Anything You Want: Part 2
Title: Anything You Want
Rating: Pg-13 for one swear
Pairing: S/T (possibly one sided)
I have a disease where I can't stop writing slash for Metalocalypse, it seems.
The morning was silent, as usual for Mordhaus. The others wouldn’t be stirring for several more hours and Toki was used to being awake by the time the sun rose. It was out of habit more than anything; back home if he slept past sunrise, he’d earn a lashing and a new scar on his back. Skwisgaar’s arm was draped over his torso in a vaguely possessive way, but his body no longer clung, shoulders to feet as it had last night when the two had fallen asleep. Toki lay next to the blond for several minutes, listening to his slow, quiet breathing, trying to match his own with the sounds. The lump in his throat from last night had not gone away and was making it hard to swallow now. This would be the only and last time he found himself in Skwisgaar’s bed, and there was no joy in either that thought or lying here next to the person he had sought after for so long.
Deciding that lying here would only make him feel more miserable than he already did, Toki gingerly removed Skwisgaar’s arm from on top of him and slipped out from under the covers. His boots had been left on in the strangeness of last night, so there was no scrambling for any items that could be left behind, and he quickly and quietly exited, the door creaking only the slightest on its hinges. Shutting the door was a symbolic as well as physical gesture for Toki. He couldn’t live like this anymore; the torture of waiting and hoping that Skwisgaar would see him in a different light than the stupid, crybaby rhythm guitarist that he occasionally had to supervise when drunk and had to constantly tell that his playing had to be over. His heart was tired of the tiny cracks, each new one threatening to damage it beyond repair. Lately, any time Skwisgaar had brought ladies into his room, the cracks spread.
Toki didn’t come out of his room the rest of that day. Or the next. He didn’t order any meals, there was no noises that issued forth from under the door, the halls were quiet. Nathan and Pickles, who shared a hallway with the little goofball, were somewhat grateful. Usually his escapades woke them both into terrible hangovers. By the third day, though, Pickles, Nathan and even Murderface began to express concern in their own way.
“It ain’t like him ta be alone so much.”
“It’s too quiet; I can’t concentrate on writing lyrics without some noise.”
“He’sch trying to make usch all worry about him, that asschole! Trying to get attentchion. What a crybaby!”
Skwisgaar was oddly silent on the subject, but he plucked the strings of his Gibson a little faster when the conversation turned to the little Norwegian.
When Toki did finally emerge, he was met with the same casual indifference that usually accompanied his arrival into the dining room. Though Pickles did seem to glance at him more than usual, when he thought no one was paying attention. Toki downed three or four helpings worth of dinner and didn’t say much. After he ate, he retired to his room again. The entire time he’d been out, he’d only looked at Skwisgaar once. His eyes were impassive, which was unsettling because Toki’s expression toward the blond, whether angry or worshipful, was never neutral.
“What did you do to him this time, Skwisgaar?” Nathan admonished.
“What’s you mean?”
“He’s never naht said somethin’ to ya. I mean never,” Pickles interjected.
Skwisgaar shrugged.
In the safety of his room, Toki released the pent up anger and frustration he felt from just locking eyes with the Swede once. He punched the wall twice before he felt a painful cracking sensation in his hand and cried out. “Fucks!” When he examined it more closely, he found that trying to open the fist was excruciating. Not knowing what else to do, he used his good hand to open the door and wander out into the hallway. He found Nathan in the big room, watching TV. Thank Odin he was alone.
“Uh, Nathans?”
“Toki, what’s the matter with your hand?”
“I, uh, I fells,” he replied lamely. Nathan snorted at the obvious lie.
“Really. What’d you fall on?”
“Um… I fells on my model planes. I landeds hand foist on dem.”
“Toki, you’re a really terrible liar.”
“Who ams a terrible whats?” Skwisgaar asked, wanting to be privy to the conversation. That was, until he actually walked into the room and saw Toki standing next to Nathan. He noticed Toki cradling his fist, his arm shaking from the effort to hold the pain in. “Toki, what’s happsens to yous hand?” There was a mixture of genuine concern and exasperation.
“I fells,” Toki would not meet his eyes, but did look in his general direction.
“You gots to goes to de medicals place. If you’s hand is hurts, you gots to gets helps for it. You can’ts play with a hurts hand.”
“I don’ts remember where dat is.” The medical wing was in one of the winding corridors of Mordhaus, but the boys had usually found it by following the Robot.
“Pffft.” Skwisgaar sighed in accompaniment to his usual derisive sound.
“Maybe we should, you know, get Charles.”
“Nots necessary. I remembers where it ams. I’lls take Toki dere, like I always gots to take cares of him.”
“I’ll go finds Ofdensens.” Toki walked past Skwisgaar toward the manager’s office. Nathan returned to his notepad, trying to rhyme “beheaded” with something.
Skwisgaar felt only the slightest twinge of uncomfortable guilt at what had just transpired.
Crossposted to Sausage Festival.
Rating: Pg-13 for one swear
Pairing: S/T (possibly one sided)
I have a disease where I can't stop writing slash for Metalocalypse, it seems.
The morning was silent, as usual for Mordhaus. The others wouldn’t be stirring for several more hours and Toki was used to being awake by the time the sun rose. It was out of habit more than anything; back home if he slept past sunrise, he’d earn a lashing and a new scar on his back. Skwisgaar’s arm was draped over his torso in a vaguely possessive way, but his body no longer clung, shoulders to feet as it had last night when the two had fallen asleep. Toki lay next to the blond for several minutes, listening to his slow, quiet breathing, trying to match his own with the sounds. The lump in his throat from last night had not gone away and was making it hard to swallow now. This would be the only and last time he found himself in Skwisgaar’s bed, and there was no joy in either that thought or lying here next to the person he had sought after for so long.
Deciding that lying here would only make him feel more miserable than he already did, Toki gingerly removed Skwisgaar’s arm from on top of him and slipped out from under the covers. His boots had been left on in the strangeness of last night, so there was no scrambling for any items that could be left behind, and he quickly and quietly exited, the door creaking only the slightest on its hinges. Shutting the door was a symbolic as well as physical gesture for Toki. He couldn’t live like this anymore; the torture of waiting and hoping that Skwisgaar would see him in a different light than the stupid, crybaby rhythm guitarist that he occasionally had to supervise when drunk and had to constantly tell that his playing had to be over. His heart was tired of the tiny cracks, each new one threatening to damage it beyond repair. Lately, any time Skwisgaar had brought ladies into his room, the cracks spread.
Toki didn’t come out of his room the rest of that day. Or the next. He didn’t order any meals, there was no noises that issued forth from under the door, the halls were quiet. Nathan and Pickles, who shared a hallway with the little goofball, were somewhat grateful. Usually his escapades woke them both into terrible hangovers. By the third day, though, Pickles, Nathan and even Murderface began to express concern in their own way.
“It ain’t like him ta be alone so much.”
“It’s too quiet; I can’t concentrate on writing lyrics without some noise.”
“He’sch trying to make usch all worry about him, that asschole! Trying to get attentchion. What a crybaby!”
Skwisgaar was oddly silent on the subject, but he plucked the strings of his Gibson a little faster when the conversation turned to the little Norwegian.
When Toki did finally emerge, he was met with the same casual indifference that usually accompanied his arrival into the dining room. Though Pickles did seem to glance at him more than usual, when he thought no one was paying attention. Toki downed three or four helpings worth of dinner and didn’t say much. After he ate, he retired to his room again. The entire time he’d been out, he’d only looked at Skwisgaar once. His eyes were impassive, which was unsettling because Toki’s expression toward the blond, whether angry or worshipful, was never neutral.
“What did you do to him this time, Skwisgaar?” Nathan admonished.
“What’s you mean?”
“He’s never naht said somethin’ to ya. I mean never,” Pickles interjected.
Skwisgaar shrugged.
In the safety of his room, Toki released the pent up anger and frustration he felt from just locking eyes with the Swede once. He punched the wall twice before he felt a painful cracking sensation in his hand and cried out. “Fucks!” When he examined it more closely, he found that trying to open the fist was excruciating. Not knowing what else to do, he used his good hand to open the door and wander out into the hallway. He found Nathan in the big room, watching TV. Thank Odin he was alone.
“Uh, Nathans?”
“Toki, what’s the matter with your hand?”
“I, uh, I fells,” he replied lamely. Nathan snorted at the obvious lie.
“Really. What’d you fall on?”
“Um… I fells on my model planes. I landeds hand foist on dem.”
“Toki, you’re a really terrible liar.”
“Who ams a terrible whats?” Skwisgaar asked, wanting to be privy to the conversation. That was, until he actually walked into the room and saw Toki standing next to Nathan. He noticed Toki cradling his fist, his arm shaking from the effort to hold the pain in. “Toki, what’s happsens to yous hand?” There was a mixture of genuine concern and exasperation.
“I fells,” Toki would not meet his eyes, but did look in his general direction.
“You gots to goes to de medicals place. If you’s hand is hurts, you gots to gets helps for it. You can’ts play with a hurts hand.”
“I don’ts remember where dat is.” The medical wing was in one of the winding corridors of Mordhaus, but the boys had usually found it by following the Robot.
“Pffft.” Skwisgaar sighed in accompaniment to his usual derisive sound.
“Maybe we should, you know, get Charles.”
“Nots necessary. I remembers where it ams. I’lls take Toki dere, like I always gots to take cares of him.”
“I’ll go finds Ofdensens.” Toki walked past Skwisgaar toward the manager’s office. Nathan returned to his notepad, trying to rhyme “beheaded” with something.
Skwisgaar felt only the slightest twinge of uncomfortable guilt at what had just transpired.
Crossposted to Sausage Festival.