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Entry tags:
Metalocalypse B-Day Fic
Title: Like the Soil Yearns For The Rain
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Word Count: 1763
Soft lips brushed against his, teasing and feather-light, coaxing him and urging him forward. Helplessly he followed, unable to resist the wordless promises that dripped from the brief touches. Up and off of his pillow and it made his neck stiff, his stomach muscles rippling and protesting but that was nothing compared to the ache in his chest and behind his eyes. Always making him chase, it was tiring being the pursuer but this time his quarry seemed to promise, this time maybe he would catch up, earn his reward. A hint of tongue this time, more warmth than wet at the corner of his mouth and he moaned and rocked upward, arms reaching out in near desperation for the one he wanted…
Deep in the bowels of Mordhaus, Toki blinked open icy blue eyes and sighed. The same dream every night for two months now and it always ended the same way; alone in his bed, often sitting up in his sleep, and a yearning for someone who was never there. Yet in spite of his torment – he currently had been waking up with circles under his eyes nearly as big as Pickles’ and his bed was no longer the soft haven it had once been – the young Norwegian would never take back the one shining instant that haunted his every moment waking and asleep. It had been an evening like many others; a brutal concert in some European city set to be followed by a long night of debauchery. But it had turned into so much more and Toki still didn’t understand why.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf had been a household name in the Scandinavian countries long before the formation of Dethklok. And Toki Wartooth had followed his meteoric rise to metal stardom with what few scraps and pieces of the outside world he could get his hands on. Clippings and snippets of fourth and fifth hand recordings on ancient cassettes and the one time he snuck away from the oppressive silence of his parents’ house at fourteen had been to watch the Swede play in a televised battle of the bands contest on their distant neighbor’s grainy set. It would be no exaggeration to call Skwisgaar his inspiration and role model, at least as far as playing the guitar. His speed and style had been light years beyond his contemporaries and Toki had been enchanted by the Swede’s relative youth and poise.
He’d harbored, hidden inside deeper even than his aspirations for rock and roll glory, not an insignificant crush upon the older boy and it was in equal measures likely that Skwisgaar was the cause of his teenaged sticky sheets as the nameless, faceless women who sometimes prowled through his dreams. And when Nathan had invited him to join Dethklok, his very first thought, even before the realization that his goal of metal domination had been reached was that he would get to meet the great Skwisgaar Skwigelf in person.
Of course teenage idolatry and a young man’s star struck ideas were quickly dashed. Skwisgaar was vain, rude, slutty, and downright mean. He was also amazingly gifted and even more handsome in person. Toki had slowly built a calloused shell around his bruised heart, feigning more interest in groupies and pornography than he really felt until he managed to even fool himself. His crush shrank, condensing into a tough and tiny seed planted far away in the back of his brain, and after a year or two of tolerating the Swedish guitarist’s abuse, it was almost as if he had never cared for Skwisgaar at all.
The only time any fraction of his former feelings emerged was when they played. That was one thing he could never deny. Skwisgaar really was a guitar god and Toki was hard pressed to keep up with his ever-growing talent. The rest of the band could only watch and shake their heads, as impressed by the young Norwegian’s ability to keep up as they were by Skwisgaar’s ever-evolving playing style. Toki couldn’t see this, though. All he saw were his clumsy fingers that couldn’t compare to the slender grace of the Swede’s. All he heard were his mistakes, his half-second too late entrances, his occasional slurred notes as he tried to match the peerless crystalline quality that was the trademark of Mr. Skwigelf. And all he got were insults and pointed barbs, stinging words that drove him to practice harder and improve in spite of himself.
For all of the pain Skwisgaar caused him, playing with him, being the second fastest guitarist in the world, was so much better than his childhood dreams made flesh. It was as if his soul took flight when they were together on stage before the world. Their guitars screamed and fought and soared together and on very rare occasions Skwisgaar would glance at him and a hint of a smile would be on his face. Those moments of unacknowledged praise lived on in hoarded memories that Toki pulled out when he needed the encouragement, treasures that made all the verbal abuse tolerable and nourished the shriveled seed. He would have been content to live that way forever, playing in Dethklok with Skwisgaar just beyond his reach but then the Swede had gone and changed things.
Nothing had stood out about that night until the second to last song. There was an extended solo, a trading of riffs that had made Skwisgaar irritated that he didn’t get all the glory the first time Nathan and Pickles had proposed the idea, that eventually morphed into a dueling complex of call and response and it was one of the toughest things Toki had ever played. That night they played it perfectly, the thorny beautiful wild rose vine of Skwisgaar’s guitar twining and climbing around the sturdy graceful hawthorn trunk of his rhythm. There had been a curious look on the Swede’s face when they were finished, something Toki couldn’t place, but adrenaline had been pumping through him and he’d dismissed it in order to turn his attention to their closing song. Backstage, afterwards, he’d been interested in nothing more than a little snogging with some groupies and perhaps a giant ice cream sundae. Instead, he’d gotten what his subconscious self had always wanted.
Pure, snowy white, somehow the linen bathrobe managed to make Skwisgaar’s fair skin glow instead of washing him out, his blond hair golden in the dim lights of the dressing room. Toki never managed to get out a single word for Skwisgaar’s mouth was upon his as soon as he parted his lips to speak, tongue stroking across his slow and sensual and demanding his surrender. He’d let it happen, didn’t make a move to halt the proceedings. In this area too Skwisgaar lived up to his hype. Clever calloused fingers had set the Norwegian’s skin aflame, Swedish tongue and accented English driving him higher and even though Toki had been taught that what happened between two men could only condemn him to hell, he welcomed his damnation. Skwisgaar had been careful, though not gentle, and the bruises he left on Toki’s lightly tanned skin distracted the rhythm guitarist from the unfamiliar burn between his legs.
In a harmony equal to that they’d shared on stage, Skwisgaar had led and Toki had followed eagerly. They moved together, the leather couch of the dressing room sticking to his sweating back and the gold of Skwisgaar’s hair a curtain around them. That night Toki reached a height of pleasure he’d never known existed, a deep satisfaction thrumming through his entire body. Skwisgaar had demanded his orgasm, drove him to it, forced it out, and swallowed down every groan and sigh and then took even more as he plundered the depths of the rhythm guitarist’s body in pursuit of his own release. For a long minute Toki had been covered by the long, lean length of the Swede’s body, sharing his breath and feeling nearly every inch of skin plastered across his. Then it was over, Skwisgaar withdrawing from his body and then from the room, and Toki had been left alone.
That had been two months ago and Toki hadn’t been able to forget, to let it go. No words had been exchanged and Skwisgaar treated him exactly the same as before. What was he supposed to think, to do? He’d had a taste of something that was more than sex but less than love. Skwisgaar was a promiscuous bastard but the one thing Toki didn’t feel was used. All he felt was an undeniable yearning to have Skwisgaar touch him again, acknowledge him with more than just his music. His dreams were full of the tantalizing promise of the Swede and he couldn’t escape from them. Toki wasn’t sure he wanted to. What he wanted was that moment, to know that he wasn’t alone and that Skwisgaar saw him too. And maybe some sleep because he hadn’t been getting nearly enough. But for the moment there was no use in lying back down; he knew he would only have the same dream and awaken even less satisfied.
The familiar shape of his Flying V called to him and Toki resigned himself to passing another day in a sleep-deprived haze as he swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet and he hissed and practically leapt into his soft, fuzzy bunny slippers. A warm, midnight blue bathrobe took care of the rest of him and he retrieved his guitar, strummed absently across the strings. The sound was lonely in his room and Toki shook his head and sighed again. There was no peace to be found in what had once been his private sanctuary and he shuffled out the door in search of somewhere more comforting.
Mordhaus was dark and silent but for his muffled footfalls until a thread of sound caught his ear. Familiar notes, ones now burned into his very soul from that night, and he couldn’t keep from moving faster, drawn towards the flurry of notes. A single lamp illuminated the living room and cast a halo of light about Skwisgaar’s pale form, transforming him into an illusion of an angel. Toki paused in the doorway to listen and to rid himself of his thoughts. The Swede was no angel. But, as he looked up, eyes as blue and warm as a clear summer sky, he was beautiful. The seed in Toki’s heart swelled and a tiny green tendril of hope burst forth when Skwisgaar smiled at the answering notes from his guitar.
This was inspired by Kamelot's song "Eden Echo" off their newest album..
These are the lyrics:
First you said that you would never leave me
Merry were my days
Then you told me life is never easy
And left without a trace
But how come I want you
Like the soil yearns for the rain
Won't you light up
Won't you light up my life
Let my soul breathe
Tell me wrong, tell me right
You're my mind cage
Like a mountain far away
You were always there
Dressed in summer white
You will never know how much I miss you
Or open to my fear
Find the maze I made my way through
and enter if you dare
How come I want you
Like the soil yearns for the rain
Won't you light up
Won't you light up my life
Let my soul breathe
Tell me wrong, tell me right
You're my mind cage
Like a mountain far away
You were always there
Dressed in summer white
Remember my name
And paint the darkness with your light
Go sing your song for all the broken hearted
Like eden echoes in my head
The unforgiven gave you all
Won't you light up
Won't you light up my life
Let my soul breathe
Tell me wrong, tell me right
You're my mind cage
Like a mountain far away
You were always there
Dressed in summer white
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Skwisgaar/Toki
Word Count: 1763
Soft lips brushed against his, teasing and feather-light, coaxing him and urging him forward. Helplessly he followed, unable to resist the wordless promises that dripped from the brief touches. Up and off of his pillow and it made his neck stiff, his stomach muscles rippling and protesting but that was nothing compared to the ache in his chest and behind his eyes. Always making him chase, it was tiring being the pursuer but this time his quarry seemed to promise, this time maybe he would catch up, earn his reward. A hint of tongue this time, more warmth than wet at the corner of his mouth and he moaned and rocked upward, arms reaching out in near desperation for the one he wanted…
Deep in the bowels of Mordhaus, Toki blinked open icy blue eyes and sighed. The same dream every night for two months now and it always ended the same way; alone in his bed, often sitting up in his sleep, and a yearning for someone who was never there. Yet in spite of his torment – he currently had been waking up with circles under his eyes nearly as big as Pickles’ and his bed was no longer the soft haven it had once been – the young Norwegian would never take back the one shining instant that haunted his every moment waking and asleep. It had been an evening like many others; a brutal concert in some European city set to be followed by a long night of debauchery. But it had turned into so much more and Toki still didn’t understand why.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf had been a household name in the Scandinavian countries long before the formation of Dethklok. And Toki Wartooth had followed his meteoric rise to metal stardom with what few scraps and pieces of the outside world he could get his hands on. Clippings and snippets of fourth and fifth hand recordings on ancient cassettes and the one time he snuck away from the oppressive silence of his parents’ house at fourteen had been to watch the Swede play in a televised battle of the bands contest on their distant neighbor’s grainy set. It would be no exaggeration to call Skwisgaar his inspiration and role model, at least as far as playing the guitar. His speed and style had been light years beyond his contemporaries and Toki had been enchanted by the Swede’s relative youth and poise.
He’d harbored, hidden inside deeper even than his aspirations for rock and roll glory, not an insignificant crush upon the older boy and it was in equal measures likely that Skwisgaar was the cause of his teenaged sticky sheets as the nameless, faceless women who sometimes prowled through his dreams. And when Nathan had invited him to join Dethklok, his very first thought, even before the realization that his goal of metal domination had been reached was that he would get to meet the great Skwisgaar Skwigelf in person.
Of course teenage idolatry and a young man’s star struck ideas were quickly dashed. Skwisgaar was vain, rude, slutty, and downright mean. He was also amazingly gifted and even more handsome in person. Toki had slowly built a calloused shell around his bruised heart, feigning more interest in groupies and pornography than he really felt until he managed to even fool himself. His crush shrank, condensing into a tough and tiny seed planted far away in the back of his brain, and after a year or two of tolerating the Swedish guitarist’s abuse, it was almost as if he had never cared for Skwisgaar at all.
The only time any fraction of his former feelings emerged was when they played. That was one thing he could never deny. Skwisgaar really was a guitar god and Toki was hard pressed to keep up with his ever-growing talent. The rest of the band could only watch and shake their heads, as impressed by the young Norwegian’s ability to keep up as they were by Skwisgaar’s ever-evolving playing style. Toki couldn’t see this, though. All he saw were his clumsy fingers that couldn’t compare to the slender grace of the Swede’s. All he heard were his mistakes, his half-second too late entrances, his occasional slurred notes as he tried to match the peerless crystalline quality that was the trademark of Mr. Skwigelf. And all he got were insults and pointed barbs, stinging words that drove him to practice harder and improve in spite of himself.
For all of the pain Skwisgaar caused him, playing with him, being the second fastest guitarist in the world, was so much better than his childhood dreams made flesh. It was as if his soul took flight when they were together on stage before the world. Their guitars screamed and fought and soared together and on very rare occasions Skwisgaar would glance at him and a hint of a smile would be on his face. Those moments of unacknowledged praise lived on in hoarded memories that Toki pulled out when he needed the encouragement, treasures that made all the verbal abuse tolerable and nourished the shriveled seed. He would have been content to live that way forever, playing in Dethklok with Skwisgaar just beyond his reach but then the Swede had gone and changed things.
Nothing had stood out about that night until the second to last song. There was an extended solo, a trading of riffs that had made Skwisgaar irritated that he didn’t get all the glory the first time Nathan and Pickles had proposed the idea, that eventually morphed into a dueling complex of call and response and it was one of the toughest things Toki had ever played. That night they played it perfectly, the thorny beautiful wild rose vine of Skwisgaar’s guitar twining and climbing around the sturdy graceful hawthorn trunk of his rhythm. There had been a curious look on the Swede’s face when they were finished, something Toki couldn’t place, but adrenaline had been pumping through him and he’d dismissed it in order to turn his attention to their closing song. Backstage, afterwards, he’d been interested in nothing more than a little snogging with some groupies and perhaps a giant ice cream sundae. Instead, he’d gotten what his subconscious self had always wanted.
Pure, snowy white, somehow the linen bathrobe managed to make Skwisgaar’s fair skin glow instead of washing him out, his blond hair golden in the dim lights of the dressing room. Toki never managed to get out a single word for Skwisgaar’s mouth was upon his as soon as he parted his lips to speak, tongue stroking across his slow and sensual and demanding his surrender. He’d let it happen, didn’t make a move to halt the proceedings. In this area too Skwisgaar lived up to his hype. Clever calloused fingers had set the Norwegian’s skin aflame, Swedish tongue and accented English driving him higher and even though Toki had been taught that what happened between two men could only condemn him to hell, he welcomed his damnation. Skwisgaar had been careful, though not gentle, and the bruises he left on Toki’s lightly tanned skin distracted the rhythm guitarist from the unfamiliar burn between his legs.
In a harmony equal to that they’d shared on stage, Skwisgaar had led and Toki had followed eagerly. They moved together, the leather couch of the dressing room sticking to his sweating back and the gold of Skwisgaar’s hair a curtain around them. That night Toki reached a height of pleasure he’d never known existed, a deep satisfaction thrumming through his entire body. Skwisgaar had demanded his orgasm, drove him to it, forced it out, and swallowed down every groan and sigh and then took even more as he plundered the depths of the rhythm guitarist’s body in pursuit of his own release. For a long minute Toki had been covered by the long, lean length of the Swede’s body, sharing his breath and feeling nearly every inch of skin plastered across his. Then it was over, Skwisgaar withdrawing from his body and then from the room, and Toki had been left alone.
That had been two months ago and Toki hadn’t been able to forget, to let it go. No words had been exchanged and Skwisgaar treated him exactly the same as before. What was he supposed to think, to do? He’d had a taste of something that was more than sex but less than love. Skwisgaar was a promiscuous bastard but the one thing Toki didn’t feel was used. All he felt was an undeniable yearning to have Skwisgaar touch him again, acknowledge him with more than just his music. His dreams were full of the tantalizing promise of the Swede and he couldn’t escape from them. Toki wasn’t sure he wanted to. What he wanted was that moment, to know that he wasn’t alone and that Skwisgaar saw him too. And maybe some sleep because he hadn’t been getting nearly enough. But for the moment there was no use in lying back down; he knew he would only have the same dream and awaken even less satisfied.
The familiar shape of his Flying V called to him and Toki resigned himself to passing another day in a sleep-deprived haze as he swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet and he hissed and practically leapt into his soft, fuzzy bunny slippers. A warm, midnight blue bathrobe took care of the rest of him and he retrieved his guitar, strummed absently across the strings. The sound was lonely in his room and Toki shook his head and sighed again. There was no peace to be found in what had once been his private sanctuary and he shuffled out the door in search of somewhere more comforting.
Mordhaus was dark and silent but for his muffled footfalls until a thread of sound caught his ear. Familiar notes, ones now burned into his very soul from that night, and he couldn’t keep from moving faster, drawn towards the flurry of notes. A single lamp illuminated the living room and cast a halo of light about Skwisgaar’s pale form, transforming him into an illusion of an angel. Toki paused in the doorway to listen and to rid himself of his thoughts. The Swede was no angel. But, as he looked up, eyes as blue and warm as a clear summer sky, he was beautiful. The seed in Toki’s heart swelled and a tiny green tendril of hope burst forth when Skwisgaar smiled at the answering notes from his guitar.
This was inspired by Kamelot's song "Eden Echo" off their newest album..
These are the lyrics:
First you said that you would never leave me
Merry were my days
Then you told me life is never easy
And left without a trace
But how come I want you
Like the soil yearns for the rain
Won't you light up
Won't you light up my life
Let my soul breathe
Tell me wrong, tell me right
You're my mind cage
Like a mountain far away
You were always there
Dressed in summer white
You will never know how much I miss you
Or open to my fear
Find the maze I made my way through
and enter if you dare
How come I want you
Like the soil yearns for the rain
Won't you light up
Won't you light up my life
Let my soul breathe
Tell me wrong, tell me right
You're my mind cage
Like a mountain far away
You were always there
Dressed in summer white
Remember my name
And paint the darkness with your light
Go sing your song for all the broken hearted
Like eden echoes in my head
The unforgiven gave you all
Won't you light up
Won't you light up my life
Let my soul breathe
Tell me wrong, tell me right
You're my mind cage
Like a mountain far away
You were always there
Dressed in summer white