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tikificTitle: Shotgun
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Nathan/Pickles; the Metalocalypse ensemble
Warnings: None.
Summary: Charles asks the boys to be nice to Nathan.
A/N: Written for the 2012 Hearts and Guts gift exchange.
“Owie! Why ams da tables so pointy, Charles?”
Charles straightened his shoulders and gave his tie a good tug. “We have a brand new conference table, Toki, because you boys specifically requested a more, uh, ‘brutal and metal’ atmosphere in the meeting room.”
“Ams pokes me!” the guitarist squealed, as once again a skinny elbow made contact with some admittedly very brutal filigree that braided the edges of the wide mahogany conference table.
“Pffft! Toki, you ams da big lady persons wit’ da facial hair removal issues,” snorted Skwisgaar, who proceeded to thrash out some very snotty tremolo picking on his Gibson. Unfortunately for him, he attempted a windmill on the last flourish, which did not end well, as he swept a forearm against the hacksaw-like edge of the conference table.
“OWWW! Rights in da geetars arms!” howled Skwisgaar.
“It ams hits me in da geetars arms too, Skwisgaar,” pouted Toki.
Skwisgaar rubbed his shredded forearm. “Toki, you ams not knows which arms ams your geetar arms.”
“I ams so knows!”
“Ja? Which ones?”
Several other parties arrayed around the conference table, including Charles and Pickles, leaned forward with great curiosity as Toki surveyed his scratched and bruised arms, trying to divine which of them, if any, were necessary for the performance of his job.
“Ha ha ha! You ams not knows!” said Skwisgaar, who carefully slid back out of range of the conference table’s wrath.
“Ams da tricksies questions,” Toki muttered, sliding down in his chair.
“Charles, dood, yoo gahta doo somethin’ about dis table,” said Pickles, pointing his spliff towards the offending furniture as he didn’t want to risk any of his fingers.
“I wish to note,” Charles fussed, casting an accusing glance around at the eighty percent of Dethklok seated around the table, “that this was your idea! Your idea.”
“Wul, yeah,” admitted the drummer. “Cuz dese meetin’s are so brootally boring.”
“William hasn’t complained!” Charles maintained.
“Dat’s cuz Murderface is sleepin’,” Pickles pointed out, as the bassist, indeed, let out a rather healthy snore.
“Oh, yes, well, ah, anyway,” said Charles. “If we can get back to the agenda?” Charles puffed up his chest. “I think it would be good if you guys tried to be nice to Nathan during this time-“
The suggestion was met with much hooting and hollering, as well as an especially loud snore from Murderface.
“Why ams we bes nice to Nat’ans?” demanded Toki.
“Ja, lets hims be nice to us for a changes,” agreed Skwisgaar, who seemed to have completely forgotten he was quarreling with Toki not five minutes prior.
Charles glared. “Nathan’s, ah, father is ill. He is recovering from a stroke. And Nathan is worried about him.”
“Ja, Nat’an has a fadder!” wailed Toki. “My fadder ams deads of da cancers! Even though I ams not cares.”
“I ams not even gots a fadder to loses!” countered Skwisgaar. “At least you ams has da fadder.”
“Yeah? Well, at least yer non-fadder didn’t tell yoo dat yoo belawng in a garbage can,” muttered Pickles.
“All right. All right. So you all have daddy issues.”
“I ams not got daddies tissues! I ams not has da daddies to buys da Kleenex!” sobbed Toki. And then “Ow!” as he once again bumped the table with his elbow.
“Now see what you ams done, Charles?” scolded Skwisgaar. “Toki ams brutalizes his geetar arms.”
“I didn’t think we had, ah, established which arm was his guitar arm.”
“You ams not cares which arms I uses to plays geetar?” asked Toki.
Charles’s glare narrowed with laser focus. “You fret with your left and pick with your right.”
Toki held out his arms experimentally, miming a guitar. “Which ams right and which ams left agains?”
“Yer raight is to da raight of yer left.”
Charles took a deep, cleansing breath. “Maybe this is, ah, a good place to end the meeting today?” Skwisgaar and Toki were out the door before he had even completed his sentence, bickering over which left arm was which.
Charles leaned over and rested his forehead on the conference table, cringing as his chin came in contact with some brutally pointy edges. He heard the soft thunk of an object being dropped nearby. He turned his head to see a baggie containing a fragrant mixture of vegetation.
Pickles was leaning over Charles’s shoulder. “Dat’s some new shit. Frum da Dominican Rapublic.” And then Pickles was gone, like a red-dreadlocked shadow.
Charles stole a stealthy glance at Murderface, who was still fast asleep, tucked the bag in his jacket, and left the conference room.
Pickles paused on the stairway, digging a thin case out of his back pocket. It was a silver case marked with a death’s head. He popped it open and took a gander at the array of spliffs it contained. After a moment’s careful thought, he removed one, shut the case, and continued up the stairs.
Nathan stood alone up on the roof, gazing silently over Mordland spread out below.
“Dood. We missed yoo at da meetin’”
“Oh, yeah. I got a brutal summer co’d,” said Nathan. He turned and pointed to his face, and Pickles saw the distinctive red nose.
“Oh, dat’s brootal.”
“I dow. Where’s by charidy? Where’s da parades for Nathan?” He sniffled.
“So, how are yoo doin’, udderwise, chief?”
Nathan heaved a great, metal sigh. “I’b been t’inking about STUFF, you dow? AND THINGS.” Even respiratory illness could not cut out the portentousness of Nathan’s growl.
“Stuff an t’ings?” echoed Pickles.
“Like, MORTALITY.” And then Nathan sneezed. He pulled out a tissue from a small Spiderman packet, and blew his very metal nose.
“Huh. So. Wanna get haigh?” Pickles waved a fragrant spliff in his face.
“I CAN’T EBEN GED HIGH!” mourned Nathan. “Seriously. I can’t sboke. I would hork up a lung.”
Pickles considered, letting his little-used neurons of consideration fire. “Oh. Wul, I cud shawtgun yoo.”
Nathan turned back, a look of horror spreading over his face. “Shotgun? But, dat would bean, LIPS TOUCHING LIPS. And then, the LIPS WOULD TOUCH. And WE’RE BOTH GUYS. And, you know what that means…?”
Pickles crossed his arms and glared. “Like I said, boss: You wanna get haigh or nawt?”
Nathan looked at the doobie, looked at Pickles, and then returned his eyes to the doobie.
“My speshul blend!” urged Pickles.
“OK OK OK. Before I t’ink aboud id too much,” Nathan ordered.
Pickles lit up and then busied himself puffing away, getting the joint red and glowing to his satisfaction. Nathan grew bored after about thirty seconds of this nonsense, and began to once again gaze mournfully over Mordland. His thoughts drifted from real serious stuff like mortality and all that shit to the more quotidian area of his band mate, Pickles, given that they were soon to be lip-locked. It had always slightly puzzled him: Pickles was an okay guy, but face it, he was basically some little bald dude. Yet whenever the guys were partying, even if Skwisgaar used his massive Norwegian (or was Skwis the Swedish guy? Nathan could never quite remember. Maybe he was Dutch) charm, it would always be Pickles waking up the next morning, curled around the cutest girl in the room. What was the deal, anyway?
Nathan was jolted from his reverie when he felt his collar suddenly tugged and was confronted by the press of Pickles’s lips on his, the smell of herb and cinnamon clinging to him, and the rough feel of smoke pouring into his mouth. It was soft: much softer than he had imagined. Not that he had imagined kissing Pickles. Not that this was kissing Pickles. Because it wasn’t.
And then the surprisingly strong grip released. Nathan blinked, stepped back a pace and coughed, sending fragrant smoke curling out his nose and mouth. “Whoa. Dude. THAT CLEARED MY SINUES,” he muttered, words tinged in wonder.
“Better, dood?” inquired Pickles. He had the joint now stuck jauntily between his lips.
Electric. That’s what it was. Yeah, like they’d got caught in a rainstorm and Nathan had stupidly grabbed an open mike. “Uhhhhhh. But I don’t think I got much, you know, EFFECT,” said Nathan.
“Wanna nuther shawt?”
“Hey, yeah, sure, why no-“ But then Nathan found himself grabbed again. But this time, now somewhat prepared, he sent meaty hands out to grip Pickles by the small of the back and the back of his neck, opening his mouth wide to drink in the acrid smoke, pressing hungrily on Pickles’s surprisingly pliant lips. Drinking him in. No, drinking in the herb. Because that’s all it was. And then once again it was over. Nathan kept the smoke inside, letting the molecules bounce around until they had finally assimilated, and then he exhaled, much more slowly this time, luxuriating on the rough feel, like herb-scented sandpaper.
Pickles was still standing right in front of him, but Nathan didn’t back up this time. He noticed from this distance that the drummer’s pupils were dark and wide and cold as endless space.
“Your eyes are … full of infinity, dude,” said Nathan.
“T’anks, Nat’an.”
“Let’s go again.”
“Wait, Nat’an, dood, I need to-“ But now this time Pickles was the one who was unprepared for the kiss because that, quite frankly, was what it was this time; Nathan gripping him roughly by the shoulders, his tongue now, quite on its own, thrusting inside, bending Pickles back, pressing him closer, greedily drinking in the taste and the smell and the wonder.
Finally Nathan paused, momentarily sated. He drew back a few inches, but kept his grip on Pickles. “I want to know everything. And be everywhere. And nowhere.”
“Wow.” Pickles stole a puff of the spliff, still in his hand.
Nathan grabbed the brutal cigarette from him and, unmindful of his present viral load, took a healthy drag. “We are creatures of light, Pickles. CREATURES of LIGHT.”
Pickles regarded the lead singer for a long moment. “So… Yoo wanna make out, dood?”
When Charles walked into Nathan’s room later that night (or really, early the next morning) he found them both lying on Nathan’s enormous bed, Pickles nestled into Nathan’s back, one arm thrown over the singer’s waist.
“Oh, uh, ah,” said Charles, who was more than slightly mortified, as the Klokateers on duty had assured him that there were no groupies currently present in the room. Charles made a mental note for the near future to hire some Klokateers who were somewhat less dim.
Then, to his utter horror, a green eye blinked open, and Pickles slightly raised a dreadlocked head.
“Uhhhhh,” explained Charles.
“Ah wuz jest bein’ nice t’ Nat’an.”
“Oh, uh, yes, that’s very good, Pickles. And, uh. So.” Charles froze. “You’re the big spoon?” Charles immediately winced at his own words.
“Yeh,” chuckled Pickles. “Ah’m bein’ da big spoon.”
“Well, then, carry on!” said Charles, who, with exquisite care, retraced his steps back out of the room, telling himself that if he exited the exact way he came in, then he could pretend that none of it had ever happened, and everything was just as normal as ever at Mordhaus.
Well, as normal as Mordhaus could be.
He reached the hallway and quietly shut the door, orienting to the sounds of voices coming from down the corridor.
“I ams totallies hates you, Skwissgaar,” said Toki, who had just come into view.
“No, Toki, I ams t’inks I ams hates you more,” countered Skwisgaar jovially.
“No, I ams hates you more dan mere words can conveys!”
“I ams hates you froms da mornings early lights to da evenings of da next days.”
“I ams hates you wit’ da boining fires of tens thousands suns!” said Toki.
And then, both musicians completely ignoring Charles, they disappeared around a turn.
Charles about-faced and started to flee towards the relative safety his office. Now that the sound of Scandinavian bickering had faded, he became aware of a new, rhythmic noise. He slowed his pace, looking left and right, and then his eyes fell on a rather absurdly pot-bellied suit of armor standing in the corridor. He carefully approached it, cocking his head towards the antiquity. With trembling fingers, he reached up to lift the faceplate. He was confronted with the sight of a very familiar mustache, and the sound of a very brutal snore.
Charles carefully lowered the visor, and then turned to go.
“Yes, back to normal,” he muttered, his thoughts turning towards the Ziploc of herbal medicine stored in his bottom drawer.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Nathan/Pickles; the Metalocalypse ensemble
Warnings: None.
Summary: Charles asks the boys to be nice to Nathan.
A/N: Written for the 2012 Hearts and Guts gift exchange.
“Owie! Why ams da tables so pointy, Charles?”
Charles straightened his shoulders and gave his tie a good tug. “We have a brand new conference table, Toki, because you boys specifically requested a more, uh, ‘brutal and metal’ atmosphere in the meeting room.”
“Ams pokes me!” the guitarist squealed, as once again a skinny elbow made contact with some admittedly very brutal filigree that braided the edges of the wide mahogany conference table.
“Pffft! Toki, you ams da big lady persons wit’ da facial hair removal issues,” snorted Skwisgaar, who proceeded to thrash out some very snotty tremolo picking on his Gibson. Unfortunately for him, he attempted a windmill on the last flourish, which did not end well, as he swept a forearm against the hacksaw-like edge of the conference table.
“OWWW! Rights in da geetars arms!” howled Skwisgaar.
“It ams hits me in da geetars arms too, Skwisgaar,” pouted Toki.
Skwisgaar rubbed his shredded forearm. “Toki, you ams not knows which arms ams your geetar arms.”
“I ams so knows!”
“Ja? Which ones?”
Several other parties arrayed around the conference table, including Charles and Pickles, leaned forward with great curiosity as Toki surveyed his scratched and bruised arms, trying to divine which of them, if any, were necessary for the performance of his job.
“Ha ha ha! You ams not knows!” said Skwisgaar, who carefully slid back out of range of the conference table’s wrath.
“Ams da tricksies questions,” Toki muttered, sliding down in his chair.
“Charles, dood, yoo gahta doo somethin’ about dis table,” said Pickles, pointing his spliff towards the offending furniture as he didn’t want to risk any of his fingers.
“I wish to note,” Charles fussed, casting an accusing glance around at the eighty percent of Dethklok seated around the table, “that this was your idea! Your idea.”
“Wul, yeah,” admitted the drummer. “Cuz dese meetin’s are so brootally boring.”
“William hasn’t complained!” Charles maintained.
“Dat’s cuz Murderface is sleepin’,” Pickles pointed out, as the bassist, indeed, let out a rather healthy snore.
“Oh, yes, well, ah, anyway,” said Charles. “If we can get back to the agenda?” Charles puffed up his chest. “I think it would be good if you guys tried to be nice to Nathan during this time-“
The suggestion was met with much hooting and hollering, as well as an especially loud snore from Murderface.
“Why ams we bes nice to Nat’ans?” demanded Toki.
“Ja, lets hims be nice to us for a changes,” agreed Skwisgaar, who seemed to have completely forgotten he was quarreling with Toki not five minutes prior.
Charles glared. “Nathan’s, ah, father is ill. He is recovering from a stroke. And Nathan is worried about him.”
“Ja, Nat’an has a fadder!” wailed Toki. “My fadder ams deads of da cancers! Even though I ams not cares.”
“I ams not even gots a fadder to loses!” countered Skwisgaar. “At least you ams has da fadder.”
“Yeah? Well, at least yer non-fadder didn’t tell yoo dat yoo belawng in a garbage can,” muttered Pickles.
“All right. All right. So you all have daddy issues.”
“I ams not got daddies tissues! I ams not has da daddies to buys da Kleenex!” sobbed Toki. And then “Ow!” as he once again bumped the table with his elbow.
“Now see what you ams done, Charles?” scolded Skwisgaar. “Toki ams brutalizes his geetar arms.”
“I didn’t think we had, ah, established which arm was his guitar arm.”
“You ams not cares which arms I uses to plays geetar?” asked Toki.
Charles’s glare narrowed with laser focus. “You fret with your left and pick with your right.”
Toki held out his arms experimentally, miming a guitar. “Which ams right and which ams left agains?”
“Yer raight is to da raight of yer left.”
Charles took a deep, cleansing breath. “Maybe this is, ah, a good place to end the meeting today?” Skwisgaar and Toki were out the door before he had even completed his sentence, bickering over which left arm was which.
Charles leaned over and rested his forehead on the conference table, cringing as his chin came in contact with some brutally pointy edges. He heard the soft thunk of an object being dropped nearby. He turned his head to see a baggie containing a fragrant mixture of vegetation.
Pickles was leaning over Charles’s shoulder. “Dat’s some new shit. Frum da Dominican Rapublic.” And then Pickles was gone, like a red-dreadlocked shadow.
Charles stole a stealthy glance at Murderface, who was still fast asleep, tucked the bag in his jacket, and left the conference room.
Pickles paused on the stairway, digging a thin case out of his back pocket. It was a silver case marked with a death’s head. He popped it open and took a gander at the array of spliffs it contained. After a moment’s careful thought, he removed one, shut the case, and continued up the stairs.
Nathan stood alone up on the roof, gazing silently over Mordland spread out below.
“Dood. We missed yoo at da meetin’”
“Oh, yeah. I got a brutal summer co’d,” said Nathan. He turned and pointed to his face, and Pickles saw the distinctive red nose.
“Oh, dat’s brootal.”
“I dow. Where’s by charidy? Where’s da parades for Nathan?” He sniffled.
“So, how are yoo doin’, udderwise, chief?”
Nathan heaved a great, metal sigh. “I’b been t’inking about STUFF, you dow? AND THINGS.” Even respiratory illness could not cut out the portentousness of Nathan’s growl.
“Stuff an t’ings?” echoed Pickles.
“Like, MORTALITY.” And then Nathan sneezed. He pulled out a tissue from a small Spiderman packet, and blew his very metal nose.
“Huh. So. Wanna get haigh?” Pickles waved a fragrant spliff in his face.
“I CAN’T EBEN GED HIGH!” mourned Nathan. “Seriously. I can’t sboke. I would hork up a lung.”
Pickles considered, letting his little-used neurons of consideration fire. “Oh. Wul, I cud shawtgun yoo.”
Nathan turned back, a look of horror spreading over his face. “Shotgun? But, dat would bean, LIPS TOUCHING LIPS. And then, the LIPS WOULD TOUCH. And WE’RE BOTH GUYS. And, you know what that means…?”
Pickles crossed his arms and glared. “Like I said, boss: You wanna get haigh or nawt?”
Nathan looked at the doobie, looked at Pickles, and then returned his eyes to the doobie.
“My speshul blend!” urged Pickles.
“OK OK OK. Before I t’ink aboud id too much,” Nathan ordered.
Pickles lit up and then busied himself puffing away, getting the joint red and glowing to his satisfaction. Nathan grew bored after about thirty seconds of this nonsense, and began to once again gaze mournfully over Mordland. His thoughts drifted from real serious stuff like mortality and all that shit to the more quotidian area of his band mate, Pickles, given that they were soon to be lip-locked. It had always slightly puzzled him: Pickles was an okay guy, but face it, he was basically some little bald dude. Yet whenever the guys were partying, even if Skwisgaar used his massive Norwegian (or was Skwis the Swedish guy? Nathan could never quite remember. Maybe he was Dutch) charm, it would always be Pickles waking up the next morning, curled around the cutest girl in the room. What was the deal, anyway?
Nathan was jolted from his reverie when he felt his collar suddenly tugged and was confronted by the press of Pickles’s lips on his, the smell of herb and cinnamon clinging to him, and the rough feel of smoke pouring into his mouth. It was soft: much softer than he had imagined. Not that he had imagined kissing Pickles. Not that this was kissing Pickles. Because it wasn’t.
And then the surprisingly strong grip released. Nathan blinked, stepped back a pace and coughed, sending fragrant smoke curling out his nose and mouth. “Whoa. Dude. THAT CLEARED MY SINUES,” he muttered, words tinged in wonder.
“Better, dood?” inquired Pickles. He had the joint now stuck jauntily between his lips.
Electric. That’s what it was. Yeah, like they’d got caught in a rainstorm and Nathan had stupidly grabbed an open mike. “Uhhhhhh. But I don’t think I got much, you know, EFFECT,” said Nathan.
“Wanna nuther shawt?”
“Hey, yeah, sure, why no-“ But then Nathan found himself grabbed again. But this time, now somewhat prepared, he sent meaty hands out to grip Pickles by the small of the back and the back of his neck, opening his mouth wide to drink in the acrid smoke, pressing hungrily on Pickles’s surprisingly pliant lips. Drinking him in. No, drinking in the herb. Because that’s all it was. And then once again it was over. Nathan kept the smoke inside, letting the molecules bounce around until they had finally assimilated, and then he exhaled, much more slowly this time, luxuriating on the rough feel, like herb-scented sandpaper.
Pickles was still standing right in front of him, but Nathan didn’t back up this time. He noticed from this distance that the drummer’s pupils were dark and wide and cold as endless space.
“Your eyes are … full of infinity, dude,” said Nathan.
“T’anks, Nat’an.”
“Let’s go again.”
“Wait, Nat’an, dood, I need to-“ But now this time Pickles was the one who was unprepared for the kiss because that, quite frankly, was what it was this time; Nathan gripping him roughly by the shoulders, his tongue now, quite on its own, thrusting inside, bending Pickles back, pressing him closer, greedily drinking in the taste and the smell and the wonder.
Finally Nathan paused, momentarily sated. He drew back a few inches, but kept his grip on Pickles. “I want to know everything. And be everywhere. And nowhere.”
“Wow.” Pickles stole a puff of the spliff, still in his hand.
Nathan grabbed the brutal cigarette from him and, unmindful of his present viral load, took a healthy drag. “We are creatures of light, Pickles. CREATURES of LIGHT.”
Pickles regarded the lead singer for a long moment. “So… Yoo wanna make out, dood?”
When Charles walked into Nathan’s room later that night (or really, early the next morning) he found them both lying on Nathan’s enormous bed, Pickles nestled into Nathan’s back, one arm thrown over the singer’s waist.
“Oh, uh, ah,” said Charles, who was more than slightly mortified, as the Klokateers on duty had assured him that there were no groupies currently present in the room. Charles made a mental note for the near future to hire some Klokateers who were somewhat less dim.
Then, to his utter horror, a green eye blinked open, and Pickles slightly raised a dreadlocked head.
“Uhhhhh,” explained Charles.
“Ah wuz jest bein’ nice t’ Nat’an.”
“Oh, uh, yes, that’s very good, Pickles. And, uh. So.” Charles froze. “You’re the big spoon?” Charles immediately winced at his own words.
“Yeh,” chuckled Pickles. “Ah’m bein’ da big spoon.”
“Well, then, carry on!” said Charles, who, with exquisite care, retraced his steps back out of the room, telling himself that if he exited the exact way he came in, then he could pretend that none of it had ever happened, and everything was just as normal as ever at Mordhaus.
Well, as normal as Mordhaus could be.
He reached the hallway and quietly shut the door, orienting to the sounds of voices coming from down the corridor.
“I ams totallies hates you, Skwissgaar,” said Toki, who had just come into view.
“No, Toki, I ams t’inks I ams hates you more,” countered Skwisgaar jovially.
“No, I ams hates you more dan mere words can conveys!”
“I ams hates you froms da mornings early lights to da evenings of da next days.”
“I ams hates you wit’ da boining fires of tens thousands suns!” said Toki.
And then, both musicians completely ignoring Charles, they disappeared around a turn.
Charles about-faced and started to flee towards the relative safety his office. Now that the sound of Scandinavian bickering had faded, he became aware of a new, rhythmic noise. He slowed his pace, looking left and right, and then his eyes fell on a rather absurdly pot-bellied suit of armor standing in the corridor. He carefully approached it, cocking his head towards the antiquity. With trembling fingers, he reached up to lift the faceplate. He was confronted with the sight of a very familiar mustache, and the sound of a very brutal snore.
Charles carefully lowered the visor, and then turned to go.
“Yes, back to normal,” he muttered, his thoughts turning towards the Ziploc of herbal medicine stored in his bottom drawer.
