Fuck It: A Guys’ Weekend

by Anonymous

Summary:

Hellhammer drags Necrobutcher up to his family’s holiday cabin for a “guys weekend.” The plan? Beer, sauna, maybe swimming if they don’t drown first. The reality? Spectacularly bad cooking, near-death in the lake, and so much alcohol that the line between jokes and curiosity gets obliterated in a haze of steam and sweat.

Hellhammer’s beat-up car rattled all the way up the gravel road, tape deck blasting Venom as he cranked the volume to drown out Necrobutcher’s complaints.
“Your shocks are fucked,” Necrobutcher muttered, one hand gripping the door as the car bounced.
“Shocks are for posers,” Hellhammer grinned, taking a swig of beer as he drove.

His family’s holiday home was small, wooden, perched at the edge of a dark lake.

“Jesus Christ, Jan, this place smells like dead fish and feet,” Necrobutcher muttered as they lugged cases of beer, bags of chips, a cooler, bread and some suspicious-looking packs of sausages into the cabin.
“It’s tradition,” Hellhammer said proudly, kicking open the door. “Every summer since I was a kid. My dad swore the sauna here could boil the sins out of a priest.”
“Good, ‘cause we’re gonna need it after thirty beers.”

They didn’t bother unpacking properly. Within minutes, the kitchen table was buried under cans, half a loaf of bread and various pieces of clothing. Necrobutcher tried to roll a cigarette laughing so hard he dropped tobacco all over the floor.

“Fuck, we’re like teenagers again,” he said, lighting up finally.
“Speak for yourself,” Hellhammer belched, already shirtless. “I’m at my peak, man. Still got the stamina.”
Necrobutcher squinted at his gut. “Peak beer belly, maybe.”

They spent the first half hour exploring the cabin and the surroundings. Hellhammer showed him the sauna—a small, wooden box with benches—and the lake beyond the back porch, glassy and inviting.
“Perfect for a dip… after a few drinks,” Hellhammer said, waggling his eyebrows.
Necrobutcher laughed. “After how many drinks?”
“Only one way to find out,” Hellhammer said, twisting the cap off a bottle of whisky.

By sunset, they had demolished the bottle of whisky, debated the merits of European Thrash Metal versus “the overrated US shit,” and ended up in the sauna, sweating profusely and laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of being fully clothed and drunk in a steam box.
“Are we… allowed to drink in here?” Necrobutcher panted, fanning himself with a towel.
“Definitely,” Hellhammer said, tipping back the last drops of his beer. “Rules are written by boring people who don’t know how to sauna.”

The sauna session ended in chaos, both of them stumbling out half-conscious, steam rising off their bodies into the cool night.

They collapsed on the porch, still fully clothed, and Necrobutcher laughed so hard he spilled his beer down his chest.

“Food,” he announced suddenly. “We need food.”
Which is how they ended up in the cabin kitchen at 1:30 a.m., trying to fry the sad sausages. Hellhammer forgot to turn the stove down; the pan smoked violently. Necrobutcher tried to flip one and dropped it straight onto the floor.
“Five second rule,” Hellhammer declared, picking it up with his fingers.
“Fuck you, you eat it,” Necrobutcher shot back, but when the thing finally landed on a piece of bread, they split it anyway, chewing and laughing with tears in their eyes.

By the time they crashed into their beds, the place stank of burnt meat and spilled beer. Necrobutcher muttered into his pillow, “This weekend’s gonna kill us.”
Hellhammer’s response was a long, satisfied snore.

Hellhammer woke up to the sound of Necrobutcher groaning like a dying animal.

“Ugh, kill me,” Necrobutcher groaned from his bed, rolling over and pulling a cushion over his face. “Why the fuck does your cabin bed feel like a sack of rocks?”
“Because it is a sack of rocks,” Hellhammer muttered into his pillow. Then he sat up too fast and gagged. “Fuck… okay. We need food.”

They staggered into the kitchen shirtless and bleary-eyed, like two cave trolls crawling into daylight. Breakfast was supposed to be eggs, but somewhere along the way Hellhammer managed to break half of them on the floor. Necrobutcher tried to save the situation, frying the survivors, but forgot the oil. The pan was a battlefield.
The “meal” ended up as a sticky mess of half-burnt egg clumps shoved onto bread. Necrobutcher stared at his plate. “This looks like someone scraped vomit off a bar floor.”
“Shut the fuck up and eat it,” Hellhammer grunted. “Protein, man.”

They ate it anyway, washed down with warm beer because coffee seemed like too much work.
By noon, the heat outside and inside was unbearable, so they dragged themselves down to the lake. The dock creaked ominously under their weight as they sat, dangling their legs in the water with fresh beers in hand.
“This is the life,” Hellhammer said proudly, cracking his can open.

Five beers later, they decided to swim. Necrobutcher stripped down to his underwear, Hellhammer to his shirt and boxers, and they cannonballed into the freezing water, shrieking like kids. It was fun until Hellhammer tried to wrestle Necrobutcher mid-lake and nearly dragged them both under.

“YOU FUCKING MORON!” Necrobutcher spluttered, coughing up lake water. “I swear to God, if I drown because of your fat ass—”
“Relax!” Hellhammer wheezed between laughs, spitting water. “I had it under control.”
“No, you didn’t! You were flailing like a drunk walrus!”
They somehow made it back to shore, collapsing on the dock, dripping, breathless, and laughing so hard their stomachs hurt. Necrobutcher smacked Hellhammer’s chest with the back of his hand. “You’re a fucking menace.”

The rest of the afternoon disappeared into naps and more beers, until the sun began to dip behind the trees. That’s when Hellhammer grinned and said, “Round two in the sauna?”
Necrobutcher hesitated, then shrugged. “Fuck it.”

Inside, the heat hit them harder than the night before. They sat side by side, sweat already pouring, beer cans hissing open. Silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the stove.
“Been a while, huh,” Hellhammer said suddenly.
“What?”
“You know.” He gestured vaguely. “Getting laid.”
Necrobutcher barked a laugh. “Christ, yeah. Dry as a fucking desert. Months now.”

“Same.” Hellhammer leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Kinda pathetic. Two rockstars, and we can’t even get our dicks wet.”
“Don’t call yourself a rockstar, you prick,” Necrobutcher muttered, but he was grinning.
Another silence, thicker this time. The beer loosened tongues.
“You ever wonder,” Hellhammer started slowly, “what it’d be like… y’know… with a guy?”

Necrobutcher blinked at him. Then he laughed nervously. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” Hellhammer smirked, leaning in. “Come on, admit it. You’ve thought about it.”
Necrobutcher took a long pull of his beer, avoiding his eyes. “…Maybe. Once or twice. Curiosity, I guess.”

“Same.” Hellhammer’s grin widened, almost boyish. “So why not? We’re both dry as hell. No one’s here. No one would ever know.”
Necrobutcher gave him a long, skeptical look. “You’re seriously suggesting…?”
“Why the fuck not?” Hellhammer said. “It’s just us. Couple of guys. Drunk. Sweaty. Curious.” He bumped Necrobutcher’s shoulder with his own, sweat dripping down both their chests. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

Necrobutcher laughed, too loud, too forced. But he didn’t pull away when Hellhammer’s hand landed on his thigh, hot and heavy through the damp towel.
“Well,” Necrobutcher muttered, his voice low. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
The air in the sauna seemed even hotter as their eyes locked.

The morning after was a blur. Necrobutcher woke first, sprawled on the couch, head pounding, towel half-fallen off. He blinked blearily at Hellhammer, who was snoring on the floor with one arm thrown over his face, empty can still clutched in his fist like a trophy.

Memories flickered: laughter, confessions, that hand on his thigh in the sauna… the way neither of them had backed off.
Necrobutcher groaned and rubbed his temples. “We’re fucking idiots.”
“Speak for yourself,” Hellhammer croaked without opening his eyes. “I’m a genius. You just don’t appreciate my vision.”

By midday, with greasy sausages barely holding their stomachs together, they ended up in the sauna again. It was like a gravitational pull — beer, steam, the heat melting their brains until inhibitions slipped.
This time, there was no circling around it. Hellhammer sprawled back, legs wide, towel already slipping, and looked over with a crooked grin. “So… about last night.”

Necrobutcher snorted, trying to act casual even as his pulse jumped. “What about it?”
“You didn’t exactly run away screaming,” Hellhammer said, shifting closer. Sweat gleamed down his chest, dripping into the towel knotted low on his hips. “So maybe we… see where it goes?”
Necrobutcher hesitated — then muttered, “Fuck it,” and leaned in.

Their mouths collided — messy, rough, teeth clacking. They tasted beer, smoke, salt. Hellhammer groaned, fisting Necrobutcher’s hair, dragging him closer. Their tongues crashed together, desperate and sloppy.

They broke apart, laughing, then tried again, slower. Hellhammer’s hand slid onto Necrobutcher’s thigh again, squeezing harder this time.
“Jesus,” Necrobutcher muttered against his mouth, “we’re really doing this.”

“Shut up and enjoy it,” Hellhammer growled, tugging the towel loose.
The heat in the sauna was brutal, but the heat between them was worse. Towels hit the floor, and suddenly it was skin on skin — slick, sweaty, messy. Hellhammer’s hand wrapped around Necrobutcher’s cock, jerking him roughly, and Necrobutcher groaned, hips bucking.
“Fuck… feels better than I thought,” Necrobutcher gasped.

“Told you,” Hellhammer smirked, pumping him harder, his own cock thick and pressing against Necrobutcher’s thigh. “You’re missing out, man.”
Necrobutcher’s hand found him in return, gripping him with a grunt. They jerked each other off for a while, sloppy and breathless, the sound of wet fists and ragged breathing filling the sauna.
Hellhammer pushed him back onto the bench, spreading Necrobutcher’s legs with no subtlety. “Ever tried… more?” His eyes were dark, wild with drunken daring.
Necrobutcher’s breath hitched. “You mean—?”
“Yeah,” Hellhammer said, already slicking his fingers with spit. “Trust me.”

Necrobutcher laughed nervously, but didn’t stop him. “Fuck, you’re insane.”
The first finger pushed in rough, clumsy, and Necrobutcher swore loud enough to rattle the walls. “Christ almighty—!”
“Relax,” Hellhammer said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You’ll like it.”

Another finger slid in, stretching him, making him curse and grip the bench. But then Hellhammer curled his fingers just right, and Necrobutcher’s groan broke into a shocked moan.
“Oh fuck… what the—?”
“Yeah,” Hellhammer said smugly, working him open. “Found it.”

Necrobutcher was panting, sweat pouring off him, cock twitching hard and spitting precome. “Shit… don’t stop…”
By the time Hellhammer lined himself up, they were both too far gone to think twice. He spat into his hand, slicked himself roughly, and pressed forward. Necrobutcher’s nails dug into the bench as Hellhammer pushed inside, slow but relentless.
“Jesus fuck,” Necrobutcher gasped, head falling back. “You’re actually—fuck—”
“Yeah,” Hellhammer groaned, sinking deeper. “Tight as hell… holy shit.”

It was messy, rough, full of swearing and laughter in between the grunts. Necrobutcher cursed him out even as his body adjusted, even as the thrusts found a rhythm that had him gasping and rocking back into it.
“Never thought—fuck—never thought I’d be taking it from you,” Necrobutcher groaned, sweat dripping into his eyes.
“Bet you’re glad you did,” Hellhammer growled, pounding harder, his hands gripping Necrobutcher’s thighs tight.
And from the sounds spilling out of him, Necrobutcher wasn’t disagreeing.

When they came it was explosive, guttural, spilling across sweaty skin and into tight heat, collapsing together in a heap on the sauna bench.

They ended up in a tangle of limbs, sticky, panting, laughing their asses off at how absurd it all was. Hellhammer collapsed against him, chest to chest, both of them slick with sweat.
“No one,” Necrobutcher gasped, trying to catch his breath, “is ever hearing about this shit.”

“Good,” Hellhammer said, smirking against his neck. “It’s our little secret.”

The next morning they woke tangled on the floor, sore everywhere, heads pounding, deliciously aching.
Neither said much as they packed up, tossing empty crates into the car, sweeping chip dust off the couch. There was no awkwardness — only that stupid, knowing grin they both kept breaking into.

Venom blasted from the tape deck again as they sped away from the cabin.
Necrobutcher cracked a final beer, hair still sticking in every direction. “Next time, we bring more alcohol.”
“And less food,” Hellhammer said, laughing. “We’re fucking hopeless at cooking.”
They were both smirking. Whatever had happened in that sauna was theirs alone — never to be mentioned outright, but never to be forgotten.