Fic: the key that got lost
Title: the key that got lost
Summary: Charles is missing something.
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Word Count: 996
Rating/Contents: so very NC-17, dirty talk, rape fantasy, general sick fuckery
Pairing: Charles/Pickles
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: And then sometimes you write a story in gleeful celebration of how much of a sick fuck you secretly (okay, not secretly) are. IDK, I blame it on Tom Waits.
Pickles didn't try to make it anything but obvious how he felt; Charles had known for months- years? More time than Pickles, almost certainly- that Pickles wanted him. It didn't bother him that much, merely a fact to be filed away. Pickles flitted back and forth between various infatuations, taken up and set down again.
And Charles could see it coming miles away when it got worse, when Pickles started to actually get serious about it; nine months of separation had done things to Pickles, things that Charles already anticipated. And that was the point where Charles screwed it up, where he should have found Pickles some nice, easy girl or at least sat him down and explained how things couldn't be.
He didn't, and then everything went to hell.
Pickles didn't wait until some quiet late night; he didn't even shut the door, pounding into Charles's office. Charles was standing beside the window, and Pickles took the opportunity to flop down in his chair. "So, are we gonna fuck or what?"
Charles didn't bother with the denials; it seemed disingenuous- and like a waste of time, which was far worse. "You know we can't do that."
"C'mon, dude," Pickles cajoled. "Is this about the manager-client thing? Cause it wouldn't be the first fuckin' time for me. I know how this shit goes."
"Of course that's it," Charles said, just a moment too late to sell it.
"Ah ah ah," Pickles said. "That's not it." He kicked his feet up on an open drawer of Charles's desk. "So, what kind of sick shit are you into?"
"I don't know what you-"
"We can sit here all damn day and do this," Pickles said, rolling his eyes. "You're a stubborn son of a bitch, and I'm too high to get bored of it. You gonna tell me or not?"
"You don't need to know," Charles snapped, suddenly very tired of this. "You don't want what I want."
"How the fuck do you know? I've been at this a long time, dude," Pickles protested, standing up and walking towards him. "I've tried just about everything and liked most of it."
Charles took a step back from him; he felt better putting distance between them, getting his own back. "It isn't, ah, safe to go down this road-"
"I woke up this morning and did two rails before breakfast, which was a bottle of Jack Daniel's," Pickles pointed out. "We're way past that."
Charles's face clouded over. "Don't push me on this. Walk away."
Pickles stepped back in, closer than before. "What if I'm not gonna?"
"Fine," Charles said, his nostrils flaring in displeasure. "Do you want to know what I want to do to you? Well, to start with, there are dungeons here-"
Pickles snorted. "No shit, Chief-"
Charles kept talking over him. "Dungeons that no one knows about, not you, not the Klokateers, no one but me. You could disappear for as long as I wanted, and no one would ever even notice. How could they, when you know I could replace you with a double at any time? You'd still be on television, you'd still be playing shows, no one would even know to look for you.
"It goes without saying that you'd be tortured, but you have no idea how much I could make you want it." His voice was colder, losing the hesitation that characterized it when he was bothering to be tactful. "I could make you beg me to hurt you, and you'd have no idea how far you'd fallen until I denied you, left you hard and wanting."
Pickles's face was unreadable, so Charles looked away, speaking to the window, turned so he couldn't see Pickles''s reflection. "And then when I was completely sure you were nothing but a broken shell, only then I'd fuck you. You'd be lucky if I even bothered to use spit. I want to see you bleed when I do it. I'd ruin you, ruin you for everyone else, ruin you forever."
He let out a long, shuddering breath; there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, mixed up with a reluctant sense of exhilaration and relief. There was no sound for a long while, other than the sound of their breathing, and Charles started doing damage control in his head.
Charles looked down in shock as Pickles slid between his legs, rubbing at Charles's erection through his slacks; his pupils were blown wide, and he stared up at Charles with hunger in his eyes. "And then what?" he breathed.
Charles stared at him. "What?"
"Come on, don't leave me hanging," Pickles begged. "You were just getting to the good part."
He couldn't do anything but blink; that was as far as the fantasy ever went, the farthest he would let it go. It was bad enough already, and besides, he barely ever even got that far, when he thought about it, pumping into his hand and biting his lip.
"You gotta make me take it," Pickles said, pressing his face to Charles's thigh. "Cause I'm not just gonna fuckin' give it to you. I want you- fuck that, I need you to break me."
Charles grabbed Pickles by his shirt, dragging him up to kiss him harshly. Pickles didn't just let him do it; he fought back, his hands fisted in Charles's shirt.
It was better than he'd ever let himself imagine, and they'd barely even touched.
"I'm gonna hold you to all that shit," Pickles said, when he wrenched himself away.
"See that you do," Charles said, taking him by the hair to kiss him again.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/348430.html.
comments over there.
Summary: Charles is missing something.
Fandom: Metalocalypse
Word Count: 996
Rating/Contents: so very NC-17, dirty talk, rape fantasy, general sick fuckery
Pairing: Charles/Pickles
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: And then sometimes you write a story in gleeful celebration of how much of a sick fuck you secretly (okay, not secretly) are. IDK, I blame it on Tom Waits.
Pickles didn't try to make it anything but obvious how he felt; Charles had known for months- years? More time than Pickles, almost certainly- that Pickles wanted him. It didn't bother him that much, merely a fact to be filed away. Pickles flitted back and forth between various infatuations, taken up and set down again.
And Charles could see it coming miles away when it got worse, when Pickles started to actually get serious about it; nine months of separation had done things to Pickles, things that Charles already anticipated. And that was the point where Charles screwed it up, where he should have found Pickles some nice, easy girl or at least sat him down and explained how things couldn't be.
He didn't, and then everything went to hell.
Pickles didn't wait until some quiet late night; he didn't even shut the door, pounding into Charles's office. Charles was standing beside the window, and Pickles took the opportunity to flop down in his chair. "So, are we gonna fuck or what?"
Charles didn't bother with the denials; it seemed disingenuous- and like a waste of time, which was far worse. "You know we can't do that."
"C'mon, dude," Pickles cajoled. "Is this about the manager-client thing? Cause it wouldn't be the first fuckin' time for me. I know how this shit goes."
"Of course that's it," Charles said, just a moment too late to sell it.
"Ah ah ah," Pickles said. "That's not it." He kicked his feet up on an open drawer of Charles's desk. "So, what kind of sick shit are you into?"
"I don't know what you-"
"We can sit here all damn day and do this," Pickles said, rolling his eyes. "You're a stubborn son of a bitch, and I'm too high to get bored of it. You gonna tell me or not?"
"You don't need to know," Charles snapped, suddenly very tired of this. "You don't want what I want."
"How the fuck do you know? I've been at this a long time, dude," Pickles protested, standing up and walking towards him. "I've tried just about everything and liked most of it."
Charles took a step back from him; he felt better putting distance between them, getting his own back. "It isn't, ah, safe to go down this road-"
"I woke up this morning and did two rails before breakfast, which was a bottle of Jack Daniel's," Pickles pointed out. "We're way past that."
Charles's face clouded over. "Don't push me on this. Walk away."
Pickles stepped back in, closer than before. "What if I'm not gonna?"
"Fine," Charles said, his nostrils flaring in displeasure. "Do you want to know what I want to do to you? Well, to start with, there are dungeons here-"
Pickles snorted. "No shit, Chief-"
Charles kept talking over him. "Dungeons that no one knows about, not you, not the Klokateers, no one but me. You could disappear for as long as I wanted, and no one would ever even notice. How could they, when you know I could replace you with a double at any time? You'd still be on television, you'd still be playing shows, no one would even know to look for you.
"It goes without saying that you'd be tortured, but you have no idea how much I could make you want it." His voice was colder, losing the hesitation that characterized it when he was bothering to be tactful. "I could make you beg me to hurt you, and you'd have no idea how far you'd fallen until I denied you, left you hard and wanting."
Pickles's face was unreadable, so Charles looked away, speaking to the window, turned so he couldn't see Pickles''s reflection. "And then when I was completely sure you were nothing but a broken shell, only then I'd fuck you. You'd be lucky if I even bothered to use spit. I want to see you bleed when I do it. I'd ruin you, ruin you for everyone else, ruin you forever."
He let out a long, shuddering breath; there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, mixed up with a reluctant sense of exhilaration and relief. There was no sound for a long while, other than the sound of their breathing, and Charles started doing damage control in his head.
Charles looked down in shock as Pickles slid between his legs, rubbing at Charles's erection through his slacks; his pupils were blown wide, and he stared up at Charles with hunger in his eyes. "And then what?" he breathed.
Charles stared at him. "What?"
"Come on, don't leave me hanging," Pickles begged. "You were just getting to the good part."
He couldn't do anything but blink; that was as far as the fantasy ever went, the farthest he would let it go. It was bad enough already, and besides, he barely ever even got that far, when he thought about it, pumping into his hand and biting his lip.
"You gotta make me take it," Pickles said, pressing his face to Charles's thigh. "Cause I'm not just gonna fuckin' give it to you. I want you- fuck that, I need you to break me."
Charles grabbed Pickles by his shirt, dragging him up to kiss him harshly. Pickles didn't just let him do it; he fought back, his hands fisted in Charles's shirt.
It was better than he'd ever let himself imagine, and they'd barely even touched.
"I'm gonna hold you to all that shit," Pickles said, when he wrenched himself away.
"See that you do," Charles said, taking him by the hair to kiss him again.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/348430.html.
comments over there.