desire, and Olive found herself falling, both literally, onto the bed next to him, and figuratively, with fondness blossoming in her chest that let her know she was, without a doubt, in trouble.

Pickles was beautiful and talented, and had an effortless charm about him that drew her in like a moth to flame. Their friendship came fast and easy, and with the amount of flirting and playful teasing that came so naturally, sex was a certain eventuality. Friends with benefits, that was something she could absolutely indulge herself in, but tenderness the likes of which was beginning to bud in her heart was dangerous. Catching feelings for your boss was a bad idea. But when that boss was also a womanizing, multi-billionaire rockstar notorious for never, ever dating? Oof.

Luckily, monogamy wasn't her cup of tea, anyway.

A soft pinch to her nipple yanked Olive from her thoughts, Pickles having sucked a trailed down her neck, "y'still with me, space cadet?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, sorry," was her sheepish reply. Had she really been that checked out? "My brain won't shut up."

"Mm," his lips drug lower, lazily mouthing along her clavicle, the hand groping her ass sliding down along her thigh, guiding her leg to hook over his hip, then moved to cup her sex, and she felt the smile in his next words as he murmured into her skin, "bet I can find a' off switch."

To punctuate, Pickles pressed his thumb against her clit as if it were a button, making her yelp and giggle, then dipped his fingers lower, petting over her slick lips.

" Fuck yer wet ..."

Smirking to herself, Olive snaked a hand down to Pickles' own crotch, his leg raising to accommodate as her hand mirrored his own, teasing over the folds below his cock and coating her fingertips in his arousal.

"And you're not?"

Chuckle rumbling through his chest, Pickles slipped a finger inside her warm heat, her now slick digits kneading over his dick.

"Touché."

Matching moans of pleasure chased the silence from the room as the pair moved in tandem to work each other over, Pickles adding another finger and thumbing over her clit as Olive rubbed at the base his cock, hips lazily bucking into hands and breaths turning labored as they chased their peaks.

In her lustful haze, she found herself longing for more of him; more fingers, more tongue, more teeth, more of her holes to be filled and toyed with as he pleased. Right now, in this moment, she would do anything he asked.

What a wonderful, terrifying thought.

As if reading her mind, Pickles mouthed up to her ear and inquired, voice rough, barely more than a whisper, "think ya can take more fer me, baby?" as he slipped in a third finger, stretching her perfectly as she let out a breathy please.

"Yeahhh, dats what I like ta hear. Good little sluts like you should say please."

Pickles chuckled, low and deep as he felt her shiver and tighten around him.

"Mm, ya like when I talk to ya, when I call ya names ?"

His breath was hot and heavy in her ear and she squirmed in need, panting out a yes.

"Heh, got yerself a little voice kink, huh?"

The heel of his palm rolled against her clit, erotic shame coursing through her, heating her skin as he hit the nail on the head, not wanting to admit to his accusation.

"No…"

"No?" his fingers ceased, slowly retreating from her cunt, and she could feel the infuriating grin on his lips "no, as in ya want me ta stop?"

"Noooo…" she whimpered, tears of frustrated embarrassment pricking at the corners of her eyes, the horrible ache of emptiness consuming her, "Pickles, please, please don't stop, I need you."

He hummed, seemingly in thought, ghosting over her clit with a barely there touch, drawing a frustrated whine from her lips.

" Need me, huh?"

"Please..."

"Well, since ya asked so nicely…" finally, blissfully his fingers slipped easily inside her again, the soft, fleshy walls conforming to the shape of his digits, but it wasn't enough. She needed more , needed him to wreck her.

"Fuck, oh, god... harder ."

He grinned, facial hair tickling against her ear with the movement, and wiggled his fingers deeper, stretching her clenching muscles further.

"Yeah? Ya want it rougher, pretty baby?"

"Yes, Pickles , please... "

"Yer gahd damn right ya do, fuckin' slut."

Hand pulling away, it came back down sharply against her cunt with a wet, obscene smack that would have mortified her under any other circumstance and she keened , choking on a moan, fingers faltering in their stroking of his cock

"Ya want me ta hurt ya? Want me ta bruise yer insides? Fuck ya til ya can't think?"

Shoving back inside her throbbing pussy, he curled his digits, calloused pads pressing up hard against the soft, spongy spot inside of her, the force of the thrust enough to rock her hips.

"F-fuck, ahh… please!"

He groaned, deep and shiver inducing in her ear, those desperate pleas spurring him on, doubling his own arousal, and he ground his cock into her stalled fingers.

"Heh.. yah'd let me do whatever I wanted to this sweet little pussy of yers, wouldn't ya?"

Visions swam through her lust-hazed mind as his fingers pistoned into her again and again, strategically aimed for her gspot, stars dancing across her screwed shut eyes; of Pickles looming above her, face shadowed and grin manic as he slid the tip of her own dagger down her body, teasing it over her throbbing clit before shoving it up into her cunt with force; of him slicing her open from slit to chest, tearing flesh and delving his hands inside her to poke and prod at organs; of freckled hands cracking open her ribcage, snapping her bones and digging into her chest cavity, gripping her heart in his fist and ripping it from her body, sinking his teeth into the still beating organ as green eyes stared into her soul, all the while stroking his cock with his blood-lubed fingers.

It was horrifying and thrilling, this violent fantasy, and made her all the wetter, hips now moving frantically against his hand in desperation, so very close to euphoria.

" Yes , fuckfuck fuck ... Pickles please, I wanna cum, please let me ."

"Such a good girl, askin' first," Pickles cooed, "Come on, baby, cum fer me."

Those talented fingers and encouraging words coaxed Olive into a mindboggling organsm as he moved from her ear, tucking her head securely under his chin as she fell over the precipice, walls contracting as his curled digits massaged deep inside her, sinking her teeth into the junction of his shoulder and neck with a choked sob.

Pickles wasn't far off, Olive having enough wherewithal in her cumfucked brain to redouble her efforts on his stiff, aching dick, his soaked fingers easing from her pussy and coming up to smear against her lips, mouth opening eagerly to welcome them with her tongue, sucking and lapping at his knuckles, tasting herself as he pressed down against the muscle, the sensation knocking him over the edge.

"Nyeh... fuckin' fuck. "

Pale thighs clamped around her hand as his muscles spasmed, release hitting him like a train, and Pickles melted into the mattress next to her, breathing ragged and body tingling as his limbs turned to jelly, withdrawing from her mouth with a soft 'pop,' a trail of saliva briefly connecting them.

"God damn…" he managed out through a sigh, wet fingers finding and loosely tangling with her own, giving a soft squeeze.

"Hah…" Olive could only breathe out a dazed ghost of a giggle, body floating from the sex and the high, "same."

Humming in satisfaction, the pair laid like that, maybe for a minute, maybe for an hour, neither could be sure, basking in the postcoital glow. Eventually, the drummer turned his head to her, eyes softening as he took in her blissed out face, lips parted lightly, her closed-eyed expression one of relaxed ease, so different from her usual awkward stoicism or playful cockiness. Sun streamed through his window illuminating her messy locks, a ray catching on one of her piercings, the silver glinting bright against her dark nipple, her chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. An errant thought crossed his mind, as he laid there in admiration, that he wouldn't mind seeing this every day, and he startled at the sentiment.

Oh. Shit. This was bad .

A proverbial pin was placed in that frightening thought as Olive rolled her head to him, dark eyes twinkling as they met his, sweet smile softening her face, "What?"

For once, Pickles was the one blushing, swallowing at his suddenly dry mouth, long forgotten nervousness gripping his chest that he hadn't felt around a girl since the early days of Snakes, before the confidence that came from hyper-fame.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"...uh-"

A rapid triple knock sounded from the door, cutting him off. With a silent thanks to whatever god might exist, Pickles called out a "yeah?" after tossing the sheet over both of their naked forms, shaking off his nerves as he propped himself up on his elbow, a klokateer appearing in the threshold.

"My apologies for interrupting, sire. I was sent by Lord Offdensen."

"Whats up, 'm I late fer somethin'? I thought recording wasn't til noon?"

"No, sire. Miss Olive's presence is requested."

Olive's eye twitched, frown turning down her lips in irritation, both at having her post-orgasmic haze interrupted, and at the fact that not a single one of these fuckers had addressed her with her title since she arrived.

"Doctor."

Both men looked at her, Pickles raising a pierced brow, though her gaze didn't leave the hoods eyes.

"It's Doctor Olive."

The klokateer dipped his head briefly, nodding.

"...my apologies, doctor. Your presence is requested in Lord Offdensen's office within the hour."

Giving a stiff bow, the klokateer swiftly turned and was gone just as quickly as he had appeared.

Deciding to do what he always did with feelings and thoughts he didn't want to address, Pickles squashed them down, reverting back to his comfort zone of playful teasing.

"... Doctor Olive, huh? Kinky."

Rolling her eyes with a grin, she sat up, stretching her arms above her head and arching her back to pop, reenergized after that intense orgasm.

"I didn't bust my ass in med school for nothing, man."

Rather reluctantly, she drug herself from the bed, not missing the way green eyes lingered as she bent over to snatch the previous nights clothes from the messy floor, tugging them on haphazardly before turning to give the drummer an awkward smile.

"I guess I'll, um, see you later?"

"Aw, I don't even get a kiss bye? 'm hurt."

A familiar heat made itself home on Olive's cheeks at that cute side smile, and she tucked her hair behind her ear as she approached the bed, leaning over to plant a chaste kiss to his still grinning lips.

"Mmm, gimme another fer luck?"

Humming, Olive allowed herself to be guided into another soft, sweet peck, a warm hand settling on the back of her neck to keep her from moving away as Pickles pressed a third, fourth, fifth, sixth kiss to her mouth; both of them wearing big, silly smiles by the time she managed to pry her lips from his as his affections migrated to her neck.

"Pickles! You're gonna make me late!"

"Ya got an hour."

Olive squealed lightly as he timed a nip on her throat with a squeeze to her side, squirming out of his reach as he pouted at her.

"I don't have time, I need to shower."

"Alright, alright," he shooed her off with a wave of his hand, "get outta here, ya crazy kid."

"I'll see you at the studio, yeah?"

Pickles' smirk only grew, Olive's blush tripling as he gave her a wink.

"Count on it, beautiful."

This walk of shame back to her room was much less, well, shameful than the one the previous morning. While she still felt physically gross(skin sticky from sex sweat, mouth dry and tasting of morning breath, hair a tangled mess, clothes wrinkled and smelling of booze and smoke) there had been no nightmare to plague her, and she actually felt… Nice? Refreshed? Comforted, maybe?

Sleeping with Pickles had actually felt like sleeping with a friend; still embarrassing, oh god so embarrassing , but she could feel that he enjoyed their time together more because he knew her.

On the other hand, sleeping with Skwisgaar may as well have been a one night stand with a stranger for all the reverence he had given her. The act itself with Skwisgaar had been wonderful, mind blowing, easily some of the best she had ever had. But it was as if he had just been sleeping with any other girl for all she mattered to him.

...not that she was looking for some grand gesture or love confession. That was far from what she wanted. He had just been so… disconnected. Absent. He was attentive in all the physical ways, but there was a marked lack of all the easy going, relaxed affection that the drummer had so casually bestowed her with.

Despite how thickly the Swede had laid on the charm to lure her into his bed, he had still never really just… talked to her. He didn't talk to anyone much, not really. Occasional commentary or an insult here and there, but for the most part he just hung out on the sidelines, plucking away at his guitar, seemingly in his own world. Maybe Olive could swallow down her awkwardness enough to actually get him to hold a conversation with her.

Maybe .

These thoughts continued to swirl in her mind as she reached her room, greeting Apophis before stepping into a well needed shower, scrubbing away the grime and reveling in the sensation of the hot water further loosening her muscles. Man, if sex with Pickles always left her this relaxed, she'd need to take him up on his advances more often.

Who needs Xanax when you have a hot drummer to bang?

Wrapping herself in a fluffy black towel, Olive stepped out of the shower, wiping the condensate from the mirror and grimacing at her reflection. The combination of drinking and not washing off her makeup for two nights straight had left her skin lackluster, with dark circles under her eyes and the beginning bumps of acne blooming around her nose, chin, and cheeks. The previous day's nervous chewing of her lips, coupled with the two nights of kissing and oral, had left them dry and peeling. Her hair was also fading fast, as bright colors are want to do, regrowth of her dark roots beginning to become noticeable.

Some self care was desperately necessary. Maybe after her meeting with Charles she could-

Wait, what time was it?

Checking her phone, she cringed, having spent entirely too long enjoying her shower, due in the CFO's office in a mere fifteen minutes.

After slapping moisturizer on her face, forgoing makeup for times sake and leaving her hair product-free in preparation of the touch up, she stepped back into her room, glancing longingly at the boxes still cluttered along the walls. At this rate, her things would never get unpacked.

Anxiety started to creep into her mind as she threw on a loose black t-shirt dress, open denim button up, and fishnets; Charles had not been pleased with her last night, and despite the band's insistence that the CFO couldn't fire her, she was unable to shake the dread for this one-on-one encounter.

A text from her sister lit up her phone screen, and Olive blanched as she spied the time. Fuck, she was taking too long, she needed to leave now to get there on time.

But, ugh. Her hair was starting to dampen her shirt already. Pausing in front of the mirror, Olive hesitated briefly as she pulled the pink locks back to begin a quick french braid, eyeing the smooth glass and scarred skin on the side of her head. Was she really ready to leave herself exposed like this?

Fuck it. The cat's already out of the bag, she may as well roll with it.

Tying off her loose, messy braid, Olive snatched her phone off the bed and yanked on her boots, running the last third of the way down the dim corridors to make it in time, and thankfully tapped her knuckles on the heavy wooden door at precisely eleven thirty.

---

Charles' eyes strayed, for the third time in under five minutes, to his watch, uncharacteristically impatient for his newest staff member to arrive.

The previous night had been a long one; after the meeting had concluded, Charles set to work on intel gathering, sending out the word for any klokateer with knowledge regarding the 'Salmusa' to report to him at once. What he had not anticipated, however, was the overwhelming number of responses; it seemed every gear with any background in martial arts, organized crime, or paid mercenary work had a rumor or two to share. As much as he would prefer to interview each personally, there was simply no time, therefore higher ranking gears were assigned to collect reports overnight and summarize back in the morning.

The resulting emails of information had taken him quite some time to sift through, sorting them into folders of corroborated accounts, personal experiences, and one off rumors. If even half of the information reported was true… Olive was a much more valuable acquisition than he had anticipated.

A quick knock drew him from his thoughts, and his eyes flicked to his watch once again. Eleven thirty on the dot. Her punctuality was a nice change of pace from Dethklok's perpetual lateness.

"Come in."

Charles adjusted his tie minutely as Olive closed the door behind her, gesturing for her to take a seat in the plush armchair before his desk. He was a bit surprised to see her hair pulled back, but didn't allow his eyes to linger out of politeness.

As always, he was dressed and pressed immaculately, today fitted in a dark grey Zegna suit, neither a hair nor thread out of place, nor a wrinkle in his clothes to be seen. If not for years of rebelling against her father's insistence on dolling her up in designer clothes, Olive would have felt a slob in comparison.

"I, ah, trust you slept well?"

A light dusting of color spread over Olive's cheeks. Yes, she certainly had slept well. Did he know she had been sleeping with the band members?

"Um, yeah. Sure. You, uh, wanted to see me?"

"Yes. We have much to discuss after last night's, ah, revelations ."

"Right."

"But, before we get into that, I need your signatures on a few documents here…"

Charles slid three papers forward, reaching into his drawer for a pen as Olive began to read over them. Blinking at the forms, she looked up and raised a brow, taking the proffered writing utensil

"With you're recent, ah, involvement with Skwisgaar and Pickles, I'm afraid it's necessary."

Well, that answers that question. Of course he knew. Fighting back the heat from her face, Olive nodded, eyes skimming over the documents; forfeiting parental rights, assuming responsibility for contracted STDs, and a nondisclosure agreement. It covered all the basics; no distributing any risqué pictures she may be sent, no detailed discussion of the act, no public criticism of their bodies or performance, and absolutely no talking to the press. Signing her awful doctor's signature on the nondisclosure and STD forms, Olive slid the papers back across the desk.

"I'll sign these, but the other is unnecessary."

Charles shook his head, pushing the papers back to her.

"It's non negotiable."

Rolling her eyes, she pushed it back.

"No. Seriously. Tubes are tied."

Charles paused for a beat, then collected the forms, slipping them into a manila folder.

"...I see. Well then. I'm sure you'll understand that I will require some, uh, documentation to corroborate. Moving on…"

His attention shifted to his laptop, clicking open his notes.

"It seems you have quite the reputation among the gears. Many of them have come forward with some rather… extravagant rumors."

A smile curved at her lips, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

"Oh, I'm sure."

"I'll go over the more agreed upon story, and then follow with questions to clarify, yes?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Charles scrolled, eyes glued to the text on his screen.

"Many claim a young, unknown girl, with no previous history or ties to the world of organized crime, appeared out of woodwork nine years ago, somehow able to not only infiltrate a meeting of yakuza clan leaders, but succeeding in, ah, stabbing one in the back."

"Oh, that's not right."

"No?"

"I didn't stab him, I decapitated him."

Charles' eyes flicked up to hers, brow raised at her cool demeanor despite her violent words. She seemed to be recalling the memory with something akin to fondness.

Interesting .

"Your training prior to this incident must have been quite, ah, extensive , to accomplish such a feat. I'm assuming it was overseen by Alastair, yes?"

Composure faltering, Olive averted her eyes to the side, merely nodding in response, mouth glued shut and tongue turned to lead. An obvious trauma response, serving to reignite Charles' previous worries of abuse. Best he move on before he touched on something he shouldn't.

"...I see," quickly typing in the correction and subsequent information, Charles continued, "Further accounts claim one of the leaders, Atsuko Yubari, took quite a shine to you, and that under her tutelage you became quite a notorious mercenary, simultaneously elevating her own position in the organization," Charles glanced to her again, "...It's also said the two of you were quite close."

Olive smiled, genuine and wistful.

"Yes. We still are."

"Is that so? Interesting."

Charles' mind churned at the information. Such a connection could be extremely advantageous, given the right circumstance.

"Reports then state you disappeared from the underground world with seemingly no warning."

"Yep."

"...would you care to expound on that?"

Dragging her mind back to the present and away from old memories, Olive shrugged, nonchalantly raising her hands at his question.

"It's exhausting work. I retired early."

"Indeed. I would, ah, imagine leaving the yakusa wasn't easy?"

"...if you're asking if anyone is after me, then no. I left on good terms," Olive grinned an impish little grin, "and anyone who had a problem with that has already been taken care of."

"Very well..." Charles began logging her responses on his laptop, the only sound in the room that of clicking keys. Soon, he withdrew a multipage document from his desk, "if you would, please read through these accounts and either confirm or deny their validity."

Olive scooted forward, perching at the edge of her seat as she leant over the papers, indicating the true events with a check and making corrections where needed, her smile growing all the while at the more outlandish tales.

"God, man, I can't believe some of this shit is still going around. 'Killed three men with a single punch'? Really? What am I, an anime protagonist?"

"Yes, well, you know how quickly hearsay spreads."

"Apparently…" Olive reached the last page, flipping the stack back over and shifting it towards the CFO, "Done."

"Thank you for your cooperation."

Charles swapped the document for another, smirking lightly at Olive's exasperated mumble of more things to sign?

"Last one. This is your new and revised employment contract. In addition to your previously agreed upon medical duties, you will now be responsible for keeping Dethklok safe from outside threats, as well as internal, at all times that you are present. This entails placing their safety above all else, even that of your own life. I'm afraid that, much like your current position, it will be a rather thankless job."

Olive just waved at him dismissively, eyes rapidly scanning over the contract and liability waivers as she fiddled with the pen in her fingers, absentmindedly bringing it to her lips, inspiring conflicting feelings of ire and arousal from the man across from her, "Yeah yeah, I've done the bodyguard shtick before, I know the drill. What's this about a ranking?"

"Ah, yes. All members of staff with the more, ah, physical responsibilities are required to compete for ranks. I have already arranged for your assessment to be conducted this evening at 7pm."

"Isn't that kind of late?"

"Yes, well, you have a, ah, recording session to attend first, after all."

"Right. What should I expect?"

Olive signed away her life with a flourish, leaning back in the plush chair as Charles continued, clearing his desk as he spoke.

"This is merely a test of ability and competence in combat against other high ranking gears. I'm assuming you are aware of the general conduct for matches?"

Olive nodded, smile growing as adrenaline began to circulate her veins in excited anticipation. It had been so long since she had been able to fight someone close to her skill.

"Good. Your preferred weapon is a katana, correct? Bring it."

"Ok. Cool."

"Yes. Uh. Cool . Lastly, there is the matter of your birth name…"

"Its irrelevant."

Charles clicked his tongue in annoyance. The woman was being purposefully difficult.

"I assure you it is quite relevant."

"I'm sure you've wondered how you could miss that information in the first place, right?" Olive smirked as Charles nodded.

"...yes, it's rare for my team to overlook such a major detail."

"My youngest sister is quite good at what she does. You'll find there are no official records of anyone with my birth name left. So, again, it is irrelevant."

Charles gave pause, considering. Could he really trust her word on this? Possibility after possibility ran through his mind, of all the information that could be hidden by a different name. Dangerous information.

"She must be quite talented, this sister of yours."

"The best."

The gears in Charles' brain were turning, rapidly budding plan after plan of what he could accomplish with such talent, "Is she, ah, in need of a job, by any chance?"

Olive laughed, shaking her head.

"Doubt it. She's not really one to work for someone. But I'll pass the offer along."

"You have my thanks," inhaling a breath, Charles braced himself for more push back, "Olive, I must insist on having your birth name. I'm sure you understand my position here, especially considering your, ah, history ."

The two stared at each other for a few moments, silence filling the room.

Procacious girl.

And yet...

Charles couldn't help but notice how well brazen impudence suited her, his blood pumping just a bit faster as his mind wandered briefly, pondering if she carried that attitude into the bedroom. The image of her skirt bunched up high on her thigh, and the brief glimpse of black lace panties it had provided as she holstered her dagger the previous night slid to the forefront of his mind's eye.

To his mounting annoyance, her insubordinate nature was proving to be as much of a turn on as it was a frustration, and he was itching to bend her over his lap and put her in her place.

Women with daddy issues would be the death of him.

Closing his eyes for just a moment, Charles inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. No good would come from thoughts such as that. Breaking professionalism would do neither of them any favors, he knew that.

Across from him, Olive battled with herself, her conditioning screaming to not get too close, not give too much away, that he would take this and run with it and hurt her.

It was stupid. She knew if she pushed her luck much farther, she would be out of a job and a home, and, more importantly, if Charles deemed her a threat, she would no longer be allowed contact with the band. The thought made her heart clench.

Trust is built both ways .

Charles had given her no reason not to trust him. But she had given him countless to not trust her. Swallowing down her pride, she relented.

"... fine ."

Shocked by her reluctant complicity, the CFO merely nodded in thanks, shaking off his inappropriate thoughts.

"Min-ji Choi. I'm assuming I don't need to tell you to not use it?"

"Of course not."

Quickly typing in this crucial info, he made a mental note to have his team run the name later to see just how "irrelevant" it really was.

"Yes. Well, is there, ah, any other information I need to be aware of? Anything relevant to your work here, or pertaining to your job title?"

"No, that pretty much covers it, I think"

"Indeed," resting his elbows on the polished wood and steepling his fingers, Charles leveled her with a stern, rigid gaze.

"Olive, I want to be quite frank with you; I do not take kindly to being lied to."

Her brows furrowed, racking her brain for what he could possibly be referring to, coming up blank.

"But I have'nt-"

"Do not interrupt."

Olive snapped her mouth shut, biting the inside of her cheek. Fuck, it was really concerning that she was equally as turned on by his scolding as she was chastened by it.

"Withholding pertinent information is lying. But luckily for you, this discovery only further adds to your usefulness here-"

Useful? Her mind wasted no time to conjure up images of just how she would like him to use her...

"-so I am looking past your transgressions, this time . Do not let there be a next. If any further information comes forward that you have hidden from me, information that has even the slightest possibility of putting my boys in danger, I will not be so forgiving. Talented as you may be, trust me when I say you do not want to be on my bad side. Do I make myself clear?"

Olive's perverse thoughts derailed sharply, eyes narrowing at the veiled threat, and she met Charles' gaze with more chill than he had come to expect from her, expression schooled into an icy neutrality, eyes dark.

"Crystal ."

Moments ticked by as he held her gaze, neither wanting to be the first to break eye contact, until Charles finally cleared his throat, deciding a staring contest with his employee was perhaps not the most mature way to move forward.

"Glad to get that behind us."

Olive's cold demeanor remained, voice even and devoid of sentiment with her next words.

"Am I free to go?"

Charles gave her a nod, and she wasted little time in beelining for the door.

"...Olive?"

Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she turned back, raising an irritated brow. Tapping his fingers on the desk lightly, Charles chastised himself for what he was about to do, but the subject was demanding his attention, circling in his mind since the previous night. And with her earlier reaction...

"Permit me one last question?"

"What?"

"I have heard rumors of your father..."

Her grip on the knob tightened, cold dread sweeping through her. She knew where this was headed.

"...that Alastair used his children's medical conditions as an excuse to perform experimental procedures." Charles' eyes were drawn to the smooth, shiny surface of her skull once more, "Such a procedure, and the technology to perform it, are unprecedented. Did-"

"I fail to see how this 'pertains to my job title.'"

Faltering, he adjusted his tie, clearing his throat.

"...it doesn't. It was a, ah, personal inquiry."

"Then I would prefer not to answer. Are we done here?"

Charles pursed his lips at her blank expression, nodding.

"Yes. I suppose so."

"Good. See you at seven."

And with that she was gone, door clicking closed softly behind her, and Charles released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes.

Her response had been all the confirmation he needed.

---

Despite the good start to the morning and her best efforts to remain positive, Olive couldn't help but brood the entire way to the studio. Every time she started to think hey, maybe Charles isn't such a stiff, uptight, unrelenting asshole, he proved himself otherwise.

God damn him. She was on her way to see Dethklok record! She should be excited, for fucks sake! But all she could think about was the audacity the CFO had in threatening her and then asking such a sensitive, personal question.

Whatever. Whatever whatever whatever . Fuck this, she wasn't going to let him ruin her day. Olive paused outside the door, taking a deep, cleansing breath, willing away her ire. It was already passed two, the meeting having drug on far longer than either of them had expected, so recording should already be well under way.

A rumble from her stomach made her shoulders slump. Hopefully they had snacks. Steeling herself, Olive pushed open the door and shut it silently behind her, trying to be as little of a disturbance as possible as she quietly surveyed the group. Toki was in the recording booth, with Nathan and, who she assumed was their producer, Dick Knubbler, sitting at the soundboard, Skwisgaar leaning over the vocalist's shoulder.

"Toki, you still ams not gettinks it. How's hard cans it bes to just plays de rights notes?" the Swede straightened, gesturing toward the glass in exasperation as he spoke to Nathan, "You'd t'ink dis guy ams forgetinks hows to play de guitars!"

"I cans still hears you, ya know…"

"Pfft, ja, sos? Ams you goinks to go cries about it?"

"Well maybes I could focus betters if yous wasn't beins such a dick!"

"Me? Beinks a dick? Yo-"

"Stop, stop, fuck! Jesus, fucking, christ, you two argue like fucking middle schoolers."

Nathan rubbed at his temples. Less than halfway through and he was already sick of the guitarists' squabbling.

Dick, quick to pick up on Nathan's growing irritation and knowing the best work would be done with a happy vocalist, turned to smile soothingly at the blonde, "Skwis, babe, why don't you go take a load off, huh? Relax a little, maybe have a drink, a snack. Think Toki's really feeling the pressure with you hovering, you know?"

" Hoverings? Pfft, ja, whatsever. Dildos crysbaby..."

Murderface groaned from the couch, pausing in mutilating the thick armrest with his trusty knife to wave it at the Swede.

"Schwischgaar, just schit the fuck down already. No one wantsch to hear you nag."

"Nobodys ams asking you, Murderface! You amnst even parts of dis consverskation."

"Doods, c'mon, don't-

"Well fine, fuck me for tryin' to help!"

Overcome with frustration, Murderface flung the knife carelessly at what he assumed was the unoccupied area around the door, something not uncommon, therefore no one paid any mind. However, barely a moment later the knife imbedded itself back into the plush padding of the couch, and six pairs of startled eyes whirled to the source.

"Be careful where you're throwing that thing, you could hurt someone."

"Jesusch, Olive!"

Muderface clenched his fists at his side, heart pounding. How had she even caught that? God, he had almost fucking killed her , his heart twisting painfully at the thought of her laying there with a knife in her head, bleeding out right there in their studio.

"When'd you even get here? Fuckin' schneakin' around and schit…"

Olive grinned, plopping down on the couch between the bassist and the (very amused) drummer, the latter's arm instinctively draping across the seat behind her. On the table before them sat the most beautiful platter of perfect cinnamon buns she had ever seen, mouth watering as the smell wafted over.

"Sorry. I'll try to make more noise next time."

Murderface grumbled something under his breath, a soft pink blush settling on his cheeks.

"What was that?"

"I schaid, nice catch."

Olive gave him a beaming smile, and he sunk further down in his seat, blush turning from pink to bright red, Pickles grinning big at his plight.

"Well, are any of you bad-mannered assholes going to introduce me to this pretty little lady?"

"Right, sahrry. Dick, Olive, our new doctor we were telling ya aboot. Olive, Dick, our producer."

"Nice to meet you," as she gave a small wave from across the room, Dick couldn't help but let his eyes linger briefly on the side of her head, Olive's lips turning up knowingly as he caught himself, the blonde attempting to laugh it off awkwardly.

"Hehe, yeah, pleasure's all mine."

With that, he turned back to the work at hand, jumping into conversation with Nathan as Pickles scooted closer to her, allowing room for Skwisgaar to plop down on his other side.

"Hungry?"

Pickles nodded toward the table, and Olive finally gave in, snatching up a bun and began none too gracefully stuffing her face as the drummer turned to Skwis, the two quickly enraptured in discussion of music technicalities, Murderface still red faced, gaze anywhere but on her. A blissful few minutes and an embarrassing amount of missing cinnamon buns later, Pickles shifted his focus back to her, lightly tugging at her braid to draw her attention.

"How'd yer meeting with Charlie go?"

"Exhilarating," Olive rolled her eyes "If I end up with carpal tunnel from all that fucking paperwork, I'm suing."

"Yeah? Dat bad, huh?" Pickles cracked a crooked smile, making her heart flutter, "What kinda paperwork?"

"Body guard stuff, mostly."

"Yeahhh, he said somethin' aboot that last night. Crazy shit..."

"Yeah, later I have to go fight with your top guys for a ranking."

"Shit dood, rehlly? Uh..."

Both Murderface and Skwisgaar's interest piqued at that, sharing mildly concerned glances with each other.

"Eugh, Olives, ams t'inkings dat amsnt de best idea..."

"Yeah, thosche guysh are real fuckin' tough. Hard asch nailsh."

"Yeah, dood, they're gonna mop the floor with ya."

"Who's getting mopped?"

Nathan and Dick had turned back to them, Toki's session cut short due to lack of focus and growing frustration, said guitarist free from the booth and scrunching in next to Skwisgaar, much to the blonde's annoyance.

"Charlie's having Olive fight da fuckin' Commando Squad."

Toki peeked around the Swede's lanky form to regard Olive with strangely serious concern, "Whats? Nos way. Theys too strong."

"Ja, toos strong."

Waving their worries off nonchalantly, she just relaxed back into the couch, completely unperturbed.

"Yeah, I have no doubt they are. But it doesn't matter how good they are."

"Why?"

"Because I'm better."

This overconfident proclamation was met with rather understandable skepticism.

"No, dood, seriously. Dese guys are da real deal, best of da best n' shit."

"Yeah, sorry babe, but I'm not buying it. There's no way a tiny little gal like you can hold up against those Grade A beefcakes," Dick butted in, artificial pupils dilating as he sized her up.

Rolling her eyes, Olive did her best to disregard their doubts, "I appreciate the concern, guys, really. But I'll be fine, trust me."

"How are you scho schure? Afterall, you are a- uh..."

Murderface trailed off, eyes widening as he realized just exactly what he was about to say. Olive raised a brow and crossed her arms, daring him to finish the thought.

"I'm a what ?"

"You're a, well, I mean, you know, itsch jusht that, physically shpeaking…"

"Well?"

"Fuckin, a little help here, guysch?"

"Nah, dood, don't know what yer talkin' aboot."

"Ja, nos idea."

"Yeah me neither."

"Not a clue, Willy."

Murderface leaned forward, eyes pleading as he turned to the only one who hadn't spoken.

"Toki, buddy, pal, back me up here."

The Norwegian just shook his head, the bassist slouching in defeat. Placated, Olive settled back into the couch.

"Uh huh. Right. Well, since none of you think I can handle myself, why don't you just come see for yourselves?"

"Deal. What time?"

Olive smiled gratefully at Nathan, the only one who hadn't expressed doubt in her.

"Seven."

"Cool. We, uh, we'll be done recording by then, right Dick?"

"Sure thing, babe, sure thing. If we get back to work now, I should be able to get you boys out of here in time. Speaking of which, you're up, Nathan."

The vocalist grunted, summoning Pickles to take his seat at the soundboard as he stalked into the booth, Skwisgaar seizing the opportunity to man spread, shifting closer to Olive and farther from Toki, his knee resting softly against her own as he picked idly at his guitar, appraising her from the corner of his eyes, coquettish smirk on his lips.

"Hej."

"Hey."

"Your hair ams nice like dat."

"Thanks."

"You shoulds let me braids it for you sometime."

Olive blinked, blindsided by his suggestion, a soft flush coloring her cheeks and causing Skwisgaar's smirk to grow all the more.

"Um, yeah. That'd be… nice "

"Ja, nice."

With that, the blonde returned his attention to his instrument, slouching a bit in his seat, the new angle granting her a better view of Toki, who was eyeing his band mate with disdain, a heavy frown maring his normally cherubic face.

Before she even realized she was staring, Toki's icy gaze shifted to her, just for a moment, before turning away, instead choosing to glare a hole into the wall.

Damn, that argument when she first walked in must have been worse than she thought. Concern tugged at her heart strings, the worry for her friend only amplified by the other's casual indifference to his troubled mood.

Nathan's vocal warmups floating through the speakers drug her from her thoughts, and she buzzed in excitement. Finally, she could bear witness to Dethklok's recording process.

Keeping her cool proved to be much more difficult than anticipated, and Olive had to forcefully shove down the shivers threatening to assume control of her body. And she thought Nathan's voice was intense through headphones . This titillating sense of raw, primal awe left her with chills, drew her in and left her hanging on his every word, his every growl going straight between her legs.

His voice. His fucking voice .

Maybe Pickles was right. Maybe she did have a voice kink.

Thankfully(or was it regretfully?) Nathan insisted on redoing his take multiple times, to the displeasure of the other members, citing miniscule imperfections only noticeable to the man himself. Eventually, hours later, Nathan declared his satisfaction with the playback of his performance, Pickles slouching back in his chair in relief as Dick swiveled around to stretch out his legs, artificial pupils landing on Olive thoughtfully.

"You know, you look pretty familiar. Sure we haven't met before?"

"My twin installed your eyes, that's probably who you're thinking of."

Olive remembered quite clearly the day her sister had excitedly called to ramble about how Dethklok's CFO was commissioning her a new set of eyes for Dick fucking Knubbler , and that the man actually chose the more intense, cybernetically enhanced design over the less conspicuous, but also less feature-heavy option that was significantly more popular.

"Heh, yeah, that's it!" Dick snapped his fingers in recognition, "Small fucking world! Clove, right? She sure was a spicy little lady, heheh," the pun was met with various groans of disapproval from the band, and a large grin from Olive, "Send my regards, would ya, dollface? These babies are great, a million times better than my old eyes."

Dollface? Yeesh. Just what she wanted, some old guy she just met calling her pet names. Typical. But, she had heard him refer to multiple members as 'babe' over the course of the day, so she'd give him the benefit of the doubt for now.

"Sure thing."

"Huh. Yeah, you, uh… You're both fucking, pieced together. Like, fuckin'. Frankenstein cyborgs or, uh, something. Huh. Cool."

Nathan had finally exited the booth, hovering over the bar lining the side wall to pop the cap on a bottle of beer.

"I think it's Frankenstein's monster , Nate'n. Yahknow, like Frankenstein was da scientist's name."

"Oh, uh. Whatever. I never read the fuckin book."

Tipping his head back, he chugged the bottle in one go, immediately popping open a new one.

"Yeeeah, hey, didn't da chick who wrote it, like, keep her husband's heart in her desk er somethin' fucked up like dat?"

"No fuckin' way, Picklesch. That'sch a load of garbage."

"No, dood, seriously, I heard it ahn tv."

"Bullschit. How do you even keep a heart? In a fuckin jewelry boxch? Wouldn't it schmell?"

Olive swallowed a gulp of her own beer(graciously supplied by Murderface earlier, in between Nathan's numerous takes), chiming in helpfully, "Well, after being excised from the body, the heart would have been drained of blood and cleaned, soaked in wine or brandy, filled with vegetable fiber to retain its shape, dried with aromatic extracts, placed in an oil cloth and then into a heart reliquary, which is basically like a locket but for organs. And that's probably what she kept, which wouldn't smell at all."

Everyone had paused what they were doing and turned to Olive, wearing various expressions of surprise, disgust, and intrigue, the room silent, even Skwisgaar's picking frozen. She cleared her throat awkwardly, not having meant to derail the conversation but unable to resist.

God, if only the couch would just swallow her up right now.

"Its, um, called heart burial. It was still kind of eccentric for the time, but it had been popular amongst aristocracy in the middle ages."

Nathan was the first to speak, regarding her with interest.

"Gross. Why?"

Olive shifted a bit in her seat, sitting farther up as she addressed Nathan's question, though everyone in the room was still listening.

"Well, a few reasons. It started during the Crusades, when high ranking warriors would die in 'heathen' places, but it was too difficult to transport their bodies back home, so their flesh and organs were removed and buried at the place of death, while their bones were transported back to the preferred burial site.

"After that, it was less practical and more symbolic, as people believed if their remains were at multiple sites and could get double the amount of prayers, they would spend less time in purgatory. But it was also, like, a huge deal for nobility to be buried at one church over another, as their graves were basically tourist attractions that brought in more traffic and money. But a lot of the wealthy would patronize multiple religious sites, so they would give their corpse to one, but their heart or brain or other organs to others.

"Or, if, like, their spouse was buried in their homeland, but they wanted to be buried in their current location, it was considered romantic to have your heart placed with your spouse's corpse to rest."

Nathan made a face at that, scrunching up his nose softly.

"Romantic?"

Olive shrugged, fiddling with the hem of her dress.

"Well, yeah. I mean, how much more of a grand gesture could you make than letting your lover's preserved heart settle into your chest cavity as your flesh decomposes to remain for eternity?"

Nathan blinked, considering that for a moment.

"Whoah. Thats… I guess it is, kinda, uh, y'know…" he seemed to struggle with the word, " romantic . Huh. Brutal."

"Yeah."

"How do you know all thisch schit?"

Olive turned her attention to Murderface, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear in mild embarrassment.

She had really gone off on a tangent there. Oops.

"I, um, did my graduating thesis on post-mortem dismemberment."

"Posts-mortem diskmembersment?" Skwisgaar made a silly face of concentration as he struggled to pronounce the word, and Olive cursed the butterflies in her belly, "Good song titles."

"Fuck, yeah it is."

Nathan pulled a small notepad out of his back pocket, scribbling it down.

"What, uh, other organs did people have cut out after they died?"

Olive nearly vibrated with excitement, thrilled to have someone to share her gruesome knowledge with.

"Pretty much anything; brains, eyes, tongue, entrails… but its not just organs."

"Really? What, uh, what else?"

She grinned, wide and a bit unsettling considering the topic.

"Pick a body part."

"Cock."

Olive rolled her eyes, but decided to indulge his cliché choice anyway, "Dude, are you kidding? There's soooo many cases-"

Off to the side, Dick leaned toward Pickles, asking below his breath, "You boys sure know how to pick 'em. Where'd you find this chick, the morgue?"

Pickles gave his crooked smile, speaking softly back, "Dood, how'd you know?"

"Heh, lucky guess."

The day passed by quickly after that, Nathan making some time here and there between each take to pick her brain for more morbid trivia for song fodder. He took a special interest in medieval practices, especially those surrounding mutilation and cannibalism, he and Muderface both listening with wide eyed, rapt attention as Olive explained, It wasn't a question of if they should eat human flesh, but which parts they should eat, continuing on to eagerly prattle off the supposed medicinal uses of corpses through the ages and, much to her own amusement, she was able to work in the tale of St. Catherine's dedication to licking pus and eating scabs of the sick(always a winning story at parties), which was met with verbose opposition and barely held back vomit from all present.

Sooner than she expected, Dick decided to call it a night, claiming there was nothing more that could be accomplished in this sitting, and that his eyes were getting "too tired," at which Olive couldn't help but laugh, earning her a wink and a pat on the head from the man as he passed her on his way out.

"You babes have a good night, try not to get in too much trouble. There's more work to do tomorrow, so I'll see you all bright eyed and bushy tailed first thing at noon!"

They all mumbled their goodbyes, sluggishly dragging themselves to their feet and convening in the hall.

Pickles stretched his arms above his head, gracing Olive with a crooked grin.

"So, where's dis shindig happenin'? Murderhall?"

"Yup. I'll meet you guys there, I need to change first."

The band chorused their agreements, the group veering left as Olive fractured off to the right, heading back to her room.

All but one.

"I'll go withs you."

"Oh? Uh, sure."

Toki's mood had not improved over the few hours since his recording was cut short. In fact, she had barely heard him speak at all, aside from his spat with Skwisgaar. Olive had thought, at first, perhaps that's just what he was like on recording days, but the silent, concerned glances the others had shared with each other at his behavior led her to believe otherwise.

The pair walked in amiable silence for a few minutes, Olive mindlessly mouthing at her tongue ring when she sensed eyes on her.

"What's up?"

Hesitating for a beat, the guitarist forced a smile, shaking his head softly.

"Nothin', just thinkin's."

Cocking her head to the side lightly, Olive just shrugged. It was obvious he had something on his mind, his somber mood shining through in his eyes, but she wasn't going to pry.

"Ok. Well... Let me know if you change your mind, I guess."

Toki kept his focus trained forward for the rest of their journey, the silent lull after their brief conversation much less comfortable and much more awkward than previous. Olive couldn't help but breathe a quiet sigh of relief as her door came into view, glad to have a moment away from this strange atmosphere.

...except instead of waiting in the hall, as she had expected, Toki followed her into the room, closing the door behind him.

"Toki, is everything ok?"

"Ams fine."

"Uh huh. Then why are you here? I need to change, you know."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out, instead just looking to the side, lips turning down into a small pout.

"Toki… you've been acting weird all day. I'm worried about you."

The sentiment warmed his heart, an ache forming behind his eyes. All day he had been silently ruminating, knowing his bandmates would never ask. They didn't do that. They didn't care . And even though he knew they really did, deep down, it still hurt that none of them would say it. It was beyond frustrating, even after all these years; alienating, in its own way.

"It ams just…" cutting himself off with a heavy sigh, blue eyes met black, and he floundered.

There were so many things he wanted to ask. What was it like, to choose to kill someone? To not just snap and lose control? Was the feeling of bones breaking under her hands, of hot, freshly spilled blood splattering her skin, of watching the light leave someone's eyes as satisfying for her as it was for him? Did she hate herself for it afterwards like he did? Did she have nightmares of her victim's faces, all dark and twisted and screaming 'murderer, murderer' at her? And if not, how ?

He tried not to think about it. He really, truly did. But the questions had kept him up all night. He couldn't shake them, not when he had someone so close that he could actually ask. Someone who might understand .

But he couldn't, he couldn't ask. Olive had never seen one of his violent outbursts, she wasn't privy to the inner darkness he kept locked down inside himself. He couldn't stand the thought of one more person looking at him the way his parents did, the way the band did, the way Charles and Twinkletits did. Like he was crazy. Like he was unhinged. Like he was dangerous . She had never seen that side of him, and never would if he could help it.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me."

He couldn't ask. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out another bothersome thought that had been plaguing his mind, unable to voice his real question, "Yous fucked Skwisgaar and Pickle."

Olives eyes flew wide open, taken aback, cheeks heating to a fiery flush.

Who just says something like that?

"Uh… I, um… yeah? I did. So what?"

This wasn't the conversation he had wanted to have right now, not like this, not when he was in such a bad mood already. But it had just come out .

"Is this seriously why you've been in such a mood today?"

He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just kept his mouth shut. But as he stood there, images swam through his mind; of Skwisgaar looming over a blushing Olive, of Pickles with his arm around her shoulders, leaning close and making her laugh. Clenching and unclenching his fists, knuckles cracking with the movement, the guitarist crossed his arms, scowling.

"Why?"

Olive furrowed her brow, eyes narrowing.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you fucks dem?"

"What do you mean, why? Why does anyone have sex?"

"Because yous like dem?"

Olive wondered, for a brief moment, if Toki realized the implication his words carried, as his grasp of English was sometimes spotty in unexpected ways; but a rare severity weighed his brown, curved down his pretty lips, and she harbored no question of his intent. Not that she would give him the satisfaction of reading into his double meaning. If that was the conversation he was trying to have, he'd have to drag it out of her.

"I mean, yeah, sure, of course I like them. They're my friends, right?"

" Friends , hm?"

Olive raised her brow at his sharp, incredulous tone, the uncharacteristic sneer he sported so foreign on his normally sweet tempered face that Olive was half convinced she was dreaming.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Ands me? Ams Toki yous friend too, likes Skwisgaar and Pickle?"

"Well, yeah, obviously-" A sudden, irrational doubt took root in her mind, cutting off mid sentence as her stomach dropped. Was she wrong? Did he not actually like her? Was he just pretending to tolerate her for the sake of professionalism? Were they all? Was she just oblivious to their indifference this whole time?

Suddenly feeling overwhelmingly self conscious, she couldn't look at him with her next words, instead focusing her attention on an extremely interesting patch of wall just beyond his head, hugging herself in an attempt to put a physical barrier between them, "We- we are friends… right?"

Toki blinked, the uncertainty in her voice and unease in her body language snapping him out of his jealous indignation, hardness slowly easing from his face as his mind drifted, her words taking him back to the early days; before the fame, before the money and servants and giant house, when he was still a kid barely off the streets, freshly welcomed into the folds of Dethklok.

---

The young Norwegian had been so enthralled; not only had he gained a chance at a new life, but four new friends as well, and he got to live with them, too! It was all he had ever dreamed about, getting away from his parents and starting fresh with people who actually, honestly loved him.

And they were all so cool . Toki had tried to be cool, too, to not get so excited about everything, but he couldn't help it. He was in awe of this new world, all the bright colors and sounds and tastes. Everything was a novelty. They handled it well, the band, or so Toki thought, at least; they showed him all the best snacks, all the best booze, all the best drugs, taught him how to talk to girls and how to talk to cops. They were great friends, really. Except...

They were crowded around the small, old TV in their cramped living room, drinking cheap beer, passing around a shitty little plastic bong filled with stale water, watching some senseless gore-filled movie with a sad excuse for a plot. Murderface had made a joke, they were all laughing, and he let it slip.

"Boy, I sure loves ya, pals."

The room went dead silent, screams from the TV filling the absence, and he had been overcome with the old, familiar sense that he had done something terribly wrong, even though he himself didn't see what was so bad about it.

Pickles had sighed, tired and strained, and rubbed a hand over his face, "Toki, dood, ya can't jest say stuff like that…"

Confused, he looked to the oldest member, frowning, "Why nots? Ams true."

Murderface grumbled a "thatsch fuckin' gay."

"Gay? I didn't means it like that…"

"No, dood, we know, its jest… yahknow. Guys don't say stuff like that to each other. Makes ya gay."

"But…" Toki's confusion grew, "What ams wrong wits beings gay?"

Silence met his words once more, and as he looked around, he noticed everyone glancing to Murderface from the corners of their eyes, said man sitting still and scowling, arms crossed and staring at the tv.

"...ain't nothin wrong wit' it. It's jest… it's, uh, complicated."

Nathan sighed, running a hand back through his hair, the inky, silky smooth locks flowing around his shoulders.

"Look, Toki, we… we aren't friends , ok?"

The words cut deep, and he felt his heart breaking, only managing a weak, "oh."

"That kind of shit, it, uh. It fucks up bands. You know? Feelings and. And shit. If we start to care , then we're fucked. You, uh, you see what I'm saying?"

Toki gulped, pushing back tears.

"Ja, I gets it," he didn't, he really didn't, "Is gonna go to beds now. Reals tired."

His words were met with grumbles from everyone except Skwisgaar, who still had yet to say anything on the matter, blue eyes watching his protégé retreat to their shared bedroom.

Hours later, long after the movie had ended and the pack of beer had been finished, the Swede crawled into bed next to the still awake Toki, poking him between the shoulder blades, addressing him in his mother tongue.

"Americans, eugh, they're so… emotionally constipated. Always so worried about seeming gay. Don't worry so much about it, they don't really mean it."

The two had a mutual agreement to speak English exclusively to help with their understanding of the language, only breaking it when they felt a need to be truly understood.

Toki sniffed, replying back in kind, "Skwisgaar… we're friends, right?"

The blonde sighed, combing his fingers through the younger male's hair, now reaching just passed his shoulders.

"Of course we are," Skwisgaar gave his shoulder a light squeeze, rolling onto his back, "Gets some resting now, ja?"

"Ja… T'anks, Skwisgaar. Yous a reals good pal."

---

Back in the present, Toki was weighed down with fresh guilt, kicking himself for getting so carried away by his possessive tendencies, for making her feel the same doubt and hurt that he had experienced in the past.

She was his friend, but she wasn't his . He had no right to be angry with her, or with Skwisgaar or Pickles.

"Yah," he sighed after a long pause, shoulders releasing tension he wasn't aware he had been holding, "Yah, ofs course wes friends."

Olive just nodded, rubbing her arms nervously under his light eyed gaze.

"Yeah, that's, um, good. Cool. Yeah."

The two stood there for an awkward moment, Olive trying to shake off the lingering self doubt, which, surprisingly enough, proved exceedingly easier the longer Toki stared at her.

His eyes were so fucking clear, and penetravitve in their intensity. It was unnerving, alarming, even, this sense of exposure his prolonged attention imbued in her; as if peeling back layer after layer of her psyche and laying bare every thought she had, every tick of her brain down to her core defining traits. But the feeling was strangely… mollifying. Never before had she felt such a willingness to be seen, to leave herself open and vulnerable. She still knew so very little about Toki, but even so, he still made her feel so safe, like she could trust him with every secret, with every traumatic childhood memory, with her life.

She felt compelled to tell him everything. Everything .

Olive wasn't sure if she liked that.

Sighing, Toki stepped forward, his strong arms circling around her torso as one hand cradled the back of her head, Olive tensing, her own arms trapped between them as his much larger form enveloped her.

"Sorries. I didn't means to be so... just beens havins a bad day."

He squeezed gently, rubbing her back as she struggled to remember the last time she had been hugged.

She couldn't.

"Its- its ok."

Toki hummed, tightening his hold on her for a final squeeze, and she felt the rumble from deep in his chest more than she heard it.

Pulling back, he graced her with a soft smile, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers along the front of her hairline, his other hand still gingerly holding her head steady, and Olive had to forcefully shove back a shiver at his gentle touch.

"Your roots ams growin's out."

His touch wandered, tender, calloused fingertips caressing over her temple, down the curve of her cheekbone, tracing along her jawline.

"U-um, uh, yeah," Olive swallowed thickly, nerves electrified and goosebumps blooming across her body from this sudden act of affection, "I was, uh, actually planning on redoing my hair later, after this."

Tokis eyes lit up in excitement, wide smile slipping over his features, "Yah? Cans Toki helps?"

Both hands now curved around the sides of her neck, fingers lacing together at her nape.

Had his hands always been so big, so warm and secure? She longed to discover how they would feel gripping just a bit tighter, closing just a bit farther around her neck. Heat pooled rapidly between her legs at the thought, and she bit her lip, his eyes immediately drawn to the action, before flicking back up to hers.

Time froze, and Olive was caught in those pretty blues, incapable of movement or thought, only able to feel as his thumbs traced over her throat column, pressing under her chin to tilt her head up.

"Olives? I asked yous a question."

The teasing smirk he sported as she struggled to find her voice was utterly infuriating and so fucking hot . Bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing to her.

"I- you- um, yeah. Sure. OK. That sounds fun."

Toki smiled brightly, hands sliding down to her shoulders, all traces of the sexual tension in the air fading as he beamed.

"Yah, reals fun! We cans do face masks and stays up late watchins cartoons too!"

A grin started to seep onto her face, his enthusiasm infectious despite the sharp change in atmosphere leaving her reeling.

"Yeah. We can definitely do that."

"Cools. You shoulds get changed, wes gonna be late."

To be honest, the entire reason they had come to her room in the first place had slipped her mind.

"Oh. Right."

Clearing her thoughts with a shake of her head, Olive began to dig through her closet as Toki plopped down rather ungracefully on her bed, legs dangling off the edge as he let out a lazy sigh.

Well, he was certainly in a better mood.

Finally digging out what she sought(finding anything in a closet thats 80% black clothes is time consuming), Olive stowed away in the bathroom, dressing herself in a black crop top-sports bra hybrid and matching loose black pants that tapered in at the ankle, tightening her messy braid before slipping a pair of black Tiger Claws on her feet and black fingerless gloves over her hands.

In her absence, it seemed, Toki had begun snooping around in the cardboard boxes lining her wall, and was currently pawing through her books, a stack next to him on the floor.

"Whatcha got there, nosey?"

The guitarist jumped slightly, dropping the book in his hand with a thud , and whipped his head around, offering up a sheepish smile.

"Sorries. Got bored."

Olive deadpanned. Bored. In the five minutes it took her to change.

"It's fine, no biggie."

Olive knelt down next to her bed as Toki rose, not bothering to clean the mess he had made, a twinge of annoyance at the act pricking at her as she felt around blindly underneath for her katana case.

Now that her secret was out, her baby could be displayed properly. Maybe she'd even send for all her weapons she hadn't had room to keep in New York. The prospect filled her with excitement; it had been years since she had them all in one place, and her fingers were itching for her throwing knives.

Hell, maybe she'd even give Atsuko a call tonight and ask her to send them. It'd been too long since they had last spoke.

Giving a securing tug to the cord as she tied the black and gold sageo around her waist, Olive turned to Toki, the latter giving her a quick once over, eyes catching on the small bulge in her top from her piercings, staring for longer than he intended. The small, knowing smirk she wore as his eyes shot back north made him want to slap it right off her face.

"How do I look?"

The little tease.

"Yous looks… nice."

"Nice?"

"Ya."

That coy little smile inspired all kinds of dirty thoughts to flow through his mind. Fingers twitching in restraint, Toki imagined shoving her to her knees, giving that smart mouth of hers something more productive to do, fucking her throat raw until she cried, pulling out and painting that pretty face in his cum, smacking her cheek with his cock as she sputtered out a thank you, Toki .

God, he wanted to ruin her.

Crushing back his fantasy and needing something to do with his hands, Toki plucked his phone out of his back pocket, eyeing the time.

"Yous ready? It's almosts seven."

"Yeah, but…"

Olive bounced on the balls of her feet, grating her tongue ring against the backs of her teeth as she worked up the nerve to voice her request.

The guitarist raised a brow, tilting his head.

"Olives?"

"...can I have another hug?"

Toki blinked at her, momentarily blindsided, but quickly shook it off, his eyes practically sparkling as he opened his arms.

"Ofs course!"

Strong arms wrapped around her once more, and this time she was able to return the embrace, curling her own tightly around his middle, curves molding against the hard planes of his muscular form as she rested her cheek against his chest, lulled by the soothing thump thump of his heartbeat.

"Its... been a long time since I, um, you know. Had a hug."

"Oh, Olives…" Toki squeezed her tighter, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the top of her head, and she melted , "you can has a hug from Toki any times you want."

She pulled back, nodding, cheeks blazing.

"Thanks. Back at ya."

Toki grinned big at her, touched and elated that she sought affection from him , not one of the others, and that she was extending the same offer to him, thrilled to have a friend he could be more open with. Patting her head, he laughed as she swatted his hand away with a pout.

"Loves ya, pal. Let's go before wes late."

Followed him into the hall, a warmth she hadn't felt in a long time bloomed in her chest, and Olive couldn't fight back her big smile.

"Yeah, love you too."

---

The Murderhall was largely empty, with only a large padded practice mat on the floor, surrounded by the ten members of the Commando Squad, their imposing forms rivaling even that of Nathan's, and Pickles eyed them warily.

Jesus. Some of these dudes had to be at least three times Olive's size.

"Charlie, dood, I don't know about dis. Seems kinda intense fer her."

"Pickles, I can assure you that Olive is perfectly capable of handling herself. Besides. No one is going to get, ah, seriously injured. This is merely practice."

The band had surrounded Charles as soon as they entered the room, making sure their worries were known, the CFO discontented but not surprised that the boys had insisted on being present.

" Seriouschly injured? So you think she'sch gonna get regularly injured?"

Charles sighed.

"No, I highly doubt that, Murderface. Boys, I wouldn't be doing this if I had any doubt in her abilities. You know that, right?"

The band murmured their reluctant agreements, all eyes turning to the door as it creaked open, Olive stepping over the threshold with Toki not far behind. Whispers broke out amongst the klokateers, bits and pieces loud enough for the boys to overhear.

Is that..?

Holy shit!

It's really her.

The atmosphere in the room was thickening, electric energy buzzing through the air as Olive stepped up to the mat, Toki joining his band members. Charles approached to the side, addressing both her and the group.

"Standard match rules; one-on-one, no going at full strength, no aiming to hurt or maim or any other foul play, out when rendered a would-be incapacitating blow, and only one match per competitor for times sake"

"Yup. Got it."

Olive removed her katana, handing it off to the CFO who accepted it gingerly, and stepped onto the mat, waiting for her opponent to come forward.

And she waited.

And waited.

"Uh…"

Charles shot a stern look to the group, and one man finally, albeit reluctantly, came forward, towering over Olive by more than a foot, and weighing at least double. Dropping into her stance, she awaited the signal.

"Begin."

After a moment's hesitation, the mystery gear came in on the offense, Olive swiftly deflecting his punches, using the opportunity to land a hit to his stomach and kick out his legs, the man landing heavily on the ground.

Quiet muttering broke out among the audience once again, though Olive tuned it out, focusing fully on her opponent as he righted himself, seeming to become more serious as he launched his next attack. Dodging with ease, she quickly maneuvered his arms away, using his own momentum against him to flip the man over her back, turning and pointing a finger gun at his head with an amused "bang" as he laid there shell shocked.

"Does a shot to the head count as incapacitated?" she asked over her shoulder with a cocky smirk, proud to see an impressed expression on the CFO's normally tired, blank face.

"Yes. I, ah, suppose it does."

"Cool," offering the downed man a hand, she hoisted him up, turning to the group as he walked off to the opposite side, "Next?"

One by one the "Grade-A Beefcakes" as Dick had so eloquently described them fell by Olive's hand, she herself remaining light hearted and unruffled, grinning big with every punch she landed, every large man she put on the ground.

As they say; the smaller the target, the harder it is to hit.

Finally, nine rounds later and only one challenger left, Charles finally returned her katana, the blade glinting as she removed it from the saya .

Her final opponent stepped forward, and she grinned wide.

Stalkateer met her on the mat, katana of his own in hand, and the two began to circle one another.

"No guards? Brave. You sure that's a good idea?"

"You haven't been using them, miss, neither will I."

"...when I beat you, will you stop calling me 'miss'?"

"Perhaps."

From the sideline, Charles cleared his throat, "I'm going on the assumption the two of you realize the danger in fighting with weapons and no protective gear, and that both of you are assuming the liabilities that entails?"

The pair muttered an affirmative, dropping into their stances.

"Very well then. Do try not to hurt each other," Charles was no stranger to empolyee death, but still, he would rather not need to replace his two best fighters, "begin!"

Clangs of metal on metal filled the room as their blades met in a frenzy, each dodging and parrying rapidly, their movements difficult to follow to the untrained eyes of the band, though the rest of the audience watched on with captivated apprehension as the pair danced around each other.

Jumping back from each other and resuming their circling, Olive addressed the man with a large, unabashed, slightly unhinged smile, "You're better than I expected. I'm actually having to try ."

His countenance unknowable, Olive was unable to garner any reaction from the hood, forced to merely go off his words, "A high compliment, coming from the Salmusa. I must admit, you're more talented than I expected."

She barked out a laugh, taking up her stance once more, ready to end this, "Well, I do aim to live up to my reputation."

Her blows were quick and precise, and faster than he could react, she had maneuvered the weapon out of his hands, catching the handle midair as she swiped his legs from under him, the blades landing on either of his shoulders as he fell to his knees, crossing in an 'X' at his throat.

The room was silent for a beat, then erupted into applause, excited expletives being shouted in her general direction from the band as she helped Stalkateer to his feet, handing back his blade with a smile before she turned to the defeated gears.

"I didn't hurt anyone too bad, did I?

Stalkateer, having rejoined his squadron, turned to her, seemingly the leader of the group, and shook his head.

"We're all fine here, miss, thank you."

"Seriously, man. Just Olive is fine. Really."

"If you insist...Olive."

Two of the members toward the back of the group were bickering with each other, bits and pieces of their conversation reaching her ears.

"I'm not asking, you ask!"

"No way, it was your idea!"

"You guys need something?"

The two men froze, peering around as if they hadn't realized how loud they were being.

"Uh…"

Olive smiled, hands behind her back, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible.

"I don't bite, promise."

The two looked to each other, then back at her before hesitantly responding, "...can we see your sword?"

"Yeah, sure, of course," untying the sageo , Olive smoothly flipped the dark saya , the wood landing horizontally in her hands as she offered it to the two giant men, "here."

The larger of the two took it gently from her, handling it with care, and more gears gathered around as he withdrew the blade, mumbles of awe scattering through the group as they formed a huddle.

"So cool!"

"I can't believe it, the sword that took down Milenko Nikolic."

"Look at the engraving, so clean!"

"Where did you get the menuki?"

Olive laughed as the men began to throw question after question at her, answering them one by one as they passed around her blade. Over to the side, band and manager stood in curiosity, having never seen Olive be so willingly social. It was a strange sight, such a tiny, bright haired woman fitting in so well with hardened, masked fighters double her size, such serious men fanboying over her sword.

Eventually, Charles cleared his throat, garnering the attention of the group, the men snapping to attention, posture straightening and focus forward.

"Well, as I'm sure you all have already surmised, it seems there is a new number one ranking. Well done," the CFO regarded her with an approving smile, the first he had ever bestowed her with, and she felt a strange longing to see more of those, to earn more of his good graces, "Now, it's late, time for everyone to get back to their posts."

Accepting her katana back from the nameless gear, Olive gave the group a wave bye, nodding to Charles as he followed behind them. Her balance was suddenly thrown off as Toki launched himself at her, crashing into her from behind and lifting her in his arms to spin her around, a shriek followed by giggles leaving her smiling wide as he placed her back on her feet.

"Wowee, dat was so cool! Ya really beat them all!"

"Duh. I told you I would."

"Dood, dat was fuckin' awesome!" Pickles came up next to her, slinging an arm around her shoulder and rubbing his knuckles over her braid in a mock-noogie as she squirmed away, "who knew ya could pack such a fuckin' punch?"

The rest of the band wasn't far behind, soon all crowding around her, expressions ranging from glowing admiration on Murderface, pleased reverence on Skwisgaar, and reflective consideration from Nathan, the latter regarding her with serious contemplation as she cocked her head.

"You ok, man?"

He was silent for a tick, brows furrowed in thought, and then...

"Hit me."

She must have heard him wrong.

"Sorry, what?"

"Hit me. I want you to hit me."

"Dude, that's, like, the exact opposite of why I'm here, y'know?"

Nathan shook his head, hair falling farther in his face, "I don't care. I can take a fuckin' punch. Do it. I wanna know what it's like."

"Uh, ok, I guess? We should go over to the mat, though."

His heavy brows furrowed further, confused.

"Why?"

She smiled, cocky and playful, her next words going straight to his cock..

"Because you're gonna get knocked on your ass, dude."

Grunting, he lead the way, large, imposing form shadowing her as he stood in front of her on the practice mat, the others eagerly observing from the sidelines.

"So, how do you want to do this?"

"Can you do that one thing you did? You know. That Bruce Lee shit."

"...the one inch punch? Nuh-uh. I don't wanna, like, actually hurt you."

"Just. Don't, like, do it hard, or whatever. You didn't hurt that gear earlier."

Sighing, Olive relented, taking her stance and flattening her hand, placing the tips of her fingers against Nathan's broad torso.

"Brace yourself."

Grunting, the vocalist widened his feet, hunkering down in preparation.

There was a moment of silence, and then the strike. A chorus of pained 'ooo's sounded from their audience as Nathan stumbled back, losing his footing and landing ungracefully with a thud, the wind knocked out of him, his hand covering the spot of the hit, eyes wide as he stared up at her in awe.

"Whoah!"

His huge hand encompassed hers as Olive helped him up, Nathan feeling light as a feather for the first time in his life as she hefted him to his feet with ease, his head spinning with the thrill of it.

"Didn't hurt you too bad, did I?"

"I- you- that-" Nathan paused, collecting himself, "do that again."

Grinning, Olive dropped into her stance, allowing him a moment to prepare before landing her strike, the behemoth of a man knocked the ground once again from the impact, beaming as he stood back up.

"That's fuckin' insane!" turning to his band mates with a laugh, Nathan motioned them over, "you guys gotta try this shit!"

One by one they all lined up, each taking a punch and falling flat on their asses, hooting and hollering and laughing at each other as they took their turns, then went back for more, barely believing the strength this tiny woman had over them, wanting to experience it again and again.

Delight softening his face, Murderface laid on the ground, his fourth time being flattened by Olive's fist, stomach pleasantly sore, he questioned, "Scho you're holding your punchesch, right? What happensh if you don't?"

Olive hoisted him to his feet, dangerous hand so small in his own, and he found himself holding on for a second longer than was considered appropriate, jerking away as he realized. If she noticed, she thankfully didn't comment.

"Oh, you know. Internal bleeding, cracked sternum, heart exploding… that kind of stuff."

"Heart exploding?"

"Not, like, literally exploding. But a myocardial rupture. Basically, blunt chest trauma, like getting hit too hard, for instance, can cause a myocardial infarction, a heart attack, making blood flow stop and damaging the muscles, which with various factors can lead to a laceration, erosion, or aneurysm in different parts of the heart. The most dramatic of cases is when the free wall of the left or right ventricles rupture, in which you experience immediate hemodynamic collapse and acute cardiac tamponade, which is where fluid builds up around and compresses the heart. Now that I think about it, I guess implode would be more accurate instead of explode ," Olive mused, hand coming up to her chin in thought.

Glancing around, Olive realized with embarrassment that for the second time that day, she had stunned the room into silence with her rambling.

"Dood, say dat again, but, like, in English dis time."

Rubbing the back of her neck, she raised her shoulders, struggling to condense her explanation, "Uh… you get hit so hard you have a heart attack so big your heart gets squished by blood?"

The boys' faces all lit up at that, her graphic wording triggering various responses of approval as they all headed to the exit as a group. Once back in the corridors, Toki placed a hand on Olive's shoulder, steering her back towards her room as the others headed off to the main living area.

"And where ams you two goings?"

The pair glanced over their shoulders at the Swede, the other three hanging back, waiting to hear what was going on

Excitement clear, Toki responded, "Olives ams lettin' me dyes her hair!"

Skwisgaar leered at that, beginning to follow them as the rest of the group moved on, Pickles calling out a have fun as they turned the corner out of site, Murderface grumbled something unintelligible.

"You don't knows anything abouts hair, Toki. You goinks to fucks it up."

"Ams not!"

"Ams sos!"

"Ams not!"

"Ams sos!"

"Guys, guys, knock it off."

Olive squished herself between the two as they walked, forcing them to separate, and addressed the brunette at her right.

"Toki, have you ever bleached hair before?"

Pouting, he muttered, "No."

Turning to the left, she addressed the blonde, "Skwisgaar, have you?"

"Ja. My mothers amsn't a nakturals blondes, I helpsed her wit' her hairs all the time."

Toki muttered a small, "really, she's not?" which went ignored by the two as Olive turned back to him.

"...maybe he should help, Toki. It's just, bleaching hair is really hard, you have to do it just right or else my hair will burn off."

Those icy blue eyes widened in alarm at the prospect, but still he pouted.

"Okays, but…"

"How about we let Skwisgaar do the bleach, and you can pick out the color and apply that?"

"You amns't staying pink?"

"Nah. I'm bored with it," the corners of Toki's lips turned up, and Olive knew she had him, "Well, what do you say?"

"Yah… okays. I guess we can does that."

The appreciative smile Olive sent his way made agreeing to spend the night with Skwisgaar as a tag along all worth it.

---

"What's did you says to Toki earliers?"

Olive sat in her bathroom, clad in an old, oversized tie-dye shirt that had seen better days, splatters of hair dye and bleach stains maring the fabric. Skwisgaar stood behind her, gloved hands painting the foul substance onto her roots, a bleach bath already applied to the length.

"Huh?"

"Whens de two of yous went off. You cheered him up. What's did you talks about?"

"Oh, uh. Nothing in particular, really."

Skwisgaar's eyes met hers in the mirror, raising a perfect brow.

"Nos?"

Olive shrugged, looking away, heat rushing to her cheeks as she felt the ghost of Toki's touch around her neck.

"Not really, no."

The swede hummed, sectioning off another chunk of hair.

"Wells, whatsever you did… thanks."

That had not been what she was expecting. Skwisgaar was thanking her for comforting Toki? For all the quarreling the two did, Skwisgaar seemed to honestly and deeply care for the younger guitarist, and Olive pondered on if some of his harshness towards Toki was out of love.

Cute .

"Sure, any time."

Skwisgaar smiled, more genuine than she was accustomed to from him, lighting up his face, and she prayed he couldn't hear how fast her heart was beating.

"Cans we gives ya mermaid hair?"

Toki bounced into the room, interrupting the moment, bottles of blue, teal, and purple dye in his hands, childish grin on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

"Little Tokis, dat ams much toos complikated for yous, pick somet'ing easier."

The brunette pouted, "Does you knows how to does it, Skwisgaar?"

"Ja. Ofs course."

"Goods. Den you cans talk me through it."

"Eugh…" the Swede looked away from Toki and his big, shiny, begging stare down at Olive, who, surprisingly enough, was also giving him puppy eyes, "Reallys? You toos?"

A dramatically stuck out bottom lip was his answer, and he rolled his eyes with a sigh, relenting, "Fine."

The process went smoother than Olive expected, Toki seeming to be exceedingly comfortable using a brush and blending colors, taking Skwisgaar's directions with surprising grace. The two still bickered the entire time, of course, with a relaxed ease that could only come from years of close friendship. They played off each other well, always quick with comebacks and pointed arguments they knew the other couldn't counter. Watching them get so heated over something as little as the way Toki was holding the brush, or the speed at which he applied the dye was incredibly funny, and Olive couldn't help her giggles, which got her admonished by both for shaking their canvas.

Further debate was had over the selection of entertainment, Toki having unboxed most of her expansive dvd collection in search of something agreeable, Skwisgaar turning down every option he put forward, claiming them to all be "babies movies."

Olive just sighed. Could they ever agree on anything?

Finally, the moment of truth came, and Olive hit the shower, leaving them to their squabbling to rinse the dye.

Stepping out of the shower, she fluffed her hair with a towel and slipped into a fresh tank top and Pokémon joggers, spritzing with anti-frizz spray and rubbing olaplex and curl creme through. Clamping her hair up, she quickly did her skincare routine, then began the long, arduous process of diffuse drying her curls. Finally letting her strands down, she grinned big in the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring the way the light caught on the different shades; teal at the roots, which faded down into purple and deep blue in an ombre effect.

They had done such a good job.

As she rejoined the two, Toki shot up from his place on her bed, bouncing over and wasting no time in delving his hands into her hair, smiling wide as Olive laughed.

"Oh wowee! Ya look so cools!"

Skwisgaar had approached much slower and was now standing to her side, swatting Toki's hands away and running his own through, checking for any missed spots or patchiness. Finding none, he gave a soft tug to the ends of a purple strand, smiling at her.

"Ja, looks good wit' your skin tone."

Realizing for the first time how very close both men were standing to her, Olive faltered, peering up at them with a growing blush, matching smirks curling up both their lips as they watched her face redden, glancing at each other from the corners of their eyes.

"Thanks…"

She gulped. Being sandwiched between the two guitarists had been a fantasy of hers for years . But…

She had just slept with two of Dethklok's members, two of her bosses , on back to back nights. Should she really try to go for a third? Did she really want to ask, to be the one to suggest it, to open herself up to the possibility of rejection? She was sure Skwisgaar would be willing, but what about Toki? Her mind turned to their earlier conversation, how he had been so provoked by the thought of her sleeping with his band mates. Would he even want a threesome? Would he be willing to share?

Deciding it best to ignore how the two were devouring her with their eyes, Olive cleared her throat, brushing past them to sit on her bed.

"Did, um, did you guys pick something to watch?"

The pair shared a final look, seemingly communicating without words, and joined her in front of the TV as she spread different options of sheet masks on the bed.

---

Olive startled awake, eyes shooting open, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she shot up silently, groggily taking stock of her surroundings; her normal room, her normal bed, her normal Scandinavian guitarists on either side...

Wait. What?

The room was filled with a blue glow, the TV looping the menu screen for an Adventure Time dvd, and Olive shook off the confusion that always came from waking up from unplanned sleep. Right. They did her hair, and had been watching cartoons. They must have all fallen asleep.

Skwisgaar was curled up on his side facing away from her, hugging his guitar in what looked like a rather uncomfortable position, one leg dangling off the edge of the mattress. On her other side, Toki was facing her, arm draped around her hips, hair covering his face and snoring lightly.

Debating on whether to wake them up or let them sleep, a deep rumble rocked her body, and Olive realized she hadn't eaten anything since those cinnamon buns over 12 hours ago.

Oops.

Gingerly lifting Toki's arm, she placed it softly on the bed next to her, freeing herself, and he grumbled, shifting to grip the pillow where her head had been. Shuffling out of bed with as little movement as possible, Olive went around to the side, grabbing a big, squishy dragon plush and easing it in place of Skwisgaar's guitar, which he immediately clung to, propping the instrument up on the wall next to her side table.

Silently she left the room, closing the door softly and padding down the dark corridors, heading for the kitchen, where she rummaged around through cabinets full of snacks and junk, finally deciding on making a double portion of chili ramen, frowning as she was forced to use a fork.

She really needed to dig out her chopsticks.

Satisfied with her meal, she walked over to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of orange juice and pouring herself a glass, chugging it and refilling it again, taking it with her as she began the trek back to her room.

A (obviously fake) scream drew her attention, and she turned the opposite direction, following the noise, wondering who was up this late. Poking her head through the threshold of the living room, Olive saw the bassist sitting on the couch, alone, arms crossed and scowling at the TV.

He was the last one up, the room empty except for the two of them. A rare occurrence, but one she had been waiting for.

Well. Now was as good a time as any.

"Hey."

Murderface only grumbled in response as Olive took a seat next to him, arms crossing tighter over his chest, typical scowl of displeasure extra harsh as his eyes remained trained on the television.

Fingers tapping against her knee, Olive swallowed down the lump of nerves in her throat with a sip of juice, mulling over the words she had planned for this moment once again.

A blood curdling scream drew her attention to the sole source of light in the room, and she smiled at the scene.

"Bloodsucking Freaks. A classic."

Another grunt.

Great . Murderface was in one of his moods.

Sucking in a breath, Olive steeled herself. She was his doctor. She had a duty to make sure his health was being attended to. No matter how badly she knew this conversation was going to go, it was necessary.

"Can we, um… talk?"

Green eyes appraised her briefly before turning back to the gore on the screen, shoulders raising in a half-hearted shrug.

"Schure. Talk away. 's not like I'm watching anything."

Olive's fingers curled into a fist. She took a breath, counted to ten, exhaled, and braced herself.

"Why do you refuse treatment for your depression?"

The bassist froze, his breath held, eyes unblinking, then exhaled harshly through his nose, jaw clenching so tight Olive could see the muscles flexing in his cheek.

Murderface could feel the panic and dread seeping into his very being. Why did she have to bring this up?

Why couldn't everyone just let him be miserable?

"Becausche I'm not depressched."

"Murderfa-"

" Don't ."

Well, this was going about as well as Olive had expected. His medical history was a trainwreck of mental health issues; treatment resistant severe depression and self harm spanning his entire life, bulimia in his youth, one recorded incident of psychosis from years ago that seemingly went untreated, suspected bipolar I but never fully diagnosed, due solely in part to his own lack of cooperation.

Ah, yes, that. Prevalent throughout his medical files is a marked refusal of treatment, some instances even turning violent in his resistance. All of his doctors had given up on getting him the help he needed.

All of them.

As had Charles.

And his bandmates.

The thought alone made her heart ache for him. She couldn't imagine what that was like, to be screaming for help so loudly, so desperately through one's actions, but knowing no one has the energy to care anymore.

It was no wonder, really, that Murderface had given up on himself, too.

Olive wasn't a psychologist. But after decades of struggling with mental illness, fighting with her own mind every day just to function, she could easily recognize how deep he had fallen into the pits of depression.

And she would be damned if she left him there to drown.

"Look, I know you don't want to talk about this, but-"

Murderface further slouched into the couch as he cut her off yet again.

"But nothin'. There'sch nothin' to talk about."

Ok. Direct questioning is going nowhere. Time for Plan B.

Fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of her top, Olive fought back the cold numbness spreading through her limbs with her next words.

"I haven't been taking my meds, either."

A pause. The atmosphere shifted. Murderface was finally looking at her, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.

"...why?"

Shrugging, she gave a humorless laugh.

"I don't fucking know. Why does anyone stop taking their meds?"

The familiar feeling of shame she could never shake when speaking about her mental health was creeping up on her, the nagging voice of her adoptive father in the back of her mind repeating itself over and over " stop being dramatic " "just behave like your brother " " I'll give you something to be sad about " and making her blood boil just as much as it made her want to clam up and end the conversation.

My feelings are valid. He's not here, and my feelings are valid. I have a right to experience emotion.

And she needed Murderface to know that was true for him, too.

"What were you on?"

"Um, Zoloft... and Xanax."

The pair sat in an unsteady silence, the bassist needing a moment to consider this new revelation.

"Wasch it the side effectsch?"

Sighing, dark eyes finally met green once more, surprised to see him having sat further up, his expression softened, seemingly no longer waiting to be swallowed up by the couch.

"No… no. I just… I don't know. Its easy to talk yourself out of needing them when you aren't feeling depressed anymore, I guess. I don't know why I do it. It doesn't make any fucking sense and I know that. But I can't stop myself. It's beyond logic, y'know?"

A feeling Murderface knew all too well. Thinking about her, the most morbid, brutal girl he had ever met going through even a fraction of the same heartache he experienced over the years left him with a hollow pit in his chest.

She deserved so much better than that.

"You schould take your medsch, Olive."

Scoffing, she couldn't contain an eye roll at such a blatant double standard.

"You're one to talk."

"I juscht told you. I'm not depressched."

Shaking her head, she crossed her own arms.

"Right. So you skip showers and don't brush your teeth and talk about how much you hate everything and fucking hurt yourself because you're happy. Totally believable."

The words were out before she could stop herself, entirely too harsh for how delicately this topic needed to be handled, and her hopes of reaching him plummeted as his face hardened, hurt in his eyes, his entire demeanor shutting down once more.

"Schut up! You don't fuckin' know anything about me!"

Fuck .

That was not how she had wanted this to go, Olive's own circling thoughts causing her to lash out when she was supposed to be helping.

Her words peeled at a barely healed scab on Murderface's heart, an old and ever present wound that never had time to recover. The familiar heat of embarrassment crept up his face and sat uneasy in his stomach. Olive was disgusted by him. Of course she was. Everyone was. He never should have hoped that she would keep being so nice to him. It never lasted. Everyone eventually found out what a gross, disgusting person he was, rotten from the core, just as his grandmother had always said.

God, his chest was going to fucking cave in, his heart was going to implode and consume him whole, he was sure of it this time.

Murderface stood abruptly, looking at her with scorn, tears dotting the corner of his eyes.

Shit. She couldn't let him leave like this.

"No, I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that, I…" he was already turning to walk away, and Olive clutched his hand tightly, not willing to let him go on such a sour note, "Murderface, please, wait. Just hear me out, ok? Please?"

The bassist yanked his hand from hers, but turned back, crossing his arms across his chest in an attempt at putting space between them.

"What now. Gonna call me a fat, ugly pieche of schit like everyone elsche?"

Olive's brow furrowed, regarding him with concern.

"What? No, of course not. Jesus..." licking her lips and swallowing the lump in her throat, dark eyes peered up at him through darker lashes, trying her best to appear as sincere on the outside as she was within, "...please, sit back down. It's just… hard for me to talk about this, too."

Murderface deflated a bit at her admission, and reluctantly plopped back onto the cushions.

"Look… I'm, um, I'm just, what I've been trying to say is I know how hard it is t-"

"Pfft. You know how hard it isch?"

Anger and hurt bubbled up in his chest once more.

"Look at you. You're fuckin' gorgeousch. And a geniusch. You're good at everything ! And you know everything too!"

"Murderface…"

"How the fuck could you ever know what itsch like? To be the the ugly one, the fat one, the stupid fuck up, and whole world knowsch it. Huh ? You fuckin' don't . You don't know schit about what itsch like to be in my fuckin' schoesch."

"Murderfa-"

"No. And you.." his voice wavered, watering eyes dangerously close to spilling over, "Half the fuckin' band hasch schlept with you."

Olive swallowed hard, cheeks burning at his words as she looked back to the blood on the screen. Two out of five isn't half , she wanted to say, but didn't think he would much appreciate the correction.

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

Muderface sucked in a deep breath, attempting to reel his emotions back in. He needed to get a handle on his words before he said something he'd regret.

Nothing good would come from admitting how very terribly he wished to have been the one stumbling to Skwisgaar's room that night, the one tucked under Pickles' arm and whisked away after a rough day, the one to get Toki out of a bad mood, the one who could keep Nathan's attention.

For years he had pined, had shoved his feelings down so deep he could sometimes even forget how much it hurt. Sometimes he didn't even feel the need to cut open his fat, ugly skin when they all lead girls to their rooms at the end of the day, leaving him to another lonely night.

But Olive didn't need to know that. Nor did she need to know how much it hurt to see her being seduced by his bandmates, the first real life, in the flesh girl he had been attracted to in years , knowing he would never stand a chance, that she would never look at him like she did at them. How could she?

Everything he had said was true. He was the fat one, the ugly one, the stupid one, the one who couldn't even play his fucking instrument. With fucking sex gods like Skwisgaar around, how could he ever compare?

The silence between them was overbearing, thick and oppressive, and Olive struggled to find the right words.

"Muderface… You're not ugly, or stupid, or any of those other horrible things you said."

"Yesch I am."

Olive shook her head softly. His blatant self hatred was heartbreaking, and she didn't know how to comfort him.

So she did the only thing she could think to do, to show him that he wasn't alone.

Steeling herself, she grasped the hem of her tank top and yanked it over her head, reaching back to unhook her bra and allowing it to fall in her lap.

Had circumstances been different, she would have laughed at his open mouthed, wide eyed stare at her actions, but as she covered her chest and shifted her arm to expose her ribs, his expression morphed into one of quiet dismay.

There was no mistaking her intent in stripping as his eyes roamed the bumpy, scarred horizontal lines covering the sides of her ribs, most of them old, though a few still pale red. They were the same lines he had scattered over his own thighs.

The same lines his band members had dutifully ignored, both on Olive and himself.

"Olive…"

"I know, ok. I know."

Limbs trembling, she slipped her shirt back on, foregoing the bra to continue their conversation

"I know how hard it is," swallowing thickly, she bit her bottom lip, voice quivering as she held back tears, both for herself and for him, and took his hands in her own, "how fucking hard it is to think you deserve to be happy, to fight against everything your mind is telling you, day after fucking day. "

Muderface gripped her hands back tightly as a tear rolled down her cheek, struggling to contain his own.

"I know what it feels like, to not even want to be happy, not really. After so long of living weighed down by your mental illness, of it pushing away your friends and family, destroying your self esteem and fading every other aspect of your personality until it's all you fucking have left. Until you can't even remember what its like to live without it. Until you're terrified at the thought of living any other way."

Muderface choked on his tears, her words soothing that ever present hollow loneliness that tore apart his soul.

"But you can't give up on yourself. I won't let you. "

Olive leaned forward as the dam broke, gathering his quaking shoulders in her arms and cradling the weeping man to her chest, petting his hair as his tears soaked her shirt.

Minutes ticked by as she gently rocked the bassist until his sobs quieted to whimpers, face staying buried in her shirt as he spoke with a small, hoarse voice.

"Your hair isch different."

"Oh. Yeah," she sucked in a shaky breath, gently scratching her nails over his shoulders, his quivering easing up, "Needed a change."

"...I like it. Makes you look like a fuckin' mermaid 'er shomethin'"

"That was the goal."

With a deep sigh, the bassist leaned back, his face red, eyes swollen as he tentatively met her gaze.

"Scho what do I do? I don' know what elsche to do."

Rubbing her hand over her face to scrub away her own tears, Olive took a steadying breath.

"Let me give you the number for my therapist."

Murderface scowled at the thought of Twinkletits. What a fucking dick, "I already have one."

"Yeah, well, they obviously aren't doing anything for you. You'll like her, I promise. She's super nice, and super pretty. She's actually, uh, my sister-in-law."

Green eyes blinked at her in surprise, hope swelling in his chest despite himself.

"...really?"

"Yeah. Yeah . I can, uh, I can talk to her tomorrow, get you guys set up to do, like, a video session or something. And if it goes well, I'm sure she'd be willing to fly in for in person appointments."

Murderface mulled over this proposition, hating the thought of starting over with a new therapist, but not having the heart to turn her down when Olive was looking at him with those dark, watery eyes.

"Ok. I… ok. I'll do it. But only if you schtart taking your medsch again. Promische."

Giving a weak smile, she held out her pinky.

"Promise."

---

A/n: I've not abandoned this fic! I just wrote and deleted and wrote and deleted this so many times. If it seems a bit choppy, that's why. I'm still not totally happy with it, but I can't look at it anymore lmao

Also! I'm starting a companion piece to this for deleted scenes, things I half wrote and now don't plan on using, stuff I wanna write but doesn't fit in with the plot, etc. In particular, there's two pretty spicy scenes that would have fit so well in this chapter, but that would have screwed the pacing of relationship development all up, but I couldn't help myself and wrote most of them anyway, so those will be posted in the next few weeks!

Please comment and let me know how this turned out because I feel like I've forgotten how to write at this point my dudes