Garbage Can

Murderface goes too far, driving Pickles over the edge. The drummer has one source of comfort - in someone he always knew would be there for him.

Set during FatherKlok. Pickles and Toki slash - lots of it. M for sex and language. Don't like, don't read.

When Pickles was 16 years old, his father totally changed attitudes. He always favoured his younger brother, Seth. And that was the one thing that never changed. He obsessed over his younger son even more, patronizing Pickles and trying to spiral his ego downwards. He knew that his spiky-haired, red-headed fiery son was worth no more than a piece of trash.

It was that night. His father and Pickles had argued, fought so long, loud and hard that even Seth hid in his room and their mother did not stop crying. But when his father sat down in the chair, Pickles already had a bag slung round his shoulders, standing in the doorway, and he uttered the words that were burnt onto Pickles' mind, heart and soul.

"Get out of here. You belong in a garbage can."

Murderface, just after Skwisgaar had decided that his father would never come forward, was frantically anticipating the guitarist's return. A jealous Pickles had resented the decision of Murderface being a father figure, as well as Toki, whose father had just died. The drummer and rhythm guitarist stuck together through the ordeal - Pickles had even let Toki sleep in the same bed as him when the younger man was crying because of nightmares about his childhood. He remembered that night. Pickles had let go of the 'no caring' rule and held the guitarist, raking fingers through his hair, feeling his heart wrench and twist at the sound of sobs.

It was different in a way. Their pain was the same, yet still different. Pickles hated his father. He wasn't sure if Toki hated his - he could sense a definite dislike, but the hatred wasn't as strong - rather than just miss him, for whatever reason. Pickles never understood. He could release his anger through the drums, feeling the white-hot electricity rattle through his drumsticks, that passion for playing, that hatred of his family and that hidden love of his band.

Murderface was shaking Pickles by the collar, who was standing in the doorway of the Dethplane, the black material clenched into the bassist's fist. Toki could only watch, wondering why in the world Murderface wanted him to move so much.

"Move, Pickles, you gotta let Schkwisgaar in!"

"I will, I'm gunna let him--"

"No, c'mon, move, now!"

"What the hell, Murderface? Git affa me! Stop shakin' me!"

"Get out of here. You belong in a garbage can!"

Pickles stopped moving. To Toki, it looked like he had stopped breathing, ceased motion altogether. His eyes widened, seeing not Murderface before him, but his father. Drunk. Uncaring. No one Pickles wanted to know. That rage he had felt that very night was surfacing, boiling in his heart, ready to explode in a mass of blood and tears and anger. White-hot lightning coursed through his veins, into his fingers, his entire body, pretty sure his eyes were on fire. They were darkening in anger, his eyebrows creasing forward.

"I don't belong in a garbage can! I don't! You belong in the fucking garbage can!"

In one blindingly fast move, Murderface's shirt was over his face and Pickles was punching him in the stomach, kneeing him, smacking his back and just trying to hurt the bass player in whatever way he could. There was no controlling Pickles when he was like this. His hair truly did reflect his fiery personality. Toki blinked, gasped, when he began to see blood on Pickles' face, staining his smooth skin. Murderface was fighting back.

"Stops it, guys! Stop!"

Instead of joining in like he usually did, Toki ran to Pickles from behind and grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides. The drummer instantly gave in, knowing that although he was a lot taller than Toki, the rhythm guitarist was ripped. He could beat anyone up without so much a scratch on his steel muscles. Murderface pulled his shirt back down, shook his head at the drummer and headed outside to meet Nathan and Skwisgaar.

Toki let go of Pickles, who turned to face him. The drummer looked about ready to explode and self-destruct, taking everyone down with him, but he was calming down. Toki held onto his arm with one hand, trying to make the drummer see some sense, assure him that he was not a monster, he did not belong in the garbage can. If anything, people should have been grovelling at his feet.

"Pickles," Toki called softly. "Calms downs. Murdaface ams outsides now."

The drummer was breathing heavily, unable to respond.

"Come on, lets goes somewhere elses."

The Norwegian dragged Pickles to the cabin next to where they had originally been sitting, and he locked the door. Pickles wandered through the room, absently staring at anything, as if he would go insane if he wasn't totally fixated and captivated. The words wouldn't leave his mind. The anger wouldn't leave his heart. It was hurting. He almost felt like crying- and he didn't care whether or not that made him 'un-brutal'. This was beyond metal. This was the blackest hate he'd ever felt, surging through his body like a lightning bolt. Hate. Hate. Hate.

"Pickle," Toki beckoned, patting the seat next to him. Slowly, the drummer walked forward, and sat there, hanging his head. The rhythm guitarist draped an arm round him, trying to get a good look at his face. His scarlet dreadlocks masked his face, his emerald eyes that were glistening. Toki was begging to himself. Please don't cry. Please don't cry.

"What…what the fuck…" Pickles began, raking his hands through his hair, covering his mouth, his eyes, scratching himself. "Toki…please…tell me what the fuck I did out dere…I was…jest…so fuckin' angry. He reminded me of my old man…that bestard. I…"

Fists clenched.

"I hate him, Toki. I fuckin' haaate him!"

The rhythm guitarist placed his other arm around Pickles, prompting the drummer to bury his face into Toki's dark blue shirt, dampen it with his tears, finally let some of the anger out, the remaining remnants of his shattered soul. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, not that he had just beat up the bass player and now Nathan was probably going to hunt him down.

"It's okays, Pickle," Toki whispered, ever so gently cradling the drummer. He loved hugs, no matter who it was from, or who he was giving it to. He loved to comfort people, and he especially loved Pickles. Having all three was like ecstasy. "It will alls be fine. I'm here for yous."

"..G-Gahd…thanks, Toki," Pickles sighed. "I…can't even…fuck, I ain't evah felt like dis before…I…I don't belong in a garbage can, do I?"

"No, you don'ts!" the Norwegian cried in disbelief. "You don'ts belong in the garbage cans! You ams drummer, you ams amazinks drummer! You tolds me your dads never mades it in lifes, and your brother was a greedy assholes, but you ams not likes them. I will never thinks you ams likes them!" He whispered his final part under his breath. "Because I loves you…"

"Wait…what?"

Toki had always had respect for Pickles, more so than the other members - even Skwisgaar. He always admired Pickles for his never-ending strength in life, his dedication to Dethklok. He found the drummer hilarious at the best of times, whenever Pickles was drunk and telling stories of Snakes n' Barrels or Dethklok before Toki joined.

The rhythm guitarist sucked in a breath, and pressed a kiss against wet lips as he moved his hand to Pickles' face. He slumped beside Toki, who waited fervently for a response. A shaky hand lifted into the air and landed on Toki's cheek, the warm palm cupping half of his face. Neither of them could believe they were doing this. The anger inside of Pickles began to wane, stopped boiling and lighten to a simmer. It still wasn't enough. Toki was his only comfort now, and now he had no choice. He needed it, his kiss had been thick with want and need. Toki was his want, and his need.

"Gahd, Toki," Pickles gasped as the rhythm guitarist was granted permission to just keep kissing him. His neck, his face, hands crawling up and down his vest, eventually removing it altogether. "What the fuck are we doin'?"

No answer.

Pickles didn't care what they were doing when he felt soft hands down the front of his jeans - and they were off in one quick motion. He must have been totally motionless throughout the whole thing since the ripped Toki was above him, but Pickles felt a rush of power and decided to change that. He flipped the rhythm guitarist underneath him. And just kept on kissing him.

Toki sunk into the floor. Arched his back, licked his lips, smirk lips and rumble chuckles. Pickles was his want and need. Toki was the drummer's. Toki called to him with his hips, his chest, his lips and the sweat that was beginning to break out on him. Ended it all on a slow whine as the redhead placed his hand down the front of Toki's boxers, his hand finally touching his cock. Fingers around warm heat.

Pickles didn't stop, leant forward, licked his lips, pressing them together to create an alcohol-tainted kiss that Toki groaned into. His hands slid down Toki's sweaty sides, petted his skin, brushed over his nipples, made him squeal in sensitivity.

Boxers off.

Now, there was nothing left between them.

Hard cocks rubbed together, and the rhythm guitarist couldn't help meeting the other's gentle movements, his tender caresses. Things started to fade away - the room, the floor, the day itself, until all that was left was Toki and Pickles. His hands moved to hold onto something, one going into Pickles' scalp, the other down his strong back. His skin felt soft as Toki grasped him, one trembling leg lifting up and hooking his ankle round his thigh, too weak to lift it any further.

Pleasure shot up his spine, also mixing in with horrid, sharp pain as Pickles answered his silent call and pushed inside of his body. It hurt to be stretched that far, but Toki was strong. He had been through worse. He would have prepared for him, ready to take what Pickles was giving. But neither of them wanted to waste time, it was too important for any kind of disturbance. Because it was worth it when he slid in and made them feel connected.

And Pickles didn't stop, didn't pause. Pushed and thrust inside of Toki and his other leg lifted up, this time around Pickles' waist, and it pushed him deeper, somehow. He gasped, Toki gasped, and it was good, so amazingly good.

"Oh, Gods," Toki gasped, but Pickles didn't allow him to talk yet. Silenced him with a kiss. They didn't need to say anything.

Caresses and touches and gasps. Pickles slipped his tongue against Toki's again, tilted his head to the side, growled, bucking his hips, sped it up. As he kept loving Toki, kept fucking Toki, kept him alive, kept him steady, kept him pleading whimpering begging moaning don't stop without a single word.

The pleasure oozed through their bodies, settled deep in their stomachs, forced a whine from Pickles' chest he hadn't heard before. He kept the slow tempo between them, continued to kiss Toki without his tongue, peppered them over his face, the last kiss stayed there as a hand wrapped around Toki's cock, slick with his own fluid. He stroked fast. Hard.

It blinded Pickles, broke his weapon of a body, and the anger he had previously felt was being destroyed. It didn't matter anymore. His father was an asshole and that was that. No more hatred like electricity through his veins. The only time that would happen was playing the drums. Or at a time like this. He could feel the sparks of lightning ignite in his body, soon ready to crash.

In the darkness of closed eyes, Pickles didn't think. No thoughts. Just feeling. Of wet lips on his, of someone thrusting up at him, sped up-breathing, the whisper of his own name -his actual name. He listened to Toki, who was crying out in loud gasps, squeals and moans, just enough to set off the spark.

The lightning crashed, and Pickles growled loudly, the fire and white-hot bolts through his body, the growl like thunder, into Toki, who let out a final, thick with lust and love, pleasure-filled wail that he had been so desperate to hear.

Legs eased back down. His hand finally left Toki, and the rhythm guitarist could not stop shaking. He was warm, very warm, and a tingling sensation was flooding his system. A whimper escaped against his will, and he felt he had violated a strict rule.

"Oh, God, Pickle," Toki managed to whisper. "Yous ams...I think..."

"Shh, kid," Pickles hushed, rubbing his lips against Toki's quivering own. Whispered his name as his magic, his lightning, began to work again. Pickles was genius at massages, and he did so to Toki's arms, wrists, biceps, slipped through his scalp, his hair, his chest. Kissed his lips over and over. He made sure Toki was alright, all the while listening for life outside the door. The distant voices of Nathan, Skwisgaar and Murderface assured them they were still in the Dethplane.

When it was over, he finally pulled out, gentle, attentive, assuring. Toki wanted to cry at the loss, but Pickles was still there. Still connected to the Norwegian. Arms around torso, legs entangled together. All Toki could feel and think was Pickles. His alcoholic scent was oddly comforting, and his sweet warmth.

"Gahd, Toki," Pickles sighed. "Now my dad would really think I belong in da garbage can."

"No," Toki protested, grinning in the way Pickles loved - boyish and beautiful. "There is nothings wrong. You ams my best friends. I loves you."

Pickles chuckled. "'Ey, uh…" He shrugged, but much to Toki's delight, didn't falter. He would admit it and be proud. "I guess, well…I love ya too."

Succumbing to the warmth and blackness - thankful the door was locked - and they dreamt of more nights like what they had just experienced, more tomorrows, and more of a future. There was no end, there never would be an end. Pickles and Toki were together, connected, and one. Nothing would stop that, nothing could change that, no matter what anyone said.

Toki had told Pickles, time and time again, that he did not belong in the garbage can.

Pickles, after many long, painful years of being convinced by his father that he was just trash, finally believed him.