#🗙 〻 robert parker — interactions.

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@lightning-arias liked for a starter from Rob

Something's off with Leslie, and Rob can tell. He's not sure of the specifics—hell, he's not even close—but it's clear she isn't herself. The sharp wit, the creative spark, the things that made her such an intriguing collaborator—all of it seems to be dimming, leaving behind someone he barely recognizes: A pretty face with nothing much going on upstairs, and the industry already has more than enough of those.

So, when he gets a call from an unknown number explaining what's happened, he's floored, shocked, relieved, and trying not to think too hard about the logistics of body swapping (assuming that's even a thing). Still, he'd tested her with questions only the real Leslie would know, and she'd passed with flying colors.

By the end of the call, he's made a promise: He'll take advantage of the long weekend coming up and make his way to Virginia.

They agree that they'll meet at a café downtown, somewhere neutral, the day he arrives. Getting there first, Rob orders himself a drink and tries not to overthink what he's getting himself into.

When she arrives, it's… surreal. The girl standing before him looks a lot like Leslie, but not quite. Different enough to set his nerves on edge.

But then she speaks, and her attitude sells it immediately.

"I have—so many questions."

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HOUSE M.D. SENTENCE STARTERS

@amalgamatedmuses: "When did I give you the impression that I care?" (From Lucifer)

Rob tilts his head slightly as if genuinely pondering the question.

"Oh, I don't know--maybe when you decided to stick around and hear me out in the first place?"

"But hey, if caring's not your thing, you're doing a spectacular job convincing me otherwise."

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HOUSE M.D. SENTENCE STARTERS

@kchortu

Rob wanders through rows of gleaming guitars, absentmindedly brushing his fingers over the polished wood as he glances at the price tags in mild amusement. He's not looking for anything new—his old six-string still did the job—but inspiration always seems easier to find in places like this.

The sound of crisp, precise fingerpicking catches his attention, drawing his gaze toward the other end of the shop. A moderately taller guy, dressed in black like he's trying to blend in, is perched on a stool, a sleek electric guitar balanced on his knee. He's good, really good, but his expression is blank, almost bored, like he isn't even trying.

Wandering closer to get a better sound, Rob can't help himself.

"Sounds like it's playing itself."

The man doesn't look up nor reply, his fingers gliding effortlessly across the strings. It feels like he's talking to a wall, but Rob's interest doesn't falter.

"So, what's your secret? Years of practice? Some kind of deal with the devil?"

"Work smart, not hard. That's my philosophy."

Robert raises an eyebrow, letting out a low chuckle as he leans against the nearest display.

"Right. Because shredding like that doesn't take any effort."

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@qapsiel liked for a starter from Rob

"You're not going to stop asking until I answer, are you?"

It's a rhetorical question, of course. Castiel's unrelenting curiosity about Rob's work—and, more specifically, the people he's crossed paths with—had been a running theme since the topic first came up.

Beyoncé, naturally, was at the top of his list.

"Fine. I met her once. End-of-year party at Columbia. We said a quick hello, exchanged pleasantries, and then she went off to do whatever it is legends like her do at parties. Seemed nice enough."

He leans back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Happy now?"

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@id1eyouth liked for a starter from Rob

Rob's played this venue more times than he can count—if you can even call it one. It's just a tiny pub on the outskirts of Soho, female-owned, and he's not too proud to admit that it's his charm, more than his talent, that keeps getting him booked.

The arrangement is simple: he can go up as long as he sticks to a setlist made up mostly of jukebox crowd-pleasers and he doesn't bother the patrons for tips. Fairtrade, really.

Anything for a shred of exposure, even if the sales of his EP are still abysmal and he knows he'll soon be scrubbing plates to cover rent. That's tomorrow's problem, though.

Tonight, for the first time in ages, there's someone here specifically to see him, and he'd rather focus on that fact. When his set ends, guitar case slung over one shoulder, his eyes scan the room and land on his guest. Their gazes meet, and Rob offers an easy smile as he approaches.

"Sooo—what'd you think?"

He asks, sliding into the seat across from them. His eyes flick to the half-empty pint on the table, and without waiting for a reply, he adds:

"Mind if I have a sip? I'm parched."

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@nocityfolk liked for a starter from Rob

Rob leans back in the stiff office chair, his arms crossed, fingers taping an idle tune as he half-listens to the label rep drone about their newest, shiniest toy.

"We think your perspective could really push Jesse's sound to the next level…"

The suited man's voice fades out as he stops paying attention, responding in noncommital hums, glancing at his watch. Rob isn't entirely sure why he'd agreed to this meeting other than the fact that they were throwing an unholy amount of money his way. Still, "country" isn't exactly in his wheelhouse.

The last time he'd willingly listened to a steel guitar was… well, never.

Before he can make a dry remark about being the wrong man for the job, the door opens, and Jesse walks in. The guy looks exactly like the kind of polished cowboy the industry loves to sell, but there's something in his eyes that gives Rob pause: A kind of tired, wary sharpness that's strange for someone who's supposed to be a fresh-faced star.

They exchange nods before the other sits across the table, his body language casual but careful, like he's ready for whatever Rob is going to throw at him. The label rep keeps talking, but Rob barely hears them, too busy sizing up the younger man.

Finally, when the rep pauses to take a breath, Rob decides to speak.

"Let me get this straight: You want me--a guy who's never touched a banjo, let alone produced a country album--to push his sound to the next level. And you're… what? Hoping I'll just whip up some acoustic magic out of thin air?"

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@fatalhymn liked for a starter from Rob

"This is—really good, actually. Needs a little fine-tuning, but the spirit's there."

Rob flips through the pages of the small notebook Amelia handed him, her work-in-progress lyrics scrawled in bursts of energy. She'd entrusted him with it hesitantly, asking him to be nice.

He didn't have to try. There's something there—raw, unpolished, but full of potential. If given the proper attention, she could become a damn good lyricist. That's not something you see every day in pop stars, and it's a welcome surprise.

It's also surprising how well they're getting along now. He'd been wary at first, put off by her tabloid reputation and the whirlwind of drama that seemed to follow her. He's not one for theatrics and has seen too many projects derailed by big egos. But the more time they've spent working together, the more he's come to see her for what she really is—talented, authentic, and fiercely passionate about music. Even if the final products she's forced to churn out don't always reflect that.

Looking up from the notebook, Rob raises an eyebrow.

"And remind me again—why don't the bigwigs want you working on this?"

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ROBERT PARKER: TAG DROP

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@bornbreathless liked for a starter from Rob

Rob holds his coffee cup in his hands, letting the steam rise to his face as he settles into the farthest corner of the shop. The place is small and warm in that overdone "artsy" way—exposed brick walls, mismatched furniture, and a chalkboard menu that requires squinting to decipher (or maybe he's just getting old). It's not his usual spot, but it's close enough to the studio and wonderfully quiet in the mornings.

He'd been coming here often enough to recognize a few regulars, but one stood out: The girl who lived upstairs. He didn’t know much about her other than that she always seemed to be on the go—running in and out of the shop, heading off to who-knows-where.

Today, she sauntered in wearing running gear and a pair of sunglasses on her head despite the overcast weather. Rob tried not to stare but found himself eavesdropping nonetheless, her order spilling out of her with the kind of precision that only came from repetition.

Smirking to himself, Rob makes a decision: he'd been meaning to say something to her eventually, now seems as good a time as any.

When she turns around, balancing her drink and a small paper bag, their eyes meet, and he raises his cup in a half-wave.

"You're the upstairs runner."

Rob speaks matter-of-factly, his voice carrying just enough curiosity to invite a response.

"You're hard to miss: Always in or out, coffee in hand, looking like you're running late for… something. Figured I'd say hello before the caffeine kicked in and you disappeared again."

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@frithlaoch liked for a starter from Rob

The late afternoon sun is shining low, tinting the downtown streets in warm golden hues as Rob plays his guitar, perched on an overturned milk crate. The tune he plays is a familiar one, one of those folk classics people like to hum along to when they think no one is watching. A small crowd gathers around him, some onlookers dropping coins into his open guitar case, others stopping just long enough to tap their feet before moving on.

He finishes the song with a soft flourish, letting the last chord linger as the coins clink against the case. A crisp bill catches his eye among the loose change—far more generous than the usual pound or two.

Rob looks up to find the tipper standing a few steps back, watching him with an amused expression. Dressed too sharply to blend in with the crowd, he assumes they're either a tourist or someone with more money than sense. Either way, their smile is contagious, and Rob can't help but smirk back.

"That's a bit much for some bloke on the street."

He speaks with a crooked eyebrow, gesturing to the bill with his pick.

"Careful--people might think I'm good or something."

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@theirmadness liked for a starter from Rob

Rob's lips are red, kiss-stained—a shade that, admittedly, suits him well. The past few hours had been a blur: half spent writing, another recording, and the rest tangled up with Mia.

Now, he's laid back on an expensive office chair, straddled by her overwhelming his senses. The sound of her breath, the press of her against him—it's all he can focus on.

But as his mind starts to haze over, he notices something out of the corner of his eye, and with a reluctant groan, he pulls back.

"What time is it--?"

His gaze drops to his watch, and his stomach sinks. Their studio time wasn't exactly running out, but they'd clearly lost track of time, and the consequences of their carelessness suddenly feel much more immediate.

"Shit."

He straightens up, a flicker of panic flashing across his face.

"Your father's going to be here any minute, and, well…"

He pauses, running a hand through his already messy hair, smirking despite himself.

"Pretty sure I'd be a dead man if he caught me with a faceful of his 'pretty little girl.'"

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"You're right--I approached you. Not because I thought you'd be a good conversation partner, but because… well, I've heard you're the kind of person who can make things happen."

Rob takes a sip of the whiskey on the rocks he has been nursing, his eyes narrowing slightly. This could be a mistake, or it could be the best decision he has ever made.

The room feels quieter now; the distant chatter blends into a static buzz. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and watches the other carefully.

"I have dreams--real ones. The kind that keep me up at night. I've been playing the game for years, clawing my way up through the dirt, trying to make a name for myself. But there's only so much sweat and luck can accomplish, right?"

"You approached me." Lucifer tilts their head in response and their neck clicks loudly. Its a pointed noise, like a full stop, and they sigh softly before continuing.

"I'm hardly going to let someone like you chase me out of my own club," They are sprawled comfortably in their seat, a glass of something expensive cradled in their grasp, lording over the club like they once did over Hell. It's not a bad life after all.

"You can tell me whatever you want, but I do not have to care. This is business, is it not?" It is an assumption, but that the granting of favours is what people usually approach them for at this time of night.

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"You're probably right; I'm not here for a guitar. Guess I am just killing time… or hoping for something unexpected to happen, I guess."

He shifts his weight a little, crossing his arms as he looks around the shop, though his attention never fully abandons the man on the stool. The mention of Carcass catches him off guard, but Rob quickly latches onto it, intrigued to see how the conversation will play out.

"You could say I've got a bit of a soft spot for 'Heartwork,'—you know, the one with that crazy riff in the middle? That one still gets me."

He lets the name drop, hoping to impress a little, though it's the only Carcass song he can name off the top of his head. It's not that he doesn't appreciate the heavier stuff; he just doesn't always find the time to dig deeper.

Then, the stranger seems to recognize him, and it surprises him. His eyebrows shoot up at the comment, far from used to hearing that from anyone, but here it is. His posture stiffens briefly before he breathes out slowly, trying to keep things casual.

"Wait, really? You think you've seen me? I mean, I'm by no means famous, but I guess I've had a few articles circulating lately. Mostly about the industry and producing stuff, you know, the kind of articles that people probably forget the next day."

The stranger snorts, the sound derisive. He glances up, eyes so dark it's difficult to track his pupil.

"Not anymore." That might have been the ghost of a grin, though it was more of a halfhearted lip-bite than anything else. Tattooed hands cradle the instrument- gods, that's an expensive one- and he shifts his posture on the stool, the foot that was resting on a rung now flat on the floor instead. "Twenty years ago, maybe." Blunt nails drum against the body in two quick rolls of his hand.

It's a beast of a thing- a Dunable Cyclops. Those are not on the shelf at this shop, so he must be in for maintenance he couldn't manage on his own. That, or maybe he teaches lessons? Guy looking like he does, inked that heavily, it seems more likely he'd be a full-timer with hsi craft. Maybe in a better world.

"You're not here for one of these. Just killing time, or hoping for more of a show? I'm not playing Stairway to Heaven. Name a Carcass song, though, then we're talking." It's not that he's unfriendly, per se, but it's clear he wasn't expecting to have to have a conversation. These things take energy, and his social battery is at its half-life day to day. Oh, the things growing older cause. He's always been this way.

"You...look familiar. Not to be a complete freak." Too late for that, which he damn well knows. There's a self-effacing grace to him, even as he throws his barbs. "You a press guy, or...?" He's seen this guy's face. Where, though? Journalist seems likely. That, or somebody with a pop lean. Gods help him- the only time he dated a pop star just about ruined his life. He's stayed well clear since.

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"We were friendly, Cas. Asked each other if we were having fun, and said we loved each other's work--but I think she was just being kind. I was rather new."

It's a nice story to reminisce about, of a time he was a new face and appraise was hard to come by—even if it wasn't genuine, it was impossible not to let it go to his head.

"She was--tall, actually. I think it was the heels. I don't remember what she was wearing, but she smelled really sweet and spicy."

                          JOBS OF HUMANS ARE MILDLY INTERESTING AT BEST, but usually boring as hell. Neurosurgeon? Oh, well, Castiel can just send a drop of grace into someone's brain and cure their tumor without having to cut open the skull. Computer programmer? Castiel does not care about humanity's silly little technological devices. CEO of a Fortune 500? Castiel doesn't even know what that means, and he doesn't want to find out. But this man here? This man knows musicians, and the only logical explanation is that he met the Queen herself, and Castiel has to know. So, he is quite unrelenting in his questions until Robert finally capitulates. 

                           Castiel clings to his every word. "This cannot possibly be it. Exchanged pleasantries? What does that even mean? What did she say?" Funnily enough, Castiel wants to know how she smells but manages to stuff that question down his throat before it gets past his lips. "How was she?"

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"Yeah, of course I came."

He's still trying to figure out why, but it's not like he's putting much thought into it. Call it morbid curiosity, or letting himself feel useful even though he has no idea what's going on (and isn't 100% sure of the veracity of it), or what to do in such cases—what matters is that he pulled through, right?

The thick tome lands with a heavy thud on the wooden table, and Rob hesitates before picking it up. After glancing at the cover one too many times, he finally starts to sift through the pages, surprised to find that most of the content focuses on demonic themes.

"What's this about a demon deal?"

Rob, admittedly, had not been Leslie's first call. He hadn't been her second. Her mom had been her first, nearly a day after the swap had happened, then after the disastrous call, it'd been her manager, who'd just hung up on her.

It'd been a flash of genius that had led her to call Rob about two weeks after the swap. She didn't know why she had thought he'd believe her, but for some reason she had, and luckily he did. For the first time since the swap, she felt relief, small as it was.

Then she had to wait, which gave her a chance to gather what data she already had and compress it to something she could present.

It's easy to spot Rob, and she almost rushes to him, so glad to have a familiar face, but she stops herself. What if it was another sick joke? In the end she forces herself through it, what could be worse than the situation she was already in.

"You know, for a second I thought I was going to be pranked," she says as she sits down, "but you... you actually came." The relief is clear, and she almost wants to hug him but she doesn't.

"So do I," she laughs, giddy with the relief of being believe, and plunks a big tome onto the table. "This has some of your answers. Hopefully."

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Rob watches Jesse closely as he speaks, picking up on the small details in a way that has taken him years to master. There's something almost familiar about the younger man's nervous energy, and he recognizes that feeling: the one where you're just trying to do something that feels right, but the weight of the world is pressing down on you.

Considering Jesse's words, Rob leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

"Look, I'm not one to make promises, especially about something as messy as music."

His voice is quieter now—less confident, more thoughtful.

"You said it yourself: there's room to wiggle. But I don't just throw around ideas because they sound good on paper."

He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of the stiffness in his posture, and lets out a quiet sigh.

"I've been around long enough to know that pushing someone's sound doesn't always mean making it 'better.' It means making it real--and honestly, that's what I'm after. Something that feels like it came from you, not from a trend or a quick fix. So if you want country, we'll stick to it. But country… well, it means something different to everyone."

"Don't know if I'd go that far. Y'know— uhh— the thin air thing," Jesse tries, with a half-cocked smile. It's unlike him, really. He's so easily intimidated by any kind of business talk that puts him at the wheel of anything. Exchanging words, faking smiles, pressing matters, his manager (Sadie) pushing to find a cure to the fading-to-obscurity style of his last producer.

Doggone was the first of his albums to really take off— the result of a three-day bender, grief, & the abrupt end of a relationship his music had become intrinsically bled into. The next one has to be different, better, new. New in ways Jesse isn't even sure of, & it isn't like Rob Parker is the first person they've approached.

Hopefully the last, Jesse thinks, however, because he'd been the one who'd suggested it, who'd told Sadie he liked his sound & wanted to talk with him. Experience with Jesse's genre or not; that's what the next album needed more than anything. And who better than him, someone who understood music and the industry, and hopefully wouldn't want to change a sound five years in the making?

Clearing his throat and forcing nervous eyes upwards, Jesse locks his gaze onto Rob, trying his hardest not to shy away. "I mean, it— it doesn't have to be outta nowhere, man. I s'pose there's a fair amount of room to wiggle 'round, right?" Amicable. Maybe a little too polite, considering this is a professional matter. "s'long as the country stays in country music."