Perfect Skin - I
Title: Perfect Skin (1/2)
Pairing: M. Shadows / Jyrki 69 [The 69 Eyes]
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: This stranger was rock n roll. Sex. Drugs. Fucks against grimy cubicle walls and stolen cigarettes.
Genre: Crossover / PWP.
Dedications: Mahhh Christus-blob of old for inspiring me.
Author's Note: I can't write for shit anymore. This was pumped out quick because I needed to get it out of my system. So... beautiful... I love the similarities in their characters so much. Urgh. Anyway, this is a 'multi-media' fic, which means the song's behind the cut. Listen while you read it, because I listened while I wrote it and it all kinda fits.
Perfect Skin - I.
You got a perfect skin,
With a Devils grin.
Say hello to the pretty eyes,
Say hello to the devilish strides.
You got the looks, baby,
I could die.
You got the looks.
You got a murder style.
You can't keep me waiting forever, baby.
It's getting hard,
Who's going to rescue me?
Nothing here,
You got a perfect skin,
With a devil's grin.
This place was legendary. Rock stars and bands alike spilled out of every frosty crevice, roaring voices all tinged with the same accents, the shriek of guitars all infected with the same synthesisers. Most genres had their own sound, this country had its own sound. Unique, beautiful, sparkling. A manic collide of joy and depression wrapped up in everything from fairies to Goths. It was a fascinating affair, seeing how different the same variety of people could be. Whether clad in pink, leather or velvet they shared smiles and climbed up on stage with each other to bellow classics Matt would never know.
Only, he never thought of it that deeply. He was far too intoxicated for that.
He never got drunk on tour nights, preferring to save his voice, so today it was a situation wherein he hadn't exactly expected to get as smashed as he currently was. A couple of gulps of this strange clear liquid and he was out of it, only just managing to maintain a grip on his motor functions as he focused, however blearily, on the stage. He had been defeated by this country. A man who could drink most under the table was wrecked by the addiction to his newest and most intriguing discovery. Bitter sweet, like liquorice, sliding through his mouth and down his throat and warming him to the state where all he could focus on was more.
Some band was flouncing around that didn't quite capture his fascination as deeply as some of the others, nor his respect, as he could vaguely recall murmurings of 'Eurovision' floating through the air, and even though he wasn't too well informed of the whole subject, that particular word just whiffed of pure doom.
None of the sentences around him were particularly familiar. Spoken in words he had no knowledge of and accents he didn't wish to decipher, though mostly speech was too slurred for anyone to translate.
This was the definition of every club you could ever see, read about, visit. It was a wild mash of every idea and every tradition. Music and dancers and whores and businessmen. Expensive sleaze dripping from the walls. Every breath strong lungs took brought in another plume of the second hand smoke curling vivaciously through the air, eyes rubbed as the tobacco began to prickle at hazel in a distinctly irritating fashion. Jimmy was slurring something to his left, Brian muttering something both different and similar to his right, and he couldn't help but snort at his flanking band mates as he attempted to sober himself up with a coke. A spiked coke, sure, but a coke all the same. The heavy rhythm floating up through floorboards, up the metal legs of his stool and right through his body was beginning to make his stomach muscles clench awkward. Squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax, all uncomfortable compression of the alcohol currently filling his gut, warming him though dizzying him.
This night hadn't gone right. Not at all. He had agreed to one drink, just the one. One drink in one bar and what had happened? The spirit of the nation had gripped him by the balls and dragged him along, kicking and screaming and gurgling HIM songs.
It was, in part, the anti- to everything he was. It was camp, it was ridiculous. It was Scandinavian snow to Californian sun. Surfers to snowboarders. Writers to... well, Laguna Beach. Vodka to beer, sex shops to skate stores. Kippis to... no thank you whatsoever. If there was anything he had learned over this brief morning in Finland, it was that the entire place was composed of a few simple factors;
Snow.
Naked saunas.
Porn shops.
Music.
Booze.
In other words?;
He thought he had found his God-damn retirement place. It was Heaven in the form of bad influences, destroying his well built discipline and petty little routine. His ideas and beliefs. It was infecting redneck culture with the freedom of flinging yourself naked, dick first into a pile of frozen water, and it had the potential to ruin their first headlining dates. He wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow, let alone sing for shit, so unless he stopped sipping at the attractive burn currently swilling about among fizzing soda he was going to be out of a show.
This single fuzzy realisation pierced through his progressively blurring world, until that ol' 'action over words' formula won out and he managed to drag his pretty little ass from his seat, Jimmy having to shove him off of his lap in order to get him to the actual floor.
Grimacing at the sticky quality of the ground beneath his feet he managed to weave his way from the slam of the crowd, sweat and sex and smoke and alcohol flooding his already over-powered senses until he needed to get out, he needed to move, he needed... he needed air and cold because it was too hot and too thick and too much and his skin was flushing and burning and heart pumping and stomach churning and air, sweet, sweet air...
Uttering a praise to the Lord Matt burst through the back doors, running a hand through too short locks and leaning heavily against the rough brick of the wall, the texture scraping to tattooed flesh. The cold was realised with a start as great as the one uttered when he saw he wasn't alone.
Note: The 69 Eyes were Avenged Sevenfold before Avenged Sevenfold were born, gawd dangit. Complete with sass, leather, arrogance, chicks, strippers, bling, drama, right down to the flipping aviators. All hail!
Pairing: M. Shadows / Jyrki 69 [The 69 Eyes]
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: This stranger was rock n roll. Sex. Drugs. Fucks against grimy cubicle walls and stolen cigarettes.
Genre: Crossover / PWP.
Dedications: Mahhh Christus-blob of old for inspiring me.
Author's Note: I can't write for shit anymore. This was pumped out quick because I needed to get it out of my system. So... beautiful... I love the similarities in their characters so much. Urgh. Anyway, this is a 'multi-media' fic, which means the song's behind the cut. Listen while you read it, because I listened while I wrote it and it all kinda fits.
Perfect Skin - I.
You got a perfect skin,
With a Devils grin.
Say hello to the pretty eyes,
Say hello to the devilish strides.
You got the looks, baby,
I could die.
You got the looks.
You got a murder style.
You can't keep me waiting forever, baby.
It's getting hard,
Who's going to rescue me?
Nothing here,
You got a perfect skin,
With a devil's grin.
This place was legendary. Rock stars and bands alike spilled out of every frosty crevice, roaring voices all tinged with the same accents, the shriek of guitars all infected with the same synthesisers. Most genres had their own sound, this country had its own sound. Unique, beautiful, sparkling. A manic collide of joy and depression wrapped up in everything from fairies to Goths. It was a fascinating affair, seeing how different the same variety of people could be. Whether clad in pink, leather or velvet they shared smiles and climbed up on stage with each other to bellow classics Matt would never know.
Only, he never thought of it that deeply. He was far too intoxicated for that.
He never got drunk on tour nights, preferring to save his voice, so today it was a situation wherein he hadn't exactly expected to get as smashed as he currently was. A couple of gulps of this strange clear liquid and he was out of it, only just managing to maintain a grip on his motor functions as he focused, however blearily, on the stage. He had been defeated by this country. A man who could drink most under the table was wrecked by the addiction to his newest and most intriguing discovery. Bitter sweet, like liquorice, sliding through his mouth and down his throat and warming him to the state where all he could focus on was more.
Some band was flouncing around that didn't quite capture his fascination as deeply as some of the others, nor his respect, as he could vaguely recall murmurings of 'Eurovision' floating through the air, and even though he wasn't too well informed of the whole subject, that particular word just whiffed of pure doom.
None of the sentences around him were particularly familiar. Spoken in words he had no knowledge of and accents he didn't wish to decipher, though mostly speech was too slurred for anyone to translate.
This was the definition of every club you could ever see, read about, visit. It was a wild mash of every idea and every tradition. Music and dancers and whores and businessmen. Expensive sleaze dripping from the walls. Every breath strong lungs took brought in another plume of the second hand smoke curling vivaciously through the air, eyes rubbed as the tobacco began to prickle at hazel in a distinctly irritating fashion. Jimmy was slurring something to his left, Brian muttering something both different and similar to his right, and he couldn't help but snort at his flanking band mates as he attempted to sober himself up with a coke. A spiked coke, sure, but a coke all the same. The heavy rhythm floating up through floorboards, up the metal legs of his stool and right through his body was beginning to make his stomach muscles clench awkward. Squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax, all uncomfortable compression of the alcohol currently filling his gut, warming him though dizzying him.
This night hadn't gone right. Not at all. He had agreed to one drink, just the one. One drink in one bar and what had happened? The spirit of the nation had gripped him by the balls and dragged him along, kicking and screaming and gurgling HIM songs.
It was, in part, the anti- to everything he was. It was camp, it was ridiculous. It was Scandinavian snow to Californian sun. Surfers to snowboarders. Writers to... well, Laguna Beach. Vodka to beer, sex shops to skate stores. Kippis to... no thank you whatsoever. If there was anything he had learned over this brief morning in Finland, it was that the entire place was composed of a few simple factors;
Snow.
Naked saunas.
Porn shops.
Music.
Booze.
In other words?;
He thought he had found his God-damn retirement place. It was Heaven in the form of bad influences, destroying his well built discipline and petty little routine. His ideas and beliefs. It was infecting redneck culture with the freedom of flinging yourself naked, dick first into a pile of frozen water, and it had the potential to ruin their first headlining dates. He wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow, let alone sing for shit, so unless he stopped sipping at the attractive burn currently swilling about among fizzing soda he was going to be out of a show.
This single fuzzy realisation pierced through his progressively blurring world, until that ol' 'action over words' formula won out and he managed to drag his pretty little ass from his seat, Jimmy having to shove him off of his lap in order to get him to the actual floor.
Grimacing at the sticky quality of the ground beneath his feet he managed to weave his way from the slam of the crowd, sweat and sex and smoke and alcohol flooding his already over-powered senses until he needed to get out, he needed to move, he needed... he needed air and cold because it was too hot and too thick and too much and his skin was flushing and burning and heart pumping and stomach churning and air, sweet, sweet air...
Uttering a praise to the Lord Matt burst through the back doors, running a hand through too short locks and leaning heavily against the rough brick of the wall, the texture scraping to tattooed flesh. The cold was realised with a start as great as the one uttered when he saw he wasn't alone.
Note: The 69 Eyes were Avenged Sevenfold before Avenged Sevenfold were born, gawd dangit. Complete with sass, leather, arrogance, chicks, strippers, bling, drama, right down to the flipping aviators. All hail!