Shawn has peed on and/or in this entire band and Corey assumes that’s common knowledge. LIke. It’s a baptism thing. They joke about it. Surely Jim caught that, at some point. Like somebody had to tell him, right?
Nobody told Jim, because they’re all the worst and Corey’s the worst of all, so when Shawn brings it up Jim’s like “what? No, you can’t pee on me” and Shawn takes that as a challenge of sorts, cuz apparently this is his bus and he’s driving and noted piss-fetish-haver Corey Taylor is the fucking copilot. So Jim’s fending off the Shawn Crahan Bad Logic Beatdown all week and luckily there’s y’know, an album to be made, so it’s pretty easy to dodge him cuz Shawn’s up everyone’s ass on all aspects of that and goes through entire days where he does not mention the pee concept even once because the only time Jim sees him is when he’s crashing into the Corey/Paul/Jim cuddle pile at an ungodly hour, jamming himself right in the middle when they were all asleep and demanding credit for carrying this fuckin album, which Corey then gives him because Corey’s the worst, and then Shawn falls asleep with his arm over him and a strong hand grabbing at Jim’s stupid bony hip.
So when Shawn shows up behind the garage where Jim’s just trying to smoke a cigarette, he figures it’s for the nicotine and he’s ridden the piss train into the ground.
Jim’s fucking wrong.
“So are we fucking doing this or not?” Shawn asks, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the dirty vinyl siding.
“Pissing on you. It’s part of your initiation. You gotta do it.”
Jim can feel his cheeks heat up and he scuffs his sneaker into the patchy dying grass, looking up at the sky, back past the fire pit to the house, over the top of the tall fence at the back of the property at the scrubby trees. He examines the mildew patterns on the shitty vinyl siding. Studies his chipped nail polish. Anywhere but Shawn’s face.
“No dude, you can’t pee on me. Don’t be fucking weird.”
“James, come on,” Shawn snaps, blowing out smoke. “You gotta, dude, them’s the rules. I don’t make the rules, those are just the fucking rules. It’s part of being in this thing, okay, this whole--uh--this creative partnership, it’s not just about any one of us and our one bullshit, it’s a symbiotic organism. It’s part of it. It’s like walking through fire to prove your devotion. You just gotta do it. Suck it up and be a man.”
“Shawn, c’mon, no. Dude. I don’t wanna.”
Shawn takes a step closer, squaring up to Jim and facing him head-on so there’s nowhere he can hide from him, no convenient mental distance of looking at him sideways.
“Well y’know, nobody really wants to get baptized either, it just happens when you’re a baby. Your parents make that decision for you, because they know better--they have a better relationship with God and you’re a baby so obviously they know better, you don’t know shit. I guess people do it when they’re adults, y’know, if they’re born-again or whatever, but that’s a choice. Like. You turn yourself over to God so completely they throw your ass in a river and come up smiling about it. But those people--y’know--their, their faith is so intense, they’re so honored to be there cuz they chose it for themselves--y’see, like, okay. Corey--”
Jim snorts a laugh, throwing his cigarette butt on the ground and grinding it into the shitty dirt with his sneaker. “Corey has a long history of getting peed on, don’t try that shit at me.”
“Well right, that’s his faith though,” Shawn continues, not missing a fucking beat, punctuating the sentence with hand gestures swinging uncomfortably close to Jim’s person with a lit cigarette. “That’s his choice, he chose that. He’s born-again. You’re like a little baby. You’re just supposed to be here cuz we wanted you to be here. You didn’t really choose. Get on your knees.”
Suddenly Shawn’s hand is on the back of Jim’s neck, firm and insistent. Not pushing, but. “Get on your fucking knees.”
“Shawn, no, c’mon, I said I don’t wanna--” Jim protests, squirming a little, feeling much smaller than he is with the way Shawn’s got him held and how fucking casual he is, eyes not giving anything away. It makes Jim feel about six inches tall, how Shawn could be telling him to do this with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth and his hand on the back of Jim’s neck.
“I’m not gonna piss on you, Jesus fucking Christ. I said get on your knees. Now.”
“Good boy, thank you.”
Shawn’s hand finds his chin, tilting his head up and pressing his thumb to his lips, mumbling a soft “open” and Jim does; gets rewarded with Shawn pressing his thumb into his mouth, trapping his tongue, feeling the insides of his teeth while he undoes his own belt and Jim whines softly, sucking on the digit like it’s something a little better but pulling away instinctively when Shawn starts unzipping his shorts.
“Don’t be a fucking brat, James--”
“You said you weren’t gonna--”
“I’m fucking not, god, shut up,” Shawn groans in exasperation, grabbing Jim’s chin again and making him look up at him. “Are you gonna open your fucking mouth and let me use it or do you wanna go back in the house and pack your shit? I’m not playing. Behave.”
Jim nods, shifting on his knees a little.
“Good. Don’t be a brat. Open.”
Jim does. Whispers “sorry” while Shawn’s pulling his cock out but goes back to holding his mouth open before he can get another murderous look, and then his mouth’s full of dick and it doesn’t matter anyway, everything fading down to just that point of connection between them. Jim’s hands on his own thighs, Shawn’s fingers tangled into his hair, the feeling of warm soft skin on his tongue as Shawn gently fucks into his mouth, setting his own leisurely pace.
“Yeah, that’s gooooood,” he groans softly. “Where were we?”
Even if Jim had the brain cells left to remember, there’d be no way to respond with his mouth this full of dick so he just hums a noncommittal noise, relaxes into it. Being used. Just a hole to fuck, breathing secondary, lips and tongue and mouth and skin. Interconnected sensations strung together on primal instinct. Jesus.
He likes that more than he’d like to admit.
“Right, fuck, right. Right. It’s getting fucking baptized, James. We all had to do it. Chris had to do it, Corey and Paul did, Sid and Craig had to do it--fucking--fucking Mick had to do it, that one was. That was something. Like. It’s not about me, and Joey, and you guys being along for the ride here, it’s like--it’s all of us as a team feeding this beast that has this life of its own. It’s its own shitting pissing breathing living thing and it’s already way bigger than you or me or Corey or fuckin’ Chris or anybody. You can’t say no to it. Look at me.”
Shawn tugs at his hair a little and Jim looks up, feeling absolutely slutty like this, getting face-fucked behind the garage in broad daylight. Shawn’s eyes are a darker shade of their usual blue and he catches his teeth on his bottom lip, smirk spreading across his face. Smug. Content.
“Shit yeah, that’s the good stuff,” he breathes. “You’re so fuckin’ hot. ‘S like you’re made to take a fuckin’ cock, look at you.”
Jim can feel his cheeks flush and presses his tongue up on Shawn’s next slide in, coaxing a stuttered moan out of him.
“Yeah, good boy, right like that. Fuck. Keep doing that. You were made for this, y’know? You were fucking made for this. You’re supposed to be here. I wouldn’tve tried so hard to get you here if you weren’t, you’re fucking talented and great at sucking cock. It was destiny, you were supposed to end up with us. Fuckin--divine intervention or whatever you wanna call it.”
For a few long seconds it’s just Shawn’s ragged breathing, the spit sounds of his slow thrusts into Jim’s mouth, birdsong, cicadas. Jim half hard in his jeans. Shawn tugging his hair in a way more comforting than painful. Some kind of symbiosis. The natural order of things.
“Y’know how in some cultures they walk on hot coals knowing the Lord’s gonna protect ‘em, or like pray until they pass out or whatever? It’s like that. It’s a devotional thing. Like. You gotta wake up early and put on your uncomfy clothes, or wear the hair shirt, or cut scars all over your face or whatever shit people do to prove how much faith they have in the Lord, prove how far they’re willing to go. And they don’t even feel it, y’know, cuz they have so much faith in what they believe in, but that’s not something they woulda thought up on their own. But they do it and it ain’t even bad. Like. They might even like it.”
But it’s not piss, Jim wants to say, and Shawn tucks a fallen strand of hair behind his ear for him and it’s tender. Okay.
“The--whole reason we’re all here--our fuckin’ higher purpose--we’re here to serve Slipknot. It’s not about you, James, it’s about the fuckin’ Knot. We could all drop dead tomorrow and this thing would keep going without us. You’re part of that now and you’re gonna get--fuckin--baptized.”
With that Shawn pushes in as far as he can go and holds Jim's head down while he gags, spine crawling, Shawn not letting him up far enough for respite just far enough to fuck his throat. Babbling on about devotion, religious fervor, delirium, fire-walking. Baptism. Slipknot, brotherhood, partnership. How good Jim is, how fuckin' pretty he looks on his knees, what a good toy he is for all of them but Shawn and Corey most of all and Jim's almost astral projecting, down in the bottom of a hole somewhere; dropping further into that place he goes when his brain shuts off and he just wants to serve, take, get used. So when Shawn asks if he believes in this the answer is yes, and if he's devoted the answer is yes, and if he's gonna accept Shawn's piss now and prove himself to all of them the answer's somehow yes, and Shawn groans and comes down his throat, holding him there with a tight grip on his hair and Jim fucking chokes and has to force himself to swallow and it's great.
And Corey's suddenly next to him on his knees in the dirt like he's got radar for Jim getting his shit wrecked, dragging him into a sloppy kiss and trying to shove hands up under his t-shirt until Shawn kicks him in the knee and is like "Jesus Christ dude don't fucking make out with him, I'm gonna get a boner and not be able to do this" and Corey says sorry but looks smug as hell, cuz that’s just how Corey is.
Jim feels really fucking stupid for a second when it hits him that he’s sitting on his knees behind the garage with his best friend, knowing full well he’s about to get peed on by Shawn fucking Crahan--the dude who sits in the studio for hours in just a clown mask and his underwear, the dude who takes pictures of roadkill and calls it art and metaphor and traps Jim into these longwinded explanations that nobody can fucking understand, the dude the entire state of Iowa warned him about--in some sort of fucked-up masochistic psychosexual band hazing ritual but Jim’s fine.
He’s bleary and fucked-up and feeling stretched out, spread open, spitty; fucking used and full of bad ideas but Corey’s here. Corey’s sliding his hand into Jim’s back pocket and leaning his head on Jim’s shoulder and nuzzling up against his neck and mumbling “you know I wouldn’t make you do this by yourself, right?” into Jim’s skin, and Jim’s nodding cuz he’s an idiot and Corey’s kissing him again, shit yeah. And Shawn’s bitching about how he said no making out but it’s all just mosquitoes cuz Corey pulls back to stick his fingers in Jim’s mouth and he’s gone, fucking gone, so fucked up. Melting back into it, whole body relaxing as he twists his own fingers together behind his back, can’t stop the way his thighs part just a little, cock half-hard in his pants.
Feels good. Dangerous. Slutty. Good.
“Open your mouth for me,” Corey says low in his ear, and Jim does. Jim fucking does.
“Good,” he says slowly, calmly. Methodically. “Now tongue out.”
Jim’s eyes snap open and he shuts his fucking mouth, cheeks flushing as he meets Corey’s gaze. His mouth is dry, he doesn’t know where his voice went. No.
“C’mon, you don’t gotta be fucking nasty,” Shawn scoffs, kicking at Corey’s knee and leaning down to take Jim’s chin in his hand, looking at him from his own level. Jim doesn’t wanna fucking look--too much attention, too direct, Shawn’s dick’s still out of his pants so he’s cupping it protectively like a fucking weirdo and it’s all stupid, Jim feels stupid--but Shawn says “hey. Hey Jim. Look at me” and his voice is gentle and Jim can’t not look.
Shawn’s eyes are so fucking blue. Shit.
Jim nods, and Shawn nods back, thumb tracing gentle circles against the stubble on his jaw.
“You wanna stop?”
Jim shakes his head, just a little, and Shawn kisses the top of his head and stands back up, kicking Corey’s knee again. “Don’t be fucking gross or I’ll fart on your pillow. We doing this?”
“Yeah, shit,” Jim says and his voice feels thick but there it is. “Let’s go.”
Corey laughs from somewhere deep within himself and Shawn kicks his knee again-again. “Shut up dude, I’m trying to concentrate here, god. The kid ain’t gonna piss on himself.”
“Next time,” Corey says, earning himself another gentle kick while he cackles.
Jim just mutters “fuck you” and waits. Closes his eyes, opens them, decides closed is better after all. Feels Corey’s head on his shoulder. Waits.
“Are you gonna hurry it the fuck up here? I’m getting old.”
“Shut the fuck up, I’m not gonna tell you again, asshole--don’t need you fuckin’ judging me when I’m trying to get shit done-”
Shawn’s still bitching when the first of it hits Jim’s shirt and he flinches away a little out of instinct, sucking in a startled breath and Corey fucking moans cuz he’s gross, he’s fucking disgusting and Jim loves him anyway. Shawn laughs softly under his breath and mumbles a fuck yeah and there’s a second of a break but then Corey spits on the ground and curses in a broken voice and Jim’s tempted to open his eyes again but then it’s in his fucking hair, running down his face; hot and fucking nasty and like he doesn’t wanna breathe but he also wasn’t ready to hold his breath either so he’s just trying to breathe as shallow as possible and keep it out of his fucking mouth and his dick is fucking hard--traitor, what the fuck--and there’s piss soaking into his jeans, the unprotected parts of his thighs where his boxers don’t reach down far enough to cover, and it’s like drowning. In filth.
When it stops Corey grabs Jim by the face with both hands and licks a line up his cheek cuz he’s fucking nasty--licking piss off Jim’s fucking face, what the fuck--and tangles his fingers in Jim’s wet hair, kissing him on the mouth and Jim’s pretty sure this is how you get hepatitis but lets him anyway cuz it’s Corey, and if this killed you he’d surely be dead by now, and there are no words for how disgusting Jim feels and Corey tastes (like piss, Corey tastes like fucking piss and it’s nasty and feral and this is something Jim never signed up for) but he’s dropping forward into it, biting at Corey’s lips and pulling his hair right back and somewhere above them Shawn’s chuckling in satisfaction and halfheartedly telling them to quit making out before he has to fuck somebody, and when Jim finally meets Corey’s eyes Corey says “you look so fucking hot like this” and rests their foreheads together, breathing hard.
“Now that’s fucking art, man, look at you, shit. Wish I had my camera,” Shawn says, re-buttoning his shorts and fixing his belt. “That’s liner notes material right there. Li-ner notes.”
Corey just grins and Shawn squats down again to kiss him like his life depends on it, digging his fingers into his gross hair and grinning back. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
Shawn snorts a laugh, shakes his head, gently smacks Corey on the cheek before letting him go and turning to Jim. “Your dick’s hard, ain’t it.”
Jim shifts uncomfortably cuz yeah and his jeans stick to his thighs and his shirt sticks to his chest and back and everything’s gross and Shawn just smirks, running his fingers through Jim’s disgusting wet hair in a comforting sort of way and kissing him too, biting his bottom lip. Gentle. Surprising for how much of an asshole he is. Jim will never get over that.
“Mazel fuckin’ tov then, I guess you’re officially part of the family. Gross fucker,” Shawn laughs before squeezing Jim’s shoulder a little, a soft reassurance. Tucks a damp string of hair behind his ear, kisses his forehead softly.
“You did awesome, James. I’m proud of you,” he murmurs before standing back up and heading back up towards the house without any further discourse, hopefully to wash his fucking hands.
Jim and Corey both sit there for a minute still on their knees, not touching. Just kind of looking at each other. Then Corey smiles so wide it might break his face and helps Jim up and they have to do the walk of shame back to the house for a shower but Corey’s disgusting so he’s thrilled to have been pissed on on this fine afternoon, and he does something stupid like kick the door open and yell “JIM GOT BAPTIZED!” at the top of his big stupid voice for the listening pleasure of the entire county.
It’s only the seven fellow idiots in the house that know he means piss.