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drabblingman · 1 year

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Mephistopheles shut their diary in one hand with a "snap", and rushed off as fast as he could. His steps mixed with the rapid clacking of his cane, and his old injury screamed at him, but that didn't matter right now.

He had to find them. To set the record straight.

But what exactly was the truth? Wasn't his whole reason for snooping because he disliked them? Hadn't he been trying to unearth dirt on them? To write a scathing piece in the R.A.D. Times on? To sully their reputation, and prove they weren't as honest as they appeared to be?

Stupid.

They always told him the truth. He had tried time and again to catch them in a lie, but he never could. They never lied. Even when they knew what they said could be misconstrued, or twisted against them, they always spoke the truth. Their truth.

Why would their diary be any different?

He was so stupid.

It was one of the things he liked about them. But if he disliked them, why would he like something, anything about them?

Why would it hurt that they thought he hated them?

He liked a lot of things about them. Their honesty. Their quick, yet cutting, wit. Their ability to get in and out of the most frustrating and precarious of situations, always with a new story to tell. Their humor. Their laugh.

He liked them, damnit, so why did they think he hated them? Why did he think he hated them?

He gritted his teeth, and clutched their diary tighter in his free hand.

God above and Demon Lord below, he was so stupid.

He turned a corner, and found them exactly where he knew they would be. He had, after all, had to plan for the optimal time to go looking through their most personal of belongings, and it'd be a rookie mistake to not know where your target was at the time of infiltration.

The human exchange student was alone, after class, at a table outside of the school. They were packing up after working on their homework for exactly 58 minutes, so they could make the late bus that left exactly an hour after school. Something he had planned meticulously for.

Too bad all of that planning had gone out the window. (Which was, ironically, how he had planned to make his daring escape.)

He approached them as they were placing their books in their bag, not yet noticing him.

"How dare you write such accusations!" is probably not the best thing to shout at someone while holding their diary.

Which is why Mephistopheles preferred the written word. Preferably, articles. Then, he could go back and forth and rewrite anything that came out too harshly or just plain wrong. Here? Oh no. He couldn't backspace a single letter from what he said here.

They looked up, bewildered.

And then he saw it. The dawning realization that in his left hand he held their diary, replaced quickly by the shock and betrayal that he had alluded to having read it.

It was like they had frozen in front of him, yet he was the one who felt cold from his own thoughtless actions.

Had he mentioned how stupid he was? Because he really was quite stupid.

"Why do you have that?" They asked him, their voice low and serious.

"I-! Well-!" He spluttered, unable to think of a perfectly valid excuse for breaking in to their house, their room, and their locked and magically-enchanted diary.

"You know me! I'm an investigator! And I must investigate you!"

They stared at him, then at their diary, still clutched firmly in his hand.

"Give it back."

Mephistopheles blinked at their outstretched hand, processing, for a moment too long, what they had requested of him.

They made a grabbing motion.

"Oh-" he finally realized, quickly dropping their diary back into their palm.

They packed it in their bag with the rest of their books, silently, as Mephistopheles watched.

"We- we really must talk!" He managed at last, stumbling on his words.

Their head snapped up, and the glare they threw his way he would've sworn gave him physical damage. Even Lucifer, king of the death glare, would have quaked in his stupid fancy shoes.

"What's. There. To. Talk. About?" They asked him, enunciating each word carefully.

"About what you wrote-"

"-You mean my private thoughts?" They cut him off. "You mean my private thoughts that you violated? That you read without my permission? That I wrote so I wouldn't have them running around my head? So that I wouldn't speak them out loud? Those?"

He winced.

This was not going well.

And he was probably digging his own grave.

Which he assumed they would then dance on.

And then they'd probably raise him from the dead, just to kill him and dance on it again.

But still...

He had to know.

No matter what, he had to know.

"...Do you really think I hate you...?"

They stared at him, as if he was completely stupid. (A sentiment he was really truly beginning to agree with.)

"Why would I lie to my diary? Of course I do. What other proof do I need after this stunt you just pulled?"

Ouch. That one stung a little.

Ok, a lot.

"Then, what about the other things you wrote about me?"

They held his gaze for a moment, before looking down at the table, quiet.

"...What does it matter?" They asked bitterly, sadness tinging the edges of their words as they avoided eye contact with him.

He approached the table from the other side, placing his white-gloved hands on it's filthy surface, leaning forward to try to catch their gaze.

"It matters a lot." He said gently, reaching out cautiously to their face to comfort then, or at the very least get them to look up at him once again.

"At least, to me it does." He withdrew, suddenly anxious his touch was unwelcome. "Because I don't hate you. In fact, I've come to enjoy your company."

The human's face shot up once more, their eyes wide, searching his own meticulously for any trace of sarcasm or untruthfulness.

"What?"

He felt his heart thud in his chest when their eyes locked with his. He hadn't even meant to say that last part, it had just come out of his mouth without thought, but now, he was forced to address it. He was forced to confront his feelings about them. Or, rather, his feelings for them.

Why hadn't he noticed it before? Had it happened too slowly for him to perceive the changes? Had all of their late night "investigations" into Lucifer and even later night editing sessions together caused them to rub off on him? All of the teasing they did of each other? The back-and-forth quips they exchanged as if they were playing tennis? The compliments veiled as insults? The insults veiled as compliments? Had they completely flipped his opinion of them without him even knowing?

Or had it happened all at once, when he had read confession note after confession note in their diary, crossed out and marked up and edited, not unlike how he wrote his articles, and felt his chest swell with each word? Each little thing they claimed to admire in him? Each piece of evidence that showed how much effort they had put into trying to make everything perfect? Had he been swayed in that instant, convinced, finally, that they weren't always nearby just to be a thorn in his side?

They stared at him expectantly.

"I- I..."

He suddenly couldn't find the words.

Well, that was a first. He almost laughed out loud at the ludicrousness of it. Him. At a loss for words. The very idea had never crossed his mind before. Sure, he had sometimes had to look up different ways to get his point across more eloquently, his thesaurus was sometimes his best friend, but he had never been so completely devoid of words before.

He pursed his lips, dumbfounded.

"Mephistopheles...?"

They managed to shake him out of his reverie, their voice gentle, and quieter than he had ever heard it before.

Their voice. He really liked their voice. When had that happened? They had just said his name. His full name, with their clumsy, human voice. He was supposed to hate human voices. They tended to trip over his name. But this one didn't. Why didn't they? Had they practiced? They must have. But why would they? Why had it mattered to them? After everything he had put them through, why did they even bother giving him the time of day, much less recite his name over and over to themself until they got it right?

His hands, seemingly of their own accord, drifted to their face once more.

The human, a flustered expression plastered to thdid own face, could only splutter as he brought his forehead to theirs.

"What I mean..." Mephistopheles stated, so close now to them he felt he his heart might burst, "...is this."

The last thing he saw before closing his eyes and locking his lips with theirs, was a look of pure wonder.

He burned it into his memory forever.

It was like he was desperate; the second he had given in and kissed them, he couldn't get enough. But the way they was responding to him, it seemed as if they felt the same. Their hands had hooked around his neck, pulling him as close to themself as they could with a table in between the two of them.

They tasted so sweet. Like the berries they ate throughout the day that he would poke fun at them for, seemingly the only healthy things they'd eat with regularity amidst the snacks and junk foods they enjoyed.

Their hands were exploring now, fingers combing through his undershave. But his were no different. Running up and down their neck before slowly making his way back to their face.

He wanted to stay in this moment forever, but alas, he knew they couldn't. After all, they both sadly needed to breathe.

As they parted, he realized he was the last out of the two of them to open his eyes.

They were staring at him, panting, stars in their eyes. It was enough to make his own breath hitch.

"What... Was that...?" They asked, breathlessly.

"That..." He stopped, panic creeping in. What was that, indeed? It was unlike him to suddenly lose himself like that.

He scrambled internally for a reply, some kind of excuse, a way to claim temporary insanity, anything except the truth...!

The truth.

It suddenly smacked him.

The truth, the one thing he knew he could always count on from them. His MC. His wonderfully human MC.

He loved them.

No matter how hard he tried to bury it away from himself, there was no hiding from the truth. He should have known that.

He loved them.

"...That was my own confession." He finally managed, looking down in embarrassment.

"I read page after page of yours... Which I know was wrong...!" He added hastily, "but after reading all of those kind words, and then... Reading how much you thought I hated you, I..."

He locked eyes with them again, scared of how they would react, but determined to vocalize his feelings.

"I don't hate you. MC, I adore you. I've come to realize I am absolutely smitten with you. I was just too stupid to figure it out until now."

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dvredevil-s-initivls · 2 years

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Biased

Aka : a self indulgent Matt Murdock fanfic that has been stuck in my head. You’re a jury counsellor and with a single night he changes your decision

Characters : Matt Murdock, jury Y/N

Warnings : oral (f receiving) unprotected sex,piv sex , Matt Murdock, slow burn

“The jury should not be biased by one or another attorney and their choice”

“Melanie, I told you. I left the earring on my bedside table, I don’t know where it went and that’s it! And i don’t know anyone else except you who lives in our apartment!” You sighed. Your roommate had taken your hoop earring but she didn’t wanna accept it.

It was a hot day for New York . The heavy air of July bothered the people as you went back to the courthouse after eating your lunch (a 15 dollars sandwich with extra iceberg salad ).

Your job wasn’t that hard, although it was picky. Almost everything depended on you and that weight on your shoulders was heavy. How the person’s life will go depends on you. That thought was eating you from the inside since you actually got the job for court jury. The case you were working on for now, was one of your biggest. A woman had killed her husband and lover, burying them in the back garden. Apparently her excuse was “that both of them had cheated” . Ugh, what a skunk.

Your former superior, Blake tower was fighting against some unknown firm, “Nelson & Murdock” . You thought that tower’s point of view was the right one and that the woman should go to jail, but she just continued saying that she didn’t kill them, but confronted them.

After a while you and your coworkers had decided on a break which led you here, sitting in the lounge room of NY’s courtroom, arguing on the phone with Mel and her friends.

Someone with a tall figure approached you, a cane in his hand. You realized it was that other attorney, mr. Murdock. “Uhh, I’ll call you back, Mel.” You put your phone to the side, helping the man sit on the chair in front of you. “I believe you’re Y/L/N, right? I wanted to talk to you about the DA, Tower.” He said, his voice confident and low. He was handsome, and somehow, he knew it. His chin was always high ahead, voice lingering over people’s minds. His hair a dark brown, eyes hidden by ruby red glasses. He was very attractive if we gotta be true, face like a painting. His tongue came out to lick his lips, waiting for you to answer. “Uh, yeah. What about him?” You snapped out of your trance . “I think he’s wrong in this situation. My client has the right to say that she didn’t murder them. But- ah. Sorry, you must’ve just gotten your lunch?” He asked. ‘How did he know?’ Eh, anyways. “Y-yeah. But it’s fine. Why do you think so, you sure?” You question. He told you that his business partner was going to give the best defence in court history, making you laugh. “Hey uhh, I know this makes no sense, but do you mind if you went on a dinner with me? J-just to change your mind of course.”he asked.

You questioned a bit but accepted, settling down to the same night.

It was 6pm, an hour away from your dinner with Matt Murdock, but you were nervous. Never choosing between a black dress that hugged your thighs and brang you luck or a dark red dress with a leg slip. You pondered for a while and put on the red dress, make up already done. ‘Why am I even doing this.He’s blind’ you asked yourself. But you felt good, confident, sexy , even. He made you feel that way.

You took your bag and shouted to Melanie in the bathroom “MELLS, You are gonna be gone till midnight, kay?” . You wanted the two of you to be alone if he actually came. Just in case. You heard her murmur something under the sound of loud music and took it as a “yess” or an “okayyugh “ .

Contently, you walked out with your small bag, wearing scandal black heels. ‘Tower wouldn’t be very happy to see me like this. Well, good that I’m going over to some unknown jazz house I guess.’ You thought as you got in the cab you called, almost singing the address he gave you.

As you walked up to the door he opened it for you. He looked magnificent, suit tidy and glasses that matched your dress. “Hi.” He said, grinning. “Hi hello” you said, voice drowning in the loud chello.

“Our table is somewhere over there. Apparently.” He stated , you giggling at his words.

The dinner went better than you thought, everything sweet and smooth . He gave you a couple reasons that his client didn’t commit the murder and you replied with a “I’ll think about changing my opinion, Murdock.” You guys talked about your work, craziest cases and where you went to university. And soon enough you guys were full of fries and enjoying the light music that twirled around the room, making the whole situation more romantic than it should’ve been. You agreed with him on some points and yes, there were some holes in Tower’s words but you still didn’t believe him.

“You know, it’s getting pretty late, we have a case to worry about tomorrow so uhh…” you hoped he would offer to escort you home. And maybe, just maybe he could read your mind in braille because that’s exactly what he asked to do.

You were chatting in the taxi, up until your apartment’s door and- god, his lips looked so kissable, soft and red. So beautiful, his whole figure was beautiful, broad shoulders and biceps that were hugged just right by his shirt.

Your heart skipped a beat as he leaned a little closer to you, magnified by each other. And in one moment of heavy breathing and a little luck, his hand caressed your face, pulled you in. The kiss was passionate, all teeth and tongue. You had thought about the attorney since you met him a few cases ago but never thought it would end like this. As he deepens the kiss, you let your hands wander through his hair , he pushed your apartment door open. His hands on your waist, neck, in your hair. He was everywhere, his cologne, the faint smell of Oakwood, warm coffee and light alcohol. As he walks you two through your apartment,you pull your legs against his waist and hold his neck for support, and as he gets your hint, his hands snake up to hold you at your thighs. Strangely enough, he found his way around your apartment better than you, especially for a blind. drunk. man that has never been at your place before. But you didn’t really care at that moment because his mouth on yours was the only thing you could think about and the way that his smell intoxicated you.

As he put you down on your couch, he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. And you? You were enjoying the sight of Matt Murdock and those rolled up sleeves. “I really would like to finish off this fine evening with maybe pleasing you?” his words sent a pleasing shiver down your spine “Of course, only if you’d like. I can leave anytime, just-” you stopped his babbling with another kiss, drawing him in by his tie. And that seemed to finish him off, because as he growled into the kiss, pushing your legs apart, the leg slip of your dress pulling up between your legs. “I’ll take that as a yes, then” he smiled through the kiss, pulling you to the edge of the couch. He pulled your dress up and took a breath, your natural smell invading him. And he fucking loved it. Pointing his attention to your now soaked panties, he licked his lips, his senses tasting you in the air. He moaned groaned at your smell, pushing your legs further apart and breathing you in.

Then he pushed your underwear out of the way and devoured the absolute shit out of you.

And as he did so, you let out the most obsene noises, little whimpers and whines, then desperate moans. He licked a long stripe up from your core to your now throbbing clit, relishing in the fact that you were oh so wet for him,tasting you and diving in you like a mad man. But you could tell he was also enjoying this, by the groans he let out, that made you thighs shake. You tried to suppress your noises, but he was having none of that. Painfully, he withdrew his head away from you cunt, looking in your general direction, grabbing your chin. “Try to be quiet again and see what happens.” Your bottom lip quivering, you made a mental note to be as vocal as possible. He lowered his face and delved into you again. Devouring you like a man starved, adding his god shaped- hands to the mix. One palm gripping your thigh, at the little crease right before your ass, other one snaking to you cunt. Relishing in the hot feel of his tongue on you, not expecting those two cold fingers prodding at your core. Silent laughs at the little gasps you dropped as his fingers entered you. You looked down at him, feeling him knuckle deep, snug in your tight pussy. His mouth closed around your clit and he started sucking. And there you were, sitting there, thinking ‘this is it. i died and i’m in heaven.’ until he started moving with his fingers. Stretching them, scissoring you made your brain clear out of everything, thick fingers curling to find your g-spot and abuse it. He was mumbling something unintelligible, the vibrations giving you that delicious friction .Feeling a tight knot grip your stomach, you tried to warn Matt , but all that you could mutter between moans was a weak “M-Mattyy… ‘mma..” before you were coming undone around his fingers. Letting you ride through your orgasm, he continued pumping his fingers in and out of you, slowing down the pace.

Murmuring praises, he kisses your clit, earning a jolt from your thighs and a mear whimper. Biting his way up your body, wasting time at your breasts, licking up the valley between them, until he was face to face with you, dark brown eyes unfocused and warm, the slight shimmer on his lips from your essence made you delve in. Kissing him, you tasted yourself on his tongue, salty and draft. Trying to get his belt off, you struggled, earning a chuckle from Matt. As he made quick work of sliding it through his hands and throwing it on the floor, pants following through. He towers over you, immediately making you feel small, causing blood to rush to your cheeks. He smirks, cradling your face in his hand. “Don’t get shy on me sweetheart, we’re jus’ getting started.” Pupils dilating, you look at his very obvious dick print, trying to figure out exactly how big he is. Almost answering your question, he takes the slacks off too, his impressive size slapping against his stomach. You feel your mouth salivating, but before you could get to your knees, he grabs your thighs, moving you to sit on top of his lap, crossing your hands to the couch behind his neck, trapping you in and suddenly all you can see, sense, feel was him, him, him.

He slowly slides your folds open with his tip, a wet squelch being heard. You whine, eliciting an amused sound and an “Eager, aren’t you, pretty thing?”, causing a moan to escape from within your throat. He slides in, the stretch burning slightly, making you let out a strangled sound. He stiffens, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you still. “Are you okay?” the words fade in front of your ears, the haze his dick put you in keeping you in your own Matt-Murdock-s-cock bubble. “Yeah… please. Please, Matt.” you let out a meak attempt to keep the moans in as he pushes in to the hilt, staying as still as he can. Once you feel stretched enough, you clench, once, hearing the groan (™️) that erupts from deeply in his chest. “Don’t tease me like that, fuuuuck…” Matthew grips at your ass, slowly moving you up and down, finding a rhythm the both of you could keep up. As soon as you feel confident enough, you push your sweaty face from his chest, where it had been lying till then. Gripping the headrest for dear life, you start slowly riding him, adjusting to his girth. Slowly letting your jaw fall, you can no longer contain the groans and whines of the lawyer’s name. A deep growl grows from his chest, the vibrations making you mewl on your own.

“Ma-atthew! I-” you attempt, but after hearing his searing “shh, I know sweetheart. J-just relax f’me.”, you let it come to you, drenching his cock in your juices, letting your head fall to his neck. You can feel him clenching his jaw, veins on his neck visible, as he painfully pulls out of you, releasing his load on his stomach. You stand there for a little while, letting each other catch their breath. You close your eyes for a little bit, letting yourself relax in his sticky, sweaty, but warming touch. Not later after that, you’re both cleaned up and in bed, cuddling. You don’t exactly know what that makes you two, but you don’t wish to worry about it right now. Not now. Not when his warm forearms are wrapped tightly around your stomach, leg draped over yours, securing you, in a way.

Some time in the night you’re woken up by a very low-toned Matt, saying something. "Your roomate just came home...drunk." Murmuring a curse, you cuddle deeper in his embrace, catching the warm chuckle that spreads through his chest and envades yours.

In the morning, you're waken up by an alarm, but it's not yours. Hearing a familiar groans, your eyes prickle with the sun beaming on you,and you crinkle a smile, seeing a very disheveled Matt Murdock trying to find his phone in the bundle of clothes you left from last night. Your door is bright open and Mellany springs through it, bringing both of you coffee, and with a bright smile on her face (and a wiggle of her eyebrows) gives you back the other golden hoop earring. You stand up, going to get your clothes, enjoying the silent morning, nothing too loud, which is weird, by the fact that the crappy apartment that you rented is in the heart of the real Hell's Kitchen.

"So... are we going to repeat this sometime?" you hear him, loud and clear. "We'll see how it goes, Murdock. But for now, we have a case to finish."

taglist : @moxkindagirl

#matt murdock #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x reader #daredevil #daredevil smut #i finally finished this #cue the addams family intro that im watching rn #alr #imma go back into my writer hibernation for the next 2 weeks and then flash out a 2 hour written smut #again with matt #I HAVE AN IDEA OKAY #I HAVE A VISION

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moronic-validity · 11 months

Text

The Suitor

And, as promised, the last fic posted out of order!

As always, big shout out to @stickyarbiterwombat and @yaoibrainworms for proof reading and editing the fic with me last night, ilysm

18+ bc the rest of the series is!

The day started off normal enough.

Winter woke up first and made his way to the throne room to find Simon asleep on the table they usually worked at. He was bundled in the two blankets Winter had offered him the night prior when he refused a space in his bed.

In fact, he had denied even a guest bedroom, apparently preferring to sleep at, or rather, on the table they spent most of their days at.

Winter walked past him, to the hot chocolate bar he kept in the room for anyone who had requested his audience. There was a primitive 21st century coffee maker behind the ornate drink dispensers.

He found himself humming as the coffee brewed. It was a boring process, but he was more than happy to have to make a full pot for once, instead of just one for himself.

Winter turned back to wake his sleeping friend, only to find him groggily rubbing his eyes, sitting on the edge of the table.

“Ah, good morning sleepy head!” Winter’s lilting voice rang through the room.

“When’s the coffee ready?” Simon stretched, trying to get his aching back to pop.

Ah, so not a morning person. Winter made a mental note of this.

“Should only be another minute or so, what would you like for breakfast?”

Winter’s question was met with a shrug.

Simon wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to attempt to traverse the icy floor this early in the morning. Even with his shoes on, he knew he’d fall, and in his opinion, it was too early for that.

He found himself kicking his legs back and forth while he waited.

Winter brought over two mugs, both a rich blue, and shockingly not made of ice.

Simon recognized them immediately.

“The mugs Betty picked out? You still have them?”

“Oh of course I do, they’re fantastic mugs,” Winter gave a small chuckle, “She always had good taste.”

Winter sat on the table next to Simon, both casually drinking their hot coffee.

“So, what’re we doing today?”

Winter was always caught off guard by how eager Simon was to get back to work, though he shouldn’t be; he was the same way.

“Well, I believe I’m going to have you review some requests that were made by citizens of the kingdom, most are probably run of the mill things,” he attempted to not let on that he found the task incredibly boring, “and I have to review some documents that will be sent to most of Ooo. I would let you do it, but I’m afraid it has to do with kingdom security.”

Simon nodded, accepting the answer without question.

Winter fought to keep the smile off his face.

It had nothing to do with kingdom security and everything to do with the ball he was throwing that night. It was originally going to be a quite small affair, but then his Simon came home and it spiraled in his usual giddy opulence from there.

He was known for extravagant balls, ones where connections could be made, for business or pleasure. Before the war he was never one for parties, but now it was an excuse to dress to the nines, drink, and dance with friends he had made through his years as ruler.

“What are you smiling about now?” Simon studied his other’s face and the dopey smile that had formed.

Winter’s brain went blank.

He thought he’d maintained his cool exterior so well..

“I find it hard to not smile when I’m around you my dear Simon,” Winter internally breathed a sigh of relief. It was a good save, but it was also true.

Simon let out a single, exaggerated “ha” as a response.

Once they were done with their coffee, they cleared off the table and got to work on their respective tasks, neither in the mood for breakfast yet.

They worked in silence for several hours, but then a thought occurred to Winter.

“Simon?” his voice broke through the other’s focus.

“Yes Winter?”

“I would like for you to be my consort.”

The words hung in the air as Simon worked through exactly what Winter was asking of him.

“You want me to marry you?”

“Exactly, you’d be ruling by my side, and who better to be my other half, than another me!” Winter’s excitement around the idea was evident.

“Winter, I can’t marry you.”

The bubble popped.

“What do you mean you can’t marry me?”

“Well,” Simon set his papers down and looked at the man sitting in front of him, “I haven’t known you very long and besides, there are so many Simons across the multiverse," he mused, "really you'd just be my... other, I guess. Not that it matters."

Winter's brilliant smile contorted into a pained expression. He struggled to maintain his composure as his heart wrenched.

“You’ve known me your entire life!” Winter interjected, pointing out a seemingly obvious fact, trying to ignore the jab.

“Winter, you and I know very well that we’re not exactly the same,” Simon sighed, “I don’t know if I’m even ready to look at getting engaged again.”

“Then we’ll skip the engagement! We can get married right now! I do have that authority, all I have to do is say we’re married and then draw up the paperwork.” Winter was beaming, feeling as though he solved every issue with the arrangement in a matter of seconds.

Simon reached out and took Winter’s hand.

“I care about you Winter, enough to travel across reality to get back here, but I’m not ready for that. I know you remember Betty and even holding the mugs she gave you, I felt like I had a ton of bricks on my chest,” Simon squeezed his king’s hands, “I’m not ready to move on like that. Not right now.”

Winter didn’t have an answer for that.

He was glad that the invitations he had penned had called the ball a homecoming rather than a wedding.

“I fully understand Simon, I am sorry I sprung that on you.” He pulled his hand away slowly and got back to work on the invitations.

Once every envelope had been filled and sent off with an ice dove, Winter stood from the table and clapped his hands.

“Alright Simon, I’m going to leave you to finish this, while I attend to some other important matters!” Winter walked around the table and kissed the top of Simon’s head before skating smoothly out of the room.

Simon rolled his eyes and went back to his papers.

Most of the requests were simple enough, more benches, re-icing the road to the school, small household repairs that should’ve really been handled by different authorities. Others were a bit more complicated, like a pair of neighbors fighting over a tree, each one wanting royal approval of ownership. Those were the ones he set aside for Winter to handle.

It took him another two hours to work through the full stack, only taking a brief break to refill his coffee.

Once finished, he stretched before making his way out of the throne room.

At the door, he found a note in Winter’s scrawling handwriting.

Dearest Simon,

Once you are finished for the day, please go to my chambers immediately and change, then come to the ballroom.

Yours, Winter

Simon shook his head, but headed to Winter’s bedroom nonetheless.

He knocked once before entering.

It never failed to impress Simon, how warm Winter managed to make a room made almost entirely of ice. There were blankets and pillows covering the bed, more than anyone could possibly use, a rug so plush you could feel the stress melt away when you touched it, and an incredible number of candles for someone who lives in a castle of ice.

What drew Simon’s attention the most was the black suit bag hanging from a door connected to the bedroom.

He figured it was for him, so he pulled it down and carefully laid it on the bed before opening it.

“You have got to be kidding me…” Simon muttered to himself as he stared at the suit.

It was royal blue with crystalline snowflakes detailing the jacket and pants, the shirt white with ruffles around the neck and breast.

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, debating showing up to the ballroom in his usual tweed, before changing clothes.

At the bottom of the bag sat a shimmering addition to the outfit, a snowflake brooch.

He smiled to himself and clipped the final piece of his outfit to his lapel.

He didn’t have a mirror to check his reflection, so he had to assume he looked put together enough.

Simon could hear the music before he entered the ballroom; in fact, by the time he entered the hallway he could feel the bass of whatever was playing deep in his bones.

He didn’t want to go in.

Simon hated parties.

More specifically, he hated the overwhelming noise that made it impossible to hear anyone below a scream. He hated how they always devolved into a drunken disarray, or worse, awkward silences. In the past his only respite was a quiet corner and the company of the host's dog or cat.

There were no dogs or cats in there.

Simon braced himself before opening the doors.

It was nothing like what he expected.

The music wasn’t actually loud, nor was it thumping. It was orchestral.

There were plenty of people he did recognize in attendance, Wild Berry Princess, Muscle Princess, Slime and Hotdog Princess, they were all in the crowd formed around Winter, who was twirling a princess who seemed to be made of ice cream.

There were even more people he didn’t recognize, it seemed as if the room was packed, but far from claustrophobic.

He took one step into the room and the music stopped.

Winter looked up and caught Simon’s eye before breaking into a huge grin.

He swept his hands through the air and a large ice glass and spoon formed in the air, connected with a resonating ting, then exploded into a sprinkling of snow.

Everyone gasped with delight at the display, before quieting down and looking towards the king.

“I want to thank everyone for attending,” his voice carried clearly through the large room, without the assistance of a microphone, “Tonight is a celebration of the highest order!”

He motioned for Simon to come forward.

Simon simply wished he could melt into the floor.

Nevertheless, he sheepishly walked forward, doing his best not to slide on the ever slick floor, until he was standing at Winter’s side.

“Tonight, we welcome home Dr. Simon Petrikov, the best advisor the Winter kingdom will ever know!”

Everyone clapped and cheered.

It felt like something out of a dream, or in his case, a nightmare.

Winter put an arm around Simon and pulled him into a tight side hug.

“Enjoy yourself Simon, get to know everyone,” he spoke softly, before speaking to the crowd again, “Now, eat, drink, and dance to your heart’s content!”

Winter let go of Simon as the music started again.

Simon made a beeline to the punch bowl before he could get sucked into the madness that surrounded Winter.

He seemed to relax when he was further from the crowd, milling about the drinks with the other guests, but didn’t necessarily enjoy the scene.

He found himself zoning out, watching Winter begin to dance with Muscle Princess.

Simon was snapped out of his thoughts when his back hit another person, he didn’t even realize he was backing up.

“Princess, I am so sorry,” Simon began before turning to face whoever he had bumped into.

She laughed.

“It’s alright, accidents happen,” she dabbed at the small wet stain on her white jacket, “Not a princess though.”

“Doctor Princess?” Simon couldn’t believe his luck, running into someone he actually knew; well, knew back in his world.

“Have we met?” She tilted her head to the side to accent her confusion.

“Uh…no, I don’t believe we have…I’m Dr. Petrikov, but you can always call me Simon.”

The doctor laughed at his bashfulness.

“Alright, Simon, how’re you enjoying your party?”

He rolled his eyes, briefly turning his attention back to Winter, now dancing with Hotdog princess, who was laughing gleefully.

“I’m not really one for parties, but Winter seems to be having the time of his life,” Simon sighed before pouring himself some of the punch.

“Winter…oh, the king! Yeah, he throws these at least once a month,” She handed her cup to Simon, who dutifully refilled it, “At least this time there’s a reason to celebrate.” She took her cup from him and took a long sip.

“A reason to celebrate?” He laughed and shook his head, “I’m sure he wouldn’t do this if it had been anyone else.

“He threw a three day gala when he created the ice scouts.”

“You’re kidding?” Simon laughed again. He knew Winter had a propensity for dramatics, but that was a lot for even him.

They stood like that, laughing for a few minutes.

“You know, I’m not even a princess,” Doctor Princess wiped a tear from her eye, still laughing, “It’s just my name, but he always invites me to these. I keep coming because I don’t want to be rude.”

Simon snorted and punch shot out his nose.

They were silent, both frozen in shock.

Then they started laughing even harder than before, gasping for air as they cackled at the absurdity of the whole situation.

A not princess and a not party-person, standing in a party full of royalty, now both covered in punch.

Simon turned back to the table to grab them napkins when he saw it.

Winter was slow dancing with a tall man, letting him lead them across the floor.

Simon’s heart dropped as the man dipped Winter, his white hair brushing the ground.

If he had his eyes open, he would’ve seen the devastation on Simon’s face.

He turned away from the dance floor and handed Doctor Princess the napkins before exiting the ballroom.

He didn’t walk far, he just needed out of the room.

How could he, no, how dare he? Simon’s thoughts were racing, He asks you to marry him this morning, and now he’s whoring himself out to half of Ooo. Maybe it was a good thing to say no, because if this is what Winter thinks loyalty is, he’s fucking insane.

Winter finished dancing with the man, still unsure who he was.

He scanned the room and found Simon’s place by the punch bowl empty.

Fearing the worst, he excused himself and made his way to the drinks and found Doctor Princess still dabbing punch off her jacket.

“Princess, would you happen to know where my advisor went?” He kept his voice calm, but he was seconds away from making a scene.

“Oh, Simon? I think he stepped into the hallway to get some air. He seemed pretty upset when he left,” She didn’t look up from her jacket.

“Thank you for your help Princess,” He was already walking away, calling over his shoulder to her, “I’ll be back to the party shortly, please enjoy yourself!”

“I’m still not a princess, but thanks.” She shook her head.

He opened the doors and missed hitting Simon by inches.

“Simon, what on earth are you doing out here sulking, this whole party is for you,” Winter put a hand on his hip, studying the scene before him.

Simon was staring him down, fruit punch staining the ruffles of his shirt.

“Are you serious Winter?” Simon huffed, venom dripping from his words, “You’re going to question me about sulking when you’re off gallivanting with half the royals in Ooo?”

Winter held up his hands defensively.

“First of all, I don’t understand what you think I was doing, I was just dancing with my friends,” He took a breath, trying to keep his voice calm, “Second of all, why are you so worried about me dancing with others?”

Simon felt all the blood rush to his face.

“Oh you know damn well why I’m upset,” he all but hissed.

Winter had to stifle a smile, enjoying seeing Simon this riled up.

“Do I?”

“Oh, I think you do,” Simon backed Winter against the wall nearest him, “I think you know exactly why I’m upset.” His voice had gone cold.

“You’re not allowed to be jealous Simon,” Winter said dismissively, ignoring the cold on his back, “You’re the one who rejected my proposal.”

Simon thought he was going to pop a blood vessel.

“Winter, of course I said no, I’ve been here for what, a month?”

“Three and a half weeks, but who’s counting.”

“It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been here, or what we are,” Simon’s voice had dropped and was suddenly softer, “I thought we were still…”

Winter frowned.

“Simon, we are. No matter what we call each other.” Winter’s smirk fell, the snide tone gone.

Both men took a breath and Simon looked across Winter’s face.

“That means you belong to me, and you’ve still been out there dancing with every person who tickles your fancy?” His voice held a different quality. Still low and threatening, but without the anger.

“I can’t leave my guests unentertained.” Winter mused.

Simon smiled.

“Then let’s entertain them, shall we?” Simon took Winter’s hand and pulled him back into the ballroom.

The music picked up in tempo, adjusting from a waltz to a tango, Winter’s personal favorite.

Simon let the king lead as they pulled the attention of the crowd, but the ballroom could have been empty and neither would have been the wiser.

“Is this entertaining enough your majesty?” Simon whispered as Winter pulled him close.

“No, but this will be,” Winter laughed as he turned his face, kissing Simon hard.

#teddy talks #theo's thoughts #winterkov #simon x winter king #the winter king #winter king x simon #winterking #simon petrikov #simoncest #simonpetrikov #dwu

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cuttingpenisblackmetal · 2 months

Text

freshly-kicked-out-of-dethklok magnus encounters preklok toki (read on ao3)

Begging someone for something in his second language has done nothing to improve his migraine. In fact, it seems to be making it worse. Nevertheless, he keeps at it; let nobody say that Magnus Hammersmith is not resilient.

“Just let me talk to her,” he mutters to the library payphone, in slow, clunky Norwegian. “Just one talk.”

Not that it’s achieving much. “No, Magnus,” says his uncle on the other line, “She wants nothing to do with you.”

“She’s my fucking mom. She doesn’t get to cut me off, she’s my mom.”

“She’s not cutting you off. Mind your language.”

“It sure sounds like it!”

“This is for the best, Magnus. We won’t enable your lifestyle.”

Pain: it’s been the only constant in his life. His head hurts like someone’s left a knife behind his dead left eye. “My lifestyle?” Magnus echoes. “This is about me being gay?”

“No, Magnus, this is about the drugs.”

“I’m taking them for a medical reason. I have… uh, what’s the word? Head damage. I told you this.”

“We’ve heard your excuses before.”

“I got hit in the head. You want to talk to my doctor?”

“When you’re ready to get sober, we will happily talk to you.” The way his uncle says it is all business. “Until then, I ask that you please leave her alone. You’ve made her suffer enough.”

“I’ve made her suffer? She’s the one who let her piece-of-shit husband beat her kid up! She’s the one who— who--” The words don’t come in Norwegian, so Magnus switches to English, “She’s the one who abandoned me. Fucking sent me to live with that psychopath! She owes me, for all the shit she put me through! Give me her fucking phone number!”

The line goes dead, and suddenly Magnus is just the lunatic who’s been shouting in a public library. He snarls and slams the phone back into its receiver.

You would think, in Tampa, that the sight of a homeless junkie screaming into a payphone wouldn’t arouse so much attention, even if the homeless junkie in question had half the conversation in Norwegian. The librarian at the front desk is eyeing him suspiciously, and the other homeless who’ve come in to escape the humidity are either gawking or looking ashamedly away. A grubby teenager curled up on a couch is staring at him with big wideset eyes.

Magnus’ head hurts; at that moment he hates every single person looking at him. He has a knife in his belt, and he wonders how long it would take someone to stop him if he just started going around stabbing faces. Could he get two in, three, five? He’ll go for the grubby teenager first. That kid’s eyes are very far apart from each other, it’s kind of unsettling.

While lost in his spontaneous violent fantasy, he’s accidentally let himself glower at the grubby teen for a little too long. The little vermin seems to interpret this as an invitation, for suddenly he springs off of the couch and approaches Magnus, wringing his hands fretfully in front of his chest. He would be well-built if he weren’t emaciated; he has to be at least sixteen, but the way he holds himself, and the badly-fitting filthy clothes he wears, make him seem much younger.

And he greets Magnus, unexpectedly, in Norwegian: “You’re from Norway too?”

Magnus has a migraine. It’s like someone’s shoved a wire in one temple and out the other, and his left eye is throbbing softly. The last thing he wants to do is have a conversation in Norwegian, which made his head hurt even before Nathan gave him literal brain damage, and entertaining a pathetic urchin doesn’t seem like much fun, either. So it’s to his own surprise when he answers, also in Norwegian: “I lived in Bergen for a few years.”

The kid has a very wide mouth, and at the answer this breaks into an impossibly broad grin. “Oh, cool!” he says cheerfully. “I’m from Lillehammer.”

“Cool.” Magnus turns away from him.

“I’ve never met another Norwegian here,” says the kid, completely missing the hint. “I heard you speaking Norwegian on the phone. That’s how I knew you’re from Norway also.”

“Mm.”

“I hate my parents too. My mom’s real mean to me.”

“That sucks.” Magnus is already walking towards the door. “Well, I’ve got to go, so.”

“Oh, wait, I’ll come with you!”

The kid disappears from his side. Magnus has almost made it through the door when he reappears, now with a ridiculous-looking blue cap perched on his overlong tangled hair. He appears to be carrying a (homemade?) guitar case on his back.

It’s like being trailed by a stray dog. When Magnus emerges into the hot Tampa morning, the kid is close on his heels, still chattering away in enthusiastic Norwegian:

“I haven’t gotten to talk to anyone in Norwegian since I’ve been here. I learned English before I moved here, but it’s hard. Like, I never know where to put -s on things. And what’s the difference between am and is? Also, what’s faen in English? Also, I can’t write English. The spelling’s hard. So I just write things down in Norwegian.”

Magnus has parked his truck a few blocks away. Because it seems like he’ll only ditch this kid by driving off, he makes a beeline for it.

The kid remains in hot pursuit. “Can you spell things in English?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, wowee. And you can read it?”

“Sure.”

“Wow-wee. You can be my English teacher! You can teach me all the spellings, like how to spell… spaghetti. S-K-F-O-K-K-A-T-T-Y.”

“Spaghetti is Italian.”

“Oh, faen. Really?”

“Really.”

“What about hamburger? Is that also Italian?”

“German.”

“Helvete. Didn’t know that. I love hamburgers. I thought when I came to America I’d have hamburgers for every single meal. Hamburger for breakfast, hamburger for lunch, hamburger for dinner, and then if I want a snack, I can have a hamburger for my snack, too.”

Magnus glances back at the kid, who is, bafflingly, still following him. They’ve walked two blocks more quickly than anyone with a migraine should be expected to and still this guy remains undeterred. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I’m going to join a band and become a rockstar.” He says this with the complete confidence that only the truly stupid are capable of. He’s even grinning at Magnus, absolutely thrilled by his bright future. “That’s why I moved to America. I can meet the best ever band here, I just know it.”

Magnus’ question had been more along the lines of, why are you following me, but he’s never been good at expressing himself in Norwegian. The answer is so blithely optimistic that it makes him want to retch. He scowls, snarls, and tries walking a little faster.

“I’ve been going to auditions,” the kid continues. “I play the guitar. I’m really good at guitar. I taught myself mostly everything. Except I had a friend back in Lillehammer who taught me lots, too, all about the black metal stuff, but I like death metal more, so that’s why I came to Tampa. Cause this is where all the good death metal bands come from.”

The best damn death metal bands, Magnus wants to correct him. Prime example: Magnus’ death metal band, the one he’s been so recently and ruthlessly exiled from. He scowls at a pawn shop as they walk past it, and catches a glimpse of them in the reflection of the window: he, with his ghoulish dead eye and his old-beyond-its-years smoker’s complexion and the clothes that get dirtier by the day, and a bizarrely cheerful Norwegian kid who looks like he’s only ever slept in dumpsters.

They reach Magnus’ truck then and it can’t come soon enough. “Hey, well, good luck with all of that, man,” Magnus says, switching to English out of convenience. “It’s a good city to be a musician in. Just uh, keep practicing and all that.” He unlocks the truck and climbs into the passenger seat. Finally, solitude—

“I practices all the times!” the kid says in thickly-accented English as he climbs into the passenger seat.

Into the passenger seat.

“Oh,” comes Magnus’ dumb reply.

“Yep, but it’s hard without de amps what to makes the guitar louder.” He’s still grinning, positioning his guitar carefully between his thin legs. “Wowee, you’ve gots the real cool trucks. Why’s it so talls?”

“It’s lifted—” Magnus breaks himself off, and blinks a couple of times. “What the fuck do you want?”

The kid gives him a blank look.

“Seriously, the fuck are you after, here? Food? Drugs? What’s your fucking angle?”

He grins again. “Oh, foods! Okay, we goes gets some foods.”

It’s Magnus turn to stare blankly.

“How’s about hankburgers? Boy, I really loves hankburgers—”

“Fine. Hamburgers. Alright, let’s go.”

It has to be loneliness, Magnus concludes. From his own time in Norway, Magnus understands the sheer relief that comes from meeting someone who speaks your language in a foreign country. Maybe it’s loneliness, too, that compels Magnus to start his truck and start driving in the direction of the nearest Dimmu Burger; though he’s an unwilling participant in this conversation, it’s already the most attention anyone has shown him in months.

At any rate, he doesn’t seem to be escaping it any time soon. “What’s your name?” the kid asks, switching back to Norwegian.

“Magnus.”

“Magnus.” He repeats it with nothing short of reverence. “That’s a cool name. Sounds like what someone who casts magic spells would be called. My name’s Toki.”

“That’s weird. What is that, Icelandic?”

“I’m named after the Viking my family’s descended from.” Toki says this with a bashful smile, as if it’s something he’s used to impress Americans before. Which is funny, because he doesn’t look remotely ‘viking’—appearance-wise, he’s sitting at the intersection between ‘girl’ and ‘Victorian chimney sweep’. “Toki Víg-tönn. That’s ‘Toki Wartooth’ in English, I translated it.”

“And you want to go into death metal? That’s a black metal name.”

“Faen. Should I get a stage name?” Toki seems genuinely concerned by this. “Maybe I should call myself an American name. Like… Tommy?”

“Nah,” Magnus shakes his head. “That’s lame.”

“How about Magnus!”

“How about you just use your own name?”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll keep being Toki, then.”

The conversation comes to a natural, blessed lull, in which Magnus focuses on driving and trying not to crash his car out of migraine-induced inattention. Unfortunately, Toki proves to be irrepressible, because he’s silent for only a few seconds before he starts up again:

“Where are you staying?”

“Here.”

“In the…” Toki turns his head, looking at the shops around them, “In the mattress store?”

“In my truck. I live in my truck.”

“You must get sore legs a lot. You’re really tall.”

“Yep.”

“I bet sleeping in a mattress store would be nice. You’d have so many beds to choose from. I’d sleep on a different mattress every night.”

“Mm.”

“I sleep in a dumpster.”

Magnus glances at him. “I can tell.”

“What does that mean?”

“You smell bad.”

“Oh, fuck you, you smell like a dog that died.” Toki says this rather cheerfully. He turns his head, taking in the interior of the pick-up that’s been Magnus’ home ever since Dethklok kicked him out: empty cigarette packs and dead lighters, a duffel bag full of clothing, a threadbare blankets, and enshrined in the back—

“That’s a guitar!” Toki gasps, pointing to the space in the back. “You play that?”

“Gibson Les Paul,” Magnus says modestly, “Yeah, I’m pretty good.”

“But it’s kind of a lame guitar. It’s like, if a grandpa’s guitar was electric, it’d be that guitar.”

“Come on, kid.”

“You have an amp for it?”

“In the back, yeah.”

“I want to hear you play. Oh, we can jam out together! I’ve got a Flying V.” Toki pats his homemade guitar case proudly. “What do you like to play?”

For a moment, Magnus debates lying and claiming that he’s a jazz guitarist—he’s starting to worry that if he reveals he and Toki share anything in common, he’ll never get rid of the kid. His ego intervenes, however, and he admits: “Death metal.”

If Toki smiled any wider, his jaw would fall off of his slightly misshapen face. “No way! We both play guitars for death metal and we’re from Norway! We’re gonna be best friends!”

Magnus will sooner throw Toki out of a moving car than make him his best friend. He hasn’t spoken Norwegian for this long since he was a teenager, and his head is protesting violently. He leans over and fumbles around the centre console for a non-empty packet of cigarettes.

“Are you in a band?” Toki fills in the silence.

“I’m, uh, between bands.”

“Maybe we can join a band together. I’m going to lots of auditions. You can come with me and we’ll be a guitar duo.” Toki gasps, then, his eyes going wide. “Oh, we can start our own band!”

“I’m taking a break from music.”

“Why?”

Magnus has to hesitate over this one. He finds one carton with a stray cigarette in it, grabs it, and pops it in his mouth.

“Cause I’m…”

He searches for the word in Norwegian, fails to find it, and answers in English instead:

“I’m blacklisted from the scene.”

“What means that?” Toki asks in his clunky English.

“Means nobody wants to work with me.”

“How come?”

Here, again, Magnus hesitates. He has one hand shoved in his pocket, searching for his lighter. He still hasn’t come up with a plausible lie to explain to people why he left Dethklok—and then he realises how ridiculous it is, to worry about what this little parasite will think of him.

“… I stabbed the lead singer of my band.” Magnus finally finds his lighter.

“Wowee,” Toki breathes, “Dat’s brutal.”

“Yeah.” He lights his cigarette, inhales deep. The hit of tobacco does nothing to relieve the headache.

“Why you does it?”

“He called me crazy.”

“You sounds crazy. Stabs a guy just what for callings you crazy.”

This doesn’t sound like admonishment at all, but Magnus shoots Toki a glare regardless. Magnus’ withering scowl cows Toki for all of three seconds; he shrinks back in his seat, looks away, and then immediately brightens up again.

“That just makes you the extra brutals metals guitarists,” Toki says confidently. “You’re like Burzums. If they doesn’t sucks. So how comes dey bla… blaskliskted you?”

“Cause Americans are posers, Toki.”

“What means that?”

“It means they’re fake, man. Pretending.” Magnus takes a long drag of his cigarette, savouring this chance to dwell in his own bitterness. “They wouldn’t know real brutality if it stabbed them in the back.”

Toki blows air through his lips as he considers this, sounding rather like a contented horse. “… They must be real nice, though,” he finally says, in a dreamy voice. “Can’t waits to meet them all and be friends…”

It takes Magnus several seconds to identify the pang of emotion in his chest as pity— he’d initially mistaken it for acid reflux. Toki is annoying, and he has the disposition of a particularly aggressive black mold, but he has something that’s terribly rare in this godforsaken country: he seems nice. There’s a glittery optimism about him, and Magnus doesn’t get the sense that it comes from naivete, the way that Nathan’s closely-guarded softness fatally belies a sheltered upbringing. Toki’s a homeless immigrant who’s obviously seen some shit and yet he’s just... plain goddamn nice. That’s almost worse, somehow. There are bands here that will eat him alive.

They pull off of the street and into a strip mall, where one of the less shady Dimmu Burgers sits like an island among an ocean of potholed concrete. Magnus has all of thirty dollars to his name, which was ostensibly supposed to be used for food, but pain and opioid dependence have robbed him of his already modest appetite, and besides, feeding a starving kid might give him a much-needed karmic boost. He pulls up to the menu board and turns to Toki.

“Alright, kid,” he says, in English, “What do you want?”

Toki’s staring at the board with wide eyes, and there’s colour rising to his face, a bit of sweat beading on his brow. He blinks several times, then stammers, “Um.”

Still smoking his cigarette, Magnus waits for several seconds, watching as Toki stares at the board and grows gradually redder, like a ripening tomato.

“Um,” Toki finally says again, voice small, and switches to Norwegian: “Magnus? I can’t read it.”

“Ah.”

“Can you tell me what it says?”

If speaking Norwegian gives him a headache, translating is going to cave his skull in. Magnus gives the board a cursory glance. “Hamburger, hamburger with cheese, uh—potato sticks? Chicken… chicken blobs. And… what’s the vegetable with layers. That as rings. ‘Onion rings’. What do you call that.”

“Oh, yeah, I want all of that.”

“Toki, that’s the menu.”

“Do they have something sweet? Milkshake! Can I have a milkshake? Oh, and how much?” Toki reaches into his pocket, and extracts a handful of change: a few quarters, a dime, a bouncy ball with a plastic horse inside of it. “Is this enough?”

Magnus glances at the handful, then waves it away and pulls up to the speaker.

A few minutes later, Magnus is accepting a paper bag veritably dripping with grease from a cashier that looks like as much of a junkie as he is. He hands it to Toki, who’s gone uncharacteristically quiet, and pulls into a space in the parking lot.

Silence is a weird thing. After prolonged exposure to the chatty, sentient ray of sunshine that is Toki, it feels like an ominous cloud has passed over the sun, offering not a pleasant shadow but a promise of a storm. Magus stares out of the windscreen for a minute, waiting for Toki to speak, and when he doesn’t, he finally turns to look at the kid.

Toki is hugging the bag to his chest, staring down at it bashfully, and—God help them all—he looks like he’s tearing up.

“You good?” Magnus asks against his better judgement, in English.

“This my first foods in two days,” Toki whispers.

“Ah, shit, kid.”

Toki looks up at Magnus with big misty eyes. “Nobody’s ever boughts the hankburgers for Toki before...”

“Oh, God, just eat, man. You’re making this weird.”

Toki doesn’t need to be told twice. He eviscerates the bag, tearing it open in his haste to get to the greasy feast inside. As requested, there’s a hamburger, a cheeseburger, a box of chicken nuggets, fries and onion rings, and a milkshake nestled in on top of that all. He doesn’t stop to ask Magnus whether Magnus wants any of the feast, but sets in without hesitation, shoving greasy food into his mouth as if Magnus might at any moment jerk it away from him.

There’s that indigestion-like pity, again; Toki eats like he’s starving. Magnus himself, despite being tall, has always had his appetite dulled by drugs and the various malfunctions of his brain, but many a time he’s watched Nathan put away five jumbo burritos in a row and still have room for dessert. The metabolism of teenage boys is a force of nature unto itself, and Toki is ridiculously, embarrassingly, teenaged.

After a moment of contemplation, watching him dispatch burgers is too much—Magnus switches on the radio, finds himself another cigarette, and glowers out of the window, as his head is filled with the staticky roar of local death metal and the faint slobbery sounds of a famished kid inhaling junk food.

It really is a shame, he finds himself thinking around a pull of cigarette smoke. Maybe this is the post-concussion syndrome speaking, but the Tampa death metal scene can be rough, and Toki seems so nice. Just a dumb, nice kid—

“You’s a hairy bitch.”

Magnus’ gaze jerks back to Toki. “What?”

“You’s a-bitch-hairy,” Toki says. It sounds like it’s meant to be English, but he has no fewer than six French fries hanging out of his mouth, so it’s a little hard to tell.

“Say that again, you little shit—”

Toki’s eyes widen. “A-bitch-wary?” he utters, before swallowing several French fries whole. “What’s on the car sound thing! You’s—no, they’s—they’s Abitchwary.”

“Obituary?”

“That’s what I says!” Face red, Toki switches to Norwegian: “This band is called Obituary, right? I love them!”

“Yeah—yeah, Obituary.” Magnus presses a hand over his eyes. “Never say that to anyone.”

“Were you in Obituary?”

“Nope.”

“What band were you in?”

“Just finish your fucking food.”

“All the good American bands come from Tampa,” Toki observes wistfully, fishing out the last of his French fries from the greasy packet. “Like Morbid Angel, and… don’t know any others, actually, I don’t listen to American bands.” He looks up at Magnus then, beaming, “But I bet the band you were in was the best band.”

They are—they were. “You’re getting your hopes up. Tampa isn’t all that.” Magnus peeks out from behind his fingers, giving Toki one of his more menacing glares. “People here aren’t nice, Toki.”

The glare does absolutely nothing to deter Toki. “You’re nice,” he rebuts. “You drive me around, and talk Norwegian to me, and you bought me food… you’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met, Magnus.”

Magnus needs an antacid, or to be shot, or to lay off the drugs; his stomach is burning. “Yeah, well,” he says gruffly in English, looking away, “You owe me.”

“Owes you what?”

“Huh?”

“What I owes you?”

Magnus glances back over, “It’s a figure of speech—”

“I don’t gots no moneys,” Toki admits, eyes wide. “Whats to give you. You means—” and he pitches his voice into a whisper, “You wants me to sucks your d—”

“Fuck no.”

“But I don’t gots nothing!”

“Do you know what a figure of speech is?”

“Nopes.”

Magnus, speechless, takes a long drag of his cigarette; Toki looks despondently at his lap for all of two seconds before his indomitable sunny nature triumphs.

“I gots it!” Toki declares. “I gets you a new band!”

Magnus blinks at him. “I don’t want a—”

But Toki’s already pulling a crumpled flyer out of his fanny pack. “This band’s having an audition today,” he says in Norwegian, pushing the colourful scrap of paper towards Magnus. “They’re looking for a new guitarist. You’re a guitarist. You should go audition and be their new guitarist!”

Magnus takes the piece of paper. “Aren’t you trying to become a guitarist?”

“Yeah, and I was going to audition, but I owe you, you just said so. So you should go to this one.” Toki gives him a vague smile, “I have a feeling they’ll like you.”

Magnus’ head hurts. His head hurts, and he’s cursed, or otherwise God really exists and hates him personally. On top of it all, his life is a bad joke, and this is confirmed when he un-crumples the flier:

newly signed crystal mountain records

DETH metal band

DETHKLOK

summons GUITARIST for their DETHLY MISSION

And four faces that used to be familiar suspended below the jagged-font red ink. Below their image, the word ‘AUDITION’ blazes, along with today’s date and the location of their old rehearsal space.

Magnus must have blanched, because even the remarkably oblivious Toki notices something strange in his expression. "Do you know them?”

Magnus’ finger grazes Nathan’s face, deformed by creases and grainy with cheap ink. He towers like a mushroom-cloud in the centre of that flier, flanked on either side by his band—sans Magnus, who has been conspicuously edited out of this promotion photo. Hell, he remembers taking the photo, now that he thinks about it, and when he looks to Skwisgaar’s side he finds a conspicuous sharp edge of pixels: the place where they edited Magnus out.

“No,” Magnus answers, face stony, “I don’t know them.”

Toki’s brow creases. “Really?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you’d know them. I don’t know why.” A brief cloud of consternation crosses Toki’s face, but then he grins again. “You should audition for them!”

“No.”

“Yeah, you should! I bet they’d like you! I have a feeling they’d like you.”

“No.”

“Oh, I bet you’ve got performance fright. You know what I do when I have performance fright? I bring my deaddy bear and I pretend I’m performing for him.” Toki gasps. “I’ll give you my deaddy bear! Then you won’t be so scared to audition—”

“I SAID FUCKING NO.”

Magnus screams it—the shout echoes around the interior of the truck like a whip-crack.

Toki’s cowering, flattened against the truck door, his blue eyes big and bewildered. That’s right, Magnus thinks, Toki doesn’t yet know that Magnus Hammersmith is crazy, and that shout had come out of nowhere. His broad dumb face is blank, uncomprehending, as if Magnus had just slapped him across the cheeks and then taken a shit in his milkshake. Abrupt cruelty from a man who’s been so unexpectedly kind to him.

Toki’s fear earns him no mercy from Magnus. “I said no,” Magnus repeats himself, in English, through gritted teeth. “I’m not auditioning for those—those dildos.”

“What means that?” Toki asks in a small voice. “Dildos?”

“It’s a bunch of fake plastic dicks.”

“Like whats the lady fucks herself with?”

“Yeah, Toki, like what the ladies fuck themselves with.”

“And the gay guys, too,” Toki contributes, in a terrified whisper.

Magnus thrusts the flier across the car; Toki takes it and puts it on his lap, staring down at the crumpled faces. There’s a ketchup stain on Murderface’s torso—what’s new?—and Skwisgaar’s beautiful blond hair has been amputated at the shoulder by a minor tear in the paper. The flier itself is printed on nice paper, the Crystal Mountain Records premium stationary; without having recorded a single full album, Dethklok is selling out. There’s a bitterness churning in Magnus’ stomach that no drugs or cigarette smoke can quash.

Still visibly rattled, Toki closes his eyes and takes a few timed deep breaths in a way that Magnus can recognise from experience as an attempt to dispel a building panic attack. When he opens his eyes again, his fear has been tempered by determination. He locks gazes with Magnus, undeterred by the bloody colour of Magnus’ dying left eye.

“I auditions for those dildos,” Toki declares.

Magnus blinks. “Alright, bud. Good for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Toki glances down at the flier, then sheepishly back up at Magnus. “Can you reads to me the directions to the auditions place?”

Magnus glances down at the address, though he already knows by heart exactly where it is. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette on the windowsill, “I’ll drop you off there.”

“Really?”

“Sure, it’s not far from here.”

“Thanks, Magnus! You’re the best!”

It’s a blessing in disguise that they’re seated in a truck, because Toki looks like he wants to fly over and tackle Magnus in a greasy, hamburger-scented hug.

Dethklok’s old rehearsal space really isn’t far from here. A mile down the highway and a couple of turns right would have them there in fifteen minutes. Magnus has made the drive a hundred-thousand times before—a pre-rehearsal chicken nugget run, a procrastinatory aimless drive, picking up Nathan from his part-time job, picking up Pickles from a last-minute drug deal, picking up Skwisgaar from his old guitar teacher’s house down the street. Drunken snack-shopping sprees at the nearby strip mall or chaotic, destructive rampages through the neighbouring suburbs; Tampa is his adopted home, by now, he knows these streets like the back of his hand.

Was his adopted home. He’d given years of his life to Dethklok and they’d gone and booted him out of the band just as they were starting to get big. And, looking at Toki, it makes sense: he would be perfect for them, a dumb little doormat they can stamp all over. Magnus is too old, too experienced, too willing to stand up for himself in the face of Pickles’ insubordination and Nathan’s constant criticism. That’s the real reason he’d been kicked to the curb, why Nathan had deliberately pushed his buttons until he’d had an episode and stabbed him—and now he’ll be replaced with a younger, stupider, more Norwegian guitarist. The world is cruel indeed.

As he drives, he watches Toki from the corner of his eye. Toki is slurping down a milkshake, face pressed to the window, grinning stupidly at the passing world. His legs are wrapped around his home-stitched guitar case, his dumb-looking cap sits askew on his badly cut hair. When he catches Magnus staring, he turns around and offers up an enthusiastic smile, face gaping open like a catfish begging for bread.

“Can you comes with me?” Toki asks in English. “I’ll feels better with a good pals like you to hears me play.”

Magnus shakes his head. “You’ll do fine, kid. You don’t need me there.”

“You really thinks so?”

“I knows so.” Magnus takes an exit, makes a left turn, and rolls into a parking lot. “Well, here we are.”

Toki looks out the window and his face falls. “This ams a…” He squints at the sign before them. “Mad…. Dress…”

“It says ‘mattresses’,” Magnus finishes for him.

“They’s auditions in the store for mattresses?”

“Weird, right? But a lot of Americans do it.” Magnus shrugs. “It’s cheap rehearsal space or something. Beats me. But yeah, that’s what it says on the flier.”

“Wowee.” Toki looks at the mattress store, then back at Magnus. There’s the faintest hint of suspicion on his face.

“Tell you what,” Magnus leans back, “I’ll wait out here for you. You go in, do your audition, and then come out and let me know how it goes. Alright?”

The suspicion melts into gooey whole-hearted relief. “Okay,” he agrees, pulling open the door, “I goes auditions and you waits for me. Boy, I feels better knowing my pal Magnus is right heres.”

“Mm.” Magnus looks away, staring pensively at the mattress store as Toki climbs out of the truck. He waits to see Toki skipping his innocent way towards the door—

The driver’s side door of the truck is wrenched open, and suddenly, Magnus is, as he feared, trapped in a greasy, dirty, vaguely hamburger-scented hug.

“You’re the best,” Toki mumbles in Norwegian, voice muffled in Magnus’ shoulder. “I’m gonna do my best guitar playing ever, just for you!”

The aroma coming from Toki leaves no doubt that he has, in fact, been sleeping in a dumpster. “Uh,” Magnus coughs, “Yeah, good luck.”

Toki springs off of him, lands unsteadily on the pavement, and then turns to give Magnus a big, sappy grin. With no further ado, he turns and, as predicted, skips towards the mattress store, his adorable hand-crafted guitar case swinging on his back.

Magnus waits until Toki’s halfway through the door. Then he starts his truck’s engine and goes peeling out of the parking lot with a squeal of rubber. He floors it, shooting around the shopping complex and back towards the highway, shaking his head all the while.

What idiot would believe a death metal holds auditions in a mattress store?

Somewhere, buried deep below the migraine and the drugs and the churning tar-black bitterness, Magnus feels a little pang of guilt. Toki seems like such a sweet, dumb kid, dumb enough to actually trust Magnus. He’ll probably be crushed when he realises that Magnus has betrayed him; and then he’ll learn the lesson that people are never simply nice, and he won’t let himself be fucked around with.

Nice kids like Toki don’t survive long—they need to be hurt, the way you hurt your fingers on guitar strings to build up the callouses, and Magnus is one of the only people with the guts to do the hurting. It’s not malicious, really. It’s just a fact of life, a lesson he’d tried to teach Dethklok, too.

Besides, Magnus reasons, he’s doing Toki a favour. Toki is genuinely sweet, caring, he has an optimism to him; a band like Dethklok would chew him up and spit him out. In the long run, when Dethklok is revealed to be a bunch of selfish, backstabbing, petty, lazy cowards, Toki can look back at this encounter and be glad to know that Magnus had his best interests at heart. Maybe by then the world will know how Magnus has been wronged—yes, he’ll be the benevolent, mysterious saviour of this encounter, intervening to spare another talented guitarist from the musical meat grinder. That’s what friends do, after all; Magnus is kind like that.

But the weird pang of guilt remains, and the migraine is worse than ever.

He’ll find a place to park, take one of his last oxys, try and get a nap; he’ll think once or twice about Toki Wartooth, that incomprehensible niceness and the hug he’d given Magnus. But then he’ll go on to brood about how his band kicked him out and how his bitch mother cut him off and how the rest of the world has so cruelly wronged him, and for the foreseeable future, Toki will be little more than a glimpse of sunshine that failed to interrupt a shitty, overcast life.

#metalocalypse #hello fandom i don't interact with. today i offer you: nice things happening to toki #my fic

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acim-ed-ortsac · 1 year

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Sans Reader in Records of Ragnarok

This is a one-shot of a reader with the abilities and some character aspects of Sans from Undertale but doesn't have his full personality. Also, gender isn't specified.

The last thing you wanted was to be teleported to another world against your will — but alas, that’s what happened.

You were listening to your brother in all lazy goodness when a flash of light blinded and the next thing you knew, you were on the ground.

Yeah…not the best way to find yourself in.

Especially when you found yourself in what that kid from the surface would describe as an ‘arena’.

You had to blink twice at what you saw. Thousands — no, millions of people in different shapes, sizes, and species…wait are those monsters!?

hOLD UP, AREN’T MONSTERS SUPPOSED TO BE UNDER GROUND!?

…welp, this just proves this is not your world.

“... why me, though?” you asked too, particularly no one.

“Is that a skeleton!?”

“What in the heavens!?”

“What is this development!? A skeleton crashed down in the middle of the coliseum!”

Jeez, these people should lower their voices. Especially the guy in the mask holding a…is that a horn?

Well…he’s the closest person to you so might as well ask. “Hey, excuse me, dude.” You, after standing up, walked towards the masked hooded guy. “Yeah, do you know where I am?”

The guy, who looked like had a maw for a mouth, gaped at you in disbelief. You looked at him, confused at his silence. “Hey buddy, are you okay –”

“How dare you casually speak to a god!?” a very loud voice screamed from the audience, making you wince.

You glanced in the voice’s direction with, if you had flesh, a raised brow. “A god? What is that, a new monster?” At this point, you were joking as you didn’t particularly believe in gods of the sort. And at this point, your anxiety was rising up so you needed a coping mechanism.

A bunch of gasps and shouts of horror erupted around you, making you irritated. Just a bit.

You turned back to the masked guy, “Yeah, can you help me out bud?”

“Wha…” the guy stuttered. “You don’t know this place?”

“Nope, completely new.” You said, looking around and noticing that most of these creatures had flesh and not a single skeleton. Making you stand out. Maybe you should shift into your fleshy form.

You raised your hand and snapped, feeling your magic change your appearance to one that’s similar to a human. You felt the strands of hair rest on your shoulders as your clothes clung to your body rather than your skeletal body. You flicked a lock of white hair from your face before inspecting your body. “Hmm…all good.” This should make them feel comfortable now.

Looking back at the guy with the horn, you gave him a relaxed smile – or something that resembles a relaxed smile while your insides are screaming in panic and fear of the unknown. “Okay, is this better? More of your style? Good, then can you he –”

“Are you a god!?” he squawked.

…he’s pulling your leg here, isn’t he.

“Dude, I have no idea what you –”

Your senses heightened as you teleported away from the guy and onto the other side of the arena. When you dipped into the void and came back, a gust of wind whipped your hair back, bringing dust and rocks flying. You squinted your human eyes at the source, which was a buff guy with an alligator for a head, his upper torso was nude while he wore a white cloth for a skirt.

“Woah dude, chillax –!”

“I will not let this mortal –” The buff dude turned around, his eyes gleaming with rage and violence as he lunged at you. “ – disrespect the gods!”

Any semblance of patience vanished with only remnants of steam left.

You felt your magic flow as you made an up gesture with your hand, with the alligator dude coming in close, a giant bone erupted from the ground and knocked the dude high into the air. Screams and gasps rose at the spectacle, but you didn’t care as you narrowed your gaze at the flying ‘god’.

Summoning one of your gaster blasters, you hopped onto its head and direct it out of the place. That place wouldn’t be able to help you, you realized, time to find people who are willing!

#records of ragnarok #Undertale #Records of Ragnarok x Undertale #Sans Reader in Records of Ragnarok #Sans reader #Undertale Sans reader #This was my first idea before the Sans in Twisted Wonderland

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frostyreturns · 1 year

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Frosty Ruins "Hailey's On It (2023)"

The evidence for the idea that much of todays entertainment is being written by ai is starting to pile up. There's so many of these shitty generic soulless cartoons now. The older I get the more I realize the old advice not to judge based on appearance was total bullshit. I can look at this show within 5 seconds and know it's going to be bad because it looks cancerously poorly drawn. It looks cheap and generic, you know when you are scrolling through a streaming service and you scroll past all these shitty looking cartoons that all look exactly the same and look so unbelievably unappealing that you wonder if there's even a single person on the planet who saw it and decided to click on it…it's one of those. It's like someone went to one of those ai art things and said give me a terrible looking cheap netflix childrens cartoon with ethnically ambiguously brown characters and it shat out ten thousand examples and they turned every single one into a show.

Then they gave the writing ai the prompt, write me a generic sanitized for all audiences childrens cartoon but fill it with progressive politics and sexualization. Then they write a brief one dimensional description of each character input the premise of the show and bam writing is done. I'm making a joke about how bad it is but it's so bad in the exact way I'm describing that what I'm saying is also completely plausible. I feel like i've reviewed this show before at least 3 times it's just so generic and shitty in all the same ways as every other cartoon being made in the last couple years.

The jokes are so flat they almost don't even exist. The main character will be riding a bike and run into a bunch of stuff and go "oh you were telling me to avoid that stuff." Beyond that there are no jokes there's just out of place sarcasm. It's like they copied the form of humour but left out the joke...like there's a setup and a punchline but they don't go together or it will be punchline with no setup or context. Like Michael scott shouting that's what she said but without anyone saying anything that could be heard as being sexual.

The premise of the show is stupid it's that this girl makes a list of stuff she wants to do and by doing her list she saves the world, which she knows because a time traveller from the future where Serena Williams is president came back to tell her. Because we all know if brown girls just did what they wanted without anyone stopping them they would be able to do whatever they want and would save the world from climate change. At least when Rick from Rick and Morty can do almost anything it makes a little sense because he's spent his entire life inventing and learning how weird sci fi shit works Hailey is just a young girl who's magically a scientist action hero, mary sue to the max.

It's like if you took all the humour out of My Name is Earl added in all of the progressive horseshit, then took all the humour and sci fi philosophy out of rick and morty took out any comedic looking animation and combined them…then wrote out all the whites, straights and men. I didn't see a single white character and i think there was only the one guy.

This is a kids show with children there's no need for there to be any sexualization at all, there's stuff about two girls kissing and her first to do list item is to kiss her friend. Two kids kissing is not a huge deal but it's a little weird in the context, they have all these other characters pressuring her to do it including a little robot who explains the mechanics of kissing like they're introducing it to kids for the first time…it's just gross and it's weird that it was written into the show it seems so unnecesary. Like make out with your friend or the world is going to end…seems like the kind of weird excuse some manipulative predator would make up to convince a kid to go along with something sexual. At one point they go through one of those tunnel of love rides while a song urges them to "kiss their friends, just do it don't be shy" and of course all the heart symbols along the ride are the pedo small heart within a larger heart symbol.

Awful, absolutely no redeeming qualities, don't let your kids watch it. Other than my ai argument I can't see how something like this keeps getting made.

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whileiwasdreaming · 8 months

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Meeting Mom

Second date and already meeting mom? That seems fast, but there are some people you'll do anything to make them happy.

Hally's mom met us at the restaurant, coming straight from work, having helped a single mother retain custody of her infant. I think I'd be more ready for her left cross than a cross examination at the table.

The questioning was tepid and I wasn't sure whether my answers were that good or if she knew from the outset she was going to tell her daughter she was far too good for me. She wouldn't be completely wrong, but would clearly be underestimating my consistency and effort.

Hally excused herself from the table so she could go to the ladies room which gave way to my first way to show visible effort.

Quickly getting up, I helped Hally from her chair like a gentleman from the 50's, gave her a peck on the cheek and slid her chair back in as she made her way across the room.

I may have stood there watching her walk a little too long, for as I turned back to the table and begin to sit, Hally's mom fixed her gaze upon me. Part of me wanted to shout, "Objection!" to deflect my nervousness with humor, but I didn't take that chance and that's when my nervousness got the best of me.

"Ms Eriksson", I said a bit timidly

She remained quiet, but the look on her face softened a bit as this monologue came pouring out.

Your daughter is the most beautiful person I've ever met. Not just on the outside, that much is apparent to anyone who isn't blind, but on the inside. She has the biggest heart and is a light that even a black hole could not extinguish. She gives, she loves, she sacrifices. For those she cares about, she wants nothing but the best for them. She is creative, she is brilliant, she is funny, and lord knows she can be ridiculously silly. I adore each and every atom that makes her who she is. Who you've had a hand in making her into. I want you to know a couple of things. First and foremost, I have zero interest. None whatsoever in her changing anything about herself. I simply want to be a part of her life and not just watch her grow and blossom into the person she'll become, but to be an active part of her life that supports and encourages her to become the person she wants to become. Secondly, I assure you, she'll get nothing short of 100% effort and 100% respect. Not just sometimes and in public, but every. single. day. In public and especially behind closed doors. And speaking of respect, know I won't make a spectacle of things, but I won't tolerate anyone. anyone. disrespecting her. I'd never drive a wedge between her and anyone she cares about, but I'll do all I can to make sure she is happy and safe and that her light never dims.

I pause for a moment to catch my breath and she responds in a slightly confused tone, "why are you telling me this and why didn't you say it while she was sitting here?"

"Because", I said, "she knows all this and I didn't want to embarrass her. She knows I think she is amazing."

"I see. And I see she is heading back."

"One last thing", my voice speaking a bit quickly, "Is she carrying a nerf gun? I need to know right away."

"She is.", Ms Eriksson replied, "I'd have told you sooner that there was one for you under the table, but you were busy telling me how sweet my daughter is", as she chuckles, "oh, the irony!".

I took two shots to the back that night and one in the bum as I tried to grab my weapon out from under the table. I managed to get one round off that missed and landed in some poor woman's bowl of soup. Nerf bullets do a surprisingly good job of not absorbing liquid!

Hopefully the worst mom has to say about me is I talk too much and I am a terrible shot.

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snowdrrops · 2 years

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new years' kiss

feat. ! beiguang includes ! fluff notes ! this idea came to me just before i dozed off last night, and i thought 'hey why not do this for all the ships i write about??' anyway, have this for now :))

Liyue harbour was alive. Although it was just a quarter to midnight, the chatter and spirit of the people was loud and high.

There were children running about the pavement excitedly, probably due to the fact that this would be one of the only occasions their curfew would be extended this late.

Even the Millelith standing guard seemed to be less uptight as some of them were making small talk with the locals, which was a rare sight.

A device, recently created by the inventors of Fontaine, called the clock was hung up on a bridge acting as a connector between two buildings of the harbour.

"10 minutes!" someone shouted out, which caused a new wave of anticipation and excitement to take over the crowd.

Watching all this unfold before her very eyes, a small smile graced Ningguang's features. For this one night, maybe she would soak in the vibrant energy of the harbour. As the Tianquan of the Qixing, she almost never caught a break and was worked to the bone every single day.

Maybe Ningguang could let herself off just for one night.

Footsteps reverberated through the bell tower, together with the sound of the swigging of some sort of liquid.

Ningguang sighed in resignation, the thought of a break immediately dissipating. Seems like they were not destined for her.

Beidou came to stand beside her against the railing, "Fancy seeing you here. So, have you made any new years resolutions?"

Ningguang gave her a blank look. "Don't you it's a little too late for that?"

Beidou looked confused and took a swig of whatever was in her flask (At first glance, Ningguang concluded it was undoubtedly alcohol). "Why would that be?"

"New year's resolution should be made two months in advance, not the day before."

Beidou let out a loud laugh. "Nonsense! It's not the new year yet... we are still in the... old year?"

Ningguang sighed again.

"Five minutes!" that same person announced.

It was quite satisfactory to watch the harbour from above. Knowing that she'd played a major part into governing this city and molding it into what it was today made Ningguang want to beam with joy. She encapsulated that it must have felt like raising a child of her own: watching them grow up and achieve their own success.

"Hey," Beidou called out, "Do y'know of this thing called a 'new year's kiss'?"

Ningguang furrowed her eyebrows, "No, why do you ask?"

"Well, I was drinking with some of the crew- I know it's prohibited but it's new year's eve! Anyway, one of them mentioned it. Most of us were confused, obviously. She explained that you have to kiss someone the second it's new year's for good luck," Beidou took another gulp of the drink.

"How... strange," Ningguang replied. She would not allow herself to venture further into what the other woman was suggesting.

"Two minutes!"

"Exactly, who would do that type of thing?" Beidou chuckled, avoiding the other's gaze.

"That whole concept just sounds like an excuse to kiss someone you like," Ningguang continued, shifting just a few inches closer to Beidou.

"Yeah, absolutely absurd," she agreed.

Every second ticking by felt like an hour, Ningguang's heart rate escalating. What should she do? Take the lead or see how this plays out?

"Thirty seconds!"

Beidou was the one who moved closer this time, their shoulders grazing each others'.

Ningguang chided herself, how could she know how to lead a nation but not when to kiss a woman?

The tension in the air was so sharp it could probably cut metal. It was now or never.

"Ten seconds!"

Ningguang was the first to turn to Beidou, muttering a "It's for the good luck." The other quickly nodded and leaned closer to her, lips not yet moving.

In the background, people were counting down loudly.

"Five!"

They could feel the warmth of each other, being so close. Who knew when they'd ever get this opportunity again?

"Three!"

Beidou had said something, but Ningguang couldn't hear her because of the people's noise.

"One!"

Just as the clock struck twelve and fireworks shot up into the midnight sky, they had kissed for the very first time.

"Happy new year, Beidou."

#beiguang #beidou #ningguang #genshin liyue #liyue #genshin impact #genshin #fluff #new years #liyue qixing

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shelbeetaylor · 7 days

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Chapter Twenty | Evie's Grand Plan

-> story masterpost

-> previous chapter

Evie held out her hands, presenting the rows and rows of white lilies and various other flowers to Wes.

All he did was cock his head, lift an eyebrow, and say, “I don’t get it…”

Evie deflated a bit, her shoulders slumping forward as she sighed loudly. “Flowers will cheer her up! We’ll decorate the castle, obviously.”

Wes’s face only deepened in confusion. “So… how is this gonna convince– what’s her name?”

“Gena,” Evie replied without missing a beat.

“How is this gonna convince Gena to tell you what’s wrong?”

“It’s a surprise, duh! It’ll make the castle significantly less dull– you know, I’ve been meaning to give the castle a little bit of a makeover, so this is the perfect excuse to do it.”

“But, like… this is to get her to talk to you about her feelings, right?”

Evie made a face, pressing her lips together and sighing through her nose. “Yes, Wes, hopefully Gena will see the flowers and how beautiful the castle is and will feel inspired to talk to me about how sad she is. BUT the most important thing is that the flowers will make her happier and the castle will look prettier.”

Wes just sort of looked at her like she was a little crazy, and even his voice sounded like he was thinking she was a little insane. “Okay… I’m seeing a problem with this.”

“What?”

“How in the world are you going to get the entire castle decorated with flowers in one day, much less without Gena’s knowledge?”

“Ooh, that’s a good point,” Evie nodded. Who could help her? Who could help her? Who could help– “I know what we can do.”

“What?”

Evie started off towards the castle again and called back to Wes. “Follow me!”

Wes simply shook his head, ran a hand down his face, and followed after her.

Evie flung open the door to Teddy’s room, making his servant jump and almost drop the bucket he was carrying.

“CIVARN!” she shouted, before dropping down to a normal level. “I need your help with something.”

Evie had only really interacted with Civarn during their half-successful sabotage mission a little bit ago, so they weren’t really as close as she was with Theo or Gena. However, Evie would become friends with him. She still had to give him a nickname. Besides, she was sure she could get him to help her out.

Civarn sighed and set the bucket down. “What do you need, m– Evie.” Good, someone filled him in.

The grin that grew so wide on her face was filled with mischievous joy. “I have a plan.”

Civarn glanced between Wes and Evie blankly. “Why is there a plan?”

“Because Gena is sad! We must cheer her up!”

Civarn had to take a moment to connect the dots on who the nickname was referring to, but once he got past that hurdle, he was following. “Okay?”

“We…” Evie pulled out the single white lily she picked and presented it to him, “are going to decorate the castle.”

Civarn looked at the floor, looked up at her, and looked like the most exhausted person in the world. “The entire thing?”

“Yes, the entire thing.”

Civarn scoffed and stuttered before he got out, “Why?”

“Because,” Evie explained, “Gena is upset, and Gena likes flowers. Flowers plus Gena plus castle means happier Gena. Hypothetically speaking.”

Civarn rubbed his temples. “So, you want me to decorate the castle in flowers?”

“You and as much of the castle staff you can rope into helping.”

“I–” Civarn kept appearing to grow more and more tired.

“Ooh, can you, like, gather everyone so I can debrief them before I enlist their help? It’s probably best I explain what I want.”

Civarn wasn’t even able to give a monosyllabic sound in response, his face was just stuck.

“Man, it would be easiest to just say sure,” Wes said from behind Evie. “She’s not gonna let you say no.”

“I–”

Evie inched closer to him, making the saddest face she could. “Please?”

Civarn made a face back at her as though his brain was telling him not to listen to her, but he gave in and said, “Fine.”

“Yay!” Evie began jumping up and down.

“Just give me like an hour or so to finish up my work.”

“Okay! Thank youuuuuu.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Evie took Wes by the wrist and yanked him out of Teddy’s room.

“We’re not actually doing this right?” Civarn asked Wesley.

During the hour that Evie had to wait for Civarn to finish his work and gather the castle staff, she had managed to draw up intensely detailed plans almost equivalent to battle strategies. Now Evie ended up dragging him, Civarn, and the entire group of volunteers out to the gardens to explain what Wesley was calling her Grand Plan. Currently, Evie was waving her arms about as she explained what exactly she wanted. She had become a general ordering soldiers about. It was, he had to admit, a little terrifying.

“Dude, I really think it’s better if we just do what she says. I mean, she started ordering you around without hesitation.” Evie told Civarn she was technically his superior and because of that he had to do what she said all because Civarn told her he didn’t want to drag everyone out to the gardens.

“I still don’t work for her, so that’s not really how that works.”

“That is not what she said.” She said that it works that way because she said so.

“Well, if there was any doubt she was related to the princess…” Civarn didn’t finish the thought, but Wesley knew what he meant.

“So,” Evie explained, “I’m gonna send her home early today. Once I do that, we’ll start giving the castle a makeover, okay?”

“Does she do this a lot?” Wesley asked.

“This is a first for me,” Civarn answered.

Evie was pointing out the different flowers she wanted to use. Wesley had no idea what they were except for the lilies, but those were pretty obvious. He shivered for a moment in the cold wind.

“Do you need a jacket?” Civarn asked.

“No, I’m good.”

Wesley just focused on Evie giving her speech, her amber waves bouncing as she turned her head from the group to the flowers and back. As crazy as this whole thing sounded, there was this excitement, this passion in her ashy gray eyes that made him want to partake. Besides, it was for a good cause, so what was the harm?

Evie's room was filled with freshly picked flowers the volunteers from the castle staff had helped her collect. Each of the servants had also taken a substantial amount of flowers with each of them, but Evie by far harbored the most. White lilies, orange dahlias, sunflowers, and purple and white autumn crocuses all littered around the place.

Wes and her sat on the ground, weaving the flowers together.

“It’s not working,” Wes complained, struggling to twist the flowers together correctly.

“Here.” Evie motioned for the two flowers, and he handed them over. “So, you wrap it around like this, then loop it through.”

She handed the flowers back to him, the stems neatly intertwined.

“How do you do that?” he asked, taking back the flowers. “It’s so easy for you.”

Evie shrugged. “Just practice I guess, like with everything else.”

“You made these a lot back home?”

Evie smiled because she knew what he was trying to do. “You really wanna know about Wystwillow, don’t you?”

“Well,” he said as he tried to loop another flower, “I’ve never been there, and who knows if I ever will be able to go. So, I just wanna know about what it was like.”

“That is a fair reason,” Evie told him, returning to hers. She slowed her process down though because she saw Wes staring intently at how she was tying the stems together.

“So… you were talking about your friends back home?”

“Yeah, um…” Evie looped another stem onto her collection of flowers. “I don’t know, what do you want to know?”

Wes shrugged. “Whatever you feel like telling me.”

Evie pressed her lips together, struggling to come up with words. “I–” She sighed, a little bit defeated. There was just so much floating around in her brain. Wes looked up from his flowers, and it was like he could see the whirlwind of things in her mind.

“Uh, what if I told you something about myself for everything you tell me about Wystwillow?” he offered.

He must’ve misread her troubles being that she wasn’t willing to share, but she wasn’t going to correct him. Evie was always happy to learn more about people she was trying to befriend. “Okay.”

“I guess, you can tell me about your best friend from home and I’ll tell you about mine?”

Evie nodded, looping another flower stem before she could find the words to speak. She let out a breath, then started, “She was the daughter of one of my father’s advisors. Her name was Agatha Holloway.”

“What did you call her?”

He already caught onto her love of nicknames. Evie's smile was a little sad when she told him, “Aggie.”

Wes chuckled a little bit. “Very creative.”

Evie lightly slapped him on the arm. “I am very proud of that nickname, thank you.”

“Okay,” he said, throwing his hands up.

Evie stopped working on her flowers for a minute as she walked through her memories. “She was so… amazing. We grew up together, so it was only natural that we became friends, but she was just confident and brave and, well, amazing. She would always be the one to suggest an adventure. I would always tag along because I loved her, but I could never be as fearless as she was.”

Evie turned back to her flowers, but she kept talking. “There was this one time where she wanted to ride out to a nearby village–um, Halus– and there were these local kids that were doing magic out in the woods. I was so scared, I stayed on the horse in case I needed to run away. But she just walked right up to them and demanded they become our friends.” Evie chuckled a little bit at the thought of it. “We spent the whole afternoon playing games with them, watching them practice their magic, sharing stories. It’s one of the most amazing days I’ve had in my life which I know is not saying much since I’m only nineteen, but I’ll never be able to forget it.”

“That does sound like fun.”

“It really was.” Evie's smile faltered a little bit. “I think about it a lot now that…” She stopped herself, accidentally messing up on the stem she was trying to tie. She wasn’t quite ready to talk about her last memories of Aggie. The wound was too fresh. It hadn’t even been a month. That was not a step she was willing to take right now.

Wes nodded slowly, probably assuming what had happened to Aggie without her having to say anything.

“So, mister, you promised to tell me about your best friend from home,” Evie bounced back and said.

“His name is Ranger.”

Evie's brows furrowed. “That sounds like a dog’s name.”

Wes grinned. “It is.”

“Your best friend from home is a dog?”

“Yup!”

Evie laughed a little bit. “Okay, tell me about Ranger.”

“Well, he’s my first hunting dog. My dad gave him to me when I was sixteen…” Wes looked up for a moment, doing some mental math, “so I’ve had him for about four years now.”

“That’s a respectable time to own a dog,” Evie joked.

“It is indeed,” Wes agreed, playing along with her comedic bit.

“So I gave you a story, you need to give me one. What has Ranger done?”

“Ooh…” Wes rubbed his chin as he tried to come up with a story. “Well, I do remember that the first time we ever took him out hunting– my father and I– instead of finding the bird we shot down, he peed all over my father’s boots.”

“He did not!” Evie giggled.

“Oh, yes he did.” Wes was trying to control his laughter as he told the story. “My father was absolutely furious, he just screamed at him. ‘NO, WRONG WAY. GET THE BIRD, GET THE BIRRRRD!’ It was the funniest thing ever.”

The way Wes had reenacted the story with just his hands and his face had Evie in stitches. She was laughing too hard to even work on her flowers, clutching her stomach as her muscles began to hurt.

When she was finally able to stop herself from giggling enough to speak, she asked, “So, where is Ranger now?”

“Not hunting with my father,” Wes joked. “Actually, he’s waiting at home for me.”

“You didn’t bring him with you?”

“No,” Wes looked down at the floor for a moment, his shoulders sinking a little. “My father doesn’t want me bringing Ranger here until I’m knighted.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, probably like he doesn’t want me to get distracted or he doesn’t want me to set up anything too permanent here until we know I’ll be living here for a while, I guess.”

“And bringing a dog is setting up something permanent?”

“I know!” Wes began looping another stem, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make any sense, but I guess it’s more of an incentive to succeed, or something.”

“How long is it gonna take you to get knighted?” Evie tilted her head as she inquired.

Wes gave her a big shrug, arms and all. “Theo said we have six months until we’re given our final test. Actually it’s closer to five months than six months…”

“So you train for six months and then take this test?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Do you just get one chance, or what?”

“No, he said if we fail it the first time, we have about three months to succeed. Otherwise, we go home knighthoodless.”

“Oh…” Evie said. “What kind of test is this?”

“Combat,” Wes replied. “We have to beat Theo in no less than five minutes’ worth of sparring.”

“Well, I’m sure in six months you’ll be able to do that– five,” Evie corrected herself.

“I don’t know, I got absolutely pummeled fighting Princess Cassandra.”

Evie's eyes grew wide, “You fought her?!”

Wes looked her up and down like he was a little shocked by the excited response, but he replied, “Yeah, it was a sort of entrance exam, I guess. She actually slapped me to the ground.”

Evie stifled a laugh, and Wes pressed his lips into a thin line as he nodded. She went to reassure him, “But that’s okay! Cassie’s hard to beat, not even Teddy can beat her.”

“He lasted longer than I did.”

“Well, he’s been sparring with her longer.”

Wes opened his mouth to say something, stopped, then proceeded, “You know, I didn’t think about it like that.”

“See? You just listen to what Teddy says, and if you need to practice I can help.”

“You can swordfight?” Wes seemed a little in disbelief.

“Not at all,” Evie cackled.

“Oh, so you’ll be no help.”

Evie shook her head, still laughing, “No!”

“Well, I at least appreciate the thought.”

“I can be a great cheerleader, though,” Evie in all seriousness offered. “If you want some moral support, I can certainly be there.”

“I might need that.”

“Great, can do.”

Wes chuckled a bit, then asked, “So, how do you finish this?”

“Oh, it’s pretty easy, just take that and tie it there.”

Evie watched him as he followed her instructions, and he looked at the finished product with brows furrowed. “It’s… not good.”

“Well, it’s your first one,” Evie explained. “They’ll get better, I promise.”Wes looked down at it, up at Evie, then back down again. Without hesitation, he plopped the flower crown onto her head, the thing falling lopsided onto her amber curls. Evie immediately began laughing incredibly hard, so hard tears began forming in the corners of her eyes.

-> next chapter (september 28)

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