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dethoratsTitle: Home to Roost
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Skwisgaar
Word Count: 658
Nathan was waiting when Skwisgaar finally climbed out from beneath the nylon and silk of his parachute. The Swede’s hair was everywhere, a tangled mess that even hours on stage headbanging had never accomplished, and the smirk on his full lips struck an answering chord in the singer. It was halfway feral and entirely joyful, a blend that only the rush of danger and the best damn music in the world could make.
Skwisgaar pushed a strand of gold off of his face and stood still while Klokateers swarmed over him, unbuckling harnesses and microphone cables. Nathan’s brow furrowed as hands slipped lower over the guitarist’s belly, Skwisgaar lifting his Explorer out of the way as the main harness clips were released. He caught the singer’s eye and grinned, an eyebrow arching in that superior way he had. Nathan didn’t bother to respond beyond a low mutter but he didn’t drop his gaze, holding it until Skwisgaar was finally freed.
Long legs carried the Swede across the sparse grass, the distance between them reduced to nothing in only four easy strides. Skwisgaar stood close, too close, and he smiled as he looked at Nathan, the nearness emphasizing the two inches he had on the frontman. Nathan bared his teeth in reply, something more and less than an answering smile, and slipped his hand down between the smooth plastic of Skwisgaar’s guitar and the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
His fingers flattened over the Swede’s second most famous body part, the bit that wasn’t insured for ten million dollars but probably could have been. Hard, and Nathan could feel the blood-born heat through the layer of denim as he tightened his grip, not letting up until Skwisgaar hissed and jerked up against into the pressure.
“You, uh, you lay down a track as good as last time?” Nathan asked as he stared into slitted sky blue eyes.
Skwisgaar shifted, leaning more into Nathan’s palm. He rubbed, lazy as a cat, before he bothered to answer. “Betters.”
“Good.” Nathan drew his hand away and smirked at the moue of disappointment that flitted over the Swede’s face. “Guess I can take you home.”
The Dethcycle was purring, a low rumble from the engine, a few hundred yards away at the roadside and Skwisgaar eyed it before he turned his attention back to Nathan.
“Goes away,” he said, voice loud enough to make himself heard by all the roadies still scurrying around behind him. “Comes back and gets dis later. I’s gots som’ting’s to plays and I doesn’ts wants an audience.”
He was obeyed instantly, black-hooded figures dropping what couldn’t quickly be carried as they headed towards the vans parked behind the Dethcycle. Nathan wordlessly watched them go, keeping track of Skwisgaar out of the corner of his eye as the Swede slowly edged back towards his abandoned parachute. The shield of the guitar came off when the last of the vans disappeared around the bend in the road and long, clever fingers framed the skull that served as a belt buckle.
“Toki say he’s will sucks my dick, Nathans. But he is just a dildos crybaby. I t’inks a reals man can does much better dan dats.”
Skwisgaar was a cocky bastard but that was probably part of his charm. Nathan rolled his shoulders back and stalked forward, copying the guitarist’s earlier move as he crowded the Swede. Black tipped fingers touched the center of Skwisgaar’s chest and pushed and he fell back easily, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Nathan followed him down, pressing forward insistently so that Skwisgaar’s knees fell open.
“Go ons,” Skwisgaar urged, rocking his hips up as Nathan’s hand fell on his buckle. And Nathan, tongue darting out to wet his lips, decided it was easier to give Skwisgaar what he wanted. The Swede always was more pliant after his first orgasm and from the feel of things that wasn’t going to take very long.
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Skwisgaar
Word Count: 658
Nathan was waiting when Skwisgaar finally climbed out from beneath the nylon and silk of his parachute. The Swede’s hair was everywhere, a tangled mess that even hours on stage headbanging had never accomplished, and the smirk on his full lips struck an answering chord in the singer. It was halfway feral and entirely joyful, a blend that only the rush of danger and the best damn music in the world could make.
Skwisgaar pushed a strand of gold off of his face and stood still while Klokateers swarmed over him, unbuckling harnesses and microphone cables. Nathan’s brow furrowed as hands slipped lower over the guitarist’s belly, Skwisgaar lifting his Explorer out of the way as the main harness clips were released. He caught the singer’s eye and grinned, an eyebrow arching in that superior way he had. Nathan didn’t bother to respond beyond a low mutter but he didn’t drop his gaze, holding it until Skwisgaar was finally freed.
Long legs carried the Swede across the sparse grass, the distance between them reduced to nothing in only four easy strides. Skwisgaar stood close, too close, and he smiled as he looked at Nathan, the nearness emphasizing the two inches he had on the frontman. Nathan bared his teeth in reply, something more and less than an answering smile, and slipped his hand down between the smooth plastic of Skwisgaar’s guitar and the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
His fingers flattened over the Swede’s second most famous body part, the bit that wasn’t insured for ten million dollars but probably could have been. Hard, and Nathan could feel the blood-born heat through the layer of denim as he tightened his grip, not letting up until Skwisgaar hissed and jerked up against into the pressure.
“You, uh, you lay down a track as good as last time?” Nathan asked as he stared into slitted sky blue eyes.
Skwisgaar shifted, leaning more into Nathan’s palm. He rubbed, lazy as a cat, before he bothered to answer. “Betters.”
“Good.” Nathan drew his hand away and smirked at the moue of disappointment that flitted over the Swede’s face. “Guess I can take you home.”
The Dethcycle was purring, a low rumble from the engine, a few hundred yards away at the roadside and Skwisgaar eyed it before he turned his attention back to Nathan.
“Goes away,” he said, voice loud enough to make himself heard by all the roadies still scurrying around behind him. “Comes back and gets dis later. I’s gots som’ting’s to plays and I doesn’ts wants an audience.”
He was obeyed instantly, black-hooded figures dropping what couldn’t quickly be carried as they headed towards the vans parked behind the Dethcycle. Nathan wordlessly watched them go, keeping track of Skwisgaar out of the corner of his eye as the Swede slowly edged back towards his abandoned parachute. The shield of the guitar came off when the last of the vans disappeared around the bend in the road and long, clever fingers framed the skull that served as a belt buckle.
“Toki say he’s will sucks my dick, Nathans. But he is just a dildos crybaby. I t’inks a reals man can does much better dan dats.”
Skwisgaar was a cocky bastard but that was probably part of his charm. Nathan rolled his shoulders back and stalked forward, copying the guitarist’s earlier move as he crowded the Swede. Black tipped fingers touched the center of Skwisgaar’s chest and pushed and he fell back easily, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Nathan followed him down, pressing forward insistently so that Skwisgaar’s knees fell open.
“Go ons,” Skwisgaar urged, rocking his hips up as Nathan’s hand fell on his buckle. And Nathan, tongue darting out to wet his lips, decided it was easier to give Skwisgaar what he wanted. The Swede always was more pliant after his first orgasm and from the feel of things that wasn’t going to take very long.
