Murderface wasn’t used to this.

No, really—this kinda thing didn’t happen to him. Crushing on someone? Sure. He’d had plenty of those. All of them ended in varying degrees of disaster, usually with a face full of pepper spray and a bruised ego. Turns out, yelling “HEY BABY, WANNA GET WITH A REAL MAN?!” at the grocery store wasn’t as effective as he thought. Who knew?

But this? This was new. You—one of Dethklok’s thousands of disposable, short-lived roadies—flirted with him. Him. William Murderface. Of all the members of Dethklok, you picked him. Not Skwisgaar with his stupid sexy riffs. Not Nathan with his hulking metal-god presence. Not Toki and his babyface charm. Him.

It didn’t make sense. It was fishy…Wait. T!ttyfish was a good song name for Planet Piss—NO. Focus. This had to be some kinda prank, right? No one looked at Murderface and thought, Yeah, that guy. That’s the one I want. No one treated him like he was worth a damn. But you? You actually talked to him like he wasn’t a piece of shit. Like he was a real person. And Murderface, being the emotionally repressed mess that he was, immediately latched onto that like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

So here he was, pacing in the hallway, fists clenched, trying to psych himself up to ask you out.

“Ugh, come onnnn, juth knock on it, why can’t I knock on thith fucking door?!” He groaned, yanking at his hair. He’d faced hordes of brutal fans, exploding concert stages, and the entire Tribunal trying to wipe Dethklok off the face of the Earth—but asking you out? Yeah, no, this was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Maybe he should just leave. Maybe—

His frustration boiled over, and he punched the door—only for it to swing open and his fist slam right into your stomach doubling over with a groan.

Murderface froze. “…Uh.”

Fantastic. Nailed it.