Handy Tube of Lube
Dec. 23rd, 2011 07:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Handy Tube of Lube
Author: tikistitch
Rating: NC-71, not to be viewed by anyone
Summary: A hot night for Charles and Nathan.
Warnings: This is why I should never, ever, ever do N/C.
Notes: THIS IS NOT MYTHKLOK. This is a weird thing that went through my brain and won't go away.
Charles gasped.
It was happening. It was really happening.
The bed was really huge. Even bigger from the angle.
And Nathan: he was definitely bigger from this angle.
The smell of the man, up close. The feel of his body.
Pickles had said it was a double dose of X. “Enuf t' git even yoo loosened up, dood.” Loose. Yes, he felt loose. And free. Even here, underneath Nathan's bulk.
Charles writhed slightly, as much as he could, to give Nathan a better angle. Nathan, who was literally chewing the buttons off his goddamned shirt. He reached one hand up behind him, sweat-lined palm flat on the headboard. Nathan's mouth, his hands. Charles wanted Nathan all over him. He wanted him inside him. He was so fucking hard right now. Every last ounce of blood had drained out of his overworked brain and gone south for the duration.
And now the big hands were on his belt, turning him over. This was going to happen. This was really going to happen....
He felt the weight lifted from him. A sound. A drawer opening, rummaging around.
Charles turned his head curiously as the rummaging persisted. His glasses, askew, remained on his face. The bedside table: Nathan now had both meaty hands inside the drawer.
“Uh. What are you looking for, Nathan? Condoms?” asked Charles. “Toys...?”
“LUBE! I know it was in here SOMEWHERE!” Nathan impatiently wrenched the drawer all the way from the table, thus breaking it, and scattered the goods on the floor.
“Oh. Uh, well. You could, you know, just use saliva....”
“I don't wanna use SPIT! It's in here SOMEWHERE! I KNOW IT IS!”
“OK,” said Charles, rolling over on his side, and pushing his glasses up. “Well, ah, should I call a Klokateer to-”
“I don't wanna CALL A KLOKATEER!” growled Nathan. “I have a TUBE OF LUBE! I know I do. I wonder who fucked with it,” he muttered, picking up his own Dethphone, which had rattled to the floor along with fluttering packets of condoms and various vibrators and dildos and a couple of Spiderman comic books. “MURDERFACE!” he howled into the phone.
Charles sat up. “You're, ah, calling to get some sexual lubricant from William?”
“DID YOU TAKE MY FUCKING LUBE?” Nathan was asking the phone. “YOU- Oh, what? Skwisgaar? Yeah, I'll try asking him. Thanks, dude.”
Charles was hanging halfway off the bed, picking up his jacket from where it had recently fallen. He fished out a somewhat crumpled pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket. “Skwisgaar? Wouldn't he tend to get this kind of item delivered in, ah, gallon sized drums?”
“NO SMOKING ON THE BED!” Nathan scolded as Charles prepared to match a Marlboro. “SKWISGAAR!” Nathan growled into the phone.
Charles glanced at Nathan, and then hopped up off the bed and lit the cigarette.
“Fucking ANSWERING MACHINE MESSAGE,” Nathan was muttering as he now paced across the room. “'I ams not heres.' Well of COURSE you're NOT HERE, douchebag.”
“Ya know, Nathan,” said Charles. “Maybe this is, ah, just not the right time for this sort of encounter.”
“What are you TALKING ABOUT! I thought we were gonna have an ASS FUCKING!”
“Well,” said Charles, picking up his jacket. “It seems we are lacking in some, ah, essential requirements.” He grabbed his shoes. “Maybe we could, uh, reschedule, to a more conducive time period.”
“Fucking SKWISGAAR! I bet he let Toki borrow it for his fucking MODEL AIRPLANES!” said Nathan, going back again to his Dethphone. “You don't mess with a man's LUBE!”
“Uh, well, that does sound enticing, Nathan. I'll just, ah-” But Charles never finished the thought, as he was out the door, carefully shutting it, his body slumped against it. He shrugged back into his jacket and began the long walk, barefoot, cigarette poised between his lips, back to his office.
“Hey, CHIEF!”
Charles winced. “Uh, yeah Pickles,” he said without turning around.
“How did it go, dood?” asked the cheery drummer, running a bit to catch up with him.
Charles kept his eyes pointed ahead. “I greatly appreciate the sentiment behind what you guys attempted to do.”
“Uhtempted?” grinned Pickles.
Charles stopped. He finally met Pickles' eyes. “You boys persuaded me to overindulge in, ah, alcohol in order to determine my Christmas wishes, and thus managed to extract from me that I had dreamed of an encounter of a sexual nature with Nathan.”
“Yoo wanted him up yer ass.”
“Uh, yeah. At any rate,” Charles continued, now looking a bit mournfully at the floor, “It was probably best as one of those, ah, things that remain as more of a theoretical nature.”
“Din't happen, huh?”
“Uh. No. Anyway, I have a lot to do. So, uh, Merry Christmas.” Charles turned and continued towards his office.
Pickles stood watching Charles walk off for a moment.
Then he pulled something out of his back pocket.
A tube.
He grinned.
“Hey, Charles dood,” he said, running after his manager. “Yoo need sum help in yer accountin'!”
Author: tikistitch
Rating: NC-71, not to be viewed by anyone
Summary: A hot night for Charles and Nathan.
Warnings: This is why I should never, ever, ever do N/C.
Notes: THIS IS NOT MYTHKLOK. This is a weird thing that went through my brain and won't go away.
Charles gasped.
It was happening. It was really happening.
The bed was really huge. Even bigger from the angle.
And Nathan: he was definitely bigger from this angle.
The smell of the man, up close. The feel of his body.
Pickles had said it was a double dose of X. “Enuf t' git even yoo loosened up, dood.” Loose. Yes, he felt loose. And free. Even here, underneath Nathan's bulk.
Charles writhed slightly, as much as he could, to give Nathan a better angle. Nathan, who was literally chewing the buttons off his goddamned shirt. He reached one hand up behind him, sweat-lined palm flat on the headboard. Nathan's mouth, his hands. Charles wanted Nathan all over him. He wanted him inside him. He was so fucking hard right now. Every last ounce of blood had drained out of his overworked brain and gone south for the duration.
And now the big hands were on his belt, turning him over. This was going to happen. This was really going to happen....
He felt the weight lifted from him. A sound. A drawer opening, rummaging around.
Charles turned his head curiously as the rummaging persisted. His glasses, askew, remained on his face. The bedside table: Nathan now had both meaty hands inside the drawer.
“Uh. What are you looking for, Nathan? Condoms?” asked Charles. “Toys...?”
“LUBE! I know it was in here SOMEWHERE!” Nathan impatiently wrenched the drawer all the way from the table, thus breaking it, and scattered the goods on the floor.
“Oh. Uh, well. You could, you know, just use saliva....”
“I don't wanna use SPIT! It's in here SOMEWHERE! I KNOW IT IS!”
“OK,” said Charles, rolling over on his side, and pushing his glasses up. “Well, ah, should I call a Klokateer to-”
“I don't wanna CALL A KLOKATEER!” growled Nathan. “I have a TUBE OF LUBE! I know I do. I wonder who fucked with it,” he muttered, picking up his own Dethphone, which had rattled to the floor along with fluttering packets of condoms and various vibrators and dildos and a couple of Spiderman comic books. “MURDERFACE!” he howled into the phone.
Charles sat up. “You're, ah, calling to get some sexual lubricant from William?”
“DID YOU TAKE MY FUCKING LUBE?” Nathan was asking the phone. “YOU- Oh, what? Skwisgaar? Yeah, I'll try asking him. Thanks, dude.”
Charles was hanging halfway off the bed, picking up his jacket from where it had recently fallen. He fished out a somewhat crumpled pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket. “Skwisgaar? Wouldn't he tend to get this kind of item delivered in, ah, gallon sized drums?”
“NO SMOKING ON THE BED!” Nathan scolded as Charles prepared to match a Marlboro. “SKWISGAAR!” Nathan growled into the phone.
Charles glanced at Nathan, and then hopped up off the bed and lit the cigarette.
“Fucking ANSWERING MACHINE MESSAGE,” Nathan was muttering as he now paced across the room. “'I ams not heres.' Well of COURSE you're NOT HERE, douchebag.”
“Ya know, Nathan,” said Charles. “Maybe this is, ah, just not the right time for this sort of encounter.”
“What are you TALKING ABOUT! I thought we were gonna have an ASS FUCKING!”
“Well,” said Charles, picking up his jacket. “It seems we are lacking in some, ah, essential requirements.” He grabbed his shoes. “Maybe we could, uh, reschedule, to a more conducive time period.”
“Fucking SKWISGAAR! I bet he let Toki borrow it for his fucking MODEL AIRPLANES!” said Nathan, going back again to his Dethphone. “You don't mess with a man's LUBE!”
“Uh, well, that does sound enticing, Nathan. I'll just, ah-” But Charles never finished the thought, as he was out the door, carefully shutting it, his body slumped against it. He shrugged back into his jacket and began the long walk, barefoot, cigarette poised between his lips, back to his office.
“Hey, CHIEF!”
Charles winced. “Uh, yeah Pickles,” he said without turning around.
“How did it go, dood?” asked the cheery drummer, running a bit to catch up with him.
Charles kept his eyes pointed ahead. “I greatly appreciate the sentiment behind what you guys attempted to do.”
“Uhtempted?” grinned Pickles.
Charles stopped. He finally met Pickles' eyes. “You boys persuaded me to overindulge in, ah, alcohol in order to determine my Christmas wishes, and thus managed to extract from me that I had dreamed of an encounter of a sexual nature with Nathan.”
“Yoo wanted him up yer ass.”
“Uh, yeah. At any rate,” Charles continued, now looking a bit mournfully at the floor, “It was probably best as one of those, ah, things that remain as more of a theoretical nature.”
“Din't happen, huh?”
“Uh. No. Anyway, I have a lot to do. So, uh, Merry Christmas.” Charles turned and continued towards his office.
Pickles stood watching Charles walk off for a moment.
Then he pulled something out of his back pocket.
A tube.
He grinned.
“Hey, Charles dood,” he said, running after his manager. “Yoo need sum help in yer accountin'!”
