Of course, being Skwisgaar, Skwisgaar isn't satisfied long. He needs more, and he knows just where he's going to get it too. His makeup needs repairs, and he's aching to get out of the corset.
He smirks at his reflection, the bruises, the bite marks, the blood trickling down from a cut lip. He flips his hair back from his face, and cleans himself up, fixing his makeup, wiping semen from his thighs.
He knows just what to wear for the next round, knows just how crazy it'll make his intended victim. The nurse's outfit, shiny black pvc with the little cross emblem, the little hat pinned carefully onto his hair, stockings and another pair of heels. He takes up the oversized toy syringe, and smirks.
"Times fors de prostates exams," he purrs at himself, grinning. The image is surreal, beautiful, and deliciously wicked. A moment later something comes to him, and he drops the syringe, picking up a guitar instead, strapping it low on his hips. He examines himself again the guitar only making the entire thing sexier and he begins to play. Long fingers fly over the frets, something exotic, a fast moving whirling dervish melody. He closes his eyes, arching his back to the sound of the notes, hypnotic. It feels so right, the music vibrating through him, something almost mystic in the notes as they pour from the instrument, aided by his knowing fingers. He uses the tremolo, making the notes shudder and vibrate, a vast expansive sound. He's playing a song about freedom, closing his eyes and swaying his hips. He flicks his hair, getting lost in the sound of the music.
It's not metal, but it's beautiful. The melody belongs to surf guitar, and his fingers move at blinding speed. He's a god right now, the sound filling the room, calling out, seductive, sultry, with a tempting under current of danger. It cries out, it soars as he flips his hair. He's a rock god, shimmying his slim hips, seducing the air in his short skirted little outfit.
Perhaps he's unconsciously calling his next lover, but it doesn't matter, as he moves to the middle eastern tones.
He'd learnt it years ago. He was sixteen, figuring out the chords to Dick Dale, obsessed with the man's stunning skill. He'd wanted that, to be like that. He remembers feeling the California sun in the melodies even in the bitter cold of Swedish winter. He remembers practicing backstage at pageants on his acoustic, trying as hard as he could not to break a manicured nail as he hit the frets perfectly. He remembers the other contestants, the real girls looking at him as they quadruple checked their mascara, remembers envy in their eyes. Marlene had been the queen supreme, known throughout Sweden.
If she entered a pageant the other contestants knew to kiss any hopes of first place goodbye, even so other girls seemed to flock to her, drawn perhaps by some subconscious knowledge of her actual sex. There were more than a few girls who ended up quite confused over their sexuality thanks to Miss Marlene.
He'd gotten his first kiss back stage at an international pageant, put his hand on his first breast. It was back stage he'd learnt how to make a girl scream with his fingers, with his tongue. No reciprocation, of course, but somehow he'd liked it anyway. They'd told him he was beautiful, told him they'd never felt like that about a girl before, told him secrets, fallen in love with... her, not him, but it didn't matter as long as love gleamed in their eyes.
The notes free him though, he doesn't have to have a past if he doesn't want to, lost in the music, not the memory.
He plays, almost to the final note when his door opens.
"Heya, dood what are you-" the redhead drops his bottle in surprise, and Skwisgaar grins, he too looks like he did in the eighties. The blonde doesn't know what's going on, but he likes it, in any case the redhead seems too drunk to be aware of his teased mane and the eyeliner smudged around his green eyes, "what the hell are ya wearin' blahndie?"
"Yous haves eyes," he says, unstrapping the guitar, and walking over.
"Yeh," says the redhead, "yeh, I do." He smirks, the blonde looks delicious like this, and he can't resist moving closer.
"Yous likes?" purrs the blonde, looking the redhead over.
"Yeh, fuck," he says, looking up at him, "how about you bend yerself over so I can get a better view of that ass."
The Swede smirked, and did, palms to the wall, stretching, back arched.
"Wanna play dahcter, huh?" purrs the redhead sidling up behind him and putting a hand on the small of his back.
"Ja," breathes the blonde, spreading his legs a bit, inviting.
"Always knew you were a slut, but hell," he says, shaking his head, running his hand's down the other's sides, the small waist, his hips, the firm rounded ass contrasting beautifully with jutting hip bones, and perfectly flat stomach.
"Yous almosts as bads," he says, smirking, giving Pickles a little look.
"You gaht a damn nice bahdy, blahndie," murmurs the drummer, ghosting his lips over the nape of the other man's neck, leaving the blonde shuddering slightly.
"What's yous wantings to does withs it?" he purrs wickedly, causing Pickles to grin lazily.
He gives the blonde's cock a squeeze, reaching up under the dress.
"I think you know what I wahnna do with it," murmurs the drummer, grabbing the blonde by his hair, twisting the platinum mane around his hand and giving it a yank, using the guitarist's hair as a leash, taking him to the bed.
The Swede winces, but takes it allowing the smaller man to lead him where he likes.
"Get on all fours, dood," he says, giving the guitarist's ass a smack with the hair brush he'd left on his bed side table. The blonde whimpers, and arches his hips.
"Like that, blahndie?" purrs Pickles, smirking,
"Ja," murmurs the Swede, leaning his body forward, raising his ass in the air. The drummer lays down a flurry of blows, grinning as the other man's ass flushes prettily under his ministrations. The blonde yelps, whimpering under the attack, clutching at the bedsheets, cock dripping onto the sheets.
"Fuckin' slut," purrs Pickles, rubbing the other man's sore back side with a cool palm. He leans in close, grabbing the blonde's hair again, looking him straight in the eye.
"You wahnt more, bitch?" he murmurs, and Skwisgaar can smell vodka and danger on his breath, and the blonde grins.
"Fucks ja," he purrs, eyes heavy lidded, bucking his hips back.
Pickles simply unzips his jeans, pulling his cock out, pressing the tip to the blonde's lips.
"Suck," and he does plush lips parting, tongue trailing up the underside as he moans. He's wanton, big blue eyes turned up to gaze at the redhead, oh so needy. He takes it in his mouth, sucking, licking, teasing, and eventually swallowing the other man's cock. The Swede really can give a blow job, practiced and deliciously enthusiastic. Those full soft lips could make a man crazy. Pickles fucks his throat, holding him by the hair and taking what he wants, claiming that hot, wet, silken perfection, loving the sight of the blonde's eyes tearing as he tries not to choke. Eventually Pickles can't take it anymore, not wanting to come just yet, knowing those big blue eyes and perfect mouth would do it in about five seconds if he kept going. So, he pulls back, looking down at him with a languid smile.
"Looks like someone beat ya up earlier, just can't get enough, can ya?" murmurs Pickles, noticing the bruise on the blonde's lip.
"Justs Charlies littles while ago," he purrs, rocking his hips up. The redhead raises a brow.
"That mean I can skip prep?" he asks, holding up a bottle of lube and waggling it in front of the blonde's nose.
He considers for a moment before nodding. "Goes aheads," he murmurs, looking at him languidly, spreading his legs, skirt framing his hips just right.
The redhead grins, one of his long fingered hands cupping the blonde's tight ass, giving it a squeeze, appreciating just how goddamn perfect he really is. A moment later he's drizzling a bit of lube over his cock and the Swede's hole and then he's entering him, moaning in shocked pleasure at the exquisite sensation of the blonde's unprepped ass. Skwisgaar cries out, he's tight and it hurts, but god it hurts so right, hurts so right that when the redhead starts to move his hips, pressing painted nails into the blonde's flanks all he can do is moan and take it. Normally he'd resist, or at least make a show of resisting, but he needs it too much now. He can't hide what he is, what he needs.
He sobs in ecstasies of pleasure. Pickles loves it, loves watching the normally cocky blonde whimpering beneath him, bucking his hips back trying to get more. His rhythm for the moment is slow, deep thrusts, teasing.
"Ya need more?" he purrs, and the Swede whimpers, desperately trying to get it.
"Ja," he says, voice low, roughened by need.
"If ya wahnt more, yer gahnna have ta beg fer it," he says continuing to move at the same maddening pace.
The Swede sobs. "I's begs den, please Pickle, hurries ups, I's goings to goes crazy ifs yous nots fuckings properlies," he cries, clutching at the sheets, and the redhead grabs his hips and fucks him, fucks him like he's been aching to.
He would close his eyes, but the sight of that prefect body in that sexy little uniform, the nurse's cap falling off, long legs spread. The blonde's crying out, bucking back towards every thrust, needy, so utterly needy. The redhead loves it, gives it to him harder, faster, showing the cocky lead guitarist who's boss, who (for now at least) owns him body and soul. Polished nails dig into pale skin, harder, hard enough to break it, blood blossoms, and the blonde's back arches. He yowls in pleasure-pain, head flopping forward, unable to support himself properly with pleasure burning through him with such intensity.
The world is black and gold, everything is blooming, and something exquisite glimmers in the distance, and they ache for it, bodies slamming together trying to reach that shimmering distance. Moans, cries, there is a beautiful, terrible intensity to it.
Pickles moves faster, the sight spurring him on. He wants to drive the guitarist insane, leave him a lustful puddle on the bed, wants to mark his fucking territory. Sure he knows the guitarist is in love with Toki, he's seen the way they look at each other, but for now, for the moment the Swede is his and he will do as he pleases.
He growls, pulling the blonde up against him, and unzips the dress, wanting to feel the velvet perfection of his skin against his own as he brutalizes him, wants to feel that lean perfect body. Skwisgaar's shaking, cock nearly purple, aching he's so hard.
"Pickle," he sobs, skin gleaming with sweat, head tilted back, letting the drummer do as he pleases with him. Pickles can't resist him, never could, he starts to move furiously, fast uneven strokes, knowing he can't hold back much longer, but determined to make the blonde come first, wanting to see him twitch, and spasm, and spill onto the black satin sheets.
He pounds him, slamming into him as if he intends to go through him, as if he wants to fuck him through the bed, and the blonde loves it. He screams, not caring if all of Mordhaus hears him, it's glorious anguish. The beautiful pain of need courses through him.
"Fucks me, Pickle," he whimpers, broken, so beautiful. His voice sends silvery shudders up the other man's spine and drives him, drives him towards more, harder, faster. He wants to push him past screaming, past conscious thought, lord knows he's not thinking himself right then. Everything out the window for instinct, bodies moving together, eyeliner smearing, hands caressing, a lock of wild redhair clinging to a pale cheek, sex, and sweat, and glory. The drummer pants, breathless. This is more strenuous even then the most difficult drum line, but the reward, god it's worth it.
Orgasm is rising, approaching, that glimmer of something in the distance is getting closer, getting bigger, and they can feel the heat coming off it, feel it closing in. It may destroy everything, but it will be glorious, exquisite, a moment beyond time. It rises, sensation rising, swelling like music, threatening overload, threatening to push them beyond lines they didn't know existed, bigger, higher, more, and more, and more, bodies moving with ferocious desperation and then, then it comes. Everything explodes, they're both screaming, nails bite into skin. Pickles thrusts into him viciously, slamming into him as hard as he knows how, using the quivering Swede like a doll. Skwisgaar is shaking so hard he fears he'll come apart, senses on overload, heart pounding in his chest.
Finally after an instant of eternity, it dies down, and for a few moments the world is gone, floating in fine particles glimmering against black but they're there, clutching each other and shuddering with the force of it. It's beautiful though, they collapse panting on the bed, limbs tangled together, makeup smeared, and skin damp with sweat as they slowly remember how to breathe, who they are, where they are.
"Gahd damn, Skwisgaar, yer... damn," says the redhead, smiling his crooked smile.
"Yous is veries goods at makings de sex toos," purrs the blonde, snuggling up against him, thinking he might need a catnap or so before continuing.