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dethoratsPrompt: Sound
Pairing: Pickles and Nathan
It was the envy that decided it. Pickles was past arrogance thanks to three fruitless years on the label but he still had all his former confidence. He’d been insanely popular, seen the view from the pinnacle of fame, and even if his bank account was nearly empty, he had the sales and enough writers’ credits for a comfortable living. Throw in aptitude on several instruments and something approaching virtuosity on the drums and he, if he hadn’t been lazy and, frankly, floundering, didn’t have to take shit from anyone. But then he’d heard that voice.
Critics and fans alike had written odes to that voice since he’d first heard it on a scratchy, third-generation cassette. It had been compared to every sort of weather phenomena; thunder and earthquakes were the most common. Bestial, guttural, primal, the very sound of the formation of the earth, stone grinding against stone with magma pulsing in the cracks, it was death and destruction and a heavenly sort of hell given birth by simple air and the wet, fleshy vibrations of vocal chords. The music, for it was musical to Pickles’ ears, of that voice had sent a jolt of excitement through him and it was only as the recording ended that he’d realized his dick was half-hard and he’d found what he’d been looking for – the one thing he’d been missing and could never duplicate himself.
Nathan Explosion was both more and less than his voice had promised. As a performer, he was remarkable. Dedicated when the spirit moved him, devoted to giving his artistic vision his all, and his unmistakable presence made him a natural leader. But he was also somewhat dim, almost innocent at times, and most of the darkly satirical bents to his lyrics ended up being suggested by a jaded, occasionally bitterly sober redhead. Still, the voice alone would have been enough even without Nathan’s flair as a front man and tolerance of most of Pickles’ many bad habits. It was that voice that conjured nightmares and drenched the world in darkness, uncovered its sins and scars and set the brutal music Pickles had needed in stark, low, rasped reality.
Nathan’s voice could still make his dick hard, a hazard during concerts that Pickles had learned to accommodate, but as time moved on, it was the other sounds he made that became more effective than a Viagra cocktail for the drummer. Low rumbling possessive growls, a vocal claim the singer made every time he slid inside the older man’s body, made Pickles hungry with anticipation. Bitten off groans when he came with the redhead’s lips wrapped around his cock. The rare muffled near-whimpered raw moan when the drummer was allowed to top. But the best sound, even better than Nathan’s stage performances or bedroom noises, was the near-purr of satisfaction the singer made when he was half-asleep and pretending they weren’t cuddling while Pickles rubbed circles into his scalp and nattered on in his own light, flatly accented tenor.
A vague OP drabble
Title: Longing
Rating: PG
Pairing: Hina/Tashigi
Word Count: 172
It hit late at night usually, when she was up late with a glass-shaded flame bending over paperwork, gold-rimmed reading glasses on her nose. Sometimes it flew in in the middle of the day, a chance comment sparking memories. When her control wavered, she felt it most during her martial practices, and it made her legs feel like jelly, her focus out of reach. At her weakest, she would stand for five minutes at a time in the communications room and just stare at the mollusks, fingers itching to pick one up and call.
She never gave in but at those times she spent a good thirty minutes in the privacy of a steamy shower and then another thirty or forty writing a precisely worded, beautifully scripted letter that never said enough and was still a failure in her restraint. Return letters were among her greatest treasures and she horded captured swords in her cabin, the occasional one she tripped over enough to bring a real, if melancholy, smile to her lips.
Pairing: Pickles and Nathan
It was the envy that decided it. Pickles was past arrogance thanks to three fruitless years on the label but he still had all his former confidence. He’d been insanely popular, seen the view from the pinnacle of fame, and even if his bank account was nearly empty, he had the sales and enough writers’ credits for a comfortable living. Throw in aptitude on several instruments and something approaching virtuosity on the drums and he, if he hadn’t been lazy and, frankly, floundering, didn’t have to take shit from anyone. But then he’d heard that voice.
Critics and fans alike had written odes to that voice since he’d first heard it on a scratchy, third-generation cassette. It had been compared to every sort of weather phenomena; thunder and earthquakes were the most common. Bestial, guttural, primal, the very sound of the formation of the earth, stone grinding against stone with magma pulsing in the cracks, it was death and destruction and a heavenly sort of hell given birth by simple air and the wet, fleshy vibrations of vocal chords. The music, for it was musical to Pickles’ ears, of that voice had sent a jolt of excitement through him and it was only as the recording ended that he’d realized his dick was half-hard and he’d found what he’d been looking for – the one thing he’d been missing and could never duplicate himself.
Nathan Explosion was both more and less than his voice had promised. As a performer, he was remarkable. Dedicated when the spirit moved him, devoted to giving his artistic vision his all, and his unmistakable presence made him a natural leader. But he was also somewhat dim, almost innocent at times, and most of the darkly satirical bents to his lyrics ended up being suggested by a jaded, occasionally bitterly sober redhead. Still, the voice alone would have been enough even without Nathan’s flair as a front man and tolerance of most of Pickles’ many bad habits. It was that voice that conjured nightmares and drenched the world in darkness, uncovered its sins and scars and set the brutal music Pickles had needed in stark, low, rasped reality.
Nathan’s voice could still make his dick hard, a hazard during concerts that Pickles had learned to accommodate, but as time moved on, it was the other sounds he made that became more effective than a Viagra cocktail for the drummer. Low rumbling possessive growls, a vocal claim the singer made every time he slid inside the older man’s body, made Pickles hungry with anticipation. Bitten off groans when he came with the redhead’s lips wrapped around his cock. The rare muffled near-whimpered raw moan when the drummer was allowed to top. But the best sound, even better than Nathan’s stage performances or bedroom noises, was the near-purr of satisfaction the singer made when he was half-asleep and pretending they weren’t cuddling while Pickles rubbed circles into his scalp and nattered on in his own light, flatly accented tenor.
A vague OP drabble
Title: Longing
Rating: PG
Pairing: Hina/Tashigi
Word Count: 172
It hit late at night usually, when she was up late with a glass-shaded flame bending over paperwork, gold-rimmed reading glasses on her nose. Sometimes it flew in in the middle of the day, a chance comment sparking memories. When her control wavered, she felt it most during her martial practices, and it made her legs feel like jelly, her focus out of reach. At her weakest, she would stand for five minutes at a time in the communications room and just stare at the mollusks, fingers itching to pick one up and call.
She never gave in but at those times she spent a good thirty minutes in the privacy of a steamy shower and then another thirty or forty writing a precisely worded, beautifully scripted letter that never said enough and was still a failure in her restraint. Return letters were among her greatest treasures and she horded captured swords in her cabin, the occasional one she tripped over enough to bring a real, if melancholy, smile to her lips.
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Date: 2008-03-26 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2008-03-28 10:34 am (UTC)