The Mordhaus—not your first choice of spot to hang around, but you couldn’t say no to your husband (or fiancé, whichever!), William Murderface. He had urged that you spend time with him after a day in the studio—his bass lines being mixed out as usual—so he could recuperate with you there. Now, with his belly pressed into your back, and his nose pressed into your neck, you knew he had other ideas. He lisped a plea against your nape, his callused base-plucking fingers dipping beneath the fabric of your baggy shirt. “Pleasch? I’ll be scho good,”