FIC: The Things We Make (Charles/Pickles, NC-17)
TO: jedipirate
FROM: skwisguarded
Title: The Things We Make
Pairing: Charles/Pickles
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, angst, more violence, BDSM, explicit sexual acts.
Summary: Do not piss off Charles.
Timeline: Season 3, post-"Dethhealth"
He's drunk, at the very least, when he walks into my office. That's not unusual for him, although I suspect this time he's on something else as well. He's been making his way here a lot, as of late, to the point where I just ignore him. He stumbles about the room, any sense of spatial perception lost to the bottom of a bottle. I sigh and put away the good lamps. I know he's going to break something, hell, it's only a matter of time until he loses his balance and falls.
The giggling heap of drummer I can easily ignore. He's curled up happily laughing to himself. I don't know what the joke is and I don't much care, as long as I can leave him to it and keep working. The plan is sound, I manage to block out his cries of "whoah!" as he tries to stand. I can even work through the dancing. It's when he climbs up on the desk that we have a problem.
"Pickles, will you get down from there please?"
"Nooooooo!" he wails.
"Pickles. My desk isn't made for, ah, standing on. Could you please get down?" I'm becoming irritated, and try not to let it show.
"I'm gonna daaance," he replies, which makes sense to him, evidently, but none to me. Slurring, nearly falling, he begins to roll his hips and thrust his crotch towards me.
I deliberately do not look up.
"Pickles," I tell him, more firmly this time. "Get your feet off my desk."
Any other day, I might have been able to deal with this. But it's late, and I've just finished taking care of another of William's little press junkets. That, and Dethklok managed to destroy half of Angkor Wat during a video shoot. So when Pickles drops to his knees, thudding onto my day planner and nearly destroying my phone, I find myself becoming unprofessionally annoyed.
"Get. Down." I bite the words out. It's past midnight, and there's still so much left to do. The last thing I need is a drugged up drunk thrusting his junk at me.
I attempt to stare him down. That's why I don't see the zipper being undone, only hear the telltale whirring. "Yeeeeah," he keens, whipping his cock out and showing it off. He slides his pants down his hips a little - no underwear, I see. A small corner of my mind wonders if the lack is due to peer pressure, because I've seen him in nothing but briefs often enough.
"I'm the best, I'm the greatest," he tells me confidently, shimmying so that his cock dances at me. "Pickles the doodily drumming doo doo doo," he mumbles to his jiggling cock. I do not need to see this.
"Boing, boing, boing!"
He's humping the air, delighting in the way his cock bounces with every thrust of his hips. I detest him, how he can just drink or smoke or snort everything away. The truth is, it wouldn't matter if he did it or not. It doesn't matter what he does, I'm the one who always has to clean it up.
I snap.
I whip my arm up and I grab the little firecrotch by his balls and squeeze. Hard. I don't need to see his cock bouncing in my face, that's not my job and he knows it. I want to clean up this mess of a lawsuit and go to bed.
It takes me a moment to realize that the strangled groan is not exactly one of pain. I can feel his balls contracting in my hand, and his cock is rising hard and hot in front of my face.
Damn. The bastard likes it.
I squeeze harder and I twist, wanting to see what will happen. I'm tired and I'm pissed off and there's a sadistic streak in me a mile wide. I have to know if I can break him.
He's panting and moaning, then he's falling forward onto me, bracing himself with one hand on my shoulder. His cock is too close to my face, so I backhand it viciously. I wish I had longer nails.... Wish I could make him bleed.
Hitting doesn't faze him though, not for a second; it only makes him moan and clutch at my shoulder. There are so many things I want to do to him right now, but my office is woefully ill equipped. I want to clamp tight leather around the base of that cock, I want to flog it with soft suede. I want to torture him with ice.
Instead I settle for gripping his cock with all the force I can muster. My grip is strong, his cock isn't small. I force another groan from his lips, pressing my thumb hard to the underside of his shaft, finding the vein at the base of the head. Running one woefully short nail over the sensitive area, I relish the feeling of it scraping the hot flesh.
He loves it. The bastard loves it. There's no way I could stop now even if I wanted to. Without lube, without even spit, I start to jack him hard and fast. This is as rough as it gets - and it's raw like his moans.
I can feel a wet spot forming in the front of my pants.
I jam my thumb hard into the slit at the tip of his cock. God, if I had a sounding rod right now I could make him scream my name for weeks. I don't have anything to shove in there except my thumb, so I work it roughly over the head of his cock. I'm calloused, he's smooth and sticky and leaking all over my papers.
The ruined files make me angrier, and the anger arouses me. Not that I wasn't before... I was. But it's the anger that truly speaks to me, saying, "I will break this man." I have every intention of making him scream in both pleasure and in pain. I take his swollen and tortured cock into my mouth, sucking too hard and using my teeth. Stopping to nip along the length. Raking my nails over his hips, I grip his balls. I claw and I crush. I want nothing more.
It doesn't take him long to come in my mouth and collapse onto me. I shove him to one side, letting him topple to the floor. I spit into the wastepaper bin. It's undignified, but he tastes of bourbon and I detest that cheap shit.
"Charlie..."
He's looking up at me from the floor, green eyes sad but lips curled into that familiar crooked grin.
"C'mere an' kiss me," he says.
I'm not sure I should. I'm too good at causing pain.
"Please?" he begs me. It's the first time he's begged tonight, and I'm tempted to ensure it's not the last. Pushing my chair back from the desk, I get up so I can stand over him. I glare down at his pathetic form, enforcing my dominance. Only then do I kneel and grab his shirt, twisting and lifting and dragging him to my face.
I kiss him hard. I bite. He doesn't hate it. His arms are around me, his clumsy fingers tugging at my shirt. No, no I can't let this happen... I pull back and slap him, as hard as I can. He'll bruise, I'm certain of it, but the pain comes too late to stop the hands that have already made their way to my skin. They've found the deep gouges that descend from my back to where they fade against my upper thighs.
I hate being reminded of the old wounds. I can feel the making of them as if it were yesterday. Blindfolded and tied, begging for mercy and finding none. Feeling the sting of the cat across my flesh. Nine tails of woe marking me for life. It was such a long time ago, but every scar feels like yesterday.
I swore, after I'd killed him, that I'd never let myself feel that way again. Nothing like the pain he caused me, and certainly not the pleasure. Every emotion has been carefully excised. I don't feel pain anymore. Nothing remains inside me of anything he forced me to feel.
If I'm ruthless, merciless, a sadist at heart... it's a lesson I learned from the business end of a whip.
Pickles the Drummer, pawing at my damaged skin like he owns me. Fuck that. I own him, and he'll know it before I finish with him. He'll never fucking forget.
It's the work of seconds to unbuckle my belt and slide it out of its loops. Long enough for him to realize what I'm doing, though, and begin to struggle. This is a war he can't win, I'm fitter and stronger than he is. I know he's been in his fair share of fights, but then again, so have I. I'm infinitely more experienced, and I have so much more to lose.
I tighten the leather around his wrists, forcing them behind his back. He's not comfortable and I don't want him to be. (Neither am I, but he doesn't need to know that.) He starts to beg. Oh, I do so want to make him be quiet. I think it's anger that makes me throw him to the ground, sneering as he collapses in front of me. I make sure he watches me unfasten my pants, then yank him to my exposed cock by the scraggly mess of his hair.
He knows what I want, and takes my cock into his mouth without my having to hurt him any more, not that I have any intention to make it easy for him. I force him to deep throat me. He doesn't gag, so I can only assume that he's done this at least once. There's some technique, I think, behind the inebriation. More than once, then. But this is my game, not his. It never was. We play by my rules, I fuck his mouth at my own pace - slow, but hard. I never wanted this to be nice. I know from experience that for him, it isn't. Not at all.
I use his mouth to fuck the memories away. It's so long since I've used anyone like this, I had forgotten how someone else's mouth can take away the foulness in your own. I can control myself at first, but his lips are hot and his throat is wet and I have to force myself not to think. There's a drop of his saliva making its way down my thigh, it reminds me of blood... and I do not want to remember. That is why I let myself go, pushing harder, thrusting faster; speeding towards a climax that is as inevitable as it is brutal.
I come in his throat, forcing him to swallow. I make him take it all. Why shouldn't I?
I don't allow myself an afterglow. I never do, old habits. I simply know that it's over. All that remains is to wait, to clean up the carnage and pretend everything is normal. Pickles is a mess on my floor, face down with come trickling out a corner of his mouth. But I am satisfied, if only for a moment.
Until he turns his head and grins at me.
"Lemme go now?" he asks. It's so innocent, the way he assumes I will. A part of me is... actually amused. The part of me that needs my belt back, however, is what makes my decision.
"Hey Charlie," he says to me as I tuck my shirt back in. I look at him, into the too-wide green eyes. Oh yes, he's definitely on something. I know it when he reaches up to cup my cheek, a stupid and misplaced gesture of affection.
"It's okay," he says. I'm not sure which one of us he's trying to convince. It isn't okay, not by any stretch of the word. It's my job to take care of him, to protect him. Especially to protect him from people like me. For the first and only time since I've been managing Dethklok, I've failed. I've failed him. How could I?
But what he says to me next does more to me than I could ever do to him.
"Yanno... Charlie... It doesn't have to hurt."