Walk The Plank, Ye Scurvy Sea Dog
Sep. 19th, 2007 06:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Edge
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Tony/Pickles
Word Count: 266
Concrete underfoot and an overwhelming smell of spilled beer, piss, and cigarette butts abandoned to begin their long decay. It’s hot, sticky-hot, and sweat drips down the small of his back, makes the spandex cling uncomfortably everywhere it touches him. That’s mostly over what he has to cover thanks to decency laws and little else and thank god for that or he’d be melted down there in the cramped shadows; a puddle of teased scarlet hair, runny kohl streaks, and the remains of a mid-western accent beaten finally into grudging submission. He’s impatient, antsy and thinking of the guitar in a room scarcely bigger than a closet somewhere in the back of a narrow warren of industrial corridors, thinking of the baggie stashed inside and the white powder that pulled him away from the edge. It was all edge lately, and he jiggled from foot to foot, listening to the soles of his boots slowly peel off the floor. Ten minutes passed, or maybe it was only ten seconds, and he nearly started for his fix when Tony appeared, melting out of the blue-black shadows as if he had been one of them. Darkness and heat, then, the better sort of heat, big hands pawing at spandex and ruining the cloud of his hair but it didn’t matter because this stolen moment, so rare now, was even better than cocaine. Thirty minutes before show time, Pickles let himself be pushed up against a riser beneath the stage - one that would later be barely able to contain his presence – and got his edge taken off.
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Tony/Pickles
Word Count: 266
Concrete underfoot and an overwhelming smell of spilled beer, piss, and cigarette butts abandoned to begin their long decay. It’s hot, sticky-hot, and sweat drips down the small of his back, makes the spandex cling uncomfortably everywhere it touches him. That’s mostly over what he has to cover thanks to decency laws and little else and thank god for that or he’d be melted down there in the cramped shadows; a puddle of teased scarlet hair, runny kohl streaks, and the remains of a mid-western accent beaten finally into grudging submission. He’s impatient, antsy and thinking of the guitar in a room scarcely bigger than a closet somewhere in the back of a narrow warren of industrial corridors, thinking of the baggie stashed inside and the white powder that pulled him away from the edge. It was all edge lately, and he jiggled from foot to foot, listening to the soles of his boots slowly peel off the floor. Ten minutes passed, or maybe it was only ten seconds, and he nearly started for his fix when Tony appeared, melting out of the blue-black shadows as if he had been one of them. Darkness and heat, then, the better sort of heat, big hands pawing at spandex and ruining the cloud of his hair but it didn’t matter because this stolen moment, so rare now, was even better than cocaine. Thirty minutes before show time, Pickles let himself be pushed up against a riser beneath the stage - one that would later be barely able to contain his presence – and got his edge taken off.
