A/N: Right. This is my first Scandal fanfiction. Mostly because I wanted to read about Charlie and Quinn, and couldn't find much of anything. This is a very short piece, but I think (think, mind you) that I've captured them good enough. Not perfect, but good.
Aaaanyway. Thanks to Rayne Fenfire for beta reading – I know for a fact that she has better things she could do! *hugs*
Disclaimer: No profit will be made with this story, and I don't own any characters.
Enjoy!
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They had made him. Built him up into a soldier, a torturer; judge and jury in one person, as close to a God as you can get while still remaining human.
And then, just like a kid when it's done with its Lego tower, they kicked him back down, broke him into a million little pieces of something not recognizable.
But see – you step onto one of those little plastic pieces, it hurts like a bitch.
And hurt was the thing he dealt out these days, instead of justice.
The sound of a drill rumblingsquelchingtearing through skin and bone and muscle was the lullaby he could fall asleep to, the muffled screams, just barely trickling out underneath duct tape, where the beats he could lose himself in while dancing.
And nobody ever ever understood. His colleagues, his brothers and sisters in arms were different from him. Or maybe he was the different one, depending on how you looked on it.
Some of them had been driven insane (Good Lord, had they ever driven Huck over the deep end...), some had been trained out of every human emotion, functioning like so much of an automaton.
But Charlie never had any problem with feelings. He felt... everything. Pain, hate, love, lust.
Lust. Right. He shouldn't space out. The fact that she just delivered a punch that made his head spin in wicked ways was proof to that.
If he'd be prone to poetic overtures he would call her The Woman, if just for shits and giggles.
But he wasn't, so he didn't. Also, his Robin didn't need any obscure literacy comparisons.
She was a force all on her own.
A deity among humans, just like he'd been. Ruthless and beautiful, her teeth smeared with blood (his or hers, he had no idea), her grin sexy and demanding.
"More."
More skin, more blood, more touch, more everything.
Whatever she wanted, he would give.
He would worship the ground she walked on, and then trip her up so she crashed face-first into it; hopefully she would scrap her hands and knees so her blood could paint those oh-so-lovely distinctions on her pale body.
Yes. Pale skin, dark hair, lips painted red and tasting metallic-sweet.
For now he would stick with a nicely placed backhand, to watch a small trickle of the good stuff drop down from her nose.
He crowded her then, pushing her up against a wall; ripping her blouse, tearing off her bra (probably bruising the hell out of her back and shoulder while trying to get the damn thing to just disappear).
Sucking one nipple into his mouth he remembered that, shit, yeah, she doesn't like that.
Mostly because she pinched his until he broke away with a small yelp.
No matter. He would be perfectly fine with just touching them, sinking his teeth in the juncture between neck and shoulder instead.
She let him do that, no trouble. Little bitch liked getting bitten. Liked it hard and rough and painful, just like him.
Never resented him for pushing into her without preparation. Usually there wasn't any needed anyway. He got hard the second she looked at him, promised him violence with her cold eyes; he suspected she was much the same, drenching her panties to the point where he could nearly fucking smell her.
Like he could smell her now, that heady musk making his vision swim and his cock growing hard to the point of pain – just like he wanted, enjoyed it.
In that moment, he thanked her vanity for talking her into a skirt this morning.
With the last scrap of underwear gone he hauled her forwards by the hair, pushed her down over the back of his couch and rammed home. She screamed, then mumbled something unintelligible before she finally pushed back.
He was right up there in heaven with his fellow Gods.
Of course she needed to go and ruin it by elbowing him into the stomach to make him back off.
He heaved a breath and swallowed spasmodically – no need to throw up right now, really.
Next thing he knew, he was flat on his back and balls-deep buried in her again.
There would be rug burn on her knees later; probably some on his back and ass too.
He hated rug burn. It hurt like hell but didn't have the excuse of being a real injury to do so.
And then she gripped him by the hair, bashed his head on the floor once, twice and he forgot to think entirely.
The only things left were her screams and grunts, her mumbled insults and chants of moreyousonofabitch, harder, faster, please, Charlie.
Later, he would shower and then inspect his body in the steamed-up mirror. Later, he would count the bruises, scraps, cuts and bite marks.
Later, he would think about the fact that he's been turned from a God to a sycophant.
He would think about Huck, and how he was the lapdog of the Presidents dirty little secret. How he would go to any lengths for his Mistress. About how Quinn could snap her fingers and he would do whatever she wanted, demanding nearly nothing in return.
But that would be later.
Now he would bury his fingers deeper into her fleshy hips, scratch up her lovely back and give as good as he got.
They had made him. Built him up into a soldier, a torturer; judge and jury in one person, as close to a God as you can get while still remaining human.
And the one thing that kept him from going over that precipice between Monster and Human was riding him like her live depended on it, so he surged up to crash his lips to hers and forgot to be anything at all.
-End-
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Done! Sooo, what did you guys think? Please let me know!
So long,
Zora