Fic: BeholderKlok
Title: BeholderKlok
Author(s): lilac28
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Nathan/Charles
Summary: Nathan begins to suspect that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Murderface takes up smoking.
Rating: R
Warning(s): Some dirty talk and fantasies, some lulz, very minor OCs meeting their unfortunate ends
Word Count: ~4,400
Disclaimer: I don’t own Metalocalypse, but I sure think it’s funny
Authors Notes Set somewhere in the middle of Season 3, which I thought resumed with new episodes this weekend. I just learned today that I was wrong. How disappointing.
By the time Nathan Explosion had reached his late twenties, he had given himself permission to masturbate to thoughts of his robotic yet brutal manager, Charles Foster Offdensen.
It had been an incredible relief, to just come clean with himself. To stop pretending like it wasn't the lawyer's sharp features that invaded all his fevered imaginings. To admit that the man who badgered, annoyed, and protected him also turned him on to no fucking end.
He found that he didn't even feel different, which was awesome. If anything he felt more like himself. When he took himself in hand and conjured up images of what lay under the boring suit, everything made a strange sort of sense. Sure he could still get it up for women, still felt metal. Once he got over the initial bout of shame, he couldn't even keep up any self-hatred.
Not that Nathan would ever, ever tell the fucking guys about his desires. Although he was okay with the whole thing at night, he never dared to seek advice from anyone during the day. He learned to live with it, like he learned to live with annoying fans and tabloids lambasting him for being fat. A longing that had lasted now for years, no doubt the cause of why his right arm was so well developed.
It hadn't taken long for Offdensen, or Charles at night, to make more and more appearances in Nathan's sultry fantasies. By the time he had reached his early thirties, the lawyer had carved out a starring role.
Tonight's fantasy saw Charles on his back, legs hooked over Nathan's powerful forearms. Piercing eyes closed behind the glasses, his breath was beginning to hitch in short, desperate gasps. That normally sure, monotone voice was now fractured, almost naked. Exposing so much more of Charles for Nathan to devour. With teeth and sweat and his cock buried in that perfect ass.
"Nath-oh God, don't stop. Harder....fuck..."
He always tried his best to keep Fantasy Charles somewhat in character. Fantasy Charles never threw himself at Nathan. He never behaved like a groupie. He was still tightly wound and all business. If he pleaded, it was through ground teeth as he was on the verge of unraveling. Nathan simply relished the idea of Charles wanting him, in a realistic way. It could happen. There had been signs, right?
He always felt that Offdensen treated him differently than the rest of Dethklok, or anyone else for that matter. He spoke to Nathan in an easier manner, as if he were more comfortable talking to him than anyone else in the world. That had to count for something. Also, on more than one occasion he had caught the lawyer staring when there were groupies present. Really staring at him with a stormy, brutal look so intense it could have melted steel.
Sure, he might have imagined it. But it could have been fucking real too.
Wanting it real didn't prevent him from taking certain.....artistic licenses. He didn't really know where Offdensen liked to be touched or if he groomed his pubes, so these and other details changed more frequently than Skwisgaar's bedmates. One thing that often remained the same was Fantasy Charles' tendency to talk about his impending climax, to babble helplessly as he was about to come. Tonight, of course, was no different.
"Please, Nathan...justlikethat. Fuck..I'm gonna...."
Nathan imagined slender fingers knotting in his hair as he worked himself on his gigantic bed. His body tightened. So good. So good and he didn't fucking care about anything as the first flutters of pleasure started to spiral and a spent Fantasy Charles urged him on. When he really got into it like this, he could pretend that his massive hand was Charles' lithe body. That he finally possessed what he truly wanted.
He was so into it that he didn't hear his door open, didn't hear someone stumble into the room.
"Heeeey, Nat'n you wanna take me onna vahdka run? Think I'm too drunk ta drive an I.....oh, dood."
Pickles stood in his stained underwear in the middle of the room, shock and amusement warring on his face. Nathan was far too close to the edge to be anything but royally fucking pissed off at the interruption. His hand stopped moving, but didn't stray from his crotch.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh....Pickles?"
"Yeah, dood, whoa, I....sahrry. I didn't realize you were...ya know....sahrry...."
Despite his slurring apology, Pickles remained where he was. His eyes were rooted on the scene in front of him, one pierced eyebrow arching upwards more than normal.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"
Pickles turned and stumbled out with a snicker, leaving Nathan to a blissful finish as he bucked hard into his hand, hot come splattering his stomach. Although only his own masculine grunts filled the room, he still heard the filthy crooning of the satisfied lawyer in his mind.
Catching each other naked, fucking, or even occasionally jerking off wasn't that unusual for the close-knit members of Dethklok. Thus when Nathan arrived at a band meeting the next day, he wasn't particularly surprised or embarrassed to find four sets of eyes leering at him wickedly.
"Sahrry about last night, Nat'n," Pickles began, "I was jest a little drunk,"
"Yeah, thanks for just standing there and staring," Nathan rumbled, quickly adding a "queer" to throw off anyone who might have suspected he was thinking about a guy at the time.
Murderface had the rare decency to step up to his defense. "Jeezy, Picklesh, a guy can't even pull it in hish own house with you shtaring?"
"He was tha one who jest kept goin'!"
"Pfft...mastications," Skwisgaar scoffed. "Pathetic. You couldn'ts finds no ladies?"
Nathan was instantly uncomfortable. "I just wanted to be alone and go to fuckin' sleep. What's so bad about that?"
"Nothings if you ams Murderface and can'ts gets laid for your life-saving contracts."
"Hey!"
"Oh right, like you've never jerked ahff, Skwisgaar."
The blond shrugged his shoulders and continued to finger his guitar, looking bored. "Why woulds I? Don't needs to."
"So you never jerk off? Like, uh, never?" Nathan said.
Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Maybe sometimes, for kinky stuff or showings da ladies how to be doings it right." He looked at Nathan, chuckling. "But I don'ts needs helps in dat department place."
"Fuck you, I don't either!"
"You ams such a liar, Skwisgaar! Jerkings off not just for practice sex! Is for relaxings and fantasies too."
"Dat's true. Whaht were you thinkin' about, anyway? You were really gettin' into it." Pickles' eyes bored into him, full of sinister curiosity.
Nathan's stomach dropped. "Uhhhhh....that's kinda a personal question, Pickles..."
Toki all but squealed. "He turns red! Now you gots ta tell us!"
Nathan Explosion was never very good at thinking on his feet. Later, when struggling to reflect upon the situation, he kicked himself for not just throwing out a female name. Any name. Or just telling them it was none of their fucking business. Or throwing the table and storming out. Instead he panicked, shaken by the terrifying thought that the rest of them knew. That he had somehow broadcasted his secret desire to see Offdensen's prim little mouth stuffed with his cock.
Desperate to throw them off, he blurted out the first thing that entered his slowly shuffling mind. "Um, myself."
The table erupted.
"Yerself? Really? Thaht's....thaht's a new one."
"You can'ts jerks off to yourself!"
"I dunno, Nathan. Thath's a little gay, man. I mean, it ish shtill a dude."
"You can'ts jerks off to yourself!" Toki repeated vehemently.
Skwisgaar nodded. "Toki's right. You can'ts be jerkings off to yourself. Is not allowed."
"Says who?" Great, now I have to defend this fucked up position.
Skwisgaar cast a pitying glance on him, making him want to smash the Swede's face in. "Nathans....why don't you tells me dat you need help with da ladies?" He yawned, "I can instructs you in da ways of da womens."
"Because I don't need help. Now fuck off."
"Of course you needs help. You ams nots...beautiful."
"Beautiful?" Nathan leveled Skwisgaar's bored look back at him. "Fuck being beautiful. Being beautiful isn't fucking metal."
Skwisgaar affected his "nihilist waxing poetical" tone. "Okay maybe, but in dis world there ams da haves, and da have-nots."
"Meaning?"
"Meanings if you donts haves it, you ams doomed to inferior sex life. Think about it."
Nathan didn't want to think about it. He had accepted the fact years ago that he probably would never have what he truly wanted, but that didn't mean it burned any less. Hearing the outcome of all his desires be summed up through Skwisgaar's point of view made him want to be buried alive.
In a moment of typical insecurity, Murderface faltered. "If you don't have it, how do you get it?"
Skwisgaar just shrugged. "Hows do I knows? I...don'ts have dat problem. Maybe plasticks surgery? Or smokings cigarettes?"
"You can'ts plasticks surgery confidence and inners beauty! Plasticks surgery ams not metal!"
There was a chorus of agreements to match the fizz and pop of new beer bottles being opened.
"Ja," Skwisgaar said, "it ams not metal. Neither ams jerkings it thinkings about yourself."
The arguments stopped. The World's Fastest Guitarist, it seemed, did have a point.
"Sho you're shaying our options are be beautiful, shmoke, or get plashtic shurgery?"
Skwisgaar went back to fingering his guitar, a sign that his participation in the group discussion was coming to an end. "Dat's what I'm saying."
"Who's getting plastic surgery?"
The easy-going band banter ground to a halt with the entrance of Dethklok's officious manager, Charles Offdensen. He took his seat at the head of the table, posture suspicious, no doubt steeling himself for a possible new "idea" from the band.
Of course, with the arrival of Offdensen came the arrival of the painful thudding in Nathan's chest, something he had learned to somewhat stifle during the daylight hours long ago. Not making eye contact helped, as did hiding behind a curtain of dark hair.
"Seriously, which one of you is thinking about plastic surgery?"
"Nathans."
The manager's calm face slipped, features contorting into a mask of near surprise. "Excuse me? What?" He whirled his head to Nathan. "Is he serious, Nathan? Why would you do that?"
"Because he ams not beautiful. Ands he ams jerkings-"
Nathan silenced him with a single glare, managing to mumble a nonsensical response. The others thankfully fell in line and shut the fuck up. Discussing sex and tits was one thing, but talking about jerking off details in front of their manager was something that was rarely done. It was kind of like talking about masturbation in front of a parent.
Offdensen only stared at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "But I don't understand. Why do you think you need...." He trailed off, looking about as baffled as a control freak ever could.
Nathan was not the most perceptive man, yet even he could tell there was something....weird about their manager's reaction. His gut clenched harder at the scrutiny as he searched for something to say beyond a grunt.
"I'm sure millions of female fans would disagree, Nathan. I really don't think this is, ah, something that you should consider. Something could go wrong. You could be scarred or disfigured. Many male celebrities who get plastic surgery end up looking ridiculous. It could ruin your image. You look.....you look fine as is."
"I, uhhhhh..."
Pickles snapped out of his drunken haze long enough to pick up on one word. "Dood, scahrs are cool."
And just like that, Nathan was off the hook as his manager lost control of the conversation.
"Scars ams pretty metal."
"No they're not, guys. If the press sees surgery scars, they'll rip you apart."
"Yers is metal. Or it was until is disappeared. What happened to dat scahr anyways, Ahfdensen? Get rid of it with plastic surgery?"
Offdensen's eyes shone with that calmly murderous look that he reserved just for Pickles. "If you must know, I'm covering it with makeup. It presents a more professional image. Nathan doesn't need plastic surgery. None of you do."
"What about hish nose?"
"Oh fuck you, Murderface," Nathan said. "Like you're one to talk."
"Yeah, and what about his, ya know, mid-section." Pickles wagged his eyebrows. "Can't you like, cut dat ahf? What's dat called?"
"Liposkuktion!" Toki supplied helpfully.
"Enough! He doesn't need his nose fixed. He doesn't need liposuction. This is absurd. He looks fine the way he is."
Nathan sucked in a breath, puzzled. Offdensen never acted like this. Their manager seemed genuinely bothered. Nathan had seen him annoyed, sure. Even irritated. But never bothered. It was probably as close to passionate as the man ever got.
With that intense stare, Nathan fed off something he'd long desired and never got sick of. Something that he coveted more than any groupie, or even one hundred beers. The unwavering attention of Charles Foster Offdensen. He didn't know what was making the lawyer act this way, but holy fuck did he want more of it.
"That's it." Finding his courage again, Nathan kicked away his chair and pulled himself up to full impressive stature as he boomed in his deepest voice. "We're going to the plastic sturgeon...or doctor guy. Whatever."
He gave his lawyer his best "you work for me and I want this" look before storming out of the room, making up his mind to drink through his confusion until then.
Less than a week later found Nathan Explosion in the revoltingly plastic and peppy city of Beverly Hills, standing in front of the Borknagar Beautification Center. The facility had an excellent reputation for cosmetic surgery, having sculpted some of the most perfect and recognizable celebrity faces in the world.
Not that Nathan really gave a fuck. He had insisted on the stupid trip for one reason only, to consume a reaction from the man who stood to his left. The normally unflappable Charles Offdensen, currently displaying more emotion than Nathan had ever seen. Not obviously, of course, but his brow was furrowed deeper than usual, and his colorless voice had an almost desperate quality to it.
"I still don't understand why we're here, Nathan...." He continued, blathering on with words containing too many syllables.
Nathan still found the lawyer's reaction a mystery. Why did he care what he looked like? Money, right? It had to be money. Or the effect on record sales. Or some bullshit business reason. It had to be. Offdensen didn't actually care what he looked like, did he?
Did he?
Skwisgaar had opted out of the whole trip, citing the idea as "dildos", even though it had been his. Pickles had expressed an interest, but had passed out before the Dethkopter was ready. That left only Toki and Murderface in attendance.
"Are there gonna be any Wesht Hollywood shluts here?" Murderface's question was punctuated by an artful flick of a lighter, followed by a deep drag off a cigarette.
Offdensen was unimpressed. "You're smoking cigarettes now? Is that what this is?"
Murderface exhaled in his face. "Yesh."
"Why?"
"A robot wouldn't undershtand. It'sh all about having 'it'".
"It? I see." Offdensen had a talent for speaking volumes of barely concealed impatience and disgust with a few simple words.
Nathan grabbed his arm, wanting the attention back where it belonged. "C'mon, let's go inside."
The reception area was oppressively white, and sterile enough to choke the macabre out of any self-respecting metalhead. Along the walls hung pictures of mouth-wateringly gorgeous men and women engaged in various social situations. Each photo touted an insidious caption such as "Be Who You Are on the Inside" and "The Real You, Through and Through."
Reading was never his strong suit, so Nathan barely noticed them as he stalked to the front desk and loomed over the stunning receptionist.
"We're Dethklok. We have an appointment."
"Of course. Let me get one of the doctors for you." She pointed an accusing finger at Murderface. "This is a medical facility. You'll have to put that out."
After she left the room Murderface just snorted, then coughed as smoke came out of his nose. "What an iche queen."
"She's no nice lady. Why ams she not smiling?"
Offdensen pinched the bridge of his nose. "She probably can't smile, Toki. She probably hasn't had a facial expression since 2007. Nathan, I don't see why-"
He was cut off when one of the doctors entered the room. The man was striking. Tall and evenly tanned with his facial features in perfect proportion to each other. Although he looked to be of an older albeit indeterminate age, his hair was thick without a gray in sight. He flashed a saccharine, plastic smile to reveal a mouth full of impeccable veneers. So yeah basically, Nathan thought, a total fuckin' chode.
"Hi, boys, I'm Doctor Chadwick Kensington. It's an honor to have Dethklok here for a consultation yet sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put out that cigarette. This is a medical facility."
Murderface wasn't having it. "Umm..hello? We're Dethklok. We can shmoke were we want."
Nathan simply grabbed the man by his white coat. "He's right. We're Dethklok so, like, show me how you'd make me look better." To his dark delight, Offdensen's frown deepened.
Dr. Kensington was clearly used to less metal celebrities, and unsure how to react to the giant frontman's lack of people skills. "Yes, well, um, right this way, sir."
He led them into another sterile room with an impressive computer system. "This is our digital imaging center. We use it try out different looks on our clients before they commit to anything."
"Whoa! You can do surgery with that thing that's not permanent?"
"Um, no, Mr. Explosion. It's not surgery."
"You mean the computer changesh your face without shurgery? Incredible!"
"No, Mr. Murderface, it's just a picture. Here, let me show you."
He picked up a camera that was wired to the computer and snapped a picture of Toki. The guitarist's face was soon on the screen and with a few keystrokes Toki's facial hair was removed, making him appear even younger than usual.
"Wowee!"
"See? With this software we can see what you'd look like with different features. Is there anything you'd like to try?"
"Gives to me better cheekbones."
"There you go. Anything else?"
Toki continued with a litany of instructions. A sharper nose. Better lips. A more chiseled bone structure. The more he talked, the more the face on the screen looked strangely familiar, although Nathan couldn't figure out why.
"Gives to me blue eyes like ice."
Offdensen's eyebrows shot up. "That's, ah, that's great, Toki. Maybe we should continue the tour."
Toki cast a guilty glance at the others before putting his head down and whispering, "Blondes hair...."
Now the face on the screen definitely looked familiar. Murderface pursed his lips and scratched his head, as though he was trying to figure it out too. It irked Nathan that he couldn't quite place what was so off about the whole thing. Why do I know that guy?
Offdensen cleared his throat and began ushering all of them out of the room. "Anyway, boys, moving on."
"Very well," Dr. Kensington said. "Mr. Explosion, I can perform your consultation now. The rest of you gentleman may continue the tour with my assistant."
Offdensen motioned for the two bodyguards in attendance to follow Toki and the still-smoking Murderface. He remained with Nathan, as was common when the group split up in public. He always remained with Nathan, just another flimsy fact that bolstered the singer's nighttime fantasies.
"Mr. Explosion," the doctor began when they were in the privacy of his office, "the world of celebrity appearance is more cutthroat and brutal than a Hong Kong cockfight. Any evidence of aging or facial uniqueness is viewed as a defect and must be eradicated if one's career is to remain at its peak. Now I'm a board certified plastic surgeon who..."
He continued with a mindless drone of self-congratulatory, complicated words that Nathan wouldn't have understood even if he had been listening. Instead his attention was fixed on the reactions of his manager, who stood aloof with his arms crossed and mouth twisted in a grave frown.
The doctor began indicating to Nathan's face with his capped pen. "I'd start with an eyelid surgery. Right off the bat that will make you appear at least 5 years younger. A facelift and neck shrinking procedure would remove some of the bulk around your face. For those lines on your forehead I'd start with filler made from the toxin of the rare South Amazonian pufferfish. You don't have sensitive nerve endings, do you?"
"Uhh.."
"I'd siphon the fat from your stomach and inject it into your lips. It goes without saying, of course, that we'd do a rhinoplasty."
"Enough!"
And for the first time in almost a decade of knowing him, Nathan heard Charles Offdensen raise his voice.
"Enough this is absurd! My client does not need these ludicrous procedures. He's the frontman of a metal bad, he's supposed to look rugged and imposing!"
Nathan's heart stopped. No matter how many times he experienced it, hearing Offdensen defend him just never got fucking old.
The lawyer only needed a second to collect himself before he continued in a much calmer, icier tone. "You're a charlatan. How's your record, Dr. Kensington? You don't have anything from your past that you'd like to keep a secret, would you? It would be a shame to ruin such a sterling reputation."
Nathan could see that gleeful glint light in Offdensen's eyes that only appeared when he was threatening someone. Why is that so hot?
"This was clearly a mistake. We're leaving. If you ever make any attempt to contact my client regarding this appointment again, you'll wind up in court faster than you can say malpractice. And besides..." the lawyer absently straightened his tie and sniffed haughtily, as though about to deliver the final coup de grâce of litigation, "some people like a masculine nose."
If Nathan Explosion had remembered to breathe, he might have had the mental wherewithal to recognize that Offdensen was outright denying him something that he had wanted, an action rarely done. Instead he could feel the tightening in his chest, the southward rush of all the blood in his head and lungs. The sudden smell of thick smoke. Wait....what the fuck?
Dr. Kensington had the good sense to appear intimidated. His hands shook as he uttered a terse "I think you gentleman had better go", and yanked open the door to his office.
Unfortunately for the pompous plastic surgeon he was greeted not by an empty hallway but by a giant fireball, ripping its way toward him with explosive force. The man was blown through the wall onto the street outside. The entire room was bathed in fire.
Ever one to move quickly in a crisis, Offdensen grabbed Nathan's arm and pulled him through the hole in the wall, leading them both to the relative safety of the streets. He was on his phone immediately.
"Yes. Yes. Smoking and cheaply imported oxygen tanks don't mix. Are Toki and Murderface okay? Very good. Come pick us up behind the building and watch out for.....fireballs." He turned to Nathan. “It seems that Murderface smoked too close to the oxygenated areas.”
Nathan was more interested in staring at the charred remains of Dr. Kensington. ""Whoa. Brutal Hamburger Time. That could've been us."
"You weren't really gonna do it, were you?" The question was small, quiet.
"What, surgery? Nah. It was, you know, just a thought. But it's definitely not metal."
"That's good, Nathan. You, ah, definitely don't need it."
Offdensen still had his fingers wrapped around Nathan's forearm from pulling him out of the building, as if he was loathe to let go.
Aside from fantasy jackoff permission, Nathan had never been able to sort out how he felt about his manager. Sometimes the eviscerating nature of the whole situation made Nathan want to punch Offdensen in the jaw. Sometimes he found himself mocking the smaller man mercilessly, as though schoolyard teasing could make up for something he couldn’t understand.
Yet this time, with fire raging near them and the scent of death hanging in the air, this time Nathan could only watch. Watch as the lawyer's deadly, slender fingers moved seemingly on their own accord, sliding up the singer's bicep to gently push a long strand of inky black hair out of his face. The usual stern look was there, burning into Nathan hotter than the flames at his back, but there was something else this time. A softness around his eyes. A slight quirk to those gravely serious lips. Something almost resembling true affection.
The hand remained, resting lightly on his cheek. And in that instant, Nathan Explosion had never been more certain of anything in his life. Holy fuck, he's gonna kiss me.
"Nathan, look I-"
Whatever Offdensen had planned on saying was interrupted by a blood-curdling shriek. From the blazing ruins of the cosmetic surgery office emerged the once stunning receptionist, now wailing and staggering in pain as she clutched fruitlessly at her burning hair. Her designer clothes were on fire, her face melting in a horrible parody of pulchritude.
She ran blindly at Nathan.
Offdensen never missed a beat. He delicately removed his hand from Nathan's face, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him out of the way before he could react. The woman stumbled past them, tripped over the curb, and collapsed in a ball of flames.
Her implants exploded, splattering Offdensen's perfectly tailored pants with hot silicone.
"Well," he said, grimacing at his ruined garment but remaining nonplussed. "There you go."
"Uhhh....yeah." Nathan was at a loss for words, deeply disappointed as Klokateers started arriving. Fuck.
Offdensen barked orders, and then the Dethkopter could be heard landing a few blocks away. The moment, it appeared, was ruined. Now only a confusing memory to be made into a brutal song about missed chances and erupting implants.
"C'mon, Nathan," Offdensen's hand was on his upper arm again, steering him away from the carnage. "Let's go home."
And although it wasn't very metal or dignified, Nathan allowed himself to be led back to the Dethkopter, secretly relishing the feel of Charles' hand on his bicep the entire time.
The End
Author(s): lilac28
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Nathan/Charles
Summary: Nathan begins to suspect that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Murderface takes up smoking.
Rating: R
Warning(s): Some dirty talk and fantasies, some lulz, very minor OCs meeting their unfortunate ends
Word Count: ~4,400
Disclaimer: I don’t own Metalocalypse, but I sure think it’s funny
Authors Notes Set somewhere in the middle of Season 3, which I thought resumed with new episodes this weekend. I just learned today that I was wrong. How disappointing.
By the time Nathan Explosion had reached his late twenties, he had given himself permission to masturbate to thoughts of his robotic yet brutal manager, Charles Foster Offdensen.
It had been an incredible relief, to just come clean with himself. To stop pretending like it wasn't the lawyer's sharp features that invaded all his fevered imaginings. To admit that the man who badgered, annoyed, and protected him also turned him on to no fucking end.
He found that he didn't even feel different, which was awesome. If anything he felt more like himself. When he took himself in hand and conjured up images of what lay under the boring suit, everything made a strange sort of sense. Sure he could still get it up for women, still felt metal. Once he got over the initial bout of shame, he couldn't even keep up any self-hatred.
Not that Nathan would ever, ever tell the fucking guys about his desires. Although he was okay with the whole thing at night, he never dared to seek advice from anyone during the day. He learned to live with it, like he learned to live with annoying fans and tabloids lambasting him for being fat. A longing that had lasted now for years, no doubt the cause of why his right arm was so well developed.
It hadn't taken long for Offdensen, or Charles at night, to make more and more appearances in Nathan's sultry fantasies. By the time he had reached his early thirties, the lawyer had carved out a starring role.
Tonight's fantasy saw Charles on his back, legs hooked over Nathan's powerful forearms. Piercing eyes closed behind the glasses, his breath was beginning to hitch in short, desperate gasps. That normally sure, monotone voice was now fractured, almost naked. Exposing so much more of Charles for Nathan to devour. With teeth and sweat and his cock buried in that perfect ass.
"Nath-oh God, don't stop. Harder....fuck..."
He always tried his best to keep Fantasy Charles somewhat in character. Fantasy Charles never threw himself at Nathan. He never behaved like a groupie. He was still tightly wound and all business. If he pleaded, it was through ground teeth as he was on the verge of unraveling. Nathan simply relished the idea of Charles wanting him, in a realistic way. It could happen. There had been signs, right?
He always felt that Offdensen treated him differently than the rest of Dethklok, or anyone else for that matter. He spoke to Nathan in an easier manner, as if he were more comfortable talking to him than anyone else in the world. That had to count for something. Also, on more than one occasion he had caught the lawyer staring when there were groupies present. Really staring at him with a stormy, brutal look so intense it could have melted steel.
Sure, he might have imagined it. But it could have been fucking real too.
Wanting it real didn't prevent him from taking certain.....artistic licenses. He didn't really know where Offdensen liked to be touched or if he groomed his pubes, so these and other details changed more frequently than Skwisgaar's bedmates. One thing that often remained the same was Fantasy Charles' tendency to talk about his impending climax, to babble helplessly as he was about to come. Tonight, of course, was no different.
"Please, Nathan...justlikethat. Fuck..I'm gonna...."
Nathan imagined slender fingers knotting in his hair as he worked himself on his gigantic bed. His body tightened. So good. So good and he didn't fucking care about anything as the first flutters of pleasure started to spiral and a spent Fantasy Charles urged him on. When he really got into it like this, he could pretend that his massive hand was Charles' lithe body. That he finally possessed what he truly wanted.
He was so into it that he didn't hear his door open, didn't hear someone stumble into the room.
"Heeeey, Nat'n you wanna take me onna vahdka run? Think I'm too drunk ta drive an I.....oh, dood."
Pickles stood in his stained underwear in the middle of the room, shock and amusement warring on his face. Nathan was far too close to the edge to be anything but royally fucking pissed off at the interruption. His hand stopped moving, but didn't stray from his crotch.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh....Pickles?"
"Yeah, dood, whoa, I....sahrry. I didn't realize you were...ya know....sahrry...."
Despite his slurring apology, Pickles remained where he was. His eyes were rooted on the scene in front of him, one pierced eyebrow arching upwards more than normal.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"
Pickles turned and stumbled out with a snicker, leaving Nathan to a blissful finish as he bucked hard into his hand, hot come splattering his stomach. Although only his own masculine grunts filled the room, he still heard the filthy crooning of the satisfied lawyer in his mind.
Catching each other naked, fucking, or even occasionally jerking off wasn't that unusual for the close-knit members of Dethklok. Thus when Nathan arrived at a band meeting the next day, he wasn't particularly surprised or embarrassed to find four sets of eyes leering at him wickedly.
"Sahrry about last night, Nat'n," Pickles began, "I was jest a little drunk,"
"Yeah, thanks for just standing there and staring," Nathan rumbled, quickly adding a "queer" to throw off anyone who might have suspected he was thinking about a guy at the time.
Murderface had the rare decency to step up to his defense. "Jeezy, Picklesh, a guy can't even pull it in hish own house with you shtaring?"
"He was tha one who jest kept goin'!"
"Pfft...mastications," Skwisgaar scoffed. "Pathetic. You couldn'ts finds no ladies?"
Nathan was instantly uncomfortable. "I just wanted to be alone and go to fuckin' sleep. What's so bad about that?"
"Nothings if you ams Murderface and can'ts gets laid for your life-saving contracts."
"Hey!"
"Oh right, like you've never jerked ahff, Skwisgaar."
The blond shrugged his shoulders and continued to finger his guitar, looking bored. "Why woulds I? Don't needs to."
"So you never jerk off? Like, uh, never?" Nathan said.
Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Maybe sometimes, for kinky stuff or showings da ladies how to be doings it right." He looked at Nathan, chuckling. "But I don'ts needs helps in dat department place."
"Fuck you, I don't either!"
"You ams such a liar, Skwisgaar! Jerkings off not just for practice sex! Is for relaxings and fantasies too."
"Dat's true. Whaht were you thinkin' about, anyway? You were really gettin' into it." Pickles' eyes bored into him, full of sinister curiosity.
Nathan's stomach dropped. "Uhhhhh....that's kinda a personal question, Pickles..."
Toki all but squealed. "He turns red! Now you gots ta tell us!"
Nathan Explosion was never very good at thinking on his feet. Later, when struggling to reflect upon the situation, he kicked himself for not just throwing out a female name. Any name. Or just telling them it was none of their fucking business. Or throwing the table and storming out. Instead he panicked, shaken by the terrifying thought that the rest of them knew. That he had somehow broadcasted his secret desire to see Offdensen's prim little mouth stuffed with his cock.
Desperate to throw them off, he blurted out the first thing that entered his slowly shuffling mind. "Um, myself."
The table erupted.
"Yerself? Really? Thaht's....thaht's a new one."
"You can'ts jerks off to yourself!"
"I dunno, Nathan. Thath's a little gay, man. I mean, it ish shtill a dude."
"You can'ts jerks off to yourself!" Toki repeated vehemently.
Skwisgaar nodded. "Toki's right. You can'ts be jerkings off to yourself. Is not allowed."
"Says who?" Great, now I have to defend this fucked up position.
Skwisgaar cast a pitying glance on him, making him want to smash the Swede's face in. "Nathans....why don't you tells me dat you need help with da ladies?" He yawned, "I can instructs you in da ways of da womens."
"Because I don't need help. Now fuck off."
"Of course you needs help. You ams nots...beautiful."
"Beautiful?" Nathan leveled Skwisgaar's bored look back at him. "Fuck being beautiful. Being beautiful isn't fucking metal."
Skwisgaar affected his "nihilist waxing poetical" tone. "Okay maybe, but in dis world there ams da haves, and da have-nots."
"Meaning?"
"Meanings if you donts haves it, you ams doomed to inferior sex life. Think about it."
Nathan didn't want to think about it. He had accepted the fact years ago that he probably would never have what he truly wanted, but that didn't mean it burned any less. Hearing the outcome of all his desires be summed up through Skwisgaar's point of view made him want to be buried alive.
In a moment of typical insecurity, Murderface faltered. "If you don't have it, how do you get it?"
Skwisgaar just shrugged. "Hows do I knows? I...don'ts have dat problem. Maybe plasticks surgery? Or smokings cigarettes?"
"You can'ts plasticks surgery confidence and inners beauty! Plasticks surgery ams not metal!"
There was a chorus of agreements to match the fizz and pop of new beer bottles being opened.
"Ja," Skwisgaar said, "it ams not metal. Neither ams jerkings it thinkings about yourself."
The arguments stopped. The World's Fastest Guitarist, it seemed, did have a point.
"Sho you're shaying our options are be beautiful, shmoke, or get plashtic shurgery?"
Skwisgaar went back to fingering his guitar, a sign that his participation in the group discussion was coming to an end. "Dat's what I'm saying."
"Who's getting plastic surgery?"
The easy-going band banter ground to a halt with the entrance of Dethklok's officious manager, Charles Offdensen. He took his seat at the head of the table, posture suspicious, no doubt steeling himself for a possible new "idea" from the band.
Of course, with the arrival of Offdensen came the arrival of the painful thudding in Nathan's chest, something he had learned to somewhat stifle during the daylight hours long ago. Not making eye contact helped, as did hiding behind a curtain of dark hair.
"Seriously, which one of you is thinking about plastic surgery?"
"Nathans."
The manager's calm face slipped, features contorting into a mask of near surprise. "Excuse me? What?" He whirled his head to Nathan. "Is he serious, Nathan? Why would you do that?"
"Because he ams not beautiful. Ands he ams jerkings-"
Nathan silenced him with a single glare, managing to mumble a nonsensical response. The others thankfully fell in line and shut the fuck up. Discussing sex and tits was one thing, but talking about jerking off details in front of their manager was something that was rarely done. It was kind of like talking about masturbation in front of a parent.
Offdensen only stared at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "But I don't understand. Why do you think you need...." He trailed off, looking about as baffled as a control freak ever could.
Nathan was not the most perceptive man, yet even he could tell there was something....weird about their manager's reaction. His gut clenched harder at the scrutiny as he searched for something to say beyond a grunt.
"I'm sure millions of female fans would disagree, Nathan. I really don't think this is, ah, something that you should consider. Something could go wrong. You could be scarred or disfigured. Many male celebrities who get plastic surgery end up looking ridiculous. It could ruin your image. You look.....you look fine as is."
"I, uhhhhh..."
Pickles snapped out of his drunken haze long enough to pick up on one word. "Dood, scahrs are cool."
And just like that, Nathan was off the hook as his manager lost control of the conversation.
"Scars ams pretty metal."
"No they're not, guys. If the press sees surgery scars, they'll rip you apart."
"Yers is metal. Or it was until is disappeared. What happened to dat scahr anyways, Ahfdensen? Get rid of it with plastic surgery?"
Offdensen's eyes shone with that calmly murderous look that he reserved just for Pickles. "If you must know, I'm covering it with makeup. It presents a more professional image. Nathan doesn't need plastic surgery. None of you do."
"What about hish nose?"
"Oh fuck you, Murderface," Nathan said. "Like you're one to talk."
"Yeah, and what about his, ya know, mid-section." Pickles wagged his eyebrows. "Can't you like, cut dat ahf? What's dat called?"
"Liposkuktion!" Toki supplied helpfully.
"Enough! He doesn't need his nose fixed. He doesn't need liposuction. This is absurd. He looks fine the way he is."
Nathan sucked in a breath, puzzled. Offdensen never acted like this. Their manager seemed genuinely bothered. Nathan had seen him annoyed, sure. Even irritated. But never bothered. It was probably as close to passionate as the man ever got.
With that intense stare, Nathan fed off something he'd long desired and never got sick of. Something that he coveted more than any groupie, or even one hundred beers. The unwavering attention of Charles Foster Offdensen. He didn't know what was making the lawyer act this way, but holy fuck did he want more of it.
"That's it." Finding his courage again, Nathan kicked away his chair and pulled himself up to full impressive stature as he boomed in his deepest voice. "We're going to the plastic sturgeon...or doctor guy. Whatever."
He gave his lawyer his best "you work for me and I want this" look before storming out of the room, making up his mind to drink through his confusion until then.
Less than a week later found Nathan Explosion in the revoltingly plastic and peppy city of Beverly Hills, standing in front of the Borknagar Beautification Center. The facility had an excellent reputation for cosmetic surgery, having sculpted some of the most perfect and recognizable celebrity faces in the world.
Not that Nathan really gave a fuck. He had insisted on the stupid trip for one reason only, to consume a reaction from the man who stood to his left. The normally unflappable Charles Offdensen, currently displaying more emotion than Nathan had ever seen. Not obviously, of course, but his brow was furrowed deeper than usual, and his colorless voice had an almost desperate quality to it.
"I still don't understand why we're here, Nathan...." He continued, blathering on with words containing too many syllables.
Nathan still found the lawyer's reaction a mystery. Why did he care what he looked like? Money, right? It had to be money. Or the effect on record sales. Or some bullshit business reason. It had to be. Offdensen didn't actually care what he looked like, did he?
Did he?
Skwisgaar had opted out of the whole trip, citing the idea as "dildos", even though it had been his. Pickles had expressed an interest, but had passed out before the Dethkopter was ready. That left only Toki and Murderface in attendance.
"Are there gonna be any Wesht Hollywood shluts here?" Murderface's question was punctuated by an artful flick of a lighter, followed by a deep drag off a cigarette.
Offdensen was unimpressed. "You're smoking cigarettes now? Is that what this is?"
Murderface exhaled in his face. "Yesh."
"Why?"
"A robot wouldn't undershtand. It'sh all about having 'it'".
"It? I see." Offdensen had a talent for speaking volumes of barely concealed impatience and disgust with a few simple words.
Nathan grabbed his arm, wanting the attention back where it belonged. "C'mon, let's go inside."
The reception area was oppressively white, and sterile enough to choke the macabre out of any self-respecting metalhead. Along the walls hung pictures of mouth-wateringly gorgeous men and women engaged in various social situations. Each photo touted an insidious caption such as "Be Who You Are on the Inside" and "The Real You, Through and Through."
Reading was never his strong suit, so Nathan barely noticed them as he stalked to the front desk and loomed over the stunning receptionist.
"We're Dethklok. We have an appointment."
"Of course. Let me get one of the doctors for you." She pointed an accusing finger at Murderface. "This is a medical facility. You'll have to put that out."
After she left the room Murderface just snorted, then coughed as smoke came out of his nose. "What an iche queen."
"She's no nice lady. Why ams she not smiling?"
Offdensen pinched the bridge of his nose. "She probably can't smile, Toki. She probably hasn't had a facial expression since 2007. Nathan, I don't see why-"
He was cut off when one of the doctors entered the room. The man was striking. Tall and evenly tanned with his facial features in perfect proportion to each other. Although he looked to be of an older albeit indeterminate age, his hair was thick without a gray in sight. He flashed a saccharine, plastic smile to reveal a mouth full of impeccable veneers. So yeah basically, Nathan thought, a total fuckin' chode.
"Hi, boys, I'm Doctor Chadwick Kensington. It's an honor to have Dethklok here for a consultation yet sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put out that cigarette. This is a medical facility."
Murderface wasn't having it. "Umm..hello? We're Dethklok. We can shmoke were we want."
Nathan simply grabbed the man by his white coat. "He's right. We're Dethklok so, like, show me how you'd make me look better." To his dark delight, Offdensen's frown deepened.
Dr. Kensington was clearly used to less metal celebrities, and unsure how to react to the giant frontman's lack of people skills. "Yes, well, um, right this way, sir."
He led them into another sterile room with an impressive computer system. "This is our digital imaging center. We use it try out different looks on our clients before they commit to anything."
"Whoa! You can do surgery with that thing that's not permanent?"
"Um, no, Mr. Explosion. It's not surgery."
"You mean the computer changesh your face without shurgery? Incredible!"
"No, Mr. Murderface, it's just a picture. Here, let me show you."
He picked up a camera that was wired to the computer and snapped a picture of Toki. The guitarist's face was soon on the screen and with a few keystrokes Toki's facial hair was removed, making him appear even younger than usual.
"Wowee!"
"See? With this software we can see what you'd look like with different features. Is there anything you'd like to try?"
"Gives to me better cheekbones."
"There you go. Anything else?"
Toki continued with a litany of instructions. A sharper nose. Better lips. A more chiseled bone structure. The more he talked, the more the face on the screen looked strangely familiar, although Nathan couldn't figure out why.
"Gives to me blue eyes like ice."
Offdensen's eyebrows shot up. "That's, ah, that's great, Toki. Maybe we should continue the tour."
Toki cast a guilty glance at the others before putting his head down and whispering, "Blondes hair...."
Now the face on the screen definitely looked familiar. Murderface pursed his lips and scratched his head, as though he was trying to figure it out too. It irked Nathan that he couldn't quite place what was so off about the whole thing. Why do I know that guy?
Offdensen cleared his throat and began ushering all of them out of the room. "Anyway, boys, moving on."
"Very well," Dr. Kensington said. "Mr. Explosion, I can perform your consultation now. The rest of you gentleman may continue the tour with my assistant."
Offdensen motioned for the two bodyguards in attendance to follow Toki and the still-smoking Murderface. He remained with Nathan, as was common when the group split up in public. He always remained with Nathan, just another flimsy fact that bolstered the singer's nighttime fantasies.
"Mr. Explosion," the doctor began when they were in the privacy of his office, "the world of celebrity appearance is more cutthroat and brutal than a Hong Kong cockfight. Any evidence of aging or facial uniqueness is viewed as a defect and must be eradicated if one's career is to remain at its peak. Now I'm a board certified plastic surgeon who..."
He continued with a mindless drone of self-congratulatory, complicated words that Nathan wouldn't have understood even if he had been listening. Instead his attention was fixed on the reactions of his manager, who stood aloof with his arms crossed and mouth twisted in a grave frown.
The doctor began indicating to Nathan's face with his capped pen. "I'd start with an eyelid surgery. Right off the bat that will make you appear at least 5 years younger. A facelift and neck shrinking procedure would remove some of the bulk around your face. For those lines on your forehead I'd start with filler made from the toxin of the rare South Amazonian pufferfish. You don't have sensitive nerve endings, do you?"
"Uhh.."
"I'd siphon the fat from your stomach and inject it into your lips. It goes without saying, of course, that we'd do a rhinoplasty."
"Enough!"
And for the first time in almost a decade of knowing him, Nathan heard Charles Offdensen raise his voice.
"Enough this is absurd! My client does not need these ludicrous procedures. He's the frontman of a metal bad, he's supposed to look rugged and imposing!"
Nathan's heart stopped. No matter how many times he experienced it, hearing Offdensen defend him just never got fucking old.
The lawyer only needed a second to collect himself before he continued in a much calmer, icier tone. "You're a charlatan. How's your record, Dr. Kensington? You don't have anything from your past that you'd like to keep a secret, would you? It would be a shame to ruin such a sterling reputation."
Nathan could see that gleeful glint light in Offdensen's eyes that only appeared when he was threatening someone. Why is that so hot?
"This was clearly a mistake. We're leaving. If you ever make any attempt to contact my client regarding this appointment again, you'll wind up in court faster than you can say malpractice. And besides..." the lawyer absently straightened his tie and sniffed haughtily, as though about to deliver the final coup de grâce of litigation, "some people like a masculine nose."
If Nathan Explosion had remembered to breathe, he might have had the mental wherewithal to recognize that Offdensen was outright denying him something that he had wanted, an action rarely done. Instead he could feel the tightening in his chest, the southward rush of all the blood in his head and lungs. The sudden smell of thick smoke. Wait....what the fuck?
Dr. Kensington had the good sense to appear intimidated. His hands shook as he uttered a terse "I think you gentleman had better go", and yanked open the door to his office.
Unfortunately for the pompous plastic surgeon he was greeted not by an empty hallway but by a giant fireball, ripping its way toward him with explosive force. The man was blown through the wall onto the street outside. The entire room was bathed in fire.
Ever one to move quickly in a crisis, Offdensen grabbed Nathan's arm and pulled him through the hole in the wall, leading them both to the relative safety of the streets. He was on his phone immediately.
"Yes. Yes. Smoking and cheaply imported oxygen tanks don't mix. Are Toki and Murderface okay? Very good. Come pick us up behind the building and watch out for.....fireballs." He turned to Nathan. “It seems that Murderface smoked too close to the oxygenated areas.”
Nathan was more interested in staring at the charred remains of Dr. Kensington. ""Whoa. Brutal Hamburger Time. That could've been us."
"You weren't really gonna do it, were you?" The question was small, quiet.
"What, surgery? Nah. It was, you know, just a thought. But it's definitely not metal."
"That's good, Nathan. You, ah, definitely don't need it."
Offdensen still had his fingers wrapped around Nathan's forearm from pulling him out of the building, as if he was loathe to let go.
Aside from fantasy jackoff permission, Nathan had never been able to sort out how he felt about his manager. Sometimes the eviscerating nature of the whole situation made Nathan want to punch Offdensen in the jaw. Sometimes he found himself mocking the smaller man mercilessly, as though schoolyard teasing could make up for something he couldn’t understand.
Yet this time, with fire raging near them and the scent of death hanging in the air, this time Nathan could only watch. Watch as the lawyer's deadly, slender fingers moved seemingly on their own accord, sliding up the singer's bicep to gently push a long strand of inky black hair out of his face. The usual stern look was there, burning into Nathan hotter than the flames at his back, but there was something else this time. A softness around his eyes. A slight quirk to those gravely serious lips. Something almost resembling true affection.
The hand remained, resting lightly on his cheek. And in that instant, Nathan Explosion had never been more certain of anything in his life. Holy fuck, he's gonna kiss me.
"Nathan, look I-"
Whatever Offdensen had planned on saying was interrupted by a blood-curdling shriek. From the blazing ruins of the cosmetic surgery office emerged the once stunning receptionist, now wailing and staggering in pain as she clutched fruitlessly at her burning hair. Her designer clothes were on fire, her face melting in a horrible parody of pulchritude.
She ran blindly at Nathan.
Offdensen never missed a beat. He delicately removed his hand from Nathan's face, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him out of the way before he could react. The woman stumbled past them, tripped over the curb, and collapsed in a ball of flames.
Her implants exploded, splattering Offdensen's perfectly tailored pants with hot silicone.
"Well," he said, grimacing at his ruined garment but remaining nonplussed. "There you go."
"Uhhh....yeah." Nathan was at a loss for words, deeply disappointed as Klokateers started arriving. Fuck.
Offdensen barked orders, and then the Dethkopter could be heard landing a few blocks away. The moment, it appeared, was ruined. Now only a confusing memory to be made into a brutal song about missed chances and erupting implants.
"C'mon, Nathan," Offdensen's hand was on his upper arm again, steering him away from the carnage. "Let's go home."
And although it wasn't very metal or dignified, Nathan allowed himself to be led back to the Dethkopter, secretly relishing the feel of Charles' hand on his bicep the entire time.
The End