charles foster offdensen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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encephalon2014-08-04 09:23 pm
dildosaurus) wrote in encephalon2014-08-04 09:23 pm
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the part where charles and asellus bang
[ The boys have their standards—ones that are only as high as Charles can help elevate them (he tries his best to procure for them disease-free and sane(ish) groupies but they're so determined to go over his head)—and so, too, does Charles have his. For the boys, sex is a matter of pointing into a throng of women congregated in an audience or outside Mordhaus and saying that one. Like picking out a lobster. They do this literally all the time; the department responsible for vetting Dethklok's prospective partners is very well paid and very busy. But Charles... Charles is different.
First of all, he doesn't indulge nearly so often. Not that he's averse, of course; Charles Ofdensen is a man who isn't shy about enjoying the fruits of his labor, but seldom is he in a position to prevent work from consuming all of his time and just as seldom does he risk the exposure of Mordhaus. See, the boys have their pick among... well, almost every woman in the world, but none of that would matter if they knew that Charles had chosen one for himself. They would badger, smother, stop at nothing to insinuate themselves into her life (and pants), childishly unable to handle the idea that something, for once, cannot be theirs. By now Charles knows that he will never marry, will never have children (mainly because the band has already occupied both roles); very little of Charles belongs to himself anymore, but what does he's learned to hold very close to the chest. He wants to pinch the bridge of his nose just thinking about the complications that would ensue.
And it would be complicated, because—and this is the second thing—while the boys may be willing to throw it in any hot chick who pulls off her top, Charles picks favorites and sticks with them. Trustworthy companionship is the hardest sort to find. You have to consider things like espionage, malicious intent, genuine crazies, or those who just have enough naivete to believe that it's possible to get a piece of Dethklok if they can get a piece of their manager first. You have to consider health history, reproductive opinions, the responsibilities that come with maintaining a certain level of confidentiality. You have to consider... whether they know how to carry on a decent conversation, their willingness to be whisked away across the globe on a somewhat irregular basis, whether they mind being left to languish in the lap of luxury while he chats up corporate reps, courts politicians, golfs with judges.
For the last year and a half, Asellus has been just that person. Their liaisons are infrequent—once a month would be too generous an estimate—but they make all the trips to London and Hong Kong and Abu Dhabi and Sao Paulo that much better. Asellus is simultaneously everything and nothing he would've expected: clever, brash, witty, with a shock of two-toned hair and a boyish slenderness that makes her look younger than she actually is. Damned strong. Amazing with her hands.
Of course he doesn't fool himself that theirs is a commodified relationship, predicated on a loose but very tangible exchange of favors: she goes through college and grad school if she chooses without paying a dime no matter when or if one of them chooses to end this, he gets a leisurely weekend or so with the company of a person with whom he doesn't have to negotiate for once (in part because they've already done that). He gives her a periodic taste of opulence few people can even fully comprehend and in return she gifts him with the strangeness of a warm body next to his.
They're in a palace of a suite encompassing the entire top floor of their high rise. It's Sydney again this time; Charles has to check in on Seth periodically. Ostensibly to meet with investors of various stripes, but mostly to make sure he hasn't royally fucked things up for being left to his own devices too long. It's often an ordeal. Charles understands why Pickles has tried to strangle him in the past, but Charles has cultivated a vast, vast reservoir of patience over the years and now his schedule is blissfully, alienly clear for the day. No doubt in one of the many rooms available, Asellus is nowhere to be seen as he sidles in. A soft rattle gets his attention: on the table nearest the foyer is a bottle stuck in the midst of the ice melting and shifting in its bucket, and as he sets aside his briefcase he wonders just who thought of that. ]
First of all, he doesn't indulge nearly so often. Not that he's averse, of course; Charles Ofdensen is a man who isn't shy about enjoying the fruits of his labor, but seldom is he in a position to prevent work from consuming all of his time and just as seldom does he risk the exposure of Mordhaus. See, the boys have their pick among... well, almost every woman in the world, but none of that would matter if they knew that Charles had chosen one for himself. They would badger, smother, stop at nothing to insinuate themselves into her life (and pants), childishly unable to handle the idea that something, for once, cannot be theirs. By now Charles knows that he will never marry, will never have children (mainly because the band has already occupied both roles); very little of Charles belongs to himself anymore, but what does he's learned to hold very close to the chest. He wants to pinch the bridge of his nose just thinking about the complications that would ensue.
And it would be complicated, because—and this is the second thing—while the boys may be willing to throw it in any hot chick who pulls off her top, Charles picks favorites and sticks with them. Trustworthy companionship is the hardest sort to find. You have to consider things like espionage, malicious intent, genuine crazies, or those who just have enough naivete to believe that it's possible to get a piece of Dethklok if they can get a piece of their manager first. You have to consider health history, reproductive opinions, the responsibilities that come with maintaining a certain level of confidentiality. You have to consider... whether they know how to carry on a decent conversation, their willingness to be whisked away across the globe on a somewhat irregular basis, whether they mind being left to languish in the lap of luxury while he chats up corporate reps, courts politicians, golfs with judges.
For the last year and a half, Asellus has been just that person. Their liaisons are infrequent—once a month would be too generous an estimate—but they make all the trips to London and Hong Kong and Abu Dhabi and Sao Paulo that much better. Asellus is simultaneously everything and nothing he would've expected: clever, brash, witty, with a shock of two-toned hair and a boyish slenderness that makes her look younger than she actually is. Damned strong. Amazing with her hands.
Of course he doesn't fool himself that theirs is a commodified relationship, predicated on a loose but very tangible exchange of favors: she goes through college and grad school if she chooses without paying a dime no matter when or if one of them chooses to end this, he gets a leisurely weekend or so with the company of a person with whom he doesn't have to negotiate for once (in part because they've already done that). He gives her a periodic taste of opulence few people can even fully comprehend and in return she gifts him with the strangeness of a warm body next to his.
They're in a palace of a suite encompassing the entire top floor of their high rise. It's Sydney again this time; Charles has to check in on Seth periodically. Ostensibly to meet with investors of various stripes, but mostly to make sure he hasn't royally fucked things up for being left to his own devices too long. It's often an ordeal. Charles understands why Pickles has tried to strangle him in the past, but Charles has cultivated a vast, vast reservoir of patience over the years and now his schedule is blissfully, alienly clear for the day. No doubt in one of the many rooms available, Asellus is nowhere to be seen as he sidles in. A soft rattle gets his attention: on the table nearest the foyer is a bottle stuck in the midst of the ice melting and shifting in its bucket, and as he sets aside his briefcase he wonders just who thought of that. ]