Metalocalypse Drabble Challenge #s 3 and 4
Apr. 7th, 2007 12:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsPrompt: Love
Pairing: Chuck and Pickles
Fingers, thin and not as long as he’d once expected – why had he had expectations anyway? - played a staccato tattoo on the polished cherry surface. The tempo, steady for a while and to Charles’ untrained but experienced ear beating a constant rhythm in six/eight time, was double the speed their hips were meeting. Always something to measure the beat and he could remember a drunken night, lounging as bare as the drummer’s hot tub requirements demanded, when he asked if the redhead had a metronome for a heart. A lazy green-eyed smirk and he hadn’t been so intoxicated that he’d missed the touch of bitterness in the laughing reply. He held his tongue after that; all men have their weaknesses and their controls, points that only became more obvious the greater the pressure a man felt. Besides, Charles hadn’t meant it to be insulting. The ever-present rhythm was reassuring, familiar and steady in a world with few constants.
It had been the prospect of power that had lured him in but there was something more that kept him. They were, all of them, likable idiots beneath the exterior of brutality and in spite of all the headaches they caused him, Charles didn’t want anything to befall them. And it wasn’t just because his gravy train would stop running. No, there was more at stake than just his investment portfolio and he never expected for his emotions to get involved but they had. Sappy and, as the band would say, completely not metal, but he was just as fierce protecting hearts as he was defending against lawsuits. Besides, it was the drummer’s fault in the first place.
The last remaining stack of papers on his desk was sent fluttering to the floor, surrounding them in a sea of legal copy and contracts that would have to be picked up and set back in order later. Charles couldn’t bring himself to care, not when that crooked smile was only for him and a bare foot from the leg hoisted over his shoulder was pushing on his neck, urging him down. Breath, hot and damp, husked against his ear, brought him fully back to the present with a few amused words about ‘payin’ attention and not gettin’ distracted from what was right in front of his face.’ Good advice and the corner of his mouth quirked up, the only warning he gave as he bent the drummer as close to in half as he could manage.
Still in six/eight, Charles wrapped a hand around hot and eager flesh, matched his strokes to the beat of steady fingers. Half that speed for his hips until the naked man on his desk groaned out his name, “Charlie~,” plaintive and demanding and thickly Midwestern on the vowels. “Pickles.” Affectionate and teasing even as he complied. There was more than papers to clean up after that but everything could wait until he felt like moving free from his drummer’s warm embrace. It would be a while.
Prompt: Lust
Pairing: Skwisgaar and Toki
Adrenaline surged through him and Toki snapped his head on the downbeat, chestnut hair a tangled flying mess. There was nothing like being on stage, sweat plastering his t-shirt to his back and the heat from the lights baking him, the roar of the crowd a dull sound over the thunder of Nathan’s voice and the soaring screams of his guitar, the unmatchable, uncatchable flying notes that came from Skwisgaar’s fingers. The Norwegian could never keep still; he had to bob to the throbbing drumbeat, his feet moving him across the stage with the vagaries of the music. He was lost in his own little world and his eyes, whenever he could see through the curtain of his hair, were always drawn to the lean, solid presence of the Swede. Skwisgaar barely moved beyond the requisite headbanging, let everything come from his technically, impossibly perfect fingers. His blond hair glowed in the footlights and his ass was fucking carved out of smoke, shadow and denim. Thank god the call of the music was stronger or Toki would never make it through a show.
The notes, flurrying scales and complex chords, thrummed inside his body until Skwisgaar felt like his skeleton was vibrating in frequency with the music. He was attuned to every sound, hands acting almost of their own accord as he concentrated, hearing each part and the whole. Toki slurred a note, not wrong but not clean, and it was all the Swede could do to keep from directing his bright gaze to rippling back muscles only visible because the Norwegian’s shirt was wet and clinging. The rhythm guitarist drove Skwisgaar crazy with his graceful, eager movements and his clear joy in the music that moved through him so differently that it did the Swede. Only the demands of the song, so fast his fingers were a blur on the strings, kept him rooted to the stage.
“Sloppy Toki. Dat was sloppy fingerwork.”
“Aww screw you off Skwisgaar.”
Same old argument with the same resolution. Just enough time to put down the guitars that were their lives and then there were fingers caught in snarled chestnut, hands sliding into back jean pockets to mold perfection. Salt and the bitter tang of stage make-up and hints of whatever alcohol the Swede had been drinking and the kisses were more bites, clashing teeth and tongues while they wrestled with stubborn zippers. Denim bunched around their thighs and that was all they could manage as hips rocked, velvet skin meeting silky flesh. Some nights it was Skwisgaar, lightning quick but with iron control and clever tricks that ran the show. Other nights, Toki won out, enthusiasm and relentless rhythm taking them to the peak and over. And on rare nights, with the adulation of the crowd ringing in their ears and the music coursing through their veins, they managed to work together. Finger twined, they found release, relief from all that had built up, as one before they went their separate ways.
Pairing: Chuck and Pickles
Fingers, thin and not as long as he’d once expected – why had he had expectations anyway? - played a staccato tattoo on the polished cherry surface. The tempo, steady for a while and to Charles’ untrained but experienced ear beating a constant rhythm in six/eight time, was double the speed their hips were meeting. Always something to measure the beat and he could remember a drunken night, lounging as bare as the drummer’s hot tub requirements demanded, when he asked if the redhead had a metronome for a heart. A lazy green-eyed smirk and he hadn’t been so intoxicated that he’d missed the touch of bitterness in the laughing reply. He held his tongue after that; all men have their weaknesses and their controls, points that only became more obvious the greater the pressure a man felt. Besides, Charles hadn’t meant it to be insulting. The ever-present rhythm was reassuring, familiar and steady in a world with few constants.
It had been the prospect of power that had lured him in but there was something more that kept him. They were, all of them, likable idiots beneath the exterior of brutality and in spite of all the headaches they caused him, Charles didn’t want anything to befall them. And it wasn’t just because his gravy train would stop running. No, there was more at stake than just his investment portfolio and he never expected for his emotions to get involved but they had. Sappy and, as the band would say, completely not metal, but he was just as fierce protecting hearts as he was defending against lawsuits. Besides, it was the drummer’s fault in the first place.
The last remaining stack of papers on his desk was sent fluttering to the floor, surrounding them in a sea of legal copy and contracts that would have to be picked up and set back in order later. Charles couldn’t bring himself to care, not when that crooked smile was only for him and a bare foot from the leg hoisted over his shoulder was pushing on his neck, urging him down. Breath, hot and damp, husked against his ear, brought him fully back to the present with a few amused words about ‘payin’ attention and not gettin’ distracted from what was right in front of his face.’ Good advice and the corner of his mouth quirked up, the only warning he gave as he bent the drummer as close to in half as he could manage.
Still in six/eight, Charles wrapped a hand around hot and eager flesh, matched his strokes to the beat of steady fingers. Half that speed for his hips until the naked man on his desk groaned out his name, “Charlie~,” plaintive and demanding and thickly Midwestern on the vowels. “Pickles.” Affectionate and teasing even as he complied. There was more than papers to clean up after that but everything could wait until he felt like moving free from his drummer’s warm embrace. It would be a while.
Prompt: Lust
Pairing: Skwisgaar and Toki
Adrenaline surged through him and Toki snapped his head on the downbeat, chestnut hair a tangled flying mess. There was nothing like being on stage, sweat plastering his t-shirt to his back and the heat from the lights baking him, the roar of the crowd a dull sound over the thunder of Nathan’s voice and the soaring screams of his guitar, the unmatchable, uncatchable flying notes that came from Skwisgaar’s fingers. The Norwegian could never keep still; he had to bob to the throbbing drumbeat, his feet moving him across the stage with the vagaries of the music. He was lost in his own little world and his eyes, whenever he could see through the curtain of his hair, were always drawn to the lean, solid presence of the Swede. Skwisgaar barely moved beyond the requisite headbanging, let everything come from his technically, impossibly perfect fingers. His blond hair glowed in the footlights and his ass was fucking carved out of smoke, shadow and denim. Thank god the call of the music was stronger or Toki would never make it through a show.
The notes, flurrying scales and complex chords, thrummed inside his body until Skwisgaar felt like his skeleton was vibrating in frequency with the music. He was attuned to every sound, hands acting almost of their own accord as he concentrated, hearing each part and the whole. Toki slurred a note, not wrong but not clean, and it was all the Swede could do to keep from directing his bright gaze to rippling back muscles only visible because the Norwegian’s shirt was wet and clinging. The rhythm guitarist drove Skwisgaar crazy with his graceful, eager movements and his clear joy in the music that moved through him so differently that it did the Swede. Only the demands of the song, so fast his fingers were a blur on the strings, kept him rooted to the stage.
“Sloppy Toki. Dat was sloppy fingerwork.”
“Aww screw you off Skwisgaar.”
Same old argument with the same resolution. Just enough time to put down the guitars that were their lives and then there were fingers caught in snarled chestnut, hands sliding into back jean pockets to mold perfection. Salt and the bitter tang of stage make-up and hints of whatever alcohol the Swede had been drinking and the kisses were more bites, clashing teeth and tongues while they wrestled with stubborn zippers. Denim bunched around their thighs and that was all they could manage as hips rocked, velvet skin meeting silky flesh. Some nights it was Skwisgaar, lightning quick but with iron control and clever tricks that ran the show. Other nights, Toki won out, enthusiasm and relentless rhythm taking them to the peak and over. And on rare nights, with the adulation of the crowd ringing in their ears and the music coursing through their veins, they managed to work together. Finger twined, they found release, relief from all that had built up, as one before they went their separate ways.
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no subject
Date: 2007-04-07 05:56 pm (UTC)I think I like the second one a little better; it's the atmosphere of the show and the performance and the, yes, lust XD that gets to me. Bravo. :D
no subject
Date: 2007-04-13 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-13 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-14 10:23 am (UTC)