Metalocalypse Drabble Challenge #25
Jan. 9th, 2008 06:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsWell, this one violates my 500 word count exactly rule but I like it too much to change. I'll just have to go back and write something else for it later.
Prompt: Erotica
Pairing: Charles w/ Pickles
Word Count: 937
Charles Foster Ofdensen had nearly spewed coffee all over his sleek flat screen monitor when he saw the listing on Yahoo! Japan’s auction site. He’d had to read it three times to make sure he wasn’t misinterpreting any of the characters and then he’d promptly entered in a private maximum bid that no one in the world could hope to match. Nine days later, after a comparatively paltry 400000 yen for the item and another five thousand for expedited shipping, a box bearing Japanese stamps and addressed to him in impeccably neat English script arrived.
Charles had waited, the building anticipation carrying him in an almost buoyant mood through a day that included three minor lawsuits, a paternity suit – oddly enough against Murderface, six contractual negotiations for an upcoming tour, and the boys’ decision to flood one of the hangers in a misguided attempt at making their own wave pool for some mid-winter surfing. He’d retired to his rooms and meticulously followed his usual routine. His tie and jacket were hung on the take-away hooks to be dry-cleaned, and his remaining clothes went into the hamper. He showered, brushed his teeth, watched the final Dethklok minute of the evening and quick round up of the financial news. Then he turned down his sheets, opened the box, and took the slim, neatly wrapped contents to bed.
The Japanese need to wrap everything was the final blow to his patience and he ripped the paper off and then stared. Stared and grinned and parted his thighs beneath the silk sheets. On thick glossy photo stock, a quartet of men with big hair smiled toothily back at him beneath Japanese writing. The homosexual subculture of Japan, the real one, not the one directed at and produced largely by women, had always been strongly underground. But it had been more open during the heady prosperity of the 1980s before the bubble had burst and some of its members had gained significant clout and renown. The photographer’s name was one he recognized from Vogue and some French publications but this was not the typical fashion shoot.
They’d been high. That much was immediately obvious even from the cover piece. There was a vagueness to their eyes, a certain slant to the smiles, but probably on nothing more than Ecstasy and marijuana and booze. Charles had heard rumors for years of the magazine’s existence but nearly every copy of the miniscule run had been destroyed in a fire that had also destroyed the photographer’s negatives. But there in his hands was proof. He flipped through the magazine, skipping past columns of kanji and then a photoset of a young businessman unwinding in a most interesting way with a long-necked bottle of Kirin beer. Their shoot, the reason he’d bought the thing, began a full ten pages before the staples that marked the center of the magazine with another picture of the four of them, this time with arms wrapped around narrow waists and strung across shoulders.
Charles studied it for a long moment, taking in the vibrancy and life in three faces that would never look so hale again. And then he indulged himself, staring at the fantasy of his college years in all his fiery-maned glory. The next four pages found Twinskins and Bullets artfully draped over a drum kit; first in just box-briefs that left little to the imagination and then in nothing at all. Charles felt his cock twitch as he looked at them, more anticipation pooling at the base of his spine. Tony was next, a back shot of his firm bare rear as he plucked his bass while looking in the mirror and then another one of him leaning against a wall and stroking. The bassist had the right idea and Charles slipped a hand beneath his covers, pulled once on his rapidly firming dick. Then, grip tightening around his cock, he turned the page to the center spread.
There, in all his naked glory, was Pickles. His flame-bright hair spread out around him and the stack of speakers he was sprawled over in a messy cloud and his green eyes were hooded and staring directly into the camera’s lens. Thin fingers tipped in purple nail polish plucked at a peaked, shell-pink nipple and Charles followed the line of his body down past tight, well-defined abdominal muscles to find the then-lead singer’s other hand. It was wrapped around his cock, one finger skimmed over the tip, no doubt adding to the look of pleasure on his face. And there, just barely visible beneath his balls and between his trim legs, Charles could see the blunt end of a purple dildo, no doubt picked to match his fingernails. That sight was nearly enough to send him over the edge, for it matched almost too perfectly with his late-night fantasies at Harvard.
Charles squeezed himself even harder, close to pain, until the need to come dissipated. He allowed himself another glance at the younger Pickles and then closed the magazine. There were at least another ten pages of the Snakes ‘N’ Barrels spread to look at but they could wait for another time. Now he had other, more pressing desires. Charles slid open a drawer in the nightstand next to his bed and carefully tucked away the magazine. He drew out a long, narrow case which he placed under his pillow before he shut the drawer and then picked up the phone next to his bed. Charles took in a calming breath and then dialed the proper numbers.
“Pickles, could you come down to my room for a bit, please?”
Prompt: Erotica
Pairing: Charles w/ Pickles
Word Count: 937
Charles Foster Ofdensen had nearly spewed coffee all over his sleek flat screen monitor when he saw the listing on Yahoo! Japan’s auction site. He’d had to read it three times to make sure he wasn’t misinterpreting any of the characters and then he’d promptly entered in a private maximum bid that no one in the world could hope to match. Nine days later, after a comparatively paltry 400000 yen for the item and another five thousand for expedited shipping, a box bearing Japanese stamps and addressed to him in impeccably neat English script arrived.
Charles had waited, the building anticipation carrying him in an almost buoyant mood through a day that included three minor lawsuits, a paternity suit – oddly enough against Murderface, six contractual negotiations for an upcoming tour, and the boys’ decision to flood one of the hangers in a misguided attempt at making their own wave pool for some mid-winter surfing. He’d retired to his rooms and meticulously followed his usual routine. His tie and jacket were hung on the take-away hooks to be dry-cleaned, and his remaining clothes went into the hamper. He showered, brushed his teeth, watched the final Dethklok minute of the evening and quick round up of the financial news. Then he turned down his sheets, opened the box, and took the slim, neatly wrapped contents to bed.
The Japanese need to wrap everything was the final blow to his patience and he ripped the paper off and then stared. Stared and grinned and parted his thighs beneath the silk sheets. On thick glossy photo stock, a quartet of men with big hair smiled toothily back at him beneath Japanese writing. The homosexual subculture of Japan, the real one, not the one directed at and produced largely by women, had always been strongly underground. But it had been more open during the heady prosperity of the 1980s before the bubble had burst and some of its members had gained significant clout and renown. The photographer’s name was one he recognized from Vogue and some French publications but this was not the typical fashion shoot.
They’d been high. That much was immediately obvious even from the cover piece. There was a vagueness to their eyes, a certain slant to the smiles, but probably on nothing more than Ecstasy and marijuana and booze. Charles had heard rumors for years of the magazine’s existence but nearly every copy of the miniscule run had been destroyed in a fire that had also destroyed the photographer’s negatives. But there in his hands was proof. He flipped through the magazine, skipping past columns of kanji and then a photoset of a young businessman unwinding in a most interesting way with a long-necked bottle of Kirin beer. Their shoot, the reason he’d bought the thing, began a full ten pages before the staples that marked the center of the magazine with another picture of the four of them, this time with arms wrapped around narrow waists and strung across shoulders.
Charles studied it for a long moment, taking in the vibrancy and life in three faces that would never look so hale again. And then he indulged himself, staring at the fantasy of his college years in all his fiery-maned glory. The next four pages found Twinskins and Bullets artfully draped over a drum kit; first in just box-briefs that left little to the imagination and then in nothing at all. Charles felt his cock twitch as he looked at them, more anticipation pooling at the base of his spine. Tony was next, a back shot of his firm bare rear as he plucked his bass while looking in the mirror and then another one of him leaning against a wall and stroking. The bassist had the right idea and Charles slipped a hand beneath his covers, pulled once on his rapidly firming dick. Then, grip tightening around his cock, he turned the page to the center spread.
There, in all his naked glory, was Pickles. His flame-bright hair spread out around him and the stack of speakers he was sprawled over in a messy cloud and his green eyes were hooded and staring directly into the camera’s lens. Thin fingers tipped in purple nail polish plucked at a peaked, shell-pink nipple and Charles followed the line of his body down past tight, well-defined abdominal muscles to find the then-lead singer’s other hand. It was wrapped around his cock, one finger skimmed over the tip, no doubt adding to the look of pleasure on his face. And there, just barely visible beneath his balls and between his trim legs, Charles could see the blunt end of a purple dildo, no doubt picked to match his fingernails. That sight was nearly enough to send him over the edge, for it matched almost too perfectly with his late-night fantasies at Harvard.
Charles squeezed himself even harder, close to pain, until the need to come dissipated. He allowed himself another glance at the younger Pickles and then closed the magazine. There were at least another ten pages of the Snakes ‘N’ Barrels spread to look at but they could wait for another time. Now he had other, more pressing desires. Charles slid open a drawer in the nightstand next to his bed and carefully tucked away the magazine. He drew out a long, narrow case which he placed under his pillow before he shut the drawer and then picked up the phone next to his bed. Charles took in a calming breath and then dialed the proper numbers.
“Pickles, could you come down to my room for a bit, please?”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-01-09 01:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-14 08:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-09 07:14 pm (UTC)See Bear drool.
Drool, Bear, Drool!
.............^________^
no subject
Date: 2008-01-14 08:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-11 12:23 am (UTC)a paternity suit – oddly enough against Murderface XD
Charles could see the blunt end of a purple dildo, no doubt picked to match his fingernails. Accessorizing has no limits, apparently.
There were at least another ten pages of the Snakes ‘N’ Barrels spread to look at but they could wait for another time. Now that? Is restraint. Seriously.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-14 08:47 am (UTC)Accessorizing does indeed have no limits because, hey, it was the 80s after all.