#band instrument repair

[all-hail-the-buescher-27]

the thrilling sequel you never saw coming...

minerally children get the chemflush

I haven't had this poor thing chemflushed for 3 years (despite apprenticing as a repair tech for 1.5 years of that now), and finally got around to it yesterday! of course, I had to do it with a band rehearsal deadline, so I was literally pulling the slides out of the chemflush with minutes to spare

because of the cramped timing, I really needed to leave the body in for longer to get the valve block spotless, and of course it only got token polishing, but even so it works so much better than it has for years, don't be me and put off getting your instrument cleaned!

tarnishy children get the polish

[totentnz]

sometimes i think to myself "v does too many things you need to shave some off" but then i remember that (obviously) you start of as a somewhat new merc (even though streetkid v can tell kerry thats what they have been doing their entire life) and with them being 27 years old there is plenty of time to pick up many hobbies and have many different jobs and just have experience with a lot of things so im good

[everymanpdf]

bf said i can play sax for his new band. like not as being a member of the band but for some songs. which is so exciting yippeeee

[libraryofgage]

I realized Steve is absolutely that kid whose parents put him through piano lessons solely so they could have another way to show off at parties and shit. And then that thought morphed into a little Steddie plot bunny and here we are lol:

Steve doesn't know it's the last time he'll sit at the grand piano, the last time he'll press down its keys and let music fill the empty room before bleeding out into the empty house.

He doesn't know that when his parents next come home, his mother will notice how horribly out of tune the instrument is. He doesn't know that it will be sent off somewhere for repair (his parents won't tell him where, no matter how he asks, and he'll never quite understand why) and lost to him. He doesn't know his parents won't bother buying another one; it was only ever there to impress party guests when Steve sat down and played some Bach. Without those parties, company or otherwise, there's no point in getting another one: both the piano and Steve will have outlived their usefulness.

He doesn't know that he'll be storing away his sheet music, carefully placed into folders and in a waterproof box for safekeeping. He doesn't know that he'll soon become too consumed by high school and dating and monsters to idly write down notes on a staff. He doesn't know that when he's swinging a nail-ridden bat in the future (to destroy monsters, sure, but destruction is destruction, right?) he'll ache with the pain of missing the act of creation as a means of stress relief.

He doesn't know any of that, so Steve sits down at the grand piano with a soft smile, gently trailing his fingers over the keys before lining them up in the Middle C-position. He runs through a few warm-ups, letting muscle memory take him away, so he doesn't have to think. Without another thought, he seamlessly transitions into idly playing, bits and pieces of everything he remembers and songs he's heard blending together.

Mozart's Air morphs into Beethoven's Fur Elise into Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. It doesn't all sound good together, but that's not the point when Steve plays by himself. All that matters is letting his brain shut off for a bit, letting the notes and echoes mingle together to create something new and joyful.

After two hours on the piano, his wrists are aching; he always forgets to hold them in the proper position when he plays alone. But it's a good ache, one that reminds him of the music still dancing around in his brain.

Steve takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, feeling the last of his tension dissipate. He lets his hands linger on the piano for a little longer before standing and leaving the room, tragically unaware of his imminent and unavoidable loss.

--------

Steve is sprawled across an old couch in Gareth's garage, reading Eddie's well-loved copy of Lord of the Rings. He'd promised to at least give it a go, and he had to admit he was looking forward to finally understanding some of the references Hellfire Club and the kids make. His progress is slow, but he's almost halfway through after two weeks of work. Reading while Corroded Coffin practices helps; the background noise of their music is perfect, letting him ignore all other sounds and focus.

Of course, that's provided they actually play continuously instead of starting the same song over and over only for Eddie to stop them halfway through. When it happens for the sixth time, Eddie growls in frustration, tugging harshly at a lock of hair. "It still sounds wrong!" he cries, dropping into a crouch while cradling his guitar close.

"Stopping us halfway through isn't helping," Gareth points out, idly twirling a drumstick as he watches Eddie's lament.

"Do you know what's wrong yet?" Asher asks.

Steve can longer focus on Lord of the Rings. Instead, he places the book on his chest and looks at the band to watch how this plays out. Eddie scowls and looks up at Asher. "Unfortunately, Ashy Baby, no."

Jeff, meanwhile, has locked eyes with Steve. And because Jeff knows the perfect way to get Eddie off their asses is to get him on Steve's instead, he says, "Why don't you ask Harrington what he thinks?"

Eddie whips around to look at Steve, eyes wide and hopeful. He doesn't even bother standing from his crouch, instead waddling his way over to Steve and testing his ability to hold back laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of the sight. "Stevie, baby, sweetheart, lover boy, please tell me that wonderful brain of yours has an idea so your favorite boyfriend can finish this rocking song."

"You're my only boyfriend."

"Which automatically makes me your favorite," Eddie points out, grinning as he leans closer. With Steve still laying down, Eddie's the perfect height in his crouch to kiss him. He lingers for a few seconds before pulling away, and Steve knows his own smile matches the dopiness of Eddie's.

"Have you considered adding a piano?" Steve asks.

"None of us know how to play," Asher says, and Steve would look at him if Eddie's face and hair and shoulders and everything weren't filling his entire line of sight.

Without thinking, Steve hums and says, "I do."

"Do what?" Eddie asks.

"Know how to play piano."

There's a silence that follows his sentence, one that makes Steve's stomach lurch as he wonders if he's maybe fucked up the shaky peace and friendship he's finally managed to build with the other members of Corroded Coffin. He doesn't know how his words might have done it, but he's scrambling to somehow take them back when Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth, the bands of his rings pressing against Steve's lips.

"Gareth, you still got that keyboard?" he asks, keeping his eyes locked on Steve. There's a light dancing in them like he's just discovered magic is real, like Steve has amazed him beyond imagination.

With a grunt, Gareth gets up from his drums and steps into his house. The rest of them stay in silence while waiting, Eddie refusing to remove his hand no matter how much Steve licks his palm. When he finally gives up and just glares at Eddie, his boyfriend grins brightly back.

"It's a little dusty, but it'll work fine," Gareth says when he comes back, and Eddie finally moves his hand and body, allowing Steve to see Gareth setting up a keyboard a few feet away from his drums.

"Okay, sweetheart," Eddie says, taking the book from Steve and carefully setting it aside before pulling him off the couch, "you've heard the song enough. Play what's missing."

Steve hesitates before walking over to the keyboard. Eddie sticks to him like a shadow, sliding his arms around Steve from behind once he's standing in front of the white and black keys. An odd nervousness churns in Steve, tugging at his spine and making his palms clammy, but he knows it would be much worse without Eddie there. If he had to play in front of the band without feeling like anyone was on his side, he'd probably just throw up instead.

"It, uh, it's been a while," he says quietly, easily falling into the muscle memory of tracing the keys and finding Middle C and dancing his fingers through warm-ups despite his words.

Eddie squeezes him tighter as Jeff asks, "Since you've played? Why?"

Memories of his grand piano rise in Steve unbidden, overwhelming him in a rush of longing for the instrument itself and the relaxation of playing. "My parents paid for lessons and had me play at company parties. They, uh, sent it off to be tuned, but it got damaged, and they didn't get another one."

"That sucks, Stevie," Eddie murmurs, soft and reassuring and Steve suddenly feels far more confident.

He looks up at Jeff. "Can you start playing again?" he asks, flashing a grateful smile when Jeff nods and starts strumming the song's opening notes.

Steve listens closely, breathing in the tune he's heard so many times and letting it take hold. He doesn't allow himself to actually think, letting Jeff's guitar and Eddie's arms and hair and scent drown out everything else. Before he knows it, he's playing a hesitant tune that grows with confidence as he follows the song laid out before him. He's always a measure behind, chasing the guitar's echoing notes as they fade.

He and Jeff make it through the whole song without Eddie telling them to stop. When the final notes of guitar and piano echo together, the latter still chasing the former even at the end, Steve is shaking with excitement and anxiety and grief and joy.

He lets out a slow breath, feeling tension he didn't even realize had lingered for so long finally draining from his shoulders and dissipating. Steve can also feel Eddie's face pressed against his neck, a smile searing into his skin as Eddie squeezes him even tighter.

"I love you so fucking much, Stevie, that's exactly what was missing," Eddie says, his words the only warning he gives before pulling Steve away from the keyboard and off his feet and spinning him around. His surprised yelp quickly morphs into laughter that still lingers even after Eddie has set him down again.

Gareth and Jeff and Asher have already started discussing how the other parts of the song might change with the addition of a keyboard, but Steve is too busy turning in Eddie's arms and kissing his smile away to pay them any mind. He can worry about inevitably being roped into the band's practices later, after he and Eddie are breathless and flushed and smiling bright.

[tac-the-unseen]

OUAGH the last one gave me the idea of a musician reader x slasher

If I were to suggest a specific genre maybe they’re into rock because. Yeah.

Could you do something with that?

Slashers x Musician Reader

Micheal Myers:

•Plays it off but thinks it cool as hell

•He did play the piano for a very short time in his childhood, but the ward made him very rusty 

•Will happily watch any concerts you put on for him

•Will Secretly watch you if you don't 

Billy loomis & Stu macher:

•They both immediately pitch in a song request 

•They bring up the fact that you play an instrument to win arguments with people 

•Will eventually find a way to break your instrument 

•They will be very apologetic about it 

•attempts to replace it 

Thomas Hewitt:

•very interested 

•He's curious by nature, he wants to know everything he can about it 

•Your instrument is the most expensive thing in the house 

•daydreams about being able to play a song for you, one day

•until then, he'll try to figure it out himself 

Bubba Sawyer:

•Tries to sing along when you play

•he also dances but always ends up knocking stuff over

•Will sit in front of the door so her brothers can't get in while you're playing

•They constantly complain about the racket 

•Chop-top will occasionally sit in while you play 

Bo Sinclair:

•immediately shows you his acoustic 

•brags about how he can out play you

•loses miserably because he only practiced for a couple months 

•mad about it

•polishes its case whenever he comes around to it 

Vincent Sinclair:

•romanticizes it by thinking about how you're two different types of artists 

•Sketches you playing your instrument 

•Sheepishly asks you to pose

•makes a mini wax sculpture of your instrument 

•He get super giddy if you play a song for him

Lester Sinclair:

•extremely impressed 

•He's always thought of being able to play an instrument as a high class/rich person activity 

•Falls asleep while you play, Not because you're boring, But because he finds it soothing 

•will find out how to care for your instrument so he can help repair any damages it might face

Billy Lenz:

•probably was the reason He zeroed in on you in the first place 

•fines it incredibly alluring and wanted you to play all the time 

•Will find a way to get his grubby hands on your instrument 

•Will eventually break it but not feel sorry 

•(Not So) patiently waits for you to get it fixed

Brahms Heelshire:

•He can play the piano and just uses it as another excuse to hang out with you 

•looks up songs to properly make a duet with you 

•whenever conversations died down or get a little stale, he whips out the instrument card 

•whether you did or didn't know how to play an instrument he's going to romanticize it anyway 

Hannibal Lecter:

•insists on making some kind of duet with you, and whether or not your instruments align with each other 

•buy stuff to make for your instrument is a mint condition 

•’humbly’ braggs about your talent at his dinner parties 

•Will make you food associated with your instrument(s) (look that up, it's a real thing because of course it is)

Will Graham:

•Like to watch you play whatever it is you play

•He's never really had any interest in instruments, But he starts listening to videos featuring your instrument. 

•Casually asks Hannibal facts about your instrument 

•makes you a little charm related to your instrument to put on your keychain 

•Has flashbacks to the guy with his throat turned into a Cello 

The Lost Boys:

•They all at some point have picked up an instrument 

•David can play the Piano, Organ, violin, and guitar

•Dwayne can play the Hand drums, flute, and Bass guitar

•Paul can play the clarinet, electric guitar, French horn, and marimba 

•Marko can play the Drums, Harp, Cello, and viola

•They have all genuinely considered starting a band 

•No matter what you play, you'll fit in

Thanks for reading <3

I went for a more neutral tone with this fic. Because I don't want to write 16 other fanfics about specific music genres ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠🎀)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

[mt-oe]

𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘼𝙧𝙚—bandmate mizu hcs

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dears!

I've been listening to an old playlist I made when I still had time to listen to various genres of music and nostalgia hit me in such a good way.

Hope that you will find much fun in these headcanons as much as I had fun writing them <3

Enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

warnings: not proofread, she/her for mizu, implied afab reader

note/s: manager reader; mizu has a crush on you

✦ She plays both electric guitar and bass. She'd be sporting a white Epiphone 1961 Les Paul SG Standard, a graduation gift from her step father. Since it had so much sentimental value to her, she never really got around to replacing it. But when she got her first job, she spent the first few months saving up for her bass which was a Fender American Performer Mustang Bass.

You'll never see her in the studio without it. She even keeps it by her side when everyone's taking a small snack break. It's like they're her babies.

One time Taigen tried playing with it while Mizu was in the restroom and everyone was surprised at how fast she came out of the comfort room to smack him on the head with a force so heavy the smack sound echoed around. With that incident, everyone knew not to touch her instruments.

✦ Dresses up either in the typical oversized shirt and baggy pants...or like Kurt Cobain. You cannot change my mind. End of conversation.

✦ Mizu would be the type of member who has argued or fought with every one at least once. It didn't matter how insignificant the issue was. If she didn't like what she saw or what was happening, she doesn't hesitate to speak up about it. This, of course, led to arguments and fights that you often had to mediate.

Why you? It's because she never really listens to anyone else. If anyone else broke up the fight, she'd fight with them as well.

"Mizu," you sighed out, crossing your arms and staring at her with an unamused look.

When you arrived at the studio, Ringo had immediately informed you that Mizu and Akemi were arguing yet again. The atmosphere inside was so thick, you could probably cut it with a knife. This led you to pulling Mizu out of band practice to have a talk with her.

She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms back. Her head was turned towards another direction, not really able to look at you. "It's her damn fault. Her and her old man," she simply replied, making you sigh yet again.

"I know you're annoyed at her dad for interrupting our practice again but you know you can't argue with Akemi all the time," you responded, unfolding your arms and placing a hand on her shoulder. "We need both of you in this band, y'know?"

Her body tensed up slightly when she felt your hand make contact with her shoulder, a blush forming on her cheeks ever so slightly. Fuck you're so cute. She glanced at you before pushing herself off of the wall, rubbing a hand over her face, seemingly annoyed. "Fine, fine. I'll apologize," she grumbled

You smiled at her, making her glance at you again. "Thanks, Mizu."

When both of you returned inside, she immediately apologized to Akemi like a brat who was scolded. But Mizu knew she'd argue with Akemi again the next time her dad barges in the studio. She's just trying to please you for now.

✦ If she isn't playing, she'll be sitting all by herself, researching about where to buy instruments and paraphernalia or watching recordings of another band's recent gig. Ringo would often join her when he spots her. His sudden appearance often makes her jump. At first, it would just be Ringo talking about his day, then what he ate, then the new songs he discovered from the smart shuffle feature of Spotify to which Mizu would either respond by not saying anything or just nodding.

When Ringo spots her looking for better instruments, he'll start talking about second-hand equipment and old but gold repair shops. Although it seems like Mizu isn't listening to him, you'll spot her checking the seller's profile or going to the shop itself on her free time even if she had no intention in buying anything.

✦ Has the most random playlist among everyone in the band. While everyone had a main genre they stuck to, such as Taigen with grunge, Akemi with pop, and Ringo with country, Mizu just listens to whatever. As long as it sounds good, she adds it to her playlist.

And mind you, she just dumps all the songs in ONE playlist.

You tried listening to it once and hearing AC/DC's Back in Black after listening to Twice's TT followed by bouquet by Ichiko Aoba was not something you'd expect to hear in that order.

She gets embarrassed when she finds out you listened to her playlist but doesn't make it obvious. The next time you look at her profile, you'll find a playlist named "you, it's always you" and it's just filled with love songs and songs about having a crush.

✦ Along with the previous, their opponents during battle of the bands competitions often underestimate her. The other competitors would be so confused because why is this dude listening to Tchaikovsky backstage instead of practicing his rifts?

Mizu was simply chilling backstage, earphones in, listening to her random ass playlist again when a shadow looms over her. She looks up and sees Akemi, staring at her and saying something she could not hear.

She removes an earbud, raising an eyebrow at their vocalist in a seemingly annoyed manner. "Your music is too loud. We can hear it from the dressing room," Akemi points out, crossing her arms. She leans forward and looks at Mizu's phone before letting out an amused huff. "Don't you think listening to Hamilton before the competition is a bit weird?" she asks with a smirk.

The other bands sitting around and eavesdropping on the two whispered, glancing at them. Hamilton? Really? Before a battle of the bands competition? Bud is already throwing away his shot, they thought.

The guitarist simply grunts at her, shrugging her shoulders at her. "This is none of your business. Go warm up or something," she replies before putting her earbud back in and closing her eyes as she leaned back against the chair. Akemi rolled her eyes before walking off, probably to find the rest of the band.

When they get up on stage, everybody already thinks the guitarist doesn't know shit. But man, the look on everyone's faces when she starts playing Chopsuey? Goddamn.

Goddamn.

✦ Unlike the others members, she doesn't actively try to build connections with other bands. Once the competition is over, everyone except Mizu is out their mingling with other bands. You're out there talking with your fellow managers, Ringo is talking about food with the other bands for some reason, and Taigen is out there attracting the other women which leads to Akemi dragging him by the ear. Mizu is just...there.

She finds interacting with other people unnecessary. She also has her moments when she recognizes and wants to talk to someone from another band but she's too awkward to talk to them. What she'll do is just stare at them from a distance and wait for someone to introduce them to her.

"You're burning a hole through their heads," Taigen comments, sitting down next to Mizu on the equipment crate and propping his leg up. Mizu grunts in acknowledgement of his comment but continues to stare at the other band. "They probably think you're a weirdo," he laughs.

She glares at him for a brief moment before looking at the band at a distance again. "They had a gig in the bar near our studio. Pretty impressive," she explains. Taigen nods, now staring at the band too.

The both of them watch as you approached the band of interest, cheery and bubbly. Almost immediately, you were already chatting it up out there.

A manager's skill probably.

Mid-conversation, you felt someone watching you so you turned around, eyes meeting with the two. Your smile widened, making the two of them stand up, knowing what was about to happen. They watched as you talked with the other band again. Suddenly, they looked at Taigen and Mizu's direction and approached them with you by their side.

"And these are my bandmates!" you introduced, moving over to their side. Just as Mizu was about to shake the vocalist's hands, the vocalist from the other band immediately patted her shoulder. "You're that person from one of our gigs! So how was it?"

The introvert in her was thanking you so much.

✦ She's a lady killer, but she's also very awkward when women approach her. As much as Mizu is pretty, Mizu is undeniably very handsome as well. Let's be honest, who wouldn't be attracted to a tall, well-built guitarist with an aloof aura and the sexiest deep voice you've ever heard?

The problem was, she didn't really know how to interact with them. The moment someone tries to hit on her, she's either frozen stiff or already planning her escape.

Mizu could not do anything but stare at what had landed on her feet.

It was a bra. With someone's number on it.

"Call me! Please!" someone from the audience screamed. She looked around in confusion before looking at the article of underwear by her feet with her eyes narrowed. Slowly, she bent down and picked it up, holding it by the straps.

Holy shit these were big.

What the hell was she supposed to do with this? Throw it back to the owner? Poor Mizu was lost. She continued to hold it up awkwardly, trying to figure out what should she do. If you hadn't told her to toss it you, she'd probably still be staring at it by the next song.

And you'd think people would stop doing that, but no. In fact, the amount of women hitting on her backstage increased. The little incident on stage somehow increased her charm with the ladies. Because holy shit...she plays both guitar and bass, both tall and well-built, looks so fucking good in a relaxed fit, can be both pretty and handsome at the same time, has an aloof and mysterious aura, AND she's awkward?? Sign me up. Sign me the fuck up.

✦ Unintentionally gets good venues for gigs. That's why you always bring her with you when talking to the owner of the venue. None of you really know how she does it, but she does?

"For the last time, I'm telling you. We've already booked enough performers for this month," the owner grumbled, glaring at you and your persistence.

You frowned at him, clasping your hands in front. "Please! We just need a gig to fund a new amplifier," you begged, giving the owner doe eyes. To no avail, the old man wouldn't budge...is what you thought.

Mizu saw your frown and knitted eyebrows and decided that it was a good time to approach you. She looked at you before looking at the owner with narrowed eyes, almost like a glare. "Is there a problem?" she asked, stepping forward and closer to the owner, stopping only once she was almost face-to-face with him. Her sharp blue eyes stared at his, piercing through his soul.

The owner stepped back a bit, looking up at her before shaking his head. "No no, we were only uh...talking about which time slot you wanted next week!" he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.

Upon hearing this, you immediately perked up and gently pushed Mizu aside. "What? Really?!" you exclaimed, holding on to the guitarist's arm in excitement. The owner nervously glanced back at Mizu, who was still looking at him with the same intimidating stare, before nodding in clear defeat.

After you had negotiated with him, the two of you left with a smile. "That went supeeer well!" you laughed out, looking over at Mizu. "What'd you do anyway?" You grasped her arm, shaking it slightly.

She shrugged, looking anywhere but at you to conceal her blush. "Beats me. I just looked over to see what you were frowning at."

✦ She doesn't like singing even if she sounds pretty good. Everyone in the band, except you, has heard her sing and has tried to convince her to be the lead vocalist for at least one song but is always greeted with a "no" or a "shut the fuck up". She WILL do the back up voice but she feels too insecure about how deep and husky her voice is so it's rare.

You didn't know she didn't like singing though and on one faithful occasion...

You opened the door to the studio and was immediately greeted by the sight of Mizu sitting on the floor with her guitar in hand. The two of you arrived pretty early so the rest weren't there yet. Her guitar was unplugged and it seems like she was looking up songs on her phone.

"Hey..." you greeted her quietly, to which she nodded. "What's up?"

She looked up from her phone before sitting up straight and propping her phone on her thigh, getting ready to play. For a moment, she did not do anything but stare at what was on her phone before looking at you.

"Want to hear me sing?"

You looked at her with wide eyes, a smile slowly tugging on the corner of your lips. Despite her question catching you off guard, it was still a welcomed surprise. You nodded and sat down on the floor next to her, leaning against her slightly.

Her breath hitched upon feeling you so close to her before she slowly relaxed and started strumming on the unplugged guitar. At first, she started strumming a bunch of random chords to calm her nerves. Once you heard the first few chords, you immediately recognized the song.

"If I could begin to be half of what you think of me, I could do about anything..." she sang, strumming on her guitar softly. "I could even learn how to love."

The way she was singing the song so shyly yet so tenderly warmed you up.

Each strum.

Each word.

Each pluck .

It was like she was singing the song with someone special in mind. You leaned closer to her, resting your head against her shoulder, not minding how much it was moving.

She moved her shoulder a bit lower so you could fully rest your head against it, still singing. "Look at you go. I just adore you." She glanced at you for a moment before continuing. "I wish that I knew...what makes you think I'm so special."

A small smile also tugged on her lips as she looked at you. You looked so peaceful. You felt so peaceful. Like you were enjoying your time with her as she continued to sing. "When I see the way you way you look shaken by how long it took, I could do about anything.."

"I could even learn how to love like you"

[yardsards]

cat-limba and uku-snail-e are Friends. btw.

also look what came in the mail yesterday!

so far i learned "memory" from undertale and half of "haggstrom" from minecraft

[earthstellar]

Warlord Ratchet: A Fascinating Concept 

“And to think, the Doctor of Doom’s mad quest for power continues...! His marauders pursued us to this planet’s orbit.” 

What gets me about Megatron telling Orion Pax that the current dilapidated condition of Cybertron was brought about by the Warlord Ratchet, Doctor of Doom (aside from the concept in and of itself) is that he also states that Ratchet has a legion of marauders who carry out his bidding 

and because marauders are raiders, and Megatron states they were “pursued by marauders” to Earth, the implication is that Ratchet is not on Earth himself--

-- which is smart on Megatron’s behalf, because this would deter Orion from potentially attempting to leave in order to confront Ratchet and instils a concern that perhaps marauders may appear at any time (at this point, Orion Pax does not yet realise that he is armed and is operating under the belief that he is still an Archivist and therefore not Warrior Class) 

but also, this gives us the incredible mental image of Ratchet milling around in some kind of rusted fortress made from the remains of several different Cybertronian buildings, quite possibly the remnants of Iacon -- maybe even the central hospital there, converted into a hive of terror 

still living on an otherwise uninhabited planet, with a loyal band of raiding troops who scavenge the remains of their world and possibly other planets as well (as we know these marauders supposedly have space capable vessels), quite possibly doing so in order to source spare parts and other various salvage -- Ratchet is a medic, who knows how he’s been having to piece together his army, repairing them from the remains of random citizens? 

and he supposedly, presumably either from his makeshift base in the shadows of Cybertron or from a war ship of some kind, commanded an army of raiders to chase Megatron and his followers as far away as Earth 

“I cannot imagine Ratchet capable of such horrors!” 

I can only guess at what Orion Pax was thinking in this moment, aside from his immediately stated disbelief: What drove Ratchet to such lengths? What happened to turn his compassionate, caring friend into a warlord capable of carrying out inconceivable destruction? How could such a thing occur, especially at the hands of a respected medic, someone he thought he knew so well? 

Would Orion Pax start to blame himself, for what was clearly the brutal decline of one of his greatest friends? I can imagine him starting to wonder if there was anything he could do, any signs of discontent, any indication that Ratchet was headed down a violent, dark path. 

And I’m sure he would be concerned about Ratchet himself, as well. How is Ratchet faring, nearly entirely alone on their planet save for his loyal bandits, as aged and worn as he ever has been, possibly accepting a lonely inevitable death on an already dead world? 

Or does Warlord Ratchet have yet more plans in store, his instruments of destruction poised to afflict themselves upon other worlds as well? 

The Doctor of Doom: How Could This Happen? 

It’s somewhat easy to dismiss the idea of Ratchet being this “Doctor of Doom”, because it so wildly opposes what we know of the character and what we know actually occurred with the war. 

But when you think about it for a little bit, an unhinged Ratchet would very much be a formidable opponent, especially with his social position in pre-war Cybertron giving him more immediate access to higher class/caste areas than many others would have been able to reach... 

...Perhaps this Warlord Ratchet was able to work his way into the Council’s good graces, possibly after attending to one of them after an injury and restoring them to health, gradually manipulating the Senate from the inside in order to secure more power, resources, allies, and ultimately the whole of Cybertron for himself-- Leading to a violent conflict which resulted in the destruction of their world? 

With his medical knowledge, even if he started out with a fairly small number of followers and whatever troops he could finesse away from the Council, he may very well have “built” some himself-- We do see in TFP that protoforms may be possible to manipulate into certain frame types, or some types of “cloning” may be possible. 

Any version of Ratchet without morals (or at the very least without any medical ethics) is a very dangerous Ratchet. 

Repairing the injured via patching them together with the remains of fallen comrades, creating a “zombie” army. Ghoulish, lumbering soldiers, marauders held together with armour designed for other frame types. Instructing his former colleagues (who would likely have at least started out with some inclination to follow him) to carry out “repairs” in such a way. 

Warlord Ratchet himself may have chosen to ingest dark energon much like Megatron actually did, perhaps out of a desire to create a new fuel source once Cybertron began to go dark and natural fuel sources began to dwindle. We already know that our actual Ratchet wasn’t afraid to test synthetic energon on himself, with similar motivations. 

His base of operations would quite possibly be Iacon’s medical centre, turned into a horrific hive-like structure, some wards actively still in use for repairs (at least for his own followers) and other areas dedicated to terrifying research, with supply basements full of experimental tech and defensive weaponry. 

Ratchet’s more support class (as opposed to warrior class) approach to things may well carry over to Warlord Ratchet’s approach to war-- An emphasis on intelligence ops, R&D, indirect and direct manipulation, initial political manoeuvring from within the existing system, and defensive systems to counter any munitions etc. that may come his way from opposing forces. 

His initial goals may well have genuinely been intended to improve Cybertron, to help people. Much like Megatron, back when he was Megatronus and wanted a more egalitarian, fair society. 

After working on lower class/caste bots who were nearly offlined from a lack of maintenance, poor to no access to healthcare prior to being dragged to him, etc. it may have been the catalyst for his decision to start using his upper class social contacts in an effort to change things from the inside out. 

Unfortunately, in this universe in which Warlord Ratchet rose to power, things may have derailed just as severely as they did with Megatronus and his initially well-intentioned efforts. 

The longer you think about it, the more plausible it could be. 

It would be easy for Megatron to build further upon this idea to manipulate Orion Pax, that Ratchet truly could have done this. 

I’m sure Orion Pax did not recharge well, his first night on the Nemesis. 

Where did things go wrong? What happened to his friend? How could he do this to their world, a world that Ratchet loved so much? 

--

IDK I just think “Warlord Ratchet” is an incredible idea, and I would have been totally fine if they did a whole season of TFP with the Orion Pax concept lmao 

also holy shit Ratchet in a built up fortress of a former hospital with a band of marauders under his command is such a powerful mental image 

[Screenshot: TFP Episode - Orion Pax, Part One] 

[shirefantasies]

Things You Do Together- Thorin's Company

You love reading stories, as does Balin; thus, you often take turns each night reciting old wonders to each other, perhaps even the folk tales of your own culture. Sometimes he reaches over and turns the page for you as you get lost in the tale, imagining yourself in the characters' shoes or pondering the outcome of an unfamiliar suspenseful story.

Dwalin has a deep-down love for anything domestic, thus his heart goes out to you when you invite him to bake together. He loves being the first to try whatever you make, the way it becomes second nature to move around each other in the kitchen, even doing the tasks which are your least favorite part to lighten your load! If you truly are in private, he will tell you that you are the greatest treat of it all.

Thorin takes an interest in your interest. You’ve been whittling for some time, but one day you catch the king peeking over your shoulder and, giggling, invite him to join you. His carvings, though not expert, depict far more regal subjects than the simple sights of nature you attempt to capture, but both his traditional dwarven effigy and your merry robin sit atop the same shelf together at completion.

Gardening is something Oin joins you in once you get settled, whether it’s potting plants within the great mountain itself or finding a patch outside of Dale. Such is a perfect activity for him to start an herb garden and help you keep up tending the soil. He knows a slew of tricks to keep it healthy and makes even tasks like weeding more enjoyable with his company.

Gloin teaches you every tavern game in the book and all the ways they try to throw them, too. So proud is he as you start out-gaming even the older members of the company, remembering all the tells Gloin spilled to you and imitated, making you laugh nonstop! You always tell him that no matter what, though, he is your favorite to play with, teasingly supposing he just throws the dice the best.

Bifur teaches you how to polish stones, even cut them yourself. The process is quite difficult at first, but seeing the way your eyes lit up at your craft was worth it. You keep a box to house most of your stone collection, but a few of the cut ones that turned out well seem to go missing until Bifur surprises you with jewelry made from them!

A lover of music, Bofur is over the moon teaching you how to play his flute or otherwise learning a new instrument with you! You get a laugh at how the sour notes of learning sound and even play wrong on purpose just for the joke. Progress makes him proud, though, and he always says you two could be in a band in no time!

Bombur loves building things for the children, the sight never failing to bring a smile to your face. You join him in repair of their roundabout, a bit awed at the confidence with which the quiet dwarf works. Once the children arrive and he lights up, you smile and rest a loving hand upon his shoulder- you can see exactly from where he derives his strength and focus.

Dori learns to crochet with you, having seen his brother do something similar. But with you, you make little dolls, trinkets that remind him of his toymaker friends. More than that, though, he adores more intricate patterns. They may be more difficult, but all the more beautiful if he can actually manage them! Gushes over your work even if he thinks his isn’t good.

Typically Nori hides the fact that his eldest brother forced him to learn to sew, planning to take that fact to his grave, but one day the gears turn within his mind. He could make you something rather fetching, after all. Suddenly you become his real-life model as he chooses the cut and color he’s always wanted to see you in, barely able to keep his hands off you during the pinning.

Ori would love learning languages with you, whether they are native tongues to you or you pair learning together, creating a bond and a secret way to talk just the two of you. He especially loves learning a new character system to write in, it's like a code! Soon you two are always passing messages back and forth, chatting about anything you want unabashedly, and giggling to each other.

If you delight in dancing, Fili adores learning every move with you, hands taking yours or sliding over your hips with a teasing wiggle of his eyebrows. His blue eyes will be locked on yours with every move, even if the steps require you to separate his gaze will search for you again.

Kili is fascinated by your writing. The fact that tales spring into your mind upon the hearing of a song or even endurance of pain amazes him beyond all else. Sometimes he puts a hand on either side of your head and says he wants to absorb your thoughts with a teasing smile. Kili has endless questions, though, about your stories, truly your biggest fan and supporter hanging on the edge of your every word.

Reading maps. Bilbo has countless in his study, old and new, that he likes to pore over and scour for new details. You join him out of natural curiosity one day, but as his hands pass over the delicately drawn features you find yourself falling in love. Well, and with the maps, too. It is amazing to think how far you both have traveled in your days when you see the whole world lain before you.

[idiotcurls]

IMAGINE THIS! Eddie is a musician, Steve is studying to become a teacher. Right before Steve's exams, he goes to a cafe to study. The Band arrives to play a gig and Eddie knocks over a glass of water with his guitar case.

Eddie has a up and coming band, they are playing small gigs all around the country. Even though they gathered up quite a following, they still haven't signed to any major label yet. Because they are not posers or whatever. The fans love Corroded Coffin, for the hard sounds with the clever thoughtful lyrics and also due to the fact that Eddie is a very charismatic frontman, who has the allure of an old timey rock star. Steve is sitting in the café, studying for his exams, writing frantically on his laptop, his glasses on the tip of his nose. Since he had a hard time in high school, he still thinks he is less than in the intellectual departmen, which is of course not true. And he has an amazing hand with the kids he is currently teaching, as student teacher. When Eddie and his band arrive at the venue, loud, all dressed in black leather, some instruments carried on their backs, he doesn't even look up. Steve was used to bands playing in the back of the venue. The café and bar area was only separated by a small glass door, so he was usually gone by the time, they got on the stage. But today the weather wasn't exactly on his side, he wasn't going to walk home in the pouring rain, risking a cold. It was too close to exam season. Eddie's hair was dripping wet, some of the droplets are running into his eyes. While Gareth is asking for someone to show them where to set up their stuff, Eddie ventures into the café area, to steal some napkins off a table. When he turns around to leave again, tapping over his eyes, the swing of his guitarcase knocks over a glass of water on a table behind him. Whos table you ask? Why, of course Steve Harrington's. What a terrible coincidence. Steve jumps up, shouting "FUCK" as he gathers up napkins trying to dry up the spilled water on his keypad. Startled by the cussing behind him, Eddie turns around and immediately recognises the damage he had caused. "Oh my god, I'm so fucking sorry, here, I'll get you more napkins, or a towel. Gareth!! Ask the waiter if he has a towel?!" Gareth looks up from his conversation with one of the staff member and just shakes his head in an annoyed fashion. Like Munson was up to some bullshit again and he wasn't going to be part of it.

Eddie is frantically bringing more napkins to the table, furthering Steve's annoyance at him. "Please.. just fucking stop, man." He is wiping his wet hands on his blue jeans looking at the laptop mournfully. "It's already fucking ruined. Shit." Steve sighs and walks around the table, a hand over his mouth, looking at the crime scene, wondering how he could afford another laptop that fast. But that long haired idiot, who knocked over his glass kept on babbling, ignoring the fact that Steve was in the middle of a crisis. "Listen, oh my god, I'm so sorry man. I read, that you shouldn't turn in on for bit after, uh, a spillage. Maybe it will dry? Or maybe we should put some rice on it? Maybe they have rice in the kitchen. Gareth?- My friend Nancy says that is bullshit, but-" "STOP! Please just go away." Steve sounded desprate. Eddie raised his hands in defeat, still holding some Napkins. "Okay. I'm sorry. I'm with the band, who plays tonight. You can message us for a refund, or repair.", he says more calmly and walks away. Steve watches the young man walk back to his band members, he assumed, at least. They all wearing the same sort of clothes. "What are you doing with all those Napkins?", Jeff asks bemused. "Just shut up, man." Steve is close to tears. All of his notes and work he already did ahead of time were on the laptop. He did not safe them anywhere else. He grabs his coat and cigarette and leaves the café to have a smoke. If anyone wants to take any of his other stuff, they were free to do so, everything was ruined anyway. He watches the band carry all their amps and instruments in, from a little distance. There was a quick glance exchanged between him and that long haired idiot. He looks like a beaten puppy with those big sad eyes. Shit, now Steve felt like an asshole. Back inside, Steve waited for a while, to turn on his laptop, like the idiot had said. Meanwhile he was texting his best friend Robin the details of the worst evening in his life. She is sympathetic and hopeful, that the gods were in favour of his laptop. And while she didn't think Steve was the villain of the play, he might have been a bit harsh. They guy with the curls didn't do it on purpose, to ruin his life. After a while Steve breaths in deeply and exhales. He presses the on button. The laptops starts. He types in his password. Loading. All of his open tabs and word documents appear. The laptop was alive. He tries to write some words and all the keys work. A sigh of relieve. The gods had mercy on his computer in the end. After thanking the universe, Steve's eyes wander to the other side of the café. Behind the glass door, the band is setting up and starting to do some sound checking with the technician.

The idiot is holding his guitar, strumming a few chords and signing the thumbs up to the tech girl, who nods, looking bored. Now he is singing along to his chords, his eyes closed, like he is feeling the music or something. Steve finds, the idiot has a very beautiful voice. And a handsome face. He sighs. With that new information the apology is going to become even harder. When the band is done soundchecking and Eddie climbs off the stage, bickering and laughing with his band mates, Steve decides to go for it. "You can do this, dingus." pops up on his phone, before he puts it back into his pocket.

When Steve walks up to Eddie, the others are still rumaging around. Before Steve can open his mouth to say a single word, Eddie raises his hand. "Let me stop you there. I talked to the guys. We have a door-deal with the venue. Depending on how much money we make, you can have some of the money to pay for the repair." Eddie chuckles. "Now we just have to pray some people show up." Steve raises his left eyebrow, listening to him. "It's not like theres no people coming to our gigs, it's just that it's raining, and it's a weekday, people are at work..." Eddie is rambling again.

"Hey, can I say something too?" Steve chimes in, stern but not unkind. "Uh, sure." Eddie answers. "My laptop is fine. Everything works. I wanted to apologize for being a dick." Steve takes down his glasses and puts them on the top of his head. "I was just very stressed. You didn't do it on purpose." Eddie looks down and smiles. He seems shy.

"I'm a bit clumsy.... yeah." Steve finds it almost funny, that a guy like him, who just confidently sang on a stage, becomes shy like that. "Well, don't worry about it. I just thought... It's fine." Eddie looks up at him. "Why dont you stay for the set? Be our guest?" Steve does not answer. "I'll put you on my bar-tab. Stay and listen. Here- have a tape." Steve looks at the tape he got handed. "I don't have anything to play this on..." "Don't worry. I'll make it worth your while. Get a drink. We start in 20 minutes." Everything in Steve says, it's better to go home. Sleep and study. But he does stay for the set, to see the charaismatic idiot in action.

and then they fall in love or something.

[buryustogether]

-> THE SHADOWS OF STARS

johnny silverhand x reader (not v)

word count: 8.5k

summary: despite being the newest groupie for samurai, you work hard to pull more than your weight and ensure gigs run smoothly. after a run in with a crazed fan goes awry, johnny silverhand offers you a bit of comfort.

warnings/tags: pre-relic johnny, reader is not v, violence, blood, age gap romance, non-penetrative sex, first kiss, first time, virgin!reader, mention of arranged marriage and running away, smut, swearing, alcohol consumption

author’s note: he may be a bit ooc but he’s my dreamboat so

If you’d have known how the night would have ended, you would have done things differently. You would have said more, said less, perhaps. Stepped further left, taken two more paces back. Anything and everything, you would have done differently.

Anything and everything would have been for nought - because the end of the night transported you to the stars invisible above your head, and beyond the crescent moon hanging from a weathered thread. You hadn’t known you could go that high - and you owed the jump to none other than Johnny fucking Silverhand.

It started with a woman - of course, that’s what all the old-world love stories say. But this woman wasn’t a princess waiting for a king to come down from his tower and save her and make her his; she was a plastered drunk with ugly-as-all-hell bangs on her forehead and a tank top so thin and skimpy her tits would have hung out even if she tried to keep them covered.

You had been watching her from the corner of your eye the entire show from your little perch beside the stage, headphones clasped over your ears and a tablet with the set list in hand. From the shadows, because that’s all you were, really in comparison to them, you had tracked her as she downed drink after drink and got closer and closer to the edge of the stage. Of course she was decked out in their merch - hell, everyone here was, but there were hearts inked onto the Samurai logo across her chest. Just what this gig needed - a crazy-ass fan hammered out of her mind.

It was when she’d disappeared to get herself another shot when you’d allowed yourself a glance up to the stage on your right. Christ above, they were so fucking cool. You didn’t care if that made you sound like an awestruck teenager; they were the only words you could conjure up at the moment. You’d never been one for poetics.

A band of rough and rowdy outcasts, torn at the edges in all the right places and ragged at the ends, they stuck out in a city like this. Especially the guitarist; god, you’d had a massive schoolgirl crush on Johnny Silverhand since you were sixteen and had first discovered their music. He was everything you found enticing; attractive, but without the superficial glamour Night City was held under; charismatic, charming, confident; maybe a bit full of himself, which you had discovered after being pulled into their crew as the newest groupie, but it didn’t phase you as much as you thought it would.

Your younger self would have fainted if she knew you were a groupie for Samurai these days. You were new - the youngest by far they’d ever taken on, but god above knew you pulled more weight than the older assistants who’d gotten used to the feeling of trailing in the shadows of stars. You stayed late into the night and early into the morning to clean up and pack after gigs, set up arrangements for desirable venues, arrived early to prepare so they only had to get up there and sing. Hell, you even cleaned their instruments when you had the time; you’d restrung Silverhand’s prized guitar enough times to have the same calluses on your fingers as his.

Of course, it had taken a snapped string, a sweat-inducing dash to the nearest music store, and an approaching meeting with a business partner for him to give it up to be repaired by someone else than him. Eurodyne had certainly had a hand in convincing him to part with the damned thing; he’d given you an appreciative nod and a charming wink when Silverhand had left his case at your little station.

Back in the present, you found your gaze pulled from your set list to watch as Silverhand kicked up a foot on a speaker to twist out a solo that left goosebumps trailing along your skin. Below him, fans hollered and screamed their approval; his lips quirked up in that Cheshire grin of his, the crinkle of his eyes hidden behind his aviators. You swallowed thick. Despite working for Samurai for nearly a month now, you’d never spoken to Silverhand once. He’d never even glanced in your direction, too caught up in his own business or too distracted by fans to pay you much mind.

You wondered what his voice would have sounded like feet from you, soft and gentle, instead of strained with his cries as he appeased his crowds.

Your spine straightening, your eyes at once flicked back to the woman you’d been watching as she reappeared at the front of the crowd. She was barely able to keep herself on her platform heels, eyelids drooped and movements sluggish. Your lips twisted themselves into a frown; some hangover she was going to have in the morning. You glanced back down at your tablet for a moment, then back to the chick. At once, your chest thundered.

She was leaning against the wall of the stage, hand outstretched in an attempt to touch Silverhand’s pant leg. He kept his cool - surprisingly - and continued the song as he took a step back so that he stood just out of her reach.

You cast a quick glance around the dim venue. Where the hell was security? The bodyguards you’d hired to keep a perimeter at the stage? You found them; they were both slumped at the bar. Perfect; this night was throwing in all kinds of elements that made for a perfect bomb. The question was - when was it all going to blow?

The rest of the gig, you kept your eye on the rowdy fan, never letting her stray too far from your vision. She paced back and forth about the stage, trying to touch even the boot or pants hem of one of the players. It raised the hair on your neck at end as a hot, lava-like sensation filled your stomach.

Were you… jealous?

God, no, you told yourself as the last song of the set came to a close. You didn’t get jealous of blackout drunks practically sobbing over a couple of rockstars who probably didn’t even know your name. And yet… every time she cried out Silverhand’s name, every time she blew him a kiss, that sensation worsened. It coiled like a serpent in your belly, forcing your jaw to clench and your blood to boil.

Shit. You needed to get a serious grip.

Slowly, as the bar began to clear out and final tabs were paid at the bar, you found yourself in conversation with the owner of the place. You sat at a table and watched as she did the math for the band’s share of the profits of the night, cradling an iced concoction you’d been dying for since you got here. Up on the stage, Silverhand and Eurodyne were speaking in hushed tones, motioning back and forth.

“You know,” said the owner as she tallied up her data, ��you seem pretty young to be a manager for those fellas.”

You forced yourself to smile and chuckle softly. “Oh,” you said, “I’m not their manager. I’m actually a groupie. I just, you know, move their things back and forth and hook up their systems for them.”

“You seem to do a lot more than that.” With a flick of her hand, she deposited the eddies into your account; a moment later, they showed up on your vision screen. When you got the chance later tonight, you would divide up the earnings between the band, the hired muscle, and yourself. You didn’t think those meatheads had done anything to earn the scrap, but you were terrified to be the one to tell them so.

“I guess someone has to,” you murmured quietly.

“I mean it,” she said. She gave you a gentle, motherly smile, one that made your heart and ache and pang for home. “You’re playing practically every role in this little game of theirs. Movement, tech, cash flow. And I’d bet they don’t even know your name, do they?”

You felt yourself blanch a little. Casting a glance over toward the rockers, your stomach flipped slightly as Silverhand threw his head back and barked out an echoed laugh. “They do,” you lied.

“Sure, kid.” The woman patted your arm before hopping off her stool and taking your empty glass. “If you’re going to survive a life like that, at least make sure to claim the respect you deserve. You’re not a doormat, girl. Don’t act like one.”

With that she left you to your own clouded thoughts, mind a hell scape of troubles and conflicting wants and needs and desires. You pursed your lips and stared down at your lap. Maybe she was right; maybe you should talk to them. Ask for better pay. Throw in a couple set ideas you’d been saving for the past weeks. Yet as much as you wanted to, the queasy feeling in your belly kept you from advancing too far.

You’d always been an anxious kid; too scared to voice your opinions. Your parents said you were well-behaved. You thought ball of nerves was a better way to phrase it.

You had just begun to kick off your stool and begin the tedious task of packing up the equipment when a flash of movement caught your eye. That woman - the one who had tried to touch the band on the stage - was jittering across the floor toward Silverhand and Eurodyne as they made their way to the backstage entrance. Her tits swayed as she bounced in their direction, feet dragging in her drunken state.

Fuck - some people just didn’t know when to quit, did they?

Feeling that simmering boil arise in your chest again, you quickly stride across the floor to intercept her aim toward the men. She was just behind them when you reached her, her arm outstretched and palm open to grab a handful of Silverhand’s ass. The serpent in your belly flared.

“Hey.” You grabbed the woman’s wrist in an iron-fisted grip, stopping her fingers just inches from their prize. Her head drunkenly lolled over to glare daggers at you. “No touching, you got it?”

“Get the fuck off me, you fucking kid.” She ripped her hand from your grip, and the numerous rings slid along her fingers scratched along your skin. You refused to flinch at the pain, instead pulling yourself to your full height and clenching your fists. “What the hell’s your problem?”

Your eyes flickered to the door backstage. The men had disappeared, and you felt a short little something burst inside of you. Disappointment? Surely you weren’t thinking they would come to your aid? That Silverhand would tell this bitch to scram and then say, ‘Damn, kid, thanks a lot. Want to come backstage and sign to become our mascot?’ God, you were a fucking idiot.

“Go home before someone knocks you on your ass,” you said, trying to mimic some of things you’d heard street kids say in back alleys. “I’d hate for your lipgloss to smear any further.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are?” Now she was angry. Getting up in your face. And you were alone - the venue owner had vanished, and the band was backstage. You suddenly wished you knew how to mind your own business. “You know where you are? This is fucking Heywood. Lose an eye for saying something like that.” She sniffed and looked you up and down. God, those bangs were ugly as all hell. “What are you, sixteen? You better run home to mommy before you get smacked.”

To your dismay, and fury, and horrified embarrassment, you felt tears beginning to pool in your eyes. You could count on your fingers the number of times someone had yelled at you like this, and each and every one still made your heart thunder like a drum. You weren’t cut out for this kind of shit; you should have taken her advice and run home, begged your parents’ forgiveness.

But suddenly the owner’s words were resurfacing in your mind.

You’re not a doormat, girl. Don’t act like one.

Gathering what little courage hadn’t dwindled away, you squared your jaw and said, “Get out and don’t come back, or I’ll call the pol-“

You weren’t able to get anything else out before suddenly a fierce, solid fist connected with the side of your face. You went sprawling, sending a table a a stool clattering into their sides, your hands clutching at your nose. Hot, tangy copper flooded down from your nostril, dripping onto your shirt and staining your palms. Holy fuck - she’d just punched you. You’d never been struck before - is this what it actually felt like? Your nose throbbing, your eye aching in its socket, your lips open as you gasped for breath?

Vaguely, through the blood pumping in your ears, you felt the woman kick your foot and scoff before the door swung shut behind her. You were left in silence, still in place where you lay propped on your elbow on the floor, with nothing but the scarlet falling from your nose and a painful watering eye.

With a coarse gasp, you sat up. Your head pounded like someone had delivered a bullet to your temple and it had come out through your jaw. Now that they weren’t being held back, tears cascaded down your cheeks freely and fell from your chin. You touched your nose, the skin around your eye, and let out a small sob as the pain flared through your skull.

Your attention was pulled from your attack to the backstage door, where a peel of laughter reached your ears. The band - you could ask them for help. Explain what happened. They could clean you up, take you to a ripper doc to make sure everything was still intact.

“Fuck, no,” you whispered to yourself. You’d eat lead before you let them see you like this; before they realized that, shit, you may have had your nineteenth birthday a few months ago, but goddamit, you still were just a snotty-nosed kid who needed her hand held when things got rough on the playground. They couldn’t know that. No one could.

You felt yourself rising, using the bottom of your shirt to gingerly wipe off the excess blood on your face. You needed to pack up. Load the equipment into the truck. Call the venue for tomorrow’s gig and make sure the show was still on.

Then you would wander, see if any rippers were still open. And if there wasn’t, well… you’d just have to deal with it.

Your mother’s words rang in your ears, still as sharp as a razor as they were when you left home. “No one’s going to take care of you out there,” she had said. “No one will help you. No one will care about you. No one will love you. You’re going to be all by yourself.”

Fuck it - you didn’t need any help. You didn’t need anyone to take care of you, to love you. You’d do it all yourself.

The pain was too much to acknowledge that was a lie.

It wasn’t but a half hour later that you were winding up speaker cords and wrapping them in their protective cases, gritting your teeth against the panging ache blossoming from your face. You were nearly done with the front half of the stage, a small tower of equipment stacked behind you and waiting to be dragged to the truck out back. You were already sweating your ass off, not to mention that the scab in your nose kept breaking and bleeding. You were sure you weren’t looking like much of a model.

You exhaled a long, exhausted breath and took a seat on the edge of the stage. Your toes barely touched the ground. Head bowed, you fisted the material of your blood-stained shirt and bit your lip to keep a fresh wave of tears at bay. You failed; they escaped, trailing down your cheeks like twin rivers.

What the hell were you doing? You were miles from home, miles from anything you knew. You’d had a life, a future planned out for you. Money. Comfort. Everything you didn’t have now. And you’d run away from it all.

“Hey, kid,” said a voice from further down the stage. “You seen my pick around here? Dropped the fucker after the show.”

Oh, holy fuck. Johnny Silverhand was speaking to you - and you were sitting here crying about being smacked around once or twice.

You cleared your throat once, twice, that the same time turning away quickly and pawing away the tears clinging to your cheeks. “Uhm, yeah.” Keeping your face turned from him, because frankly, you couldn’t take one more thing going wrong tonight, you fished out the obsidian-colored guitar pick you’d found on the stage while packing up. You had planned on leaving it beside his case when he and the others went out for a drink like they always did; it had been burning a hole in your pocket since you’d stuck it there, knowing it was the very pick he often stuck between his teeth after songs.

You held it out in his direction, refusing to let him see your tear-streaked face. He took it from your outstretched palm with his cybernetic hand, the metal fingers clicking together as he accepted it. You began to pull your hand back before suddenly those metal fingers were wrapped around your wrist, keeping your palm turned upward.

“You cut yourself or something?” he asked. He was looking at the blood you’d wiped off with your hand; fuck. Couldn’t you do anything?

Sniffling again, you pulled your hand away a little more forcefully than you meant to and cradled it in your stomach. “Yeah,” you murmured quietly, but you knew he heard you. Your voice echoed here in the empty building. “I’m fine. Sorry for worrying you, Mister Silverhand.”

To your surprise, he released a mumble from the back of his throat as he came closer and settled himself on the edge of the stage beside you. You immediately stiffened, your wide eyes trained like a magnet to an empty spot in the corner. “Christ, kid, I’m not that old. Johnny’s fine, as long as my hair’s not grey and I can still piss on my own.”

You listened as he lit up a cigarette, the lip of his lighter clasping shut before he tucked it back into his pocket. Was this actually happening? Was Johnny fucking Silverhand actually sitting down with you? Maybe that chick had knocked you clean out after all.

“You’re the new one, aren’t you?” Johnny asked as he took a drag of his smoke. He said your name, and your heart sprang like a bird screaming to be free of its cage. He did know your name. “What do you think of this shitshow? Not exactly what you expected, right?”

You reached up to wipe your nose - and quickly hid your hand when you brushed off a fresh swatch of blood. “I don’t think it’s a shitshow,” you admitted in a shy voice. You sniffed. “I think it’s great. I think you all are.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his wrist - he was offering you a drag of his smoke. You stared at it for a moment before gingerly taking it and holding it like a joint; you felt his gaze on you, you could see the edge of his faint smirk. Obviously you weren’t holding it right. Nevertheless, you hesitantly brought it to your lips. How bad could one drag be?

As soon as the smoke tumbled down your throat and into your lungs, you pitched forward and hacked out a number of dry coughs. It felt like ash was steamrolling down your spine, tasted like a bad dream you couldn’t wake from. You felt like you were going to be sick.

Beside you, his feet crossed at the ankles, Johnny gave that deep, drawling laugh you’d heard time and time again - and had practically fallen for - and took back his cigarette. “First smoke, kid?” You heard the smile in his voice as he placed it back between his lips. “When you throw up, just don’t do it here.”

You raised your hand to cover your mouth, your bleeding nose, but you were too late. You bent your head and coughed into your lap - with enough force to send a spattering few droplets across the tops of your thighs. Your hands scrabbled to wipe them away, but the man beside you was quicker.

“Jesus,” he said, all traces of amusement wiped like a slate from his voice. “Didn’t think it’d kill you.”

“Sorry,” you gasped.

There came a short, yet stifling moment of stillness, of silence. It felt as if the world had gone still, had come to a stop on its axel or the spinner or whatever the hell it rotated on. If it even did anymore.

But then it all came back full force, like a slap to the face, like a bullet to the chest. Johnny reached his hand out and grabbed your chin - gently, but commanding; forcefully, but gingerly - and forced you to turn your head and look at him. It was the first time you’d met his eyes since he’d walked into the stage - his aviators were pushed up on his head, his smoke dangling from his lips, his oak-colored eyes hard and steely and rough to disguise the shock lying beneath them.

“Fuck me.” He tilted your head slightly, his gaze traveling over your face. “Someone do this to you, kid?”

You felt as though you couldn’t speak. Even if you wanted to, you just couldn’t. His artificial fingers were cool against your flushed skin, his grip harsh but forgiving all at once. Fireworks were exploding across your face where he touched you, rendering you speechless. Did he… actually care? Give a shit you’d taken a clock to the skull?

When you didn’t answer, his fingers tightened slightly on your jaw. Your eyes found his again, lips parted and heart skipping beats. “Hey,” he said more firmly, then pulled his cigarette from his lips with his free hand. “Who did this shit to you, huh?”

Ignoring the thrumming and singing and screaming of your heart, you swallowed thick and averted your gaze. “No one,” you replied. When his grip didn’t let up, you finally caved. “Just… just a fan, a little bit ago. She was, uh…” You hesitated. “She was trying to catch a grope of you, so I stopped her. Guess I caught it instead.”

Your small, forceful chuckle wasn’t met with the kind of response you were hoping for; maybe a laugh, or at least a tug at the corner of the lips. But it did not happen. Instead, you were met with a stony glare. A hard gaze. A deeply-set frown that bordered on a scowl.

You became suddenly and deeply intimated of Johnny Silverhand, aware now of the tight grip he had on your jaw and how close he was to your face. You bowed your head to the side, and he at last let you go. “Sorry to ruin the after party,” you murmured, then swallowed thick and hopped off the stage. “I’m fine, really. I just need to finish packing up and I’ll get out of here.”

Attempting to hide the flush in your cheeks and the hammering of your heart in your chest, you bent over to gather up a speaker in your arms. When you stood straight again, you found Johnny standing just feet before you, his aviators clutched tight in his grip at his side.

“I’m not fuckin’ with you here, kid,” he said, bringing his face close again. You felt your knuckles paling around the speaker, clutching it tight to your chest. His hair framed his face in a darkened curtain, the stubble on his cheek pronounced in the dim lightning. “Nobody fucks with my band without feeling it later. You know what this bitch looks like?”

“There really isn’t a need for more violence.” Eyes down, head bowed, you shifted the speaker’s weight in your arms. You tried not to dwell on the sensation that arose in the pit of your belly over being included in his band. “I just want it to be over with.”

Johnny watched as you set down your load, reaching up to wipe at your bloody nostril. As he crossed his arms, his foot began to tap gently - a sign of agitation you’d come to recognize. “Fuck all, kid,” he rumbled, then pulled the bandanna from his back pocket and tossed it to you. Raising the cloth to you nose, you tried not to inhale deeply as his scent overpowered you. “If you’re not going down that road, you at least got liquor at your place to soften the blow that shiner’s going to give you tomorrow?”

You clenched your jaw, wrapped your free tightly over your chest. The blood from your nose was stained into the fabric of the bandana; your grip tightened around it. You murmured a soft reply.

Johnny cocked his head, hands planted on his hips. “Speak up, kid. Use that voice of yours like it’s meant to be used.”

“I live in my car,” you said again, louder, then immediately cleared your throat and began to drag a box toward the door. “Listen, uhm… Johnny, I appreciate it, but I really need to finish packing -“

“Fuck packing.” Johnny crossed the small distance you’d put between the pair of you, stopping so close you felt his breath fanning across your face. “Let those other dickwipes pull their weight for once.”

Your gaze tried to avert itself again, but something within the hallows of your chest forced your eyes to stay trained on his. Were those flecks of hazel in the brown of his irises? You blinked a few times; you’d never been this close to him before. Hell - you’d never been this close to a man before at all.

“I…” You hesitated, gripping the bandana so tightly you were sure you were about to tear it in two. “I didn’t think you cared so much.”

“I told you, kid,” he said, then reached up to grab your shoulder. Explosions; fireworks; detonations where he touched you. “I take care of my band.”

And that was how you found yourself holding an ice pack to your face in Johnny Silverhand’s apartment in Pacifica, with the night sky and the stars taking up the space between peering in on you from the windows across the room.

You brought a small glass of liquor to your lips as you took in the living space; it was quaint, but not a shitty little hole in the wall either. You knew he didn’t care for aesthetics or shows; he was a man of practicality. Whatever served him well - pretty or not - he kept around.

Maybe that was why you’d lasted this long so far tailing the band as their little runt groupie.

You shifted slightly in your seat on the couch, pulling the pack slowly from your face. A television was set against the far wall, where the news station spewed some commercial for the latest body mod people were just ‘dying for!’ Clothes lay discarded around the bed set in the alcove in the corner, and a trio of electric guitars stood by dutifully in the corner amongst a mountain of expensive speakers and stereoes. Mounted on the wall were half a dozen framed magazine covers that featured Samurai - and a few were only his face occupied the page. Photoshoots, interviews, covers… he had it all done and displayed.

The star himself stood at the miniature bar pouring himself a few fingers of vodka, hair tied up in a half knot at the crown of his head. He set the bottle down and crossed the room to take a seat on the opposite side of the couch, then kicked up his feet on the coffee table and crossed them at the ankle.

“So tell me,” said Johnny and sipped at his liquor. He extended an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers just a few inches from your head. “How’s a kid like you end up in this shit city? You certainly aren’t built to be a street kid, so you didn’t grow up here.”

Consciously, you reached up to touch the area around your eye. You’d used the bathroom when you first arrived here to clean the blood off your face, but the black eye steadily blossoming across your skin wasn’t going to wash away as easily. As if you didn’t already feel bad enough; you were sitting on fucking Johnny Silverhand’s couch in a bloodstained shirt and the confession off your lips that you lived in your damn car.

When he tilted his head to look at you expectantly, you felt your throat run dry. You knew how he - hell, how most of the street kids in Night City - felt about where you came from. Surely you didn’t have to tell him the entire truth. Besides - even if you lied, you were expecting him to come to his senses any time now and tell you, his month-new groupie, to get out of his house and scram.

“Well,” you said and gingerly placed the ice pack on the side table, “I guess you’re sort of right. My family was pretty… well-to-do. I grew up on the top floors of the snottiest buildings -“

“You used to be a corpo kid.”

Your blood ran cold in your veins. Fuck; this was it. Your run with Samurai was over. With any band, really. Surely word would spread you were a corpo brat trying to slum it as a street kid.

Johnny shrugged a shoulder and brought up his glass to take another sip. “You don’t hide it well, kid,” he told you bluntly. “The way you talk, walk, hold yourself. You reek of that high-brow lifestyle, no offense.” The corner of his lips quirked slightly. “But surely mom and dad didn’t drop their precious little darling on the street, now, did they?”

You couldn’t stop the zipping, electric sensation that pinged off the walls of your chest. “Not exactly.” You finished off your drink and set it aside, eyes focused on the corner of the television. You had no idea what the anchor was talking about; you didn’t really want to know. “My parents are oil investors. Old money types - they both came from countryside mansions and absent fathers - heh.” You smiled slightly to yourself. “They always told me I was a, as they called it, ‘soft soul.’ In their native tongue, that means weak. Not able to make those cutthroat decisions, you know? I don’t think they ever planned on including the stocks and the oil fields in their inheritance, so they went off and found the son of another tycoon who they could give it to.”

“Holy fuck,” said Johnny and lifted a stunned brow. “You’re telling me they arranged a marriage for you and this asshole?”

“They tried, I guess.” You hesitated, hand fidgeting with a stray loose end on your shirt. “I told them I’d rather splatter my brains on the wall - and they told me I could either do it their way, or leave and not come back at all.” You turned your head and gave him a wry, tight-lipped smile. “So I haven’t gone back.”

Johnny hissed out a breath through his teeth and tossed back the rest of his vodka. “You’ve got balls, kid, I’ll give you that,” he said and set aside his glass. “NC’s sure one hell of a place to hit the ground running.”

“Mm.” Maybe it was the liquor in your systems talking; or maybe it was the fact that slowly, as the evening went on, you were becoming more and more comfortable around him. “When I was younger, I heard your music for the first time and I just couldn’t get enough of it. My parents fucking hated it - tried to take away my vinyls, block the streaming websites, but I always found a way to keep listening. I guess… it was the only way I felt I could rebel.

“I got dragged to parties to be seen and not heard; I was given piano lessons at five, and when those didn’t stick, they put me in sports. They always wanted me to be some, I don’t know, incredible prodigy. Like I needed to be amazing to call myself their daughter. And I guess when they realized I wasn’t anything to be proud of, they just gave up.”

As soon as you shut your mouth, you regretted what you had said. When you’d left home, you had vowed to leave your past in the past. What the hell were you doing?

But then Johnny was barking out one of those laughs of his as he rolled his head back against the couch cushion. “Oh, come on,” he said and eyed you incredulously. “Nothing? You can handle your way around eddie negotiations - you sure they didn’t try to shape you into a corpo biz manager?”

“Believe me,” you said, finding yourself snickering along with him. “They tried everything. Nothing I ever did was good enough for them.” A loosened giggle escaped your lips as you gestured vaguely around the apartment. “Hell, I think they’d keel over and kick it if they knew I was at Johnny Silverhand’s place - the most infamous rockstar in Night City.”

He smirked coyly. “What?” he said and scratched at his throat. His eyes stayed trained on yours as you watched his tattoos move with his ministrations. “Your old man doesn’t like bad boys and tech fuckers?”

“Especially.”

There was another one of those still, silent moments between the pair of you, like the string attached to your fingers had pulled taunt. The television played quietly across the room. Car horns blared and wailed outside. Your gazes were locked together, unable to pull apart even if you wanted to.

Then he was moving. Pulling his feet off the table, standing to his full height. Stepping closer - resting a silver hand on the couch arm beside you and the other on the back near your head. Your breath hitched in your throat as he leaned over you, enveloping you against him and his ow shadow.

“Listen, kid,” he said, and you realized his voice had dropped a baritone. In the pit of your belly there came a fluttering, one that traveled further, lower, straight to your core. “I might be getting some off vibes here, but I’m not going to be a pussy and say I wouldn’t be disappointed if I was.” You felt your breath slam from your lungs as he leaned closer, closer, and dragged his tongue along the short expanse of your cheekbone; you swore your heart stopped. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but I think there’s a thanks in order for saving my ass earlier.”

Ice - your blood had frozen and turned to ice beneath your skin. Did he know you were holding your breath? Did he know you’d never been this close to anyone like this? Did he know you’d never kissed before, never fucked or gotten fucked or known what real, true devotion felt like?

After what seemed an eternity - a forever of him staring at you from inches away, awaiting your green light to advance - you at last found your voice. “I didn’t do it in exchange for this.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but let me spoil you, sweetheart.”

Then his lips were melded to yours, and your mind, your senses, your body - they all burst red and green and purple and every color across the spectrum you didn’t even know existed. His knees came to rest on either side of your legs and he bent down, so that he hovered over you and you stretched up in order to keep your mouths connected. His kiss was rough and demanding, the reins held tight in his hands, and he took up every last gasp of breath you had left in your lungs.

He pulled back for a quick inhale, leaving you shell shocked, but only for a moment before he was pushing his lips back against yours. “Fuck, honey,” he slurred between deep, passionate kisses, “you taste even fucking better than I thought.”

When his mouth moved down to the column of your throat, his touch anchoring your hips down beneath him, you realized this wasn’t supposed to be a one-man show. Your movements felt foreign, unknown, as you brought one hand to thread through his hair and the other to cradle the back of his neck. His tresses slipped through your fingers like feathers or silk or some other poetic shit - you didn’t care enough to think of the right metaphor.

Johnny found a spot on your skin where your neck met your shoulder, his hand moving your shirt collar out of the way, and attached his mouth to that area. He sucked and pulled at your vulnerable throat, using his sharp teeth to gently bite at the skin. You gasped aloud, your grip in his hair tightening, as he licked at the place he’d bitten, almost like apologizing or making up for the pleasurable pain.

And fuck, was it pleasurable. With every moment that ticked by with his mouth lavishing your neck, with his touch roaming across the planes of your body, you felt yourself growing wetter. Your belly was flip-flopping with nerves and excitement, your core suddenly aching from the attention you were receiving. And, if you shifted your hips just right, you felt the growing erection in his pants pressing against your thigh. You gave a hesitant, experimental buck of your hips against his - and your heart leaped when he pulled off your throat to groan low and gravelly into your collarbone.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart,” Johnny growled as he sat up. He peered down at you with blown pupils and an almost animalistic gaze, his hands working the clasps and buckles of his bulletproof vest. “Keep playing games like that and you might get your prize sooner than you expect it.” At last, he lifted the vest over his head - and you didn’t stop yourself from staring. His stomach was a flat plane of muscle, riddled near the hip and the pec with a few puckered scars. His dog tags clinked against his chest, hanging like ornaments over the line of hair that began at his belly button and became thicker as it disappeared beneath his waistband.

“Impressed?” he crooned, drawing your eyes back up to his.

You felt yourself smiling, albeit a bit nervously, and slowly reaching out to touch his abdomen. “Maybe,” you murmured. Your fingers trailed over his chest, his nipples, his belly. His muscles flexed under your touch, and every few moments he let his head fall back and released a low-throated moans. They sent shivers up your spine and an ache down to your core, clenching around nothing.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Johnny said, coming to his senses and hooking his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt. “I can’t exactly do this the right way if I’m the only one playing skins.”

Your nerves jumped wildly as he began to pull up your shirt; you partially lifted yourself to aid him, but as the fabric began to clear your breasts, you felt your blood spiking. “Wait!” You grabbed his wrist, halting him in place. “Wait, Johnny, wait.”

Obediently, he paused where he was. He peered down at you questioningly, searching for a sign of whatever he’d done wrong. “Don’t get cold feet on me now, kid,” he drawled gently.

“No,” you said quickly, and you panicked because he looked like he was going to pull away, so you surged forward and kissed him hungrily. He gave a muffled grunt of surprise, but returned it nonetheless. When you finally leaned back again, you knew your face was flushed; how attractive you must have looked, with a violent blush and a black eye coming in. “I want to, Johnny, I really do. More than…” You shook your head slightly. “More than I think I’ve ever wanted anything?”

“More than you want to tell those fucking parents of yours where to shove it?”

A nervous, wobbly smile wound over your lips. “Yeah,” you replied. “More than that. But…” You swallowed thick and averted your gaze, letting your eyes fixate instead on his dog tags. “I, uhm… I haven’t exactly… done this before. At all.”

“Hmm.” It was all he said for a long, quiet moment. You could tell he was staring at you, but you didn’t want to know if his gaze was full of reproach or unease - or the wild, suddenly feral look some men got around virgins. He shifted his weight atop you slightly. He spoke again. “You’ve at least cum before, haven’t you? Used one of those toys you women like so much?”

For a fraction of a second, you realized the gravity of it all - you were lying beneath Johnny Silverhand, talking about your previous use of sex toys. But before you could begin to register the situation, you said, “I mean, I’ve used vibrators before. I didn’t ever… didn’t ever orgasm on those. It just wasn’t enough. And my mom always said I didn’t want to lose my virginity to a piece of silicone. So…” You gently tightened the grip you had on his wrist. “No. I haven’t. I didn’t… I hadn’t even kissed anyone before this.”

“Fuck me, kid.”

You waited for him to roll off you, to tell you that you were a nice kid, but he suddenly wasn’t feeling well. It seemed forever. Then, that feeling - that sensation that was growing familiar - of his metal fingers on your chin drew your attention back up to his face. He was gazing down at you with a look so understanding, yet so teasing and coy it seemed as though the painter who had sculpted his features changed his mind half way through.

“If I’d known that was your first,” he rumbled to you, “I’d have made sure to bite.”

With that he dipped down to recapture your lips, his artificial hand coming up to cradle your cheek affectionately. A tidal wave of relief flooded through your systems as you reached up to tangle your hands in his hair again, your body beginning to act on its own accord. Your leg twisted around his to pull his hips closer to yours, and you felt his erection bump against the apex of your thighs. You both groaned into one another’s mouths, sharing breaths and panting into throats.

“Hang on,” he ordered you, and once you had locked your legs around his waist, he braced you against him and hauled you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing. He continued to bite at your lips and shove his tongue into your mouth as he carried you toward the bed.

When your back hit the mattress, he pulled you further up toward the pillows and crawled over your form. “I’ve got an idea,” he drawled, nipping at your throat. When you made a noise of acknowledgement, he slowly began to undo the button of your trousers. “We’ll save the fucking for the next time. Tonight we’ll stick with basics - swear it’ll feel just as fucking good.”

You felt your heart rate pick up like a methodical tick. Your grip on his shoulders tightened, nails digging into his bare skin. “The next time?” you murmured, dammit, hopefully. You knew Johnny Silverhand was a womanizer, that a different girl fell into his arms every other night. A part of you felt stupid for hoping this would be different; now you weren’t feeling quite as foolish.

Johnny smirked down at you, his hair curtaining you both. “What?” he said. “Thinking this was going to be a one-time thing?”

“Well…”

“Let me tell you something, sweetheart.” He pressed his forehead to yours, his human hand trailing down to the space between your thighs. A small squeak escaped your lips, one that melted into a moan, when he pressed his thumb down on your trousers right above your clit. “I’d be fucking stupid to find a little thing like you and let you go.”

You hitched out a gasp. “Let me go?”

“Oh, yeah, baby.” He inched down until he was level with your exposed belly, then licked a stripe up to where your shirt was bunched just below your breasts. “You’re all mine now.”

Your world was flipped on its head, like you were watching the scene play out from above instead of from your own eyes. Johnny helped you pull off your shirt, and then your bra, and you finally let yourself moan unabashedly when he pulled the peaks of each breast into his mouth. Then he removed your pants, and your panties, and then he had practically picked you up and pulled you into a position that had your core aching like never before.

Johnny sat his back to the headboard with you seated between his legs so that your shoulder blades laid flat against his bare chest. He’d hooked his ankles around yours when your legs spread, keeping them apart and open for his touch that was slowly, torturously making its way down your body.

“Johnny,” you moaned as his metal hand cupped your breast, alternating between kneading and pinching the nipple. His warm, human hand was dragging his fingers over the tops of your naked thighs, occasionally dipping between them, but never where you needed him the most. “Johnny, please…”

“Ooh, my poor thing sounds so good when she cries for me,” he chuckled in your ear from behind. His voice was low and came from deep in his chest, sending goosebumps over your flesh. “I bet she’d sound even prettier singing.”

Without warning, his hand dipped toward your center and dragged a finger through your wet folds. In reply, as if obeying his command, you released a garbled cry and leaned your head back against his shoulder. Fuck, this was so goddamn good. You’d never known letting someone else touch you like this could feel so fucking amazing.

“That’s right,” growled Johnny, then found your clit and began to rub circles around it. “Cry for me, sweetheart.”

You squeezed your eyes shut in pleasure as he played with the bundle of nerves, your hands gripping onto his thighs for support. Your legs instinctively tried to snap closed, alleviate the heightened need for friction, but his ankles locked around yours kept you from doing so. Feeling your pull against his legs, he quickened the speed of his circles, increased the pressure ever so slightly.

“Oh, fuck!” you whimpered. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your slick smearing across your thighs. “Oh, shit, Johnny. Oh, my god, please don’t stop.” Quickly becoming overwhelmed by the amount of pleasure and sensation, your body began to react on its own. You squirmed in his grasp, hips attempting to buck and feet kicking. There was a sort of coiling feeling building in your abdomen, like a pressure from within, and your body was chasing after it like it was the sun it had never seen.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” With every buck of your hips, his own chased yours, practically humping up into you from behind.

You couldn’t reply, only whimpered and whined and buried your face into the musky-smelling crook of his neck.

Johnny applied just the smallest bit of more pressure, his free arm wrapped securely around your middle to keep you anchored to him. “Come on, kid,” he whispered against the shell of your ear. “Give it to me. Give me this first one.”

Whatever kind of effect his words had on your systems, it was immediate. That coil in your belly snapped, wound too tight, and your vision tore white as you threw your head back against him. “Oh, god, Johnny! Johnny, fuck!” Your words melted into hoarse cries and moans and gasps. You felt a warmth pooling from your entrance and his fingers gingerly gathering it up; if you had been able to open your eyes, you would have seen him suck your release off his own fingers and smirk to himself in satisfaction.

For a long, quiet few minutes, you simply sat there between his legs, feeling your chest rise and cave as you tried to regain your breath. Behind you, Johnny craned his neck to press open-mouthed kisses to the back of your neck, your shoulders, the jut of your spine. He unhooked his legs from yours, allowing you to draw them together and to your chest as you gripped his thigh with a grip that refused to let go.

“You with me still, kid?” Johnny shifted his weight a bit, then wrangled you until you were sat sideways in his lap and he cradled you against his front.

Your head rested against his bare pec, fingers unconsciously gripping onto the dog tags around his neck. “Mm,” you hummed, because you felt as though you couldn’t form words anymore even if you wanted to. A sudden and powerful tide of exhaustion had washed over you, leaving you feeling hollow and full all at the same time.

“Use that pretty voice of yours,” he insisted and flicked a piece of stray hair from your sweaty forehead. “Tell me you’re alight. That I didn’t go too hard.”

So - because you would do anything for him, after he just did everything for you - you scraped together what was left of your vocal cords and said, “I’m alright.” You skimmed your fingers along his chest, and again, his muscles flexed beneath your touch. “Johnny.”

“Yeah, kid.”

“You won’t…” The next words caught in your throat. You thought of your parents, who had tried to sell you off because they believed you were nothing. You thought of that woman who had clicked you like it was a second nature to her. You thought of your own doubts and fears that taunted you like bad dreams that wouldn’t go away even after you woke up. “You won’t leave me… will you?”

Johnny’s grip around you tightened, and he pet your hair soothingly. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, and there was something about his tone that made you believe this wasn’t just a promise to you, but to himself, as well. As if he’d loved and lost before; as if he refused to let this crash and burn, even if it killed him in the end. “I’m never letting you go.”

[loveephia]

things my crushes did as some of the HQ boys.

content: (🦷) tooth-rotting fluff, sort of cheesy scenes, a tiny speck of angst in one scene, characters are repeated in different scenes i think fit them.

⚠ warning/s: reader gets insecure at one scenario.

note: the prompt is inspired by @/215-luv, but the scenes are of actual events that have happened to me. bold = real life scenario. not bold = extra details added.

it was a special day today; your birthday, to be exact. he knew of this but wasn't able to actually prepare a present on time. so you know what he did? he handpicked you a pretty pink flower, and he cheesily got on one knee for you, looking all proud.

BOKUTO, OIKAWA, atsumu (osamu probably watched this happen and cringed :p), komori, sugawara, lev.

the classroom ac was finally repaired after it was broken for some time now. you were starting to get cold from the new shift in temperature, so he gave you his hoodie with no complaints. it smelled.. quite nice.

SUNA, IWAIZUMI, kunimi, kageyama, sakusa, osamu, kyōtani, futakuchi.

after you two had admitted your feelings toward one another, he asked your close friend about all of your interests, hobbies, dreams, likes, and dislikes. he really did his best trying to learn more about you, so that he had an idea of what to talk to you about.

KUROO, AKAASHI, KITA, iwaizumi, sakusa, shirabu, tsukishima, kindaichi.

always calls you cute, whether it be in real life or in text, it was more than enough to make your heart pound and face red.

OIKAWA, YAKU, KUROO, SUNA, hinata (although i think he'd only do this further into the relationship), goshiki (it took him half of his sanity to say it the first time, but when he saw how red you got, he got the confidence to say it more), komori, koganegawa, lev, bokuto, daishō.

you and your classmates were assigned to decorating the classroom for Christmas. while trying to hang up the paper streamers, your fingers kept brushing against his. your heart ignited. of course, you couldn't ignore the small little smile growing on his face from each touch.

USHIJIMA, KUROO, LEV, semi, daichi, osamu.

asked for gaming advice because you were more advanced than him. he wanted to impress you, but it looks like you've impressed him first with your high rank and all of the amazing characters you own.

KENMA, GOSHIKI, KUNIMI, suna, iwaizumi, atsumu, osamu, lev, yamamoto.

when you were both paired for the upcoming school dance, all of your classmates could be heard giggling, talking about how such a perfect couple you two were.

KITA, AKAASHI, DAICHI, oikawa, yaku, shirabu (mr. top of the class and mrs. president :p), komori.

you were a sweet-tooth, so you always tried to buy some of your favorite ice cream from the cafeteria. he was aware of this, of course, even your classmates did. one day, you didn't want to participate in the physical education class since you were.. well, afraid to get judged. he promised to buy you your favorite ice cream if you joined, even if it was just for today, and the both of you kept your ends of the deal.

TENDŌ, OSAMU, komori, suna, kuroo, bokuto, hinata (he knows what it's like to be nervous in sports :p).

he was a part of your church band, and he kept looking at you from up on the stage. he was.. simply put, mesmerized by how beautiful you were. his friends kept teasing him, and they even asked if he could take a photo with you. you said yes with a shy smile on your face. (this wasn't about a crush, but i added this because i found this moment kinda cute.)

SEMI, KONOHA, suna, akaashi (you can't tell me he doesn't play the piano), futakuchi (futakuchi drummer au AAAAA).

every music class was separated in your school. you took (insert instrument) classes while he took (insert instrument) classes. you both had to take the same route to get to your classrooms, so you both walked there together. but the thing is, yours was closer. so he'd wait and sit with you outside until your music teacher opened the door. (honestly, this happened in the first grade, so i can't remember if he really did wait.)

AKAASHI, SEMI, FUTAKUCHI (he has a soft side, trust 💯), ushijima, kita, tsukishima.

he reluctantly/willingly participated in your disney fantasies because he liked you that much. he made you feel like a princess as he was your prince.

SAKUSA, KITA (he was your real-life disney prince), goshiki (he wanted to feel like your knight-in-shining-armor), tsukishima, kuroo, lev, hinata.

© lowercase intended | loveephia

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA For Not Letting my younger cousin borrow one of my flutes?

Recently, my cousins' 10 year old daughter joined her school band and wanted to play the flute. And I guess when she told her grandmother (my aunt), she said "Ooh OP plays the flute too! Maybe you ask her if you can borrow hers!" Without me knowing so the next time my cousins came over, the 10 year old rushed up to me and said "I'm going to be playing flute in school band like you did. Grandma also said you had a flute I could borrow."

Now, I own 2 flutes, a standard student model and an intermediate model. The intermediate model is definitely not beginner-friendly, several of the keys are ring-style so there are holes in them that can be difficult to cover properly, it's also longer and heavier than a standard student model. It's also a very expensive instrument, when I bought it in 2007, it cost $1,194, today the same instrument costs almost $2,100.

Unfortunately the student model flute I have also isn't very beginner-friendly. It's a vintage instrument that has seen much better days. The last time I got a repair quote it was 2007 and the quote was "upwards of $500" and I can't imagine that number has gone down. It is playable, but it's very difficult to get a decent sound out of it and some of the keys don't go down all the way.

I sighed and told her "Unfortunately the instruments I have are very difficult to play and one of them is broken." She told me "Well you could get the broken one fixed for me." And I told her "It would cost a lot of money to fix." She asked "How much?" And I said "Five hundred dollars." She gasped and went "Five HUNDRED dollars!? That IS a lot of money. It's okay I don't think grandma knew your flutes were hard to play or broken."

The ten year old took things WAY better than my aunt did. She called up demanding to know why I was being selfish and not letting my little cousin borrow one of my flutes and about how my cousins are struggling with money and it was the least I could do. So I told her "one of my flutes is an almost $2,200 instrument that would be nearly impossible for [younger cousin] to play, the other needs at least $500 in repairs and is virtually unplayable. You never asked if I would be okay letting [cousin] borrow an instrument from me before telling her I would do so and you put me in a terrible spot." She responded "Couldn't you get the broken one fixed?" And I was like "I can't afford nor am I willing to take on a $500 repair bill for an instrument I haven't played since 2007. You and uncle are millionaires why don't you foot the bill so your granddaughter can join her school band?" She called me an selfish brat then hung up. So AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[cephonmercury]

Instruments I think BSD characters would play !! (ft. the ADA and the PM!)

Atsushi - Flute. Guy flute energy radiates off of him at Chernobyl levels.

Dazai - Piano, but he could probably play any instrument if he tried hard enough.

Ranpo - Alto Sax, but only because he likes using flavoured reeds.

Kunikida - Basson. A percentage of his salary goes to buying reeds.

Yosano - Oboe. Tried repairing the chips in her reed with her ability (didn’t work).

Kyouka - Piccolo! Tiny instrument for the tiny detective :3

Tanizaki - Trumpet (offensively).

Kenji - Any percussion instrument, but specifically the cowbell.

Fukuzawa - Timpani. His patience is only challenged when tuning it.

Naomi - Cello. Does everything but practice in the practice rooms.

Chuuya - Electric guitar, acoustic guitar, all the guitars and any guitar.

Kouyou - Harp, but in a casual way.

Akutagawa - Violin. Only corrects his posture when performing at concerts.

Gin - Bass clarinet. She’s just so cool so obviously she has to play the raddest instrument.

Higuchi - Trombone. Wishes she could carry the PM as much as she carries the band.

Tachihara - Drumkit, and refuses to play anything else except for the snare drum.

Mori - Mainly conducts, but also knows how to play piano + other string instruments.

Hirotsu - Tuba, but had to switch to percussion because he doesn’t have enough lung capacity.

Kajii - Tenor Sax. Whenever he makes a mistake he says it’s just “jazz”.

Verlaine - French Horn.

[pressplay-if]

Angel crumbs 👉👈 spare us some Angel crumbs…🤲🤲

Hiiiii begging aside, I just wanna know if Angel is one of those musicheads that are good with multiple instruments? Or the type who can only play one instrument but is INSANELY good at it 🤔

also, if this is not approaching spoiler territory: which two members are most likely to have their own side project thing (like those subunit/duo projects in larger groups)??

lol I'm happy Angel gets some begging, he deserves it 🙏💗 he's best boy

Angel is only good at the guitar. He's never been interested in anything else. Zima and Stevie are more like those musicheads you mentioned, given Stevie can play the bass, write and compose, sing a little and play the guitar a bit. Zima can sing, write (but they think they're terrible at lyrics), play the sax, the keyboard and also the drums (decently, not as good as Maddox).

Angel and Maddox are both of the "this one instrument is for me and that's it" variety. Angel can't sing for shit aside from harmonizing a little, neither can Maddox, and they're both focused on their own thing.

The subunit question can go a lot of ways. Traditionally, I'd say Stevie and MC, given they composed most of the band's older songs together and whenever Stevie writes, it's with MC's vocals in mind. The other route could be MC and Zima, if their relationship is sufficiently repaired. HOWEVER, the band really doesn't want to be separated into subunits. It's a ride or die situation. So that's really not gonna happen in the story. Although Zima and Stevie are gonna work together for one song, which will be a plot point later; but it's only one time and they're definitely not as close.

[feegless]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒

A list of roleplay prompts for or from musician muses playing all sorts of musical instruments. It's intentionally general to apply to all sorts of instruments and scenarios, so it may help to specify in the tags which musical instrument(s) your muse or muses can play!

ACTIONS

Add '+ reverse' to switch receiver and sender around

[ tune ] for sender to see receiver tuning their musical instrument

[ practice ] for sender to walk in on receiver practising their musical instrument

[ support ] for sender to come with receiver to an audition for an orchestra/band etc.

[ notes ] for sender to see receiver writing music

[ scribbles ] for our muses to write music together

[ audience ] for receiver to play a musical instrument for the sender

[ shop ] for our muses to go to a specialist music store together

[ present ] for sender to gift a musical instrument to receiver

[ concert ] for sender to come to one of the receiver's musical performances

[ backstage ] for sender to bump into receiver just after their musical performance

[ repair ] for receiver to help fix sender's musical instrument

[ teach ] for receiver to teach sender how to play a musical instrument

[ public ] for sender to see receiver playing a musical instrument in a public space (eg. a shopping centre)

[ booth ] for our muses to go to a recording studio

[ speakers ] for sender to play music they have recorded for the receiver

SENTENCES

"I didn't know you could play/sing!"

"Was that you I just heard?"

"You're good!"

"You're not bad!"

"How long have you played?"

"I've been playing for years."

"I only started playing a few weeks/months ago."

"Could you play me a song?"

"Do you know how to play [song]?"

"Could you teach me?"

"Is that yours?"

"Here, listen to this."

"Do you want to try?"

"Do you know how to play?"

"Sit down, I don't mind. I'll just keep playing/singing."