Metalocalypse Drabble Challenge #14
Jun. 13th, 2007 06:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsPrompt: Submission
Pairing: Charles/Murderface
Word Count: 1237 because I fail
The Dethcopters are huge, veritable flying fortresses, and Dethklok hasn’t had to stoop so low as to fly luxury first class in years except for when they want to. There’s plenty of space, room enough for a recording studio, practice space, individual quarters, a kitchen, and a large central area where the band congregates to eat, watch television, and gripe at each other. With all the diversions and privacy available, one would think the members of Dethklok would be able to adequately entertain themselves. One would be wrong.
Charles has an office on every Dethcopter, satellite links to the internet and a global phone so he can keep working even when away from his center of power in Mordhaus. He never seems to spend much time actually getting any work done, though. There are always fights to break up, drunken depressions to chase away, boredom-inspired mischief to redirect. Many days he feels more like a nursemaid than a manager, caring for a bunch of overgrown children who only have enough sense to get into trouble. It’s not easy being an authority figure to some of the most powerful men on the planet but at least he’s learned not to take most of the death threats seriously. Still, it’s a part of his job – unwritten to be sure – and Charles never fails to give less than his best.
William is…complicated. Hell, they’re all complicated when he really stops to think about it and looks beneath the petulant rock-star exteriors, but the bassist tends to give him the biggest headaches. Murderface isn’t an idiot. He’s fairly knowledgeable in certain specific areas actually. But he’s also got so many mental problems that it’s easier to drink himself stupid when he isn’t trapped in the vicious cycle of self-loathing. And damn does he have daddy issues, although Charles completely understands why.
He’s been on a tear lately, more temper tantrums than usual and there are stitches in both forearms and the side of his left knee. It’s the last straw when he nearly manages to take out one of the pressurized windows on the Dethcopter with a well-thrown battle axe and Charles gives up on tax incentives and calls William into his office. The bassist comes, grumbling and spitting and cursing, begrudging ever step, but he comes, and he locks the door behind him. Charles steeples his hands and peers at Murderface over the rim of his glasses. He is the perfect picture of disappointed anger, every inch a disapproving parental figure.
“Would you care to explain yourself?” He always asks and nearly always gets a “Pissh off” in return. Today is no different and Charles frowns, shakes his head. “You remember our deal. I don’t like doing this but you force my hand. Strip.”
It’s a weird sort of punishment and there’s no reason for Murderface to agree but the bassist never fails to comply. More cursing and then William is naked. He’s no prize but that doesn’t matter. Charles does what he feels he has to do. It’s more than his outrageous salary even though he doesn’t like to admit it. They’re his boys.
Charles stands, rising from behind his large desk in his impeccably pressed suit. There’s a mini-fridge discreetly tucked in next to the filing cabinet and he fishes out a bottle. No doubt it is Pickles who sees to it that they have more than a full compliment of airplane-sized bottles of liquor and Charles can understand the logic even though it amuses him. Next he fishes out a tube of lube from a lower filing drawer, hands that over to a sulking William. Finally he resumes his seat, eyes hard behind the glint of his lenses.
Commands, not demands because he is calm and positive that he will be obeyed, leave Charles’ lips in steely quiet. Murderface insults him, his parents, his entire lineage but he does as he is told. The lube is cold on his calloused fingertips and Charles can see the eagerness beneath the surface irritation and he reins William in. He makes him wait, makes him smear the cool gel around until it’s warm enough not to shock his system. Only after that does he order the naked, glowering man to slide a single slicked finger along the cleft of his ass, smearing the lubrication and smoothing back sparse hair.
It’s all about drawing things out, almost like teasing but a bit like torture too. William doesn’t have to listen to him but he has a submissive’s soul buried beneath his rage and mingled with his masochistic need for attention. One finger in and then two and the other man is scowling at Charles, eyes like daggers, the yellow-green practically glowing with the struggle he’s fighting inside. Charles is calm, cool and collected and he knows that, in and of itself, is infuriating. He studies Murderface with a detached and slightly mournful air, the kind that drives children crazy when their parents CLAIM a punishment hurts them more even though it never really does.
When William is fully erect and is busy pumping three fingers into his fully stretched hole, Charles reaches into his top desk drawer and plucks out a small white pill from an unmarked tin. He unscrews the small bottle, makes sure Murderface is watching as he drops the pill inside. It fizzes in the amber liquid, melts and combines with the expensive and tiny amount of one hundred proof whiskey. They exchange a glance and ALMOST Charles thinks William will balk. He doesn’t like medication unless he’s chosen to take it himself. But finally he spits on the plush carpet, silently invites Charles to bring it on.
“All the way in and hold it and I’ll consider ending your punishment.”
Charles rises again, heads over to the couch tucked in one corner. He makes Murderface come to him and the bassist does, scuffing his feet and calling Charles all sorts of inventively horrible names. But William takes the bottle and Charles watches with an unmoving expression that masks everything churning inside. It goes in easily, as it should after all the preparation he put William through, and Charles takes the last step. The glass is blood-warm as he slips the bottom of it past the stretched ring of muscle and William lets out a low moan through his bitten lips when Charles finally raises a hand to his cock, strokes it with deliberation while the drugged alcohol filters into his system.
Twenty minutes later Charles has piled Murderface’s clothes against the side of the couch, cleaned the semen off the fine leather, and tucked a blanket underneath the sedated bassist’s chin. The heady rush of power that he hates and yet sometimes craves has nearly worn off but his pants are still tighter than he wants them to be. There is plenty of paperwork waiting for him but he needs to wash his hands. William snores appallingly loudly too, through a squashed nose that’s been broken a fair number of times. Charles looks at his desk, at the sleeping bassist. It’s been awfully quiet while he’s been seeing to this particular charge. And that’s never a good sign, especially not within the smaller confines of the Dethcopter. He takes the excuse and runs with it, tells himself he’s just doing his job when he pauses at William’s side to brush a bit of moisture from his cheek.
Pairing: Charles/Murderface
Word Count: 1237 because I fail
The Dethcopters are huge, veritable flying fortresses, and Dethklok hasn’t had to stoop so low as to fly luxury first class in years except for when they want to. There’s plenty of space, room enough for a recording studio, practice space, individual quarters, a kitchen, and a large central area where the band congregates to eat, watch television, and gripe at each other. With all the diversions and privacy available, one would think the members of Dethklok would be able to adequately entertain themselves. One would be wrong.
Charles has an office on every Dethcopter, satellite links to the internet and a global phone so he can keep working even when away from his center of power in Mordhaus. He never seems to spend much time actually getting any work done, though. There are always fights to break up, drunken depressions to chase away, boredom-inspired mischief to redirect. Many days he feels more like a nursemaid than a manager, caring for a bunch of overgrown children who only have enough sense to get into trouble. It’s not easy being an authority figure to some of the most powerful men on the planet but at least he’s learned not to take most of the death threats seriously. Still, it’s a part of his job – unwritten to be sure – and Charles never fails to give less than his best.
William is…complicated. Hell, they’re all complicated when he really stops to think about it and looks beneath the petulant rock-star exteriors, but the bassist tends to give him the biggest headaches. Murderface isn’t an idiot. He’s fairly knowledgeable in certain specific areas actually. But he’s also got so many mental problems that it’s easier to drink himself stupid when he isn’t trapped in the vicious cycle of self-loathing. And damn does he have daddy issues, although Charles completely understands why.
He’s been on a tear lately, more temper tantrums than usual and there are stitches in both forearms and the side of his left knee. It’s the last straw when he nearly manages to take out one of the pressurized windows on the Dethcopter with a well-thrown battle axe and Charles gives up on tax incentives and calls William into his office. The bassist comes, grumbling and spitting and cursing, begrudging ever step, but he comes, and he locks the door behind him. Charles steeples his hands and peers at Murderface over the rim of his glasses. He is the perfect picture of disappointed anger, every inch a disapproving parental figure.
“Would you care to explain yourself?” He always asks and nearly always gets a “Pissh off” in return. Today is no different and Charles frowns, shakes his head. “You remember our deal. I don’t like doing this but you force my hand. Strip.”
It’s a weird sort of punishment and there’s no reason for Murderface to agree but the bassist never fails to comply. More cursing and then William is naked. He’s no prize but that doesn’t matter. Charles does what he feels he has to do. It’s more than his outrageous salary even though he doesn’t like to admit it. They’re his boys.
Charles stands, rising from behind his large desk in his impeccably pressed suit. There’s a mini-fridge discreetly tucked in next to the filing cabinet and he fishes out a bottle. No doubt it is Pickles who sees to it that they have more than a full compliment of airplane-sized bottles of liquor and Charles can understand the logic even though it amuses him. Next he fishes out a tube of lube from a lower filing drawer, hands that over to a sulking William. Finally he resumes his seat, eyes hard behind the glint of his lenses.
Commands, not demands because he is calm and positive that he will be obeyed, leave Charles’ lips in steely quiet. Murderface insults him, his parents, his entire lineage but he does as he is told. The lube is cold on his calloused fingertips and Charles can see the eagerness beneath the surface irritation and he reins William in. He makes him wait, makes him smear the cool gel around until it’s warm enough not to shock his system. Only after that does he order the naked, glowering man to slide a single slicked finger along the cleft of his ass, smearing the lubrication and smoothing back sparse hair.
It’s all about drawing things out, almost like teasing but a bit like torture too. William doesn’t have to listen to him but he has a submissive’s soul buried beneath his rage and mingled with his masochistic need for attention. One finger in and then two and the other man is scowling at Charles, eyes like daggers, the yellow-green practically glowing with the struggle he’s fighting inside. Charles is calm, cool and collected and he knows that, in and of itself, is infuriating. He studies Murderface with a detached and slightly mournful air, the kind that drives children crazy when their parents CLAIM a punishment hurts them more even though it never really does.
When William is fully erect and is busy pumping three fingers into his fully stretched hole, Charles reaches into his top desk drawer and plucks out a small white pill from an unmarked tin. He unscrews the small bottle, makes sure Murderface is watching as he drops the pill inside. It fizzes in the amber liquid, melts and combines with the expensive and tiny amount of one hundred proof whiskey. They exchange a glance and ALMOST Charles thinks William will balk. He doesn’t like medication unless he’s chosen to take it himself. But finally he spits on the plush carpet, silently invites Charles to bring it on.
“All the way in and hold it and I’ll consider ending your punishment.”
Charles rises again, heads over to the couch tucked in one corner. He makes Murderface come to him and the bassist does, scuffing his feet and calling Charles all sorts of inventively horrible names. But William takes the bottle and Charles watches with an unmoving expression that masks everything churning inside. It goes in easily, as it should after all the preparation he put William through, and Charles takes the last step. The glass is blood-warm as he slips the bottom of it past the stretched ring of muscle and William lets out a low moan through his bitten lips when Charles finally raises a hand to his cock, strokes it with deliberation while the drugged alcohol filters into his system.
Twenty minutes later Charles has piled Murderface’s clothes against the side of the couch, cleaned the semen off the fine leather, and tucked a blanket underneath the sedated bassist’s chin. The heady rush of power that he hates and yet sometimes craves has nearly worn off but his pants are still tighter than he wants them to be. There is plenty of paperwork waiting for him but he needs to wash his hands. William snores appallingly loudly too, through a squashed nose that’s been broken a fair number of times. Charles looks at his desk, at the sleeping bassist. It’s been awfully quiet while he’s been seeing to this particular charge. And that’s never a good sign, especially not within the smaller confines of the Dethcopter. He takes the excuse and runs with it, tells himself he’s just doing his job when he pauses at William’s side to brush a bit of moisture from his cheek.
