For Vejiicakes!
Sep. 15th, 2009 06:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: The Curse of Celebrity
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Skwisgaar/Nathan
Word Count: 1103
Dethklok has a secret. A horrible, dirty secret. And it’s not that they destroy the environment, indulge in every vice known to man and a few that they’ve invented themselves, or that all the death and killing that dogs their every move like a pack of wolves following prey across the tundra passes them by unnoticed. No. It’s so much worse than everything that is already on public record. And it’s….not metal.
Dethklok’s secret is that, deep down inside, they’re all terribly self-conscious and haunted by the fear that they’ll be revealed as hacks, as failures, as a bunch of idiots posing as musicians. Murderface is the most vocal about it but he can get away with it, covering his tantrums and self-doubt with a veneer of loathing and mutilation and lots and lots of lisping spittle. And Toki, being the youngest, can be indulged as well. Besides, most of his issues relate to his upbringing – which was admittedly fucked up – and to his position as World’s Second Fastest Guitarist, to not being number one. Pickles, at least, is usually so out of his mind that he’s probably the least bothered of them. Too, being in one of the biggest glam bands of the eighties and dressing for that part has eliminated most of his demons. What he has left relates to his family and the band enjoys getting their digs in and watching with voyeuristic delight as their usually unflappable drummer panics around his dick of a brother and his clueless parents.
Skwisgaar’s insecurity is sometimes the oddest. After all, he IS the World’s Fastest Guitarist, he’s nearly seven feet tall, blond, Swedish, and he can have any woman he wants, even if the ones he does choose are old or fat or both. But Skwisgaar has a mother who never loved him, never wanted him, never praised him and he lives in fear of the day Toki might someday get angry enough to attempt to surpass him. As for Nathan, his family is the most normal. But Nathan’s just a tad overweight and he has a great deal of trouble expressing himself when he isn’t angry and he never did manage to finish high school. He feels stupid most of the time, even around his band mates who can’t speak proper English because that only ever eventually reminds him that they actually can speak at least TWO languages apiece, even if they do mangle one.
Usually when Dethklok has internal problems, the dividing line falls one of two ways: either it’s Americans versus Scandinavians or else it’s ‘useful’ members against ‘edited out and re-recorded later’ members. But these divisions don’t quite work when it comes to insecurities because Pickles is too stoned and too unselfconscious to buy into the doubts that occasionally plague Skwisgaar and Nathan. And when the three of them have spent all day in a recording booth, Nathan agonizing over the new album while Skwisgaar works out the rhythm guitar and then half-heartedly argues with Pickles about the interplay of bass line and drums, the last thing the singer and the guitarist need is the drummer’s cheerfully jaded attitude or hazy memories of long-ago sessions in Los Angeles. They wait until he leaves, hiding bottles until he ventures off in search of more booze, and then they break.
Sometimes it’s Nathan who crumbles first. When he can’t find the words – the only words that truly come easily to him – or when he worries that the level of brutality just isn’t enough, he shuts his voice recorder off with a long heaved sigh or tosses his notebook with its black jagged letters and harsh score marks of rejection across the room. Then it’s Skwisgaar’s turn to sniff, nose in the air and guitar finally laid aside as he makes pointed remarks, jabs that Nathan would feel deep in his gut right about where his fifth liver is slowly dying if they came from anyone else or at any other time. Big hands and slender, calloused fingers close over Nathan’s arms and the Swede uses his height to his advantage, looming over Nathan as he pokes and prods and riles. Nathan never goes down without a bit of a fight but he always yields at last and then the roughness is gone, Skwisgaar gentle and almost tender as he fucks his front man over the mixing board or up against the sound-proof glass. Later, once they’ve calmed down, Nathan insults Skwisgaar’s accent or taste in women and the Swede takes mock offense and they wander off together to find Pickles and whatever new cache of alcohol he’s managed to sniff out.
Usually, though, it’s Skwisgaar who folds up faster than a falling house of cards. It’s the pressure, the act of writing three parts rather than just one, and the constant fear that lurks at the back of his mind in regards to Toki. The Explorer tends to end up smashed to pieces – the noise of which has more than once been sampled and blended into the background of their music – and he sucks on a cigarette and pretends it’s pot so that a few tears can leak from reddened eyes. Nathan allows him the lie, doesn’t really know how to deal with it otherwise, and waits until Skwisgaar recaptures the tenuous threads of his dignity. Then it’s all flattery hidden in insults that gradually gives way to simply flattery.
Nathan – for all of his brutality – has a big soft heart that still adores kitties and his dearly departed childhood dog and can’t bear to imagine living without his band mates all together. In the privacy of the recording studio and with the safety of the sound-proof glass, the words of praise that drop hesitantly but sincerely from his slow but honest tongue are soaked up like life-giving rain by the thin, pale reed of Swede. Skwisgaar’s ego needs careful tending and Nathan is a watchful gardener, fertilizing the liquid of his praise with soft touches designed first to calm and then to inflame. Nathan is not gentle with Skwisgaar in the end, though, and it’s just what the guitarist needs. He needs to be reminded how strong he is, how powerful, how dominant as he straddles Nathan’s hips and rides the front man’s cock, wresting control of the pace and watching the lust swell in green eyes. Afterwards, Nathan ignores Skwisgaar’s cocky comments and lets him go in search of Toki because the Norwegian rarely fails to rise to the bait. And Nathan finds Murderface and lets the bassist’s vitriol wash away any residual kindness still lurking in his thoughts.
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Skwisgaar/Nathan
Word Count: 1103
Dethklok has a secret. A horrible, dirty secret. And it’s not that they destroy the environment, indulge in every vice known to man and a few that they’ve invented themselves, or that all the death and killing that dogs their every move like a pack of wolves following prey across the tundra passes them by unnoticed. No. It’s so much worse than everything that is already on public record. And it’s….not metal.
Dethklok’s secret is that, deep down inside, they’re all terribly self-conscious and haunted by the fear that they’ll be revealed as hacks, as failures, as a bunch of idiots posing as musicians. Murderface is the most vocal about it but he can get away with it, covering his tantrums and self-doubt with a veneer of loathing and mutilation and lots and lots of lisping spittle. And Toki, being the youngest, can be indulged as well. Besides, most of his issues relate to his upbringing – which was admittedly fucked up – and to his position as World’s Second Fastest Guitarist, to not being number one. Pickles, at least, is usually so out of his mind that he’s probably the least bothered of them. Too, being in one of the biggest glam bands of the eighties and dressing for that part has eliminated most of his demons. What he has left relates to his family and the band enjoys getting their digs in and watching with voyeuristic delight as their usually unflappable drummer panics around his dick of a brother and his clueless parents.
Skwisgaar’s insecurity is sometimes the oddest. After all, he IS the World’s Fastest Guitarist, he’s nearly seven feet tall, blond, Swedish, and he can have any woman he wants, even if the ones he does choose are old or fat or both. But Skwisgaar has a mother who never loved him, never wanted him, never praised him and he lives in fear of the day Toki might someday get angry enough to attempt to surpass him. As for Nathan, his family is the most normal. But Nathan’s just a tad overweight and he has a great deal of trouble expressing himself when he isn’t angry and he never did manage to finish high school. He feels stupid most of the time, even around his band mates who can’t speak proper English because that only ever eventually reminds him that they actually can speak at least TWO languages apiece, even if they do mangle one.
Usually when Dethklok has internal problems, the dividing line falls one of two ways: either it’s Americans versus Scandinavians or else it’s ‘useful’ members against ‘edited out and re-recorded later’ members. But these divisions don’t quite work when it comes to insecurities because Pickles is too stoned and too unselfconscious to buy into the doubts that occasionally plague Skwisgaar and Nathan. And when the three of them have spent all day in a recording booth, Nathan agonizing over the new album while Skwisgaar works out the rhythm guitar and then half-heartedly argues with Pickles about the interplay of bass line and drums, the last thing the singer and the guitarist need is the drummer’s cheerfully jaded attitude or hazy memories of long-ago sessions in Los Angeles. They wait until he leaves, hiding bottles until he ventures off in search of more booze, and then they break.
Sometimes it’s Nathan who crumbles first. When he can’t find the words – the only words that truly come easily to him – or when he worries that the level of brutality just isn’t enough, he shuts his voice recorder off with a long heaved sigh or tosses his notebook with its black jagged letters and harsh score marks of rejection across the room. Then it’s Skwisgaar’s turn to sniff, nose in the air and guitar finally laid aside as he makes pointed remarks, jabs that Nathan would feel deep in his gut right about where his fifth liver is slowly dying if they came from anyone else or at any other time. Big hands and slender, calloused fingers close over Nathan’s arms and the Swede uses his height to his advantage, looming over Nathan as he pokes and prods and riles. Nathan never goes down without a bit of a fight but he always yields at last and then the roughness is gone, Skwisgaar gentle and almost tender as he fucks his front man over the mixing board or up against the sound-proof glass. Later, once they’ve calmed down, Nathan insults Skwisgaar’s accent or taste in women and the Swede takes mock offense and they wander off together to find Pickles and whatever new cache of alcohol he’s managed to sniff out.
Usually, though, it’s Skwisgaar who folds up faster than a falling house of cards. It’s the pressure, the act of writing three parts rather than just one, and the constant fear that lurks at the back of his mind in regards to Toki. The Explorer tends to end up smashed to pieces – the noise of which has more than once been sampled and blended into the background of their music – and he sucks on a cigarette and pretends it’s pot so that a few tears can leak from reddened eyes. Nathan allows him the lie, doesn’t really know how to deal with it otherwise, and waits until Skwisgaar recaptures the tenuous threads of his dignity. Then it’s all flattery hidden in insults that gradually gives way to simply flattery.
Nathan – for all of his brutality – has a big soft heart that still adores kitties and his dearly departed childhood dog and can’t bear to imagine living without his band mates all together. In the privacy of the recording studio and with the safety of the sound-proof glass, the words of praise that drop hesitantly but sincerely from his slow but honest tongue are soaked up like life-giving rain by the thin, pale reed of Swede. Skwisgaar’s ego needs careful tending and Nathan is a watchful gardener, fertilizing the liquid of his praise with soft touches designed first to calm and then to inflame. Nathan is not gentle with Skwisgaar in the end, though, and it’s just what the guitarist needs. He needs to be reminded how strong he is, how powerful, how dominant as he straddles Nathan’s hips and rides the front man’s cock, wresting control of the pace and watching the lust swell in green eyes. Afterwards, Nathan ignores Skwisgaar’s cocky comments and lets him go in search of Toki because the Norwegian rarely fails to rise to the bait. And Nathan finds Murderface and lets the bassist’s vitriol wash away any residual kindness still lurking in his thoughts.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
*completely unrelated*
Date: 2009-09-15 10:02 pm (UTC)Re: *completely unrelated*
Date: 2009-09-16 10:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-17 06:41 am (UTC)And I adore musings on the band's various relationships--the obvious and not so obvious aspects--SO MUCH. It's my favorite Metalocalypse meta (well, and how-they-got-started meta.) You're right, this wasn't great, this was PERFECT :B What a scrummy birthday present, thank you!!
Derf, wish I'd been able to get away from schoolstuff on your birthday, but if you check out my LJ, I left you a post. Check it out whenever you have time, so I can do something for your birthday, you fabulous thing~! <3
Horribly Late is Horribly Late...
Date: 2009-10-15 10:27 am (UTC)PS - I saw your post and THANK YOU! I know you're really busy and stuff (damn school, as it is sucking all my life at the moment too) but I do appreciate the offer!