William Murderface listlessly flipped through the channels on the huge flat screen TV that hung suspended in the living room of Mordhaus. His hands were laced across his stomach, and his foot tapped out a beat on one of the floor-mounted channel changers they'd had installed recently. (Because who needed to go looking for the remote when you were a metal god?)
"How can there be a bazschillion fucking channels showing nothing but pissch!"
Procedural cop drama; nope.
Infomercial for Snuggie; double nope.
Reality program shown on music channel; no comment.
It was at least another 3 weeks till Dethklok's next concert, another 6 months before any sort of significant holiday, and it had been a few weeks since Nathan had tried to come up with a new song. The intense boredom was starting to wear on the entire band.
Murderface was affected especially, since he felt best when he was doing something he felt was important and constructive. If his boredom got too bad, his constructive tendencies turned into destructive tendencies and… well Charles Ofdensen was used to ordering new furniture, dishes and appliances.
He was too lethargic for anything like that right now though, and Murderface idly wondered where everyone else was. Just then he caught a sound wafting up from the hallway, low and keening and echoing off the stone walls.
"Ooooo…" It sounded like a really bad impression of a ghost. "Dooooood…."
Pickles.
Murderface sighed and turned his attention back to the TV. It was well known among the group that their drummer dealt with boredom by getting as high or drunk as he could, apparently reasoning that any altered state of mind he achieved would be more interesting than real life.
Pickles staggered into the living room, naked except for a pair of white socks and tighty whities, obligatory bottle of beer in tow. From the look of the contented smile on his face, Murderface assumed Pickles was in a much better place right now.
He made his way to the couch where Murderface was currently planted, accidentally stepping on a floor remote, and the TV screen changed to show some sort of soap opera.
"Aw Pickles, c'mon man. Schit down already." Reaching out, he grasped a thin wrist and pulled and smaller man towards the couch.
"Woah dude!" Pickles tripped over his feet in response to the sudden tug, and his head collided into the cushions leaving his legs dangling over Murderface's lap. The bottle in his hand dropped to the floor but it hardly had any liquid left. No harm done, that was what klokateers were for.
"Hey Picklesch, you think you could uhh… adjust yourschelf a little there? Your feet are kinda nexcht to my dick."
"Oh. Sarrhy." Pickles flipped over on the couch so he was on his back now, and wriggled his legs around on the bassists' thighs till he was comfortable again, letting out a satisfied sigh.
Murderface was going to say something about it again, push the pale naked legs off of him, something. But the red head looked so comfortable, he decided to allow it. If it were anyone else, he'd have probably stabbed them for rubbing their calves into his crotch, but he and the drummer had developed a certain level of intimacy over the years. It wasn't just the backrubs Pickles had become so famous for, but the little touches on the back or the arm, the way they had taken to sitting next to each other whenever possible, and the way their legs seemed to almost always touch when they did.
It didn't mean anything, Murderface would tell himself; lots of guys accidentally touched each other. Lots of guys gave each other back rubs, lots of guys lay around in each other laps.
It didn't mean they were gay or anything.
Suddenly Pickles let out a wet raspberry sound, gesturing toward the TV screen.
"Pssffttt ya call that a kiss? That's totahlly fake." The couple on the screen was locked in what was supposed to be a passionate embrace, dramatic music playing in the background.
'Oh Fernando… I always wanted to tell you… It's your baby!'
Murderface cocked on eyebrow and glanced down, silently wondering why they were even watching this show in the first place.
"Well, that'sch becaushe it isch, Picklesch. You schee, thisch is what'sch called a 'TV program' and-"
"You can totahlly tell there's no chemistry between those two, I mean jest look at 'em! He might as well be kissing a doornahb!"
His feathers ruffled at being interrupted, Murderface sighed and decided to humor the drunken man.
"Well, I don't know, they scheem pretty paschionate to me. And the chick'sch pretty hot."
"Yeah… she is pretty haht. I mean if ya like buttahfaces." Pickles snorted and giggled at his own joke, pale arm falling across his eyes.
Now that had just gone too far. It wasn't like Murderface was remotely interested in the program, but calling an obviously gorgeous lady a "butterface" was just wrong.
"Heh heh. Yeah well, I bet you couldn't do any better."
That shut him up for a minute. "W-Whaht? Are you sayin' I can't kiss or something?" Pickles sputtered like an angry motorbike for a moment, pushing himself up on his elbows. "I-I can kiss circles around that ghey!"
Murderface crossed his arms and shook his head. "I'll believe it when I schee it."
Suddenly, Pickles legs left his lap and the smaller man sat up, positioning himself on top of Murderface so his knees straddled the bassist's broad waist. His lithe torso pressed up against Murderfaces's stomach, his hands pushed wide shoulders into the soft couch as he brought his face very close.
Murderface panicked a little; this was a little too overtly gay for his liking. His immediate impulse was to push Pickles off, but that was currently at war in his mind with the sensation of being covered with a lap full of drunk, half naked, freckle skinned drummer.
They'd been close before, but not like this. He noticed the other man smelled not only like alcohol (which was a given) but also like some sort of sugary dessert. He wondered briefly if Pickles had been in Toki's candy supply.
But this had gone on too far, and he was just about to push against Pickles' chest, and then Pickles' mouth was on his.
Lips that were surprisingly soft latched onto his, suckling at his bottom lip gently. He tried desperately not to respond at first, to just keep still under the onslaught, because he knew that he could no longer fight Pickles away or escape from under him. Not with those long fingers burying themselves in his hair, and not with that tongue coming out and teasing and coaxing his own mouth open.
Oh god, not with him tasting like the same intoxicating sugar-booze smell he noticed before. Finally breaking, he stroked blunt fingers almost shyly up Pickles arms, marveling at how smooth his skin was, and then tangled them up in those fiery dreads.
The drummer rolled his hips, forcing Murderface to gasp into the kiss, realizing he was getting way more turned on by this than he meant to be.
But it was okay; guys drunk-kissed each other all the time, right? I didn't mean-
And then it was over. Pickles pushed himself up, looking down at Murderface with bright green eyes and a smug, crooked grin.
At this he collapsed off of the shocked guitarist and back onto the couch, toeing the floor controller to change the channel again.
"Hey, let's watch Jepahdy! I'm good at this one…"
Murderface sat, mouth still open and face furiously red, listening to Pickles joyously call out the wrong answers to the game show questions and trying to think of things to make his erection go back down.