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Maybe It's Love	By : Bunnywith Category: +M through R > Metalocalypse > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1334 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Metalocalypse, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Maybe It's Love
- 1
It was a sign of affection, he’d been told. He’d never known anyone who expressed their feelings for another by cutting into their skin. But then again, he’d grown up with cold, unloving parents, and was inexperienced when it came to loving someone else. He knew that kisses and hugs, caressing and touching were considered signs of affection. The groupies always made their feelings for him known with showers of painted red and black kisses, running their soft hands over his shoulders and arms and embracing him tightly around the waist with their ears pressed to his bare chest, listening to the comforting, constant thump of his heart beat. And he liked their affection, he liked kisses on his face, his lips and his neck. The feel of the girls’ long nails trailing along his sensitive flesh aroused him and tickled him. Never had any of them pulled a knife on him. They would die before inflicting harm upon their idol’s perfect flesh. They just wanted to kiss and lick his skin, there was no interest to see his red blood spill forth.

But Murderface was different. He wasn’t soft and slim like the girls, he didn’t smell like incense and cheap makeup. Instead of covering his face and neck with soft butterfly kisses, Murderface thundered in and crushed their mouths together so hard he thought his lips might crack and bleed. Murderface would grab his hair and yank to reveal the long expanse of a pale neck, and after admiring the appearance by running his rough thumbs over the banging pulse and strained muscles, he would rush in and bite hard, harder until he heard the sounds of pain and protest. Murderface loved feeling the struggle, and he would twist the long hair around his hand until he felt hands beating at his chest, fighting for escape. He would eventually grant release, only to corner him again the next day, and the next…

Before long, Murderface’s hands began to shake whenever he touched him. He stopped grabbing hard enough to bruise, and instead would brush his thumbs over his face, looking at him with sadness and that same look the girls gave him…That same ‘I will do anything for you’ expression. He’d grown used to finding this message in the eyes of the groupies, but to find it in Murderface’s normally stone cold, uncaring eyes had alarmed him. And then his kisses changed, too. There was still the pressure and heat, same as before, but there was less pain now, and he enjoyed the kisses more. He would hold onto Murderface as he was forced hard against a wall in some private corner, where no one would find them. He’d weave his arms around Murderface’s neck and moan as his hair was pulled back, his neck and throat assaulted with rough bites that bruised him, marked him.

He didn’t know if what they had was love, but he decided this was the closest he’d ever been to it. He knew that his heart raced whenever he saw Murderface, and he longed for the next time he’d be cornered and pinned to a wall, when Murderface would assault him with hard, unyielding kisses and rough fingers all over his body, touching everywhere, along his slim sides and his muscled back, feeling his pecs and abs and both of them almost screaming the other’s name, not caring who heard or if someone would stumble upon them. He began to long for his touch, his smell and the breathlessness that accompanied the sometimes slight, sometimes searing pain he gave. And soon the groupies weren’t enough for him. Their feather-light touches no longer sent shivers down his spine, and their painted kisses were just waxy and gross on his skin. He tried to act as Murderface did when they were together, holding the girls hard against the wall and biting their delicate skin until they bruised, dark and nasty. He ran his hands up their shirts and down their pants, but it wasn’t the same as what Murderface gave him. Half way through his assault, he would ultimately leave the girl to collapse onto the floor to wonder about the lightning fast attack, then he would wander to Murderface’s room. It didn’t matter to him if his band mate was also entertaining a girl, he’d rush in, pull them apart, and throw his arms around Murderface’s neck, asking for more.

And when his request was granted, when he was given more, he wasn’t quite sure how to react. Biting, licking and scratching were things he loved. He didn’t know how he felt about this, about letting Murderface drag that knife across his wrist, digging in hard until blood seeped to the surface and leaked fat drops from the cut. Murderface called it affection; his own interpretation. It was strange, to be sure, but he couldn’t say it was entirely disgusting, as he’d thought it would be. The look in Murderface’s eyes as his skin split, as the blood pooled excited him, and he held his band mate tightly as Murderface smeared the red around like finger paints, or leaned in to clean it up with his tongue. He wanted to know, wanted to understand why it sent Murderface into shivers, why he seemed to enjoy it so much more than the normal affection dealt out by the groupies. The knife was turned over to him, and Murderface held out his arm, wrist up. He gripped his band mate’s wrist tightly in one hand and used the other to steady the tip of the knife against Murderface’s scarred and scratched-up inner arm. He pressed in the point, hard, until blood seeped up and covered the very end of the shining metal blade.

He began to understand, as he watched the scarlet liquid surface. There was power in the act, the power over another human. One wrong move, cut too deep, it could be fatal. He’d trusted Murderface to slice into his flesh, and Murderface trusted him to repeat the act on his own skin. He held Murderface’s bleeding wrist and cradled it against his face, seemingly not noticing as hot copper smeared on his cheek and jaw. A drop fell onto his lips and he sucked it up, savoring the metallic bite, the bitter sting of Murderface’s blood on his tongue. He dragged his tongue slowly into the open wound and took in more of the taste. When he looked back at Murderface, looked at the helpless, lost and hopeful expression in his eyes that he knew mirrored his own, he decided this was love. Their desire for each other and their trust amounted to what they called love. He reveled in this feeling of being loved and loving in return as he showed his affection with cool, sharpened steel.
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Maybe It's Love