Ugly

Rating: NC-17
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Murderface/Knubbler.
Warnings: See pairing. Other than that nothing I can think of.
Summary: It’s too damned hot, and Murderface is seeking some relief from the heat.
Notes: I adore Murderface,I really do. He has raised being a bastard to an absolute art form, and yet for some reason I still want to cuddle him. I always suspected that beneath the vicious exterior was a soft candy center. I could be dead wrong of course, but I do like him.

For Teratomarty

He was a short order cook, and not too much to look at,
And he traded in his foot, for a medal in the war.
He loved a girl named Lila, in a bar across the highway,
And you ought to see him smilin' at her comin' through the door.

Lila always knew, she wasn't no ravin' beauty,
She traded in her virtue to a trucker at sixteen.
But she forgets to remember how he left her off in Denver,
When she sees her Cooky smilin’ as she opens up the screen.

And he says
“Hi Lila, how about a cup of coffee?
Take a load off, take your shoes off, here's the sugar and the cream.”
Cooky’s been to war and Lila’s been to Denver,
And both of them are casualties of someone else’s dream.

Cooky pours the truckers coffee, Lila serves the riggers whiskey,
And resists their invitations to go ridin’ for a while.
'Cause at a diner across the highway, on a shelf above the pastry,
There’s a cup reserved for Lila and the man who makes her smile.

When he says
“Hi Lila, how about a cup of coffee?
Take a load off, take your shoes off, here’s the sugar and the cream.”
'Cause Cooky’s been to war and Lila’s been to Denver,
And both of them are casualties of someone else’s dream.

Now as the nation rolls along, like a semi down the highway,
Casting lonely broken bodies in the grass along the road.
I’ve finally found a reason for believing in the future,
Seeing Cooky and his Lila drinking coffee all alone.

“Hi Lila, how about a cup of coffee?
Take a load off, take your shoes off, here’s the sugar and the cream.”
'Cause Cooky’s been to war and Lila’s been to Denver,
And both of them are casualties of someone else’s dream.

Cooky’s been to war, Lord, and Lila’s been to Denver,
And both of them are casualties of someone else’s dream…

It was hot. Brutally hot. The kind of heat that smothered those too weak to defend themselves; the ill, the old, and the very young, finding them in their beds and suffocated them. Mordhaus steamed beneath its oppressive weight, and the five members of Dethklok, normally inseparable, were spending time apart in the interest of staying friends. Even Toki was short-tempered and nasty in the stifling temperature, and the five friends were growling at each other like strange dogs.

Murderface watched Skwisgaar walk across the lawn as he sat on a bench in the yard, arms resting on the back support, feet out before him. Skwisgaar was utterly viciously wretched. He had been ill since the heat wave started, and could not seem to get comfortable. His lean body glowed with sweat, the golden hair lank and sticky, and his eyes had an eerie fevered look to them. Everything about him exuded misery. He had actually tried to bite Nathan at one point, just snapping at his face like one of the yard wolves, Nathan only realizing just how serious the attack was when he heard the audible ‘clack’ of his teeth slamming together.

That was when they decided that a little time apart may be a good thing.

Murderface liked the heat. It made everything around him as ugly as he felt inside. It burned the grass and withered the tree leaves, and turned pretty things into tormented snarling monsters. Even Skwisgaar was ugly, panting in the high temperatures. Murderface took a certain amount of grim pleasure in seeing him suffer. Skwisgaar didn’t know what it was like to be short and pudgy with a speech impediment and a face like a Rottweiler’s ass. He was tall and graceful and beautiful. Even before he was famous people treated him like he walked on water because of how beautiful he was. Skwisgaar Skwigelf, taller than a tree, child of Baldur, from the land of ice and snow.

Murderface idly hoped he’d break an ankle.

Skwisgaar paced over to a roadie who was watering the topiary dragon. “Hey. Aims dat hose here.”

The roadie did, adjusting the setting to mist, and suddenly Skwisgaar was beautiful again, surrounded by tiny floating dots of coloured silver and little rainbows, his skin gleaming in the sunlight as droplets of water trailed over his throat. Skwisgaar preened in the cooling mist, his temper softening. Then Toki bounded up with another hose and sprayed Skwisgaar full blast. Skwisgaar uttered a short, sharp shriek of surprise, grabbing the hose from the roadie and turning it on Toki. The roadie wisely beat it out of there as Toki and Skwisgaar proceeded to soak each other into oblivion, laughing and chasing each other like a pair of kids.

Murderface thought it said a lot about just how bloody hot it was when they hosed down Ofdensen and he didn’t even care. Even Charles had been sick and miserable in the heat. So much for the theory that he was a robot. He wasn’t even bothering to wear a suit these days. Lately he’d been slobbing around in a polo shirt, shorts and Italian loafers. Which, for Charles, counted as ‘slobbing’. Murderface wondered what the story was behind the tattoo on his ankle; a unicorn thrashing in thorny brambles. No wonder their dapper little lawyer didn’t forsake his long pants and socks until nature gave him no alternative.

There had been a time when Murderface would have gone after him for it, demanded to know what it meant, maybe tried to upset him, but not anymore. Not since Charles had been playing hide-the-ferret with Nathan. The last time Murderface tried to upset Charles, three hundred pounds of former football player had body checked him into a wall so hard he thought his eyeballs had fallen out. The move had been smooth and casual with no real anger or force behind it, which frightened Murderface more than a raging attack ever could have. Just a casual bump, nothing more, but it did the trick; it bounced Murderface like a rubber ball, and he had no interest in finding out what Nathan could to do if he was well and truly pissed.

Murderface watched Toki and Skwisgaar chase Charles with the hose. Even Charles was pretty when he wasn’t hiding behind a mask of professionalism. With his hair messed up and his clothes clinging to his beautifully toned body, his skin shining wetly, Murderface could definitely see what Nathan liked in the little short-ass. Speaking of ass… yeah Ofdensen had a pretty nice pair of buns.

“Look you two this is not fair, you are both considerably taller than I am!” Charles was trying to be firm even though he clearly had no control over the situation. “You should pick on someone your own size!”

Skwisgaar snorted. “Dere is no one our size!”

“Is that so?” Charles made a motion with his hand, and suddenly the sun was blocked out as the two biggest roadies Dethklok had showed up, both of them over seven feet tall and three hundred and fifty pounds apiece. Skwisgaar and Toki eyed the pair warily as Charles gave the hose-waving miscreants a cold little smile.

“Get ‘em”

Toki and Skwisgaar fled shrieking as they were chased by a couple of giants armed with garden hoses. Murderface sighed and rose to his feet. He wasn’t in the mood for feeling better. He was fat and ugly and hot and he didn’t want to be cheered up. He walked across the yellowing lawn, ignoring Pickles who was seated, wet and happy, in a fountain, dressed in only a pair of cut-offs. Murderface trudged across the scorched grass to the back of the great stone keep, making his way to the Mordland garden.

The gardens had been Nathan’s idea, arguing that all great keeps, castles and palaces in the past had gardens. So they had gardens, but not pretty little gardens with pretty little flowers. Oh no. They had a maze created out of a rare trailing black rose; its stem, leaves and petals all black as the tomb, the thorns on the older vines two inches in length. It was a plant so rare that even the most learned botanists argued it did not exist, but Mordland had the proof growing over black iron trellises into a great ominous hedge.

Within the maze were more rare plants, growing in hidden little plots. Black tulips, black orchids, black irises, surrounded by rare herbs, and European Mandrake, whose scream was so feared that Medieval herbalists would train dogs to pull them for their masters, so should the vile plant utter its shriek it would slay the dog, not the human. Then, if one managed to find the center of the maze, one reached the greenhouse; a great glass structure with delicate black bones of wrought iron. It was very gothic and very Victorian, and housed the crowned jewels of the Mordland gardens; pitcher plants, fly traps, and other, stranger, more vile flora, including herbs so toxic that the slightest brush caused creeping ulcerations of the skin. Standing guard over all, rising like a ghastly sentinel, was the pride of the collection; a corpse flower. Apparently in the wild they bloomed only once every fifteen years or so, and almost never when cultivated. But Dethklok’s corpse flower bloomed with unusual frequency and regularity.

Apparently corpse flowers liked death metal.

When various botanical societies learned about the collection of rare plants and flowers, Dethklok had been buried under requests to allow viewing of their garden. The initial response had been no; after all this was their home and they felt they had the right to haunt their own grounds in peace. Eventually, however, they caved in, but not without making it perfectly, loudly, and painfully clear that if people were here to see the gardens, then they better stay in the gardens. Annoying and/or molesting the band in any form would result in being escorted from the grounds and banned from returning. Furthermore only members of botanical societies were allowed, and only on the first five days of the month.

Membership in botanical societies skyrocketed.

Their first visitors to the garden were a group of university students, led by their professor, who was not at all certain as to what she thought of the strange men in black patrolling the grounds, the great keep, and the men who called the place home. During her tour she encountered a certain red-haired drummer, rolled up into a small ball beneath a holly tree, quite happily and most solidly passed out. She peered over her glasses at him.

“What on earth is that? A transient?”

“It’s Pickles,” said a student, then added; “their drummer.”

“Pickles?!” the professor exclaimed archly. “That’s hardly a name for a grown man. Still I suppose he fits in with the tour.”

She took a pen and a piece of paper, wrote out a message, then tore the paper out of the notebook and stuck it on Pickles.

The cucumber (Cucumis sativus) is a widely cultivated plant in the gourd family Cucurbitaceae, which includes squash, and is in the same genus as the muskmelon. When pickled sufficiently the Red Irish variety gains the ability to play the drums.

Pickles was the hit of the subsequent three tours.

Murderface paused as he reached the maze to briefly ponder a red squirrel hanging precariously from the thorny rose. Why it had gone up there he couldn’t imagine, but it seemed content. He didn’t mind squirrels. They were cool. His grandfather had a pet one years ago that would run up his grandmother’s leg to bite her on the ass. He reached a finger up to the red fuzzy beast, and was surprised when it crept a little closer to sniff him before bouncing off.

Yeah squirrels were okay.

He walked to the start of the maze, sighing when he realized today was the first of the month, and as a result there would be strangers in the garden. Great. Just what he needed. Other people. Funny how the same people who couldn’t wait to pet the pretty guitar players greeted his presence in much the same way they would the arrival of a gigantic shit-encrusted cockroach.

Murderface walked into the maze, and heard the excited squeak of a young girl, then the predictable sigh of disappointment.

“It’s just the bass player,” she pouted.

He heard an older woman address the teen girl, reprimanding her. “It’s his garden, he’s allowed to be in it. We’re guests.”

“He’s ugly, though.”

Murderface froze, then slowly swung his head to look towards the girl, his eyes colder than death. She looked to be about thirteen, and, not surprisingly, was very cute. Funny how cute people were always the ugliest. At least her mother had the decency to look mortified. Ordinarily Murderface would have thrown one of his patented tantrums, but it was just too freaking hot. A fit at this point might land his squishy ass in the hospital. He decided to opt for coldly vicious.

“Yeah I might not be very attractive, but I hear real well.”

The girl looked uncomfortable, and the slightest bit embarrassed. The father of this fine flower of womanhood stepped forward.

“Please excuse our daughter for…”

“Pointing out to me in my own home, which I have graciously opened up to her, how shingularly unattractive I am?” he asked smoothly, almost sweetly.

The man’s grin became slightly pained. “Yes.”

“It’sh no problem, you know, I really wouldn’t worry about it musch. I’m really not bothered. It’sh very typical for teen girlsh at her age to be a bit prickly, what with all the physhical changes and getting their firsht period and shuch. She’ll grow out of it. I undershtand.”

He had the immense satisfaction of watching the girl from the corner of his eye turn a vibrant purple and slowly hide behind her hand. The father sifted through what Murderface had said, trying to determine if it was something he needed to punch him for, and finally decided he couldn’t tell and to just change the topic.

“Well I would like to thank you for giving us this rare opportunity to see your wonderful gardens, they really are amazing, Mr…?”

“Murderface. William Murderface.”

“What an unusual surname.”

“Yeah it wash given to my great great great grandfather by the men he sherved with in the shivil war after he wash wrongly arreshted for looking too much like a murderer. They caught the right guy but after that everyone shtarted calling him Murderface.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s not nice, why would he choose to keep a name like that?”

“Well conshidering I look almosht exactly like him, perhapsh he shaw no reason to debate the matter.”

Murderface blinked innocently at the man, who was looking like a rabbit in the headlights. Finally he cleared his throat.

“Well, you have a most unusual family history.”

“We’ve alwaysh been a colourful bunch. Now you folks go enjoy the gardens, I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Murderface wandered off through the maze. He could have easily spent hours torturing the poor man but it was hot, and he had come here to find a little peace. Which was going to be a bit hard when he kept running into people every ten feet, dammit! He paused behind the diminutive man in the white suit, who was looking up at a tree, head cocked to the side. As Murderface came to stand near him, he realized it was Knubbler, and he felt his hackles come down. That was cool; Knubbler could share his garden with him any time he liked.

“I have no idea what that is,” said Knubbler, still gazing at the tree.

“It’sh a monkey-puzzle tree,” said Murderface.

“Monkey-puzzle? Why is it called that?”

Murderface reached out to touch the viciously sharp leaves. “’Caushe it would be a puzzle for a monkey to climb.”

Knubbler reached up to touch the leaves as well, withdrawing his hand quickly. “Well if I was a monkey I wouldn’t climb it.”

“Pickles climbed it once but he was pretty wasted. He looked like he’d been wrestling panthers afterwards.” Murderface shuffled his feet nervously as he addressed the thin little man beside him. “You uh… wanna shee the gardens? ‘Cause I can show you, I know thish maze pretty well.”

Knubbler glanced at him. His expression may have been one of bemusement, but with only those soulless robotic things in place of eyes much of his facial expression was lost.

“Okay. I’d like that.”

Some small inner gremlin living deep in Murderface’s soul jumped up and did the happy dance, but Murderface quickly squelched it. Hope was for pretty people.
They walked through the maze of black roses, observing the strange plants. Knubbler paused to study a bushy little plant with hairy, heart-shaped black leaves with jagged edges, the pinkish-purple funnel-like flowers arranged in whorls near the top of the stem.
“What’s that?” asked Knubbler.

“Shtinking black horehound.”

“Oh. Poisonous?”

“No we jusht really liked the name.”

“I used to have a female lab. I should have called her that. Stinking Black Whore Hound.”

Murderface grinned impishly. “Give it a shniff.”

“Think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“You’re no fun.” He turned away from the plant and stepped over a small stream that wove its way through the maze. He then waited for Knubbler, who was gazing at the little trickle of water. He seemed to have trouble focusing on it.

“Ish there a problem?” Murderface asked.

“No, it’s just… these robotic eyes have their drawbacks. I can’t really see how broad the stream is.”

“Oh. Well it’s not wide.” He stepped back across the stream to come to Knubbler’s side, putting an arm around his thin frame. “Here, just one big step…”

They crossed the narrow stream, and continued walking. Murderface waited for Knubbler to object to being touched, but he didn’t. After a moment he reached one thin little hand up to take hold of the back of Murderface’s vest, and let his head come to rest on his shoulder. Once more the gremlin popped up to do its happy dance, and once more Murderface slapped it down. This didn’t mean anything. Knubbler could just be high. Still he couldn’t help nuzzling the fine white hair just a little. Knubbler smelled like a recording studio; not an unexpected odour for a music producer to have.

They wandered through the maze, arms about each other, looking at the plants. Eventually they came to a sort of courtyard, almost perfectly concealed by a screening hedge placed just behind the entrance, providing an optical illusion that the wall was solid. If a person did not where to look for the doorway, it would be very difficult to find. Inside the hidden courtyard were some granite benches resting on a black marble pad, backed by an ancient and ominous-looking fountain that had allegedly once graced Caligula’s gardens. Charles had said he doubted the authenticity of the thing, but Nathan had liked it, so here it was; two naked centurions beating the hell out of each other. No rock star’s home was complete without one. Knubbler stared at the thing.

“My god you people are gay,” he said.

“Whaddya mean?” asked Murderface.

“Oh come on. First off, your home has a theme. That right there would be enough to alert most people. But not only does it have a theme, your staff is ninety percent male, dressed up in little executioner’s outfits with nifty leather accessories, I might add. And just in case no one has figured it out after all that, you have this planted in your garden.” Knubbler indicated the fountain.

“I can assure you, none of ush are gay.”

“Uh huh. You sure about that?”

“Yup. Absholutely. You shee Toki and Shkwisgaar are not gay. They jusht like to screw each other’s brains out. And Nathan and Charles are not gay, they jusht prefer to shleep together because… y’know it’sh a big cashtle and it getsh cold. And Pickles… okay I shaw pictures of him during the 80’s, no one who wore what he did ish sthraight.”

“And what about you?”

“Me? I’m a reversh bishexual; I get turned down by everyone.”

“Yeah I know that feeling,” said Knubbler quietly.

Murderface watched Knubbler as he walked to the stone benches, choosing the one closest to the fountain to catch some of the cooling spray. Murderface had to admit Knubbler wasn’t any kind of a beauty; he wasn’t slight, or slender, or delicate, or any of those words. He was small and skinny and chinless, with narrow shoulders, an overbite, and knees that looked like softballs impaled on sticks. His carefully tailored white Nehru suit gave him some semblance of a form, just like his platform shoes gave him an extra two inches in height to which he wasn’t entitled. He was pale, and his fine white hair was cut in a sort of grown-out pageboy. Just to put the cherry on the dream whip, his eyes were now robotic orbs that moved independently of each other, just to ensure that, not only did he resemble a chameleon cyborg, he had absolutely no depth perception. Knubbler thrust his small hands down between his knees, head down. It was impossible to tell what he was feeling with only those strange mechanized devices in his face. Eyes were the windows to the soul, only Knubbler’s had the shutters nailed closed.

“I’ve been meaning to ashk you something,” said Murderface.

Knubbler looked up. “What about?”

“Well… we all know you’ve… been a bad boy in the past.”

Knubbler became mildly defensive. “So I bought a few hookers, big deal.”

“No I wash… referring to the girl whose face you carved up.”

“Oh. You mean Marlene.” Knubbler looked down at the ground. “Yeah what about it?” he asked quietly.

“Why did you do that? It jusht doesn’t sheem like you. I’ve never sheen you freak out on anyone like that.”

“I was hurt,” Knubbler said quietly. “I worked with her. Saw her every day. We would talk and laugh and hang around. So I asked her out to coffee. Then… we had lunch. After a while… we had dinner. I never wanted to leave. I could have stayed with her forever. I spent every moment I could with her. I loved her. She was like everything I ever wanted in a soul mate. She was pretty, sweet, kinda naïve… she said she grew up on a horse farm in Wyoming before moving to L.A. I bought her presents; furs, jewellery, perfume, a car… and one day I decided to ask her to marry me. I was going to do it at the office Christmas party. So I showed up with a ring you could have anchored a boat with, wearing my best suit, all shined up, and… there she was with her fiancé.”

“Ouch,” said Murderface.

“I overreacted,” said Knubbler sheepishly.

“Yeah, well, Mother Theresa would have overreacted in that shituation. Sho were you charged? That’sh kinda the shorta thing that lands you in prishon.”

“She didn’t want to press charges,” said Knubbler. He kicked at a pebble. “Seems she knew that if there was a trial then things were bound to pop up regarding a few white elephants in her past. Turns out my sweet Wyoming horse girl had a husband that vanished in a suspicious manner. Anyway I paid restitution and for any surgery she needed as a result of what I had done and we called it square.” He scuffed at the marble. “After that as you can well imagine my social life became even worse. Funny how women don’t want to go out with you when you’re known as the psycho who carved Marlene Busby’s face off.”

Murderface came to sit down beside him. “Yeah women are funny that way.”

Knubbler smiled slightly, then looked at Murderface. “What about you? Ever had your heart fed to you on a plate?”

“Not really. I never really tried to get anyone to go out with me, and it’sh a little hard to get intereshted in a groupie when you know you’re lasht on the lisht of guysh she wants to do, and that lisht includes the band, sheveral roadies and your manager. But I got to do Shkwisgaar once.” Murderface raised an eyebrow. “It was truly the ultimate pity fuck.”

“Ouch,” said Knubbler.

“I didn’t care, at leasht he likesh me enough to give me one. Hey only your besht friends will pick you off the floor and drag your whining drunken ash to bed and let you spend thirty minutes trying to get inshide him before you puke and pash out.” He felt a worm of guilt squirm inside about how he had reacted to Skwisgaar earlier. “He’sh a good guy.”

“I wouldn’t get into bed with Skwisgaar. He’s what, six foot eight? I’m five-three. He’d roll over and I’d be mashed into the mattress.”

“Sho you could get on top.”

“No I’m scared of heights.”

Murderface grinned, then oh-so-casually stretched, letting one arm come to rest behind Knubbler.

“That was really lame,” said Knubbler dryly.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Knubbler smiled. Hell he almost blushed! He swung his feet self-consciously as he asked quietly, “Do you like me?”

“I dunno,” said Murderface. “Do you like me?”

Knubbler shrugged his thin little shoulders. “I dunno.”

Murderface edged closer, nuzzling at Knubbler’s ear. “What would you do if I did?”

Knubbler shrugged a little, smiling slightly, head down, hands between his knees, still scuffing one foot on the marble. Murderface nibbled his ear.

“I do you know. I think you’re kinda cute.”

Knubbler’s smile widened a bit, and he offered no resistance as his larger companion edged closer. Murderface was not tall, but he was built like a bull; all big bones and broad shoulders. If he bothered to work out he would have been impressive indeed, but he had long ago made peace with the fact that he was basically a lazy slob. Besides if he started exercising then he would have to get the gap in his teeth fixed, do something about his hair, work on his speech impediment… it would just end up being the renovation that never ended. It was just easier to be sorta pudgy. It was certainly cheaper. Besides, he remembered all too well how viciously the tabloids went after Pickles when he toyed with the idea of hair restoration. Pickles hadn’t really said anything about the matter, but his friends could tell he was hurt and humiliated.

Sometimes it was just easier not to change. Easier and safer.

Murderface gently drew his friend a little closer, and this time when the gremlin popped up to do the happy dance, he did not slap it down. Knubbler settled against his chest, resting one hand on his broad frame, drawing his feet up onto the bench. Together they sat in contented silence, watching as the sun wandered slowly across the sky, taking the scorching heat with it.

“Gonna be a nishe night,” said Murderface.

Knubbler looked up at the encroaching twilight. “Yeah, it is. Maybe we should leave.”

“Why?”

“Well… how are we going to get out of here? A black maze in the middle of the night sounds a little hard to negotiate.”

“Well maybe you’d like to hang around and find out.”

Knubbler lowered his head to look at Murderface, their noses touching. “Okay. But… what will we do in the meantime?”

Murderface reached up a hand to stroke the white hair. “Well I have a few ideash on the matter.”

They kissed timidly, a brief little touching of lips, each far more used to rejection than acceptance. The kiss gradually deepened, the pair drawing each other closer, forgetting about the world outside their little secluded courtyard. People passed by, commenting on the strange flowers and unusual herbs before moving on, unaware of the lovers a few feet away.

They moved from the bench to the soft grass. Knubbler’s white suit was ruined in moments but he didn’t seem to care, his small hands travelling over Murderface’s broad shoulders, taking hold of his vest and drawing it off and tossing it onto the bench. It was followed shortly by a green-stained white Nehru jacket, then a black t-shirt. Moments later a white shirt was added to the growing pile. Murderface considered the undershirt Knubbler was wearing.

“How can you wear three layersh of clothing in thish heat?”

“I like to keep it handy for Bruce Willis impersonations.”

Murderface sighed, then drew it off, tossing it onto the pile of clothing. He lowered his head to kiss the bony little body beneath him, trailing one large hand over the white skin. Knubbler was so small, Murderface felt a bit concerned he may injure him.

“Um… let me know if… I do anything to hurt you, okay?”

“Oh don’t worry, if you hurt me you’ll know about it.”

“Well that didn’t shound reassuring.”

“Get down here and kiss me.”

Murderface did. Soon pants and boots joined the clothing pile, but only one pair of underwear; pink silk boxers. Murderface held up the undergarment, then gave Knubbler a sidelong look.

“You’re calling me gay, and you’re wearing theshe?”

“Pink is fashionable right now.”

“Dick, how many people shee your shorts?”

“Well you did.”

“Other than me.”

Knubbler sat up and took his shorts back. “Me. And my opinion is the one that counts, jack.” He tossed them onto the pile.

Murderface just grinned evilly. “You’re sho cute. C’mere ya shkinny-ashed shit.” He gently pushed him down to the grass.

“Who you calling skinny?” demanded Knubbler with feigned ire.

“You.” Murderface began nibbling on his neck.

“Well if you don’t like it I can always put my clothes back on.”

“I never shaid I didn’t like it.” Murderface kissed him softly. “I think thish would work better if you got on top.”

“Why? Because you can only fuck up?”

“Oh shomeone is cruising for a bitch-shlapping. No, dildo, I don’t want to crush you.”

“William you’re not gonna crush me.”

“Yeah… uh… my lawyer is gonna want that in writing.”

“Look Nathan hasn’t crushed Charles, and you’re not gonna crush me, so just relax.”

Murderface was still having mental images of breaking Knubbler, but decided that Knubbler would let him know if he was being hurt pretty fast. He might be little and skinny but he was hardly shy about making his feelings known.

“Well… okay.”

Murderface lowered his head and kissed him, running his large hands through the soft white hair. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and the stifling heat was becoming less oppressive. Murderface caressed Knubbler’s frame, slowly exploring him, deciding he liked what he found. Knubbler liked him back, and that made all the difference. And he didn’t like him because he was a big rock star. He liked him in spite of it. Knubbler had dealt with enough egos and assholes and divas in his line of work that fame was hardly going to impress him. He liked William Murderface for William Murderface.

God alone knew why.

They held each other close, kissing, caressing, the soft grass cool and tender beneath them. There was no need to hurry. They had all the time in the world, and no one to bother them. They kissed, taking their time with each other, learning each other, Knubbler cautiously exploring his new lover. It was true Murderface wasn’t terribly tall, just a hair under average height, but no matter what Murderface thought about his weight, he wasn’t fat. At best he was a bit chubby. The rest, Knubbler was finding out, was a solidly powerful frame and some fairly impressive musculature for a guy who considered driving his own car ‘exercise.’ But Murderface was a car fancier, and he customized his own rides, which involved hauling around heavy engine parts. He was in far better shape than he realized, and Knubbler was thoroughly enjoying investigating his prize. Murderface raised his head to look down at his skinny little lover.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“You’re solid muscle.”

“Sholid flab you mean.”

“That’s not flab I’m feeling.”

“No it’s my butt, which Picklesh once deshribed as cottage cheese.”

“Yeah well Pickles never had his hands on it.”

Murderface kissed him gently. “Yer high, babe.”

“I am not! Okay maybe a little, but… that’s a nice ass.”

“Jusht as long as you think sho. Ah, dammit!”

“What?”

“We don’t have any… you know…”

“What? Lube? I’ve got sunscreen in my coat pocket. I never go anywhere without it.”

Murderface reached for Knubbler’s coat, finding the small bottle sunscreen in the pocket. “Why not?”

“I’m albino, I’m lucky I haven’t burst into flames out here without my clothes on.”

“You want to put shome on before we..?”

“Yeah I probably should.” Knubbler grinned at him. “Wanna help?”

“Oh yeah.”

Murderface took the bottle of sunscreen and began slowly spreading it over Knubbler, running his large hands over his flesh, being very thorough, making sure he covered every inch of skin. He was a little uncertain what to do with Knubbler; he knew next to nothing about having sex with other men despite having been with a few. But being completely wasted with a male groupie who was just thrilled to be with a member of Dethklok, even if it was only the bass player, hardly counted. For one thing, groupies rarely told you to your face that you sucked as a lay. They usually posted that sort of info on chat groups. So his three male partners hadn’t done much to educate him. They’d just been happy to be able to tell their friends they had been banged by a member of the biggest rock group on the planet.

Murderface wondered briefly if he should call Skwisgaar….

“William,” said a quiet voice. “You uh… gonna just leave me like this?”

Fuck Skwisgaar. Let him get his own music producer.

He lay down on top of Knubbler, kissing him, settling between his thighs. He decided just to begin slowly pushing in, not knowing what else to do. He entered slowly, gradually making his way in. If Knubbler minded he gave no indication, wrapping his legs around Murderface’s waist, making quiet sounds of either passion or pain; it was so hard to tell.

“You okay?” Murderface asked softly.

Knubbler nodded. He seemed a little scared, and Murderface didn’t know what to do about it, other than stop. A person needs to be taught how to reassure others, and Murderface had never been given that lesson, and he knew any comforting he tried to give at this point would be ineffective at best. He began pulling out, but Knubbler stopped him.

“No, it’s okay.”

“You sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Murderface began pushing in once more, until he was finally all the way inside, then began to thrust. Knubbler made a quiet little squeak that was definitely not pain or discomfort. Murderface couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself as he lowered his head and kissed him. This was nice. He’d never had sex this way before; out in the grass, in the sun, with someone who really wanted to be with him. Knubbler squeaked a little more loudly, and Murderface silenced him with a kiss. There were after all still out in public. No sense in alerting all Mordland to what they were doing…

Murderface suddenly glanced over his shoulder towards the great stone keep, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized they couldn’t be seen from the upper floors of the Haus. Knubbler moaned quietly, clawing at his back, and Murderface returned his attention to him, kissing him, thrusting slow and hard. Knubbler uttered a strange nasal cry, and from a few yards away Murderface heard Pickles speak.

“Dood who’s killing the penguin?”

Murderface glowered in the direction of Pickles, then kissed Knubbler once more gently.

“You have to be quiet. Believe me thish ish exactly what we don’t want to end up on the Dethklok Minute.”

Knubbler snorted, then laughed quietly. “Sorry, I was just enjoying myself.”

“So was I.”

Murderface heard Toki pipe up. “Where’s da penguin?”

“I coulda sworn I heard a penguin,” said Pickles.

“Don’ts be dildos,” said Skwisgaar. “How is penguin goingks to gets up here, ha? T’inks about it.”

There was a long silence that implied they were doing just that.

“Parachute?” suggested Toki.

“Yeah that could work,” said Pickles.

“Shtupid,” Murderface muttered quietly. “How’sh it gonna get the harness off after landing?”

“Forget the penguin,” said Knubbler.

“I can’t, I’m on top of him.”

They continued making love, the sun slowly sinking, until at last they lay in darkness with only the sound of crickets and the fountain around them. They dared to make a little more noise now; it was unlikely anyone was near. Knubbler uttered quiet little cries, biting lightly at Murderface’s shoulder as he felt his passion rise. Murderface had the funny feeling he was going to howl his little fool head off when he came, and he wasn’t disappointed. It wasn’t a howl exactly, more like the nasal bray of a donkey in horrible pain, but it was pretty loud. Murderface was a little more restrained, but not much, swearing over and over as he felt his orgasm build and suddenly release with one final slam into Knubbler. They clutched and bit, shuddering, gasping, Knubbler’s semen spreading across the white skin of his belly as Murderface filled him with his own. Then, finally they relaxed, and Murderface slowly moved off his small lover, collapsing beside him. Murderface closed his eyes, breathing hard.

“You okay Dick?”

“God I wish I smoked.”

Murderface grinned. “I’ll take that ash a yesh.”

“You were amazing.”

Murderface turned his head towards him, and they shared a slow, lingering kiss before rising to rinse themselves off in the fountain. They said nothing, stepping into the gently splashing water, moving close together, rinsing each other clean of grass, sunscreen and semen. Then Knubbler stepped closer to a stream of water running down one of the gladiators to rinse the grass and dirt out of his white hair.

“This was nice,” he said quietly. “I’d like to do it again sometime.”

Murderface was surprised, but pleased. “You would?”

“Yeah. I… I meant it when I said I like you. I like being with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you like me for who I am.”

“Well it’s your own fault,” said Murderface, gently teasing. “You liked me firsht.”

Knubbler laughed quietly, then looked around, the water falling over his small frame. “I still have no idea how we’re going to…. get… oh….it’s so beautiful!”

As Knubbler had been speaking, lights began to come on in the garden; small round lights, emitting a soft pale blue illumination, as if the whole garden was bathed in eerie moonlight. The water of the fountain became spectral silver liquid, and Murderface glanced at Knubbler, then froze, staring transfixed at him. He was standing with the water flowing over him, and his wet skin shimmered in the dim light, his hair like molten glass as the water trailed lovingly over it. Ugly little Knubbler had suddenly become a living sculpture of mirrored glass and silver. Murderface realized he was smiling.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Beautiful.”