Rum Hamilton

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Part One: Pickles x Reader

- You met at a dive bar in the middle of nowhere. Pickles was there because he'd gotten lost on a solo drive and needed a drink. You were there because it was the only place within walking distance of your shitty apartment.

- He was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a whiskey and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. You sat two stools down, ordered something cheap, and didn't look at him.

- He looked at you anyway.

- "You from around here?" he asked.

- "Unfortunately."

- He laughed—loud, surprised, genuine. "Same, baby. Same."

- He bought your next drink. Then the next. Then he walked you home (insisted on it, actually, because "it's fuckin' dark out and you're too pretty to get murdered"). You let him. He kissed you on the doorstep. It was sloppy and perfect and you've been stuck with him ever since.

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First Impressions

- Pickles is loud, messy, and aggressively friendly. He talks too much, laughs too loud, and fills every silence with something—jokes, insults, nonsense. You thought he was annoying at first. You still think he's annoying. But now it's endearing annoying.

- You're not quiet—you can hold your own—but you're grounded in a way he isn't. You don't get swept up in his chaos. You stand at the center of it, arms crossed, watching him spin, and he loves that. He loves that you're not impressed by him. He loves that you call him on his bullshit.

- He decided you were his favorite person within a week. You took three months to admit he was yours. He knew anyway.

- Pickles is a firework—bright, explosive, burning out in real time. He needs someone who won't try to contain him, just... stand nearby. You're that person. You don't tell him to slow down. You don't lecture him about the drinking or the chaos. You just make sure he doesn't burn the house down.

- In return, he pulls you out of your shell. Not aggressively—he doesn't force you to be anything you're not. But he notices when you're holding back. He'll grab your hand and drag you onto the dance floor. He'll make you laugh when you're trying to be serious. He reminds you that life is supposed to be fun sometimes.

- Pickles drinks. A lot. You're not his babysitter—he hates that—but you're his anchor. When he's too far gone, you take his hand and lead him away. He never argues. He just follows, because you're the only person he trusts to catch him.

- On the rare nights he's sober, he's different. Softer. Quieter. He'll curl up against your chest and talk about his childhood, his brother, all the shit he usually drowns out with whiskey. You listen. You hold him. You don't judge.

- He's seen you drunk too. He thinks you're hilarious. He also thinks you're beautiful—slurring, stumbling, laughing at nothing. He'll carry you to bed and tuck you in and kiss your forehead and pretend he didn't.

- Pickles is touchy. Hands always on you—your waist, your hair, your thigh under the table. He plays with your fingers when he's bored. He drums on your shoulders. He'll climb into your lap mid-conversation just to see you blush.

- He calls you ridiculous nicknames. "Baby girl." "Pretty thing." "My little chaos gremlin." You hate them. You love them. He knows.

- He kisses you randomly. In the middle of a sentence. In front of the band. While you're cooking. While you're sleeping. He just...needs to. You've stopped asking why.

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- Pickles steals your hoodies. You've given up and bought five identical ones. He looks ridiculous in them (he's shorter than you and they swallow him). You take pictures. He pretends to be mad.

- He writes drum parts for you. Not songs—just rhythms, patterns, things he taps out on your thigh or your back or the table. He says it's "practice." You know it's love.

- You cook for him. He can't cook—his attempts are biohazards. You've banned him from the kitchen after the "microwave incident" (you don't talk about the microwave incident). He sits on the counter and talks shit while you make dinner. Sometimes he steals ingredients. Sometimes you let him.

- He falls asleep on your shoulder during movies. Every time. Doesn't matter what time of day. Doesn't matter if he's seen it before. He's out within twenty minutes, snoring softly, and you never have the heart to wake him.

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- Pickles is terrified of being abandoned. He'll never say it. But you see it in the way he watches you leave a room, in the way he clings after a nightmare, in the way he asks "you still here?" like it's a joke. You're always still here. He's learning to believe it.

- He's also terrified that he's not good enough for you. That one day you'll wake up and realize you could do better. You tell him, over and over, that you chose him. You keep choosing him. He's starting to believe that too.

- You love him because he makes you laugh, because he feels everything so loudly, because he's chaos in human form and somehow, impossibly, he chose you to be his calm.

- He loves you because you see him—really see him—and you stay.

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Every night, no matter where you are—tour bus, hotel, home—he finds you. Wraps his arms around your waist from behind. Presses his face into your hair. Breathes.

"I love you," he mumbles. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah," you say. "I know."

"Okay." He holds on tighter. "Just checking."

He falls asleep like that. You let him.

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Part Two: Charles x Reader

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- You met through work. You weren't in the band—you were something else. A lawyer. An accountant. A logistics coordinator. Someone competent, someone quiet, someone who didn't flinch when the chaos of Dethklok spilled into your perfectly organized spreadsheets.

- Charles noticed you immediately. He didn't say anything, of course. He just...watched. Noticed how you never made mistakes. How you handled the band's nonsense with the same calm efficiency he did. How you didn't try to sleep with any of them (a rarity, apparently).

- The first time he spoke to you directly was at 2 AM in the office. You were both working late. He brought you coffee. Black, no sugar. Your usual.

- You didn't ask how he knew. You just said thank you.

- He nodded. Walked away.

- That was the beginning.

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- Charles is controlled. Impeccably dressed. Emotionally guarded. He speaks precisely, moves efficiently, and reveals almost nothing about himself. You thought he was cold at first. You were wrong. He's not cold—he's careful. There's a difference.

- You're similarly controlled. You don't overshare. You don't make scenes. You do your job, do it well, and go home. Charles appreciated this about you immediately. You weren't there for the fame or the money. You were there because you were good at what you did.

- He respected you before he liked you. The liking came later. It snuck up on him.

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- You don't talk about feelings. Neither of you. But you don't need to. You communicate in glances, in small gestures, in the comfortable silence of working side by side at 3 AM.

- He shows affection through acts of service. Your coffee appears on your desk at the same time every morning. Your car gets serviced without you asking. A difficult client disappears from your caseload with no explanation. You know it's him. You never thank him out loud. He doesn't need you to.

- You show affection through reliability. You're always there. You never let him down. When the band's chaos gets too heavy, you handle the things he can't. He notices. He'll never say it, but he notices.

- Charles wears a mask. So do you. You're both so good at it that most people don't realize it's there. But you see each other's cracks.

- You see the way his jaw tightens when the band does something particularly stupid. The way his hands shake slightly after a close call. The way he stands a little too still, a little too controlled, like he's holding himself together with sheer will.

- He sees the way you disappear into yourself when you're overwhelmed. The way you stop eating when you're stressed. The way you flinch at loud noises even though you'd never admit it.

- You don't fix each other. You just...acknowledge. And that's enough.

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- Charles is not a toucher. He's been touched without consent before (by the band, by fans, by people who don't understand boundaries). He needs to initiate contact. He needs to feel safe.

- You learned this early. You never touch him without warning. You never assume. You always ask, even if it's just a glance and a raised eyebrow.

- When he does touch you, it's deliberate. A hand on your lower back as he guides you through a crowd. A brush of his fingers against yours when he hands you a file. A kiss on your forehead at the end of a long day—quick, almost shy, like he's still not sure he's allowed.

- He holds your hand in private. Not in public—he's too guarded for that—but when you're alone, when the door is locked and the world is outside, he'll lace his fingers through yours and just...hold on. You never let go first.

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- You have dinner together every night. Not fancy—just...together. Sometimes you cook. Sometimes he orders in. Sometimes you just sit in comfortable silence, eating, existing in the same space.

- He reads before bed. You do too. You lie on opposite sides of the bed, backs against the headboard, reading your own books. Occasionally you reach over and touch his arm. Occasionally he reaches over and touches your knee. Neither of you looks up. Neither of you needs to.

- He falls asleep after you. He always stays up later, running through tomorrow's to-do lists, checking security, making sure everything is in order. But he always comes to bed. Always curls around you. Always presses a kiss to your shoulder before he closes his eyes.

- You wake up before him. You watch him sleep. He looks younger. Softer. The tension is gone from his jaw. You never wake him. He needs the rest.

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- You don't fight. Not really. You're both too controlled for screaming matches. Instead, you have discussions—tense, polite, devastating.

- When you're upset, you go quiet. Colder than usual. You answer in monosyllables and avoid eye contact. Charles notices immediately. He always notices.

- When he's upset, he gets distant. More formal. He starts calling you by your last name again. It's his version of building a wall.

- The fight ends when one of you breaks. Usually you. You'll say something honest—something vulnerable—and the wall crumbles. He'll cross the room and pull you into his arms and hold on like he's afraid you'll disappear.

- "I'm sorry," he says. Always. Even when it's not his fault. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to do this."

- "You're learning," you say. "We both are."

- He kisses your forehead. The fight is over.

---

- Charles is terrified of losing control. Of being seen as weak. Of needing someone so much that their absence would destroy him. You're that someone. He's still processing that.

- He's also terrified that he's not enough for you. That one day you'll realize you deserve someone who can say "I love you" without it feeling like pulling teeth. You tell him, with actions, that you're not going anywhere.

- You love him because he's steady. Because he's the only person in the chaos who never wavers. Because when he looks at you, you feel seen in a way you never have before.

- He loves you because you're the same. Because you don't need him to be different. Because you see the man under the mask and you don't flinch.

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Late at night, after the band is asleep and the world is quiet, Charles lets go.

He takes off his tie. Unbuttons his collar. Slumps against the couch. And you sit beside him, close but not touching, waiting.

He reaches for your hand first. Always.

"I don't say it enough," he says. Quiet. Rough. Real.

"Say what?"

He looks at you. His eyes are tired, soft, full of things he can't put into words.

"I love you," he says. "I know I'm not...good at this. But I love you. And I'm grateful to have you with me. Every day."

You squeeze his hand.

"I know," you say. "I love you too."

He closes his eyes. Leans his head against yours.

And for a moment, Charles Foster Offdensen—the man who holds the world together—lets himself be held.

- He can't believe you're real.

Toki has spent most of his life being overlooked, underestimated, or actively mistreated (thanks abusive childhood and years of being Dethklok's punching bag). The fact that you want to be around him — that you choose him — breaks his brain a little. He'll ask "yous really likes me?" at least once a day. Not because he's fishing for compliments. Because he genuinely can't believe it. Answer him every time. He needs to hear it.

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- He's incredibly affectionate.

Toki is a hugger. A hand-holder. A forehead-kisser. He'll drape himself over you on the couch like a large, blonde cat. He plays with your hair while you watch TV. He holds your hand under the table at dinner. He's not ashamed of any of it. He spent so long without physical affection that now he's making up for lost time. Let him. He'll purr if you scratch his head. (He doesn't actually purr. But it's close.)

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- His love language is quality time.

He doesn't need grand gestures or expensive gifts. He just wants to be near you. Sitting in the same room while he practices guitar. Cooking together (he's terrible at it, but he tries). Falling asleep on the couch with a movie playing that neither of you is watching. He doesn't care what you're doing. He just wants to do it with you.

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- He's surprisingly thoughtful.

He remembers everything. Your coffee order. The name of your childhood pet. That one thing you mentioned wanting six months ago. He'll surprise you with it — not on a special occasion, just on a random Tuesday. He doesn't make a big deal out of it. He'll just hand it to you and say "I saw this and thoughts of yous" like it's nothing. It's not nothing. It's everything.

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- He's protective in a quiet way.

Toki isn't aggressive. He won't start fights or threaten people. But if someone hurts you — really hurts you — something shifts in him. He gets very quiet. Very still. His eyes go dark in a way you've never seen. He won't tell you what he did. You won't ask. Just know that whoever crossed you regrets it.

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- He has nightmares.

His childhood left scars that don't show. Some nights he wakes up shaking, drenched in sweat, reaching for you before he's even fully conscious. He won't talk about it. He'll just cling to you in the dark and breathe until the shaking stops. Don't push him to explain. Just hold him. Let him know he's safe.

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- He's goofy as hell.

Toki makes stupid faces. He does voices. He'll narrate your daily activities in a fake announcer voice until you throw a pillow at him. He laughs at his own jokes (which are mostly terrible). He's not trying to be funny — he's just like this. Life with him is never boring. Annoying, sometimes. But never boring.

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- He gets jealous (but not in a scary way).

He won't yell or start drama. He'll just get quiet. Withdraw. Sit in the corner and pick at his guitar and pretend everything is fine. It's not fine. He saw you laughing with someone else and his brain immediately went to "they're better than me, you're going to leave." You have to coax it out of him. He'll deny it at first. Then he'll mumble something about "that guy" and look at his shoes. Kiss his forehead. Tell him he's an idiot. He'll smile. It'll be okay.

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- He's bad at taking care of himself.

He forgets to eat when he's hyperfocused on music. He stays up too late. He'll wear the same shirt for three days if no one says anything. You become the person who reminds him to shower, who brings him food, who physically removes the guitar from his hands at 3 AM. He complains — "you're nots my mom, Toki is a grown-up" — but he also leans into your touch when you check his forehead for a fever. He needs you. He'll never say it.

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- He writes songs about you.

Not all of them. But some of them. Little melodies he plays when he thinks you're asleep. Lyrics in Norwegian that you don't understand. He'll never tell you which songs are about you. But you'll know. There's something in the way he plays them — softer, sweeter, sadder — that gives it away.

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- He's surprisingly good with animals.

Cats love him. Dogs love him. Random squirrels seem to trust him. He talks to animals in a soft, gentle voice that he never uses with humans. Watching him crouch down to pet a stray cat will make your heart do something weird. Don't mention it. He'll get embarrassed.

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- He's not good with words.

He stumbles. He trips over sentences. He says the wrong thing at the wrong time and then panics and makes it worse. He's not good at "I love you" speeches. He's good at showing up. At holding you. At making you coffee exactly the way you like it. At being there. Learn to read his actions. The words are in there somewhere. They're just shy.

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- He's fiercely loyal.

Once Toki loves you, that's it. You're his person. He's not going anywhere. He'll defend you to anyone — the band, the press, strangers on the street. He'll choose you over everything. Not because he's supposed to. Because he can't imagine choosing anything else.

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- He makes you feel seen.

Toki notices things about you that no one else does. The way you laugh when you're nervous. The way you tap your fingers when you're thinking. The small sigh you make before you fall asleep. He collects these details like treasure. He'll mention one randomly — "yous do the thing with your nose when you're annoyed, Toki likes that" — and you'll realize he's been watching you this whole time. Really watching. It's unsettling and wonderful.

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- He's home.

That's what it comes down to. Toki is chaos and noise and terrible cooking and loud guitar at 2 AM. But he's also warmth and safety and someone who looks at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him. He's not perfect. Neither are you. But when you're together, it feels like coming home.