#got pushed over and almost fell into the bassist and one of the monitors but luckily i didnt and now ive got some sick bruises

[retrograde-raven]

I was at a hardcore show on Halloween and through a combination of vodka, weed, the holiday, my costume, gender, and just the general vibe I gained a better understanding of what it means and I'm going to try and explain it now.

Punk shows (not hardcore shows), are about fighting. They're about moving your body and taking up space and doing what you want without being afraid of falling because you know if you fall the people around you will help you up. The pit is about Community.

Hardcore shows are also about fighting, but in a different way. Hardcore shows are about getting low and dirty and fighting for your life because if you don't you'll get trampled. They're about taking up space because your space is all you have. At a hardcore show you don't worry about falling down because if you fall down you pick yourself up and keep on swinging. The pit is about You.

Both Punk and hardcore create catharsis. It's a release of built up energy--fear, anger, sadness--you can channel all of that into the pit and have a better time for it. Shows are a great way to find strength and get more comfortable with moving your body. But they do that in different ways. Punk helps you find strength in your community. Hardcore helps you find strength in yourself.

[myheartmightexplode]

As of Now I'm Down Straight Up

by MusicalSense

Summary

"He’s on his back again and this time he’s not looking at the sky; he’s looking right into the surprisingly blue eyes of Bert McCracken who just chokeslammed him into the ground and is now standing above him with his feet planted left and right of Gerard’s hips." Hallelujah.

In this AU Bert and Gerard didn't meet prior to warped tour and neither Three Cheers nor In Love And Death are out yet so technically it should be set in 2003, but like, the timelines don't really matter for this one. Inspired by an interview with MCR where Gerard talked about Bert chokeslamming a kid who got up on stage during their set.

There’s blood in Gerard’s mouth and he’s not sure if it’s his own. He runs the tip of his tongue over his aching front teeth and turns around to see if whoever headbutted him got away unscathed. He definitely felt his teeth slice through… something, which is kind of worrying since they are freakishly small and that means that he had a mouthful of some stranger which is… all a little unsanitary, isn’t it? A guy with a bloody nose bumps into him and Gerard gets a face full of Eau de Sweaty Armpit. He chokes a little and ducks and shoves – his go-to move in the pit – to keep Tall and Sweaty at a safe distance and then brushes his greasy hair out of his face. He’s standing at the edge of the mosh pit at Warped, probably too close to the speakers given his bad ear, but right now he does not care even in the slightest. He can feel each beat of the kick drum resonating in his bones and his heart is racing along with the music as the song crescendos and comes to a crashing, slightly off-key end. He will definitely have to incorporate something like that into their next record, he thinks.

“The next song is called ‘A Box Full Of Sharp Objects’.” Announces Bert McCracken. He looks good today, Gerard thinks. Really good. Sure, he’s just as sweaty as Gerard is, but the way his wet tangled hair looks with the red makeup smudges on his cheek and the manic glint in his eyes… Gerard gulps. Perhaps he does have a thing for boys who look like they would beat him up without hesitating and make out with him afterwards.

“Marry me!” Tall and Sweaty hollers next to him with the fervor and timbre of a frat bro after his sixth bear of the night. Gerard winces. Yeah, his hearing is definitely not going to improve anytime soon. Maybe he should start wearing the second in ear monitor too; he thinks he might be developing a tinnitus.

“Who, me?” Bert asks with wide eyes and an even wider grin on his face. He presses a hand to his chest in mock-surprise. Gerard’s not entirely sure but he thinks Bert’s wearing white nail polish on the left and black on the right hand. He wonders if it’s a Queen reference.

“Fuck yeah!” Tall and Sweaty yells. Gerard twitches. How did that guy even manage to keep his baseball cap in the pit? He’s pretty sure that he himself lost one or two pins and maybe his belt to the crowd.

Bert wags his eyebrows. “We’ll see about that later.” He turns to his bassist and giggles in that weird high pitched way of his. “Looks like I’ve got a date tonight, Jepha.”

Fuck. Fucking fuck. Why can’t Gerard be a sweaty frat bro? Sure, his Gran always told him to worry less and just ask for things because really, what could happen besides him getting rejected? But somehow he didn’t think that her advice would be applicable in this situation and yet… Oh god, she’d be laughing so hard if she could see him right now, thrashing wildly with the crowd at a The Used show mere hours before he had to be on stage himself just because he thought the singer was kind of cute and wanted to check him out live. The band launches into the next song, kicking Gerard back into action. He shakes his head a little and allows himself a small smile. So what if he has a tiny man-crush on another singer, he can still have a good time. He looks around quickly to check for people who look like they wouldn’t appreciate him throwing himself in their midst and when he doesn’t find any, he dives straight back into the pit.

God, he loves this so fucking much. The hot press of bodies around him, the elbows connecting with his ribs, even the feeling of sweaty skin sticking and unsticking from his. For a while he loses himself in the push and pull of it, careful to keep his head down so he doesn’t get hit in the face. Somehow he seems to be just the right height for that, not big enough to really stand his ground and not quite small enough to weave through the crowd like Frank does either. He feels someone pulling on the white stage shirt he’s wearing because it was the only semi-clean thing in his wardrobe after touring for a while. Somehow his stage clothes are always taken care of while his normal t shirts decompose in a smelly pile in a corner of their bus. Right now though, his last good shirt is dotted with small red blood splatters and he briefly worries about the state of his face which seems to be one big dull ache right now. He really hopes that the blood isn’t his; having to sing with a broken nose would suck balls.

His gaze connects with a short-ish dude with a bloody bitemark on his jaw and a bright grin. For a split second Gerard recognizes him as the person whose face he hit his teeth on but then he’s being hoisted up and carried on top of the crowd. He takes in a gasping breath and blinks up at the almost cartoonishly blue sky for a few moments. Sure, he’s crowdsurfed before, but usually inside smaller clubs and never at Warped where the audience looks like a boiling kettle full of rage and drunk scene kids. Maybe he should reconsider though, he thinks idly as he’s being carried away from the pit. Someone’s jewelry catches on his hair and the buttons of his shirt and he tries to keep his feet still so he doesn’t kick anyone in the head and there’s sky around him and the wavelike movement of the crowd under him, and he thinks maybe this is what it feels like to drift in the ocean during a storm, and then he’s being hoisted on stage.

‘Oh fuck’ He thinks. “Oh fuck.” He says. While no one’s technically going to kick him out for it he is technically also not supposed to be here and it’s taken him too long already; he should be jumping back right now; he’s seen other people do it and they always got away with it as long as they didn’t disturb the set, and he turns around and then someone grabs his throat and slams him to the ground and. Holy Shit.

He’s on his back again and this time he’s not looking at the sky; he’s looking right into the surprisingly blue eyes of Bert McCracken who just chokeslammed him into the ground and is now standing above him with his feet planted left and right of Gerard’s hips.

Actually, maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. He’s feeling a little faint right now. Bert’s hand is still around his throat. Gerard tries to swallow and chokes on his spit. He feels his pulse beating away frantically, even faster than the music now, and he wonders if Bert can feel it. The moment seems to stretch like the string of a bow being pulled back and Gerard worries that if he makes one wrong move he’s going to make it snap and hit him in the face.

Fucking hell. He’s going to die here. Above him Bert grins with all of his teeth and mouths along to the final chorus as the crowd goes wild. He locks eyes with Gerard and winks and then he. He licks his hand, from palm to fingertips, and wipes it on Gerard’s face and suddenly he’s painfully hard in his jeans. There’s sweat dripping down from Bert’s hair and his teeth still ache and he still can’t breathe properly and he thinks he just fell in love. He’s dying but man, what a way to go.

Bert, who doesn’t seem to have picked up on Gerard’s epiphany, gets up from his crouch and gets back to performing and after a second Gerard picks himself back up and leaps into the crowd before one of the security guys can usher him down and he still feels like he’s floating.

He doesn’t get back up on stage; it’s not like he could ask Bert for his number in the middle of a concert, right? Right. They’re either going to meet backstage or maybe they’re going to collab or, or, maybe they will never see each other again (‘Shut the fuck up Gerard you’re literally touring together’ His logical side tells him) but even if that’s the case, so what? It’s not like he just met the love of his life or anything. Ha.

He might be panicking a little.

Later that day, before he had time to change out of his blood splattered clothes (He thinks he might just keep them for the show, the red adds a certain element to the whole look…), he’s just wandering around when he comes across one of the billboards showing messages from fans and really just anyone who submits something via text message.

‘MCR rox my soxx’ He reads and smiles. Next up is a longer message. ‘Bleeding dude uknowho I choked meet me @10 bhind mainstg luv bert’.

Oh. Okay then. That’s definitely him, right? Gerard grins and touches the bruises starting to form on his neck. It seems like Bert wasn’t the only one who left an impression.

[rosalynbair]

Shut Me Up 

Chapter One: Deathblow Written by @darth-stetter and @rosalynbair Masterlist | AO3 link | Previous Chapter 

Words: 7.5k | Warnings: mentions of alcohol, cigarettes, sexual language, Henry and Pat are assholes, mentions of blood and a small wound  A/N: Please head the warnings as we update this fic - but we hope you enjoy chapter one!!

A warehouse was not the ideal place to hold auditions. Granted, it was a converted warehouse, but the walls still bled with rust and the scent of metal assaulted everyone’s nose. Y/N’s foot tapped against the cracked concrete floor that was stained with old oil and unknown liquids.

The building seemed to groan with age and history, each blow of the wind outside rattled the window panes and whistled through the rafters. The only other sound in the building other than the breathing of the last few people waiting to audition was the dull sound of an out of tune guitar playing through a monitor in the back room - once an office. Y/N inhaled deeply with her cracked phone in her trembling hands. She furrowed her brows, lowering the volume on her phone discreetly so the other people around her wouldn’t hear what she was watching. Even with her earphones plugged in, the chord dangling and hitting the sides of her face with each movement she made, she felt extremely self conscious that the other tryouts were watching her stalk Mind Failure.

At the moment, she watched in interest as, Danny Lane, the previous rhythm guitarist, went on a monologue about why he left the band, “They were too wild; I was there for the music but I felt like I couldn’t put in any kind of musical input. Patrick was very controlling about that.”

Danny Lane paused for a moment, allowing the reporter to ask, “Mind Failure’s members are known to have a very reckless and dangerous attitude towards life, did you ever feel that you were in danger being in the same room with them?”

The blonde hair man sighed, pushing back his locks to keep the mohawk out of his eyes. His green eyes stared at the floor as he carefully contemplated what he was going to say, his fingers were gripping the fingers of his other hand, wringing them out of nerves. When he finally did answer, he spoke slowly, almost as if he was choosing his words carefully, “I was told many times when I tried out that I didn’t know what I was getting into, I read interviews on their previous guitarists and I thought, ‘Oh these dudes are just pussies,’ but I mean, Mind Failure are who they are, and while some of the members are decent enough, others are bat shit crazy. I love music, and I love their music, but, being around them made me realize that the music wasn’t worth it if I felt that I was constantly in danger, and alienated from a tight knight group of guys.”

“What kind of things did they do that made you feel in danger?”

Danny Lane’s hair now fell over his eye, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing his chin, “I am not comfortable talking about that, but, I can say that I wouldn’t recommend anyone trying out for that band. It’s not worth it.”

The video ended at a sudden halt, cutting of the rest of the interview. The person who posted it was obviously only interested in what Danny Lane had to say about Mind Failure.

Intrigued, Y/N fell into the rabbit hole that was Mind Failure, the year’s most popular metalcore band. Prior to being asked to audition for the band, she had never heard of them - though they had won a Kerrang award the year before for best newcomers. She felt slightly terrible for it as she listened to some of their hit tracks - also the first one that showed up on a youtube search, nodding her head and tapping her moss green doc martens on the dirty carpeted floor; the sounds of their songs melding her mind into a dark reality. The angelic voice of the lead singer rang in her ears, making her feel like she was being personally serenaded; his vocals were twisted in with deep guttural growling, and the occasional high pitched squeal. The drums and bass both worked together to give the music the specific oomph necessary to make it not only sound perfectly composed, but powerful.

However, Y/N felt her body shiver when she listened to the sounds of the guitars, small goosebumps rose on her skin as her mind comprehended the technical leads and melodic rhythm guitars. She knew that this track was Patrick doing both guitar track recordings - information given from another interview she had watched. They had been between guitarists at the time, leaving the dark haired musician to gleefully take over the entire process.

This is so good, she thought, feeling excitement budding in her chest for fact that she was trying out for this band.

Still jamming to the Mind Failure’s music on Spotify, she continued to read up on the band’s history, chuckling at their obvious rock star antics, her amusement apparent when she came across a photo of the bassist, Henry Bowers, in handcuffs being pushed up against the hood of a police car, his face bloody and contorted while in mid shout, the long hair of his mullet sticking up in multiple different positions with sweat and blood. The silver blonde haired man next to him being held back by a heavier man. She assumed those two were Vic Criss, the vocalist, and Reggie “Belch” Huggins, the drummer.

Y/N’s Y/E/C eyes trailed over to the other side of the photo, opposite of him, also in handcuffs and pushed against the other side of the hood was a shaggy haired musician, his lips were pulled up into a large, gleeful snarling smile showing off his bloodied teeth, as if he was laughing at the police officers holding him. His nose was bleeding profusely, drops of the thick, red liquid falling into his mouth. His dark grey eyes were wild as he obviously rode a really exciting wave of adrenaline.

Y/N’s curiosity won her over; she immediately clicked on the link below the Google image. The link took her to a metal news website, the dark . Her eyes skimmed the article, smirking when she read about Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter facing charges for aggravated assault, battery, property damage, public intoxication, under the influence of an illegal substance, possession of an illegal substance, assault with a deadly weapon, mild sexual harassment, public nudity (Henry was pantsed by Patrick).

She read the article further, learning that the whole ordeal came to be when two men accused Henry and Patrick of flirting with their dates.

Fucking stupid reason to fight , she thought to herself, shaking her head.

Upon reading more and more articles about the band members, she learned that the photo in question wasn’t their first run in with the law, or the last. As she scrolled further and further down on the news site, she realized there was a pattern; Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter were the ones that always instigated any kind of reckless behavior.

Y/N didn’t realize how much time she had spent doing research on the band until she felt a tap on her shoulder. She jumped in surprise, yanking her earphones out and immediately getting to her feet, her body tensing up for a fight. She eased up a little when she realized who it was that tapped her, “For fuck’s sake, Johnny, what the fuck did I tell you about touching me?”

Johnny smiled at her, the dimples in his cheeks indenting. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his black slacks, his deep brown eyes gazing at her with an amused expression, “That if I ever did it you would knock me on my ass, cut by dick off and shove it in my mouth so I can literally suck it.”

Y/N eyed him, still trying to collect her composure. Everybody knew that Y/N despised being surprised, and especially touched, and right now, Johnny was mere seconds away from getting his ass kicked. She cleared her throat, quickly glancing around the room, taking note of the other two male musicians waiting for their turn to show off their skills.  “Are they ready for me now?”

He shrugged, an aura of frustration radiating from him, “I gave them a few minutes to take a break; the guys tend to get impatient if they’re sitting still for too long.Tryouts are usually a big hassle for them.”

Y/N rolled her eyes - something she did fairly often at the slightest inconvenience “Right, because sitting and watching people play music is so tiring.”

Johnny chuckled, his lips tilting up into a slight smile despite his annoyance, catching on to her obvious sarcasm, “You try going through twenty tryouts a day every few weeks.”

“No one told them to be assholes,” Y/N retorted., leaning back in the uncomfortable chair.

Johnny’s brows raised, “I see you’ve done your research.”

“I did,” Y/N said, not bothering to hide the fact that she had spent the past three hours stalking them online “I wanted to know more about the band I’m trying out for, and so far, I am both intrigued and mildly irritated, seems like they’re in this for the rock star lifestyle.”

“A common misconception; you will be surprised to know that they love music as much as you do, they have behavioral issues,” he paused, his gaze intensifying as he held her gaze, “Just like you do.”

Y/N tilted her head, scoffing as she feigned offense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said, his voice sarcastic on the delivery, checking his phone for the time, “I gotta head back in there; we’re taking these two others before we get to you.”

“That’s fucking bullshit, Johnny,” Y/N complained, her voice a high whine. She adjusted her weight on the chair, feeling the ache on her tailbone and back. “You’re the one that asked me to come here.”

“And you would have had your spot reserved if you had shown up on time, Y/N. But, you didn’t, therefore, your slot was taken and you got pushed to the back. Maybe you’ll take my advice seriously next time and show up to your own tryout when you’re supposed to,” Johnny said as he typed in a text into his phone, not even bothering to look up with the explanation.

“For fuck’s sake, Johnny, I had band practice,” Y/N groaned in defense, crossing her arms as and slumping forward in the chair.

His chocolate brown eyes finally looked up from his phone as he addressed her, “You had band practice with a band that you don’t even want to be in Y/N. You’re lucky these guys don’t pay attention to the roster, otherwise you wouldn’t have made it into the running for tryouts.”

Y/N looked up, brows furrowing, taking offense to his words. She was a fucking great guitarist, and in her mind, she was the best. Her elbows pressed against her knees, digging down until there was a discomfort from the pressure, her voice went dark as she asked him, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Johnny quickly caught the attention of one of the other musicians, nodding to the shaggy blonde haired boy that looked like he was fresh from the beaches of California. The musician immediately grabbed his gear as he stood up, waiting for Johnny to lead him into the room in the back, “It means nothing Y/N. Just wait a little longer. Your turn will come.”

He nodded his head to the musician, motioning for him to follow his lead. Y/N still leaned forward on the chair, only lounging back when she dug into her leather jacket for a cigarette and her silver zippo lighter. She inhaled in relief as she took the first drag of nicotine. From the corner of her eye, she could see the other musician stare at her, judging her for daring to light a cigarette in Mind Failure’s warehouse.

Not that it mattered anyways, the whole place was a fucking mess of old beer bottles, cigarette butts, baggies that held traces of cocaine and marijuana. Another cigarette butt in the sea of garbage wouldn’t make a difference.

She sighed deeply, exhaling the smoke from her lungs and out of her nose. The disgust she felt at the how the band lived on their days off was overshadowed by her interest. Their attitudes didn’t bother her, hell, even she had her fair share of felonies under her belt. If anything, it was the music that enticed her into wanting to join their band. A feeling she only started having moments ago when she researched them.

Obviously, Y/N had no prior knowledge to Mind Failure, which was a shame in and of itself because even their older EPs were amazing. So, when Johnny Ray approached her late last night at a show she was playing with her shitty ass band, she was skeptical.

“I think you should try out, you’d be perfect,” Johnny pushed, handing her a bottle of Guinness.

Y/N chugged down the beer and tossed the empty bottle into the crowd with a wince of disgust  when she was finished with it, not checking to see if it hit anyone, and high key not giving a fuck, “Look, suit, I’m not interested in trying out for your jazz, or blues band. I got my own shit to do, and I have my own band.”

“Of course, but, if we’re being honest, your band sucks. And the only reason why you get a crowd like this is because you’re hot, and slightly because of your skill. The rest of your bandmates are shitty musicians, and you have so much potential to be better,” he said, banging his hand against the bar counter to make his point, “With us, you could get there.”

“I told you, dick, I’m not interested in--”

“It’s not a fucking jazz band, and I’m not a band member; I’m the manager,” he informed, as if that would make a difference, “Besides, everyone knows that you hate playing in this band, the only reason you still do is because you need the cash. If that’s the case, you’d be making ten times more if you joined us,” he paused, brining his beer bottle to his lips, “If you even made it past tryouts.”

Y/N waved down the bartender, who immediately brought her three shots of vodka. She lined them up next to each other, taking them down one by one, not even feeling the burn of the alcohol anymore. Once she finished the last one, she slammed the small shot glass on the counter, finally meeting the manager’s stare, “How much cash we talking here?”

“Enough to get you off of your drummers bed bug infested couch,” he said, watching her with a small smirk. “And some new equipment.”

Y/N learned one simple truth as a musician, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably was. But, Y/N wasn’t known for being careful, she was known for jumping from band to band; using each experience as a stepping stone to get her where she needed to be. Where that was? Fuck if she knew. But, if these fuckers had the cash to pay her for her skill, then fuck it. What was another stepping stone but an opportunity to climb higher on the musical ladder.

“Alright, I’ll try out for your band,” she agreed, grabbing the bottle from Johnny’s hands. She took a long drink before she continued, “It better not be a fucking folk band, John, otherwise I’ll burn the fucking place down.”

He reached out to her, trying to planting a card into her leather jacket. Instinctively, she pulled back, snatching the card from his hand as she pointed her finger at him; her pointed acrylics looking more intimidating than she actually was, warning, “And don’t ever fucking try to touch me again, if you do, I’ll cut your dick off and shove it down your throat.”

Y/N began to disappear into the crowd, vaguely hearing his voice calling out to her, “I’ll put you in for 2 pm tomorrow!”

Being the idiot that she was, however, Y/N forgot about the tryouts and rushed out of band practice, only to arrive three hours late with messy hair and a sweat sheen body from the heat of the basement she had practiced in. And, like Johnny said, she was lucky to still be given a chance to tryout. Especially considering the fact that she wanted the money. She needed it.

The musician that went in for his tryouts walked out of the back room in a huff, kicking the cans on the floor and slamming the heavy door of the warehouse shut behind him, she could vaguely hear him yelling curse words as he walked further from the building. The other person in the room stared at her, the intimidation clear on his face.

The echoes from the back room could be heard down the hall as they bounced off the walls, “You can’t keep humiliating and talking down to all the tryouts, Bowers!”

“I was just fucking with him; not my fault he can’t take a fucking joke,” a man said, his voice raspy from the yell, she assumed it was Henry Bowers, as if Johnny calling him by his last name didn’t make it obvious.

She heard childish snickering coming from the room, “Oh, you think this is funny, Hockstetter? We go on tour in three fucking weeks! You need a new guitarist to--”

“I see another guitarist come into that room, I’m going to beat the shit out of them,” Henry said loudly, and she could almost picture the boy standing with his arms crossed and a sneer on his face.

The other musician in the room, seemingly intimidated by Bowers’ words, immediately grabbed his equipment and scurried off. Y/N smiled to herself, crushing her cigarette under her boot, just me now.

“We only have two more left,” Johnny said in a gentle tone, as if he was trying to comfort a band of toddlers.

“Just bring the next person in, Johnny,” a tired, softer voice said, “Henry will get over it once this is over, he just needs to dip into some pussy.”

“Fine,” Johnny spat, “But you’d better fucking sit your ass through these tryouts or so help me god I will--”

“ I will, I will ,” a mocking voice repeated, mimicking Johnny’s voice, “Shut the fuck up and bring those sorry cock suckers in here.”

A roar of laughter erupted from the room. Seconds later, Johnny appeared in the room, confused and puzzled that Y/N was the only one there. Y/N shrugged, simply explaining, “Guess your other tryout bitched out.”

Johnny rolled his eyes and motioned with his fingers for Y/N to follow him, “Just don’t take anything they say too personally- they can be pretty rough.”

“I can handle myself,” she assured, rolling her eyes.

“Seriously,” he paused, a look of terror in his eyes, he needed her now more than ever. “ Please , don’t take it personally.”

Y/N nodded, raising her brow, “I’ll be fine.”

Johnny released a loud sigh from his nose, the stress obvious when he began to rub his hands together. Y/N followed Johnny into a large open room, the walls spray painted with graffiti all around save for the large window on the other end. There was a large plush, black couch pushed against the wall, two men occupied that one, and she immediately matched the guys to their photos; Vic Criss sat on one end of the couch, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression on his face. Belch Huggins looked as if he was dozed off on the other end of the couch, his head laid on the hand rest with his cap over his face, while his feet were sprawled over the edge.

Near the large open window, Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter seemed to be having what looked like an impromptu knife fight. Henry lunged toward Patrick, who jumped out of the way, cackling maniacally, “Getting a little slow there, huh Bowers?”

“Fuck you, twig,” Henry spat.

Johnny cleared his throat, trying to get their attention, “Guys, this is Y/N.”

At the mention of her name, all eyes were now on her. Even Belch, who had been snoring a few minutes prior, was wide awake now, gaping at her like if she was a figment of their imaginations.

Vic Criss tilted his head, a small smile spreading across his lips. He quickly put his phone down and crossed his arms over his chest.

Henry and Patrick however, stared at her in shock. Henry ran his hand through his outdated mullet styled hair, “Are we starting the pussy party early, Johnny? Cause if so, I think you really should have brought more.”

“We can share her,” Patrick whispered, a devilish grin spreading across his lips. His playful figure quickly turned into a sexual gesture, as he thrust his crotch out, his long fingers running over the zipper as he licked his lips. His eyes observed her from her moss green doc martens, the black laces wrapped twice around her ankles, up to her torn skinny jeans, and then to her exposed belly area. His eyes lingered on her obvious cleavage, admiring the way her torn shirt showed just enough skin to tease his imagination, “I go first.”

“In your fucking dreams, creep,” Y/N scoffed, setting her sticker covered guitar case on the ground.

Their eyes watched the movement, and in a sudden instant, their expressions went from flirty to hostile in a matter of seconds. Patrick was the first to speak up, laughing, “Aw, she thinks she can try out for the band, Hen.”

“You can try out,” Henry started, slowly walking towards her, “If you get on your knees and suck my dick.”

Y/N laughed, loudly, throwing the men in the room off, “I’m sorry, but I only fuck with guys who are over 8 inches, and you,” she paused, checking Henry out and sighing dramatically, “You look like you’re 3 inches, tops.”

Vic and Belch snickered at the insult. Henry was livid, and Patrick stared at her darkly, his hand fidgeting with something in the pocket of his plaid red and black overshirt. Y/N turned to Johnny, “Where do I plugin?”

Johnny, who was eyeing Henry and Patrick carefully, turned to her, “We use the Line 6 half stack over here for the tryouts.”

Y/N nodded, kneeling down next to her guitar case as she casually flipped the latches open. Her guitar had seen some better days, once, before she owned it. Now, the once white Ibanez GRG had chipped paint on the edges, the fretboard was slightly warped from previous water damage. The permanent marker drawings she made on it were covered with stickers that she had given up on removing. But, she loved that guitar with all her heart; the only thing she ever really loved.

Lazily, she placed the mickey mouse strap over her shoulder, plugging in the amp cord that Johnny handed to her, and strummed the guitar to make sure it was in the proper tuning.

“You really play with that piece of shit?”

Y/N tried to bite her tongue at Henry Bower’s rude comment, instead opting to focus on her guitar, still tuning it, “This piece of shit has more balls than you and your boy put together.”

She could feel Henry’s glare on her, but she refused to acknowledge him, telling herself that if she lost her temper right now, she wouldn’t get the opportunity to earn the cash for her own musical interests.

Stepping stones , she reminded herself; trying to suppress the fact that she genuinely did enjoy the music these assholes created.

Once her guitar was properly tuned to drop d, the tuning she knew these boys played on, she strummed her guitar rhythmically, playing a small piece of a song from her other band.

She turned to face the guys all staring at her, Vic, the lead singer, leaned back on the couch, “Well, go ahead and blow us away, babe.”

Y/N’s fingers went to the slightly warped fretboard, the tips touching the strings - her nails briefly touching the other strings before she adjusted them - as the fingers on her other hand grasped her 0.5 pick, strumming the strings as she played a technical solo, her fingers bent the strings as she shredded on the frets, doing sweep movements, and finger tapping; her eyes caught a glimpse of Vic’s face, his jaw dropped open in awe and Belch nodded his head to an imaginary beat in his head, as if he was playing his drums along to her.

She continued to shred on her guitar for another minute before pausing. When she stopped, Vic and Belch stood up and gave her a standing ovation, along with Johnny Ray.

Belch was the first to speak, smiling as he walked over and high fived Y/N, “That was fucking awesome!”

Vic came up beside him, holding out his fist for a fist bump, “Hell yeah, I like her, Johnny! Better than the fucking sugar sniffers you brought in earlier - she actually knows how to play.”

Johnny, pleased with himself, smiled, “I knew you would,” his eyes trailed over to the other two men who were eyeing their bandmates with vicious disdain, “What do you guys think?”

Henry pursed his lips together, staring at Y/N up and down, “Do you even know any of our songs?”

“I’m a fast learner,” she answered, holding her guitar by the fretboard.

Henry scoffed, staring at Patrick. Though, Y/N noticed a tiny glint in his eyes, like he was impressed as well. Patrick, however, still remained stoic as he lazily waltzed over to her side. He reached out towards the rack of various guitars, picking up a black ESP Kirk Hammett signature guitar with white symbols imprinted on it. Y/N stared at the instrument with awe and envy, wishing she could afford something as beautiful as the guitar Patrick held in his hands, plugging it into the other Line 6 half stack.

It didn’t take long for him to tune his guitar, and he stared at her with dark eyes as he also began to shred in front of her. He was taller than her, staring down to her with his legs spread.

Y/N knew what this was, he was establishing his dominance; he was cementing his territory, saying with his stance, his hard stare, and the gesture of playing during her tryout, that she was never going to be a part of their band.

The hell I’m not , Y/N thought.

She immediately began to finger pick as well, keeping up with Patrick’s ever increasing speed, refusing to back down and let him win.

The air in the room was tense, she knew all eyes were on herself and Patrick, but right now, it was only she and him. Both of them fighting for their right to play in the band, neither refusing to back down. His riffs were raw, angry and powerful; communicating with her that she was not welcome.

Hers were just as heavy, pushing back, unrelenting.

Finally, Y/N shredded so heavily, so quickly, that two of her strings popped loose, flying and snapping hard against her fingers. She felt the pain in her hands as a small cut formed on her fingers, still, she played with the remaining strings, choosing to stick to soloing.

The battle wasn’t over until Patrick ended his solo with a hard riff, prompting Y/N to stop as well.

They both stood still, the silence in the room was deafening as they glared at one another. Johnny came up beside Y/N, keeping his distance, “Y/N, are you alright?”

“Huh?”

Johnny pointed to her hand and she looked down at it as it covered her strings and guitar in blood, “Oh? This is nothing, I’ll be fine.” She shrugged, rubbing the cut fingers on her jeans.

“Like a badass,” Belch smiled, nodding his head in approval; Vic nodding along with him in agreement.

Henry’s face was blank, void of any emotion, but his eyes trailed to her open wounds, and then up to her eyes; he furrowed his brows slightly in amusement, but it was quickly replaced with indifference when he gazed upon Patrick’s dark stare.

Y/N scoffed, smirking when she met his eyes, “Is that all?”

Patrick opened his mouth as he was about to speak, when he was crudely interrupted by Vic, “For now, yes. We’ll keep in touch, but, I think you’re the one.”

“Fuck yes,” Belch agreed.

“Fuck no,” Patrick said, “There’s not a chance in hell--”

“We’re not letting a chick in the band,” Henry said, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about? You just saw--”

“No,” Patrick interrupted as Vic was trying to make his point.

Y/N, frustrated with the bitching between the guys unplugged her guitar and gently placed it in its case while the guys continued to argue. She picked her case up from the handle, speaking loudly over the boys, “Look, mull it over or do whatever the fuck you guys gotta do, but I got shit to take care of and I am not staying here to listen to grown ass guys bitch like high school girls.”

The boys stared at her in shock, their eyes wide as she turned to speak to Johnny, “Take down my number, gimme a call when these pussies make up their minds.”

Johnny smirked in amusement at her obvious ballsy nature; he pulled out his phone, dialing her number, “Let me walk you out.”

“Later, bitches,” she casually said, flipping the boys the finger as Johnny ushered her out of the room.

When they were finally out of the warehouse, he spoke to her as he lit a cigarette, “You shouldn’t antagonize them; your chances of joining won’t be pretty now.”

“I don’t think my chances were great to begin with,” she confessed, somewhat defeated. Johnny handed her his cigarette and she graciously took it, puffing on it and exhaling a cloud of smoke in relief.

Johnny lit another cigarette for himself, his voice was slightly a mumble with the cigarette pressed between his lips, “Probably, but, I’ll see to it that you make it in. Whether they care to admit it or not, you’re the best tryout we’ve seen; and you’re not afraid of them, which means you won’t bail at the first sign of trouble.”

Y/N tilted her head, bringing the cigarette to her lips, “Just how much do you know about me?”

“Enough to know that you’re the real deal,” he said, smirking. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he quickly took it out to read a barrage of text messages coming in. He chuckled with a slight sigh. He pushed the phone back into the pocket of his blazer, looking down at her bloody hand, “Make sure to get that looked at; if you make it in, we can’t have you taking hiatus before you’ve even had the chance to start.”

“I’ll be alright,” she assured, cockiness in her voice.

Johnny laughed in amusement, turning and entering the warehouse, “And get those strings replaced.”

Y/N flipped him off, the blood was now dry on her fingers when the door shut behind him.

She turned, slowly dragging her legs along the hard concrete ground. Nighttime was setting in, and she could have called a cab, but her funds were running low and in all honesty, she preferred to feel the night air on her skin. It was going to be a long walk, but she needed it if she was going to ponder the possibility of being in Mind Failure.

Patrick and Henry were adamant that she was never going to be in the band, but, she had Vic, Belch and Johnny on her side; which had to count for something… right?

It had been two and a half weeks. Two and a half fucking weeks and not once did she hear a peep from Johnny, or any kind of status updates on Mind Failure’s website on the new rhythm guitarist. She checked the sight hourly, waiting to see if it would change, but it still read in big red letters, “Tryouts Open.”

She groaned in frustration for the fifth time that day, vaguely paying attention to the members in her band going on about how they wanted to change the sound of the band, for the third fucking time.

Y/N stood in the background, scrolling through her phone; band practice today was held at Evan’s garage, or more specifically, his parent’s house.

“Yo, who the fuck is that?” Evan asked, pointing to someone outside.

Y/N turned to see Johnny Ray leaning against a black Ferrari.

“Oh shit, yo, I think that’s Johnny Ray, the manager of that fucking band--Mind Failure,” Sam said, snapping his fingers, and jumping up in excitement, “Fuck, maybe he’s here to sign us!”

The guys started yapping away about the possible idea of being signed. Y/N lazily unplugged her guitar, pushing the instrument behind her back as she walked out of the garage and towards Johnny.

“You here to check out my shitty band?”

Johnny laughed, removing his sunglasses, “I’ve had enough of that piece of crap band of yours; and I’m sure you have too,” he turned, opening the door to his expensive car, “Grab your shit, let’s go.”

“What--”

“Do you want to be in Mind Failure or not?”

Y/N turned suddenly, meeting the stares of her ex bandmates and flipping them off as she shouted, “Hey guys, fuck you! I quit!”

She quickly ran to the other side of the car, jumping in and trying her best not to jump in anticipation as Johnny explained to her how her life was going to change, “Right now, I’m taking you to Empire Records to sign a temporary contract.”

“Temporary Contract?”

“So, the way we work this out is we have you sign a minor touring contract; this is only because these guys go through musicians fast, once you have stayed for a full year, then you will sign a permanent contract similar to what the rest of the band members signed,” he said, looking at his phone as he drove, typing a quick text message.

Y/N nodded, “And what are the terms of this contract?”

“You’ll see when we get to the office, I have my lawyer on call to review it for you in case you don’t understand it or want to change something, and I’ll be there as well,” he smiled, eyeing her sideways.

“And the guys?”

“They’re prepping for touring; we leave in a week, so we need to get this underway as soon as possible. If you agree to the contract, I’ll need you to pack essentials to bring on tour with you, as well as your equipment,” he said, turning into a large parking garage.

He hurriedly opened the door, his legs rushing towards the elevator in the parking garage, prompting Y/N to hastily shove her guitar onto the passenger seat. She felt her body begin to tremble with anticipation; she couldn’t believe this was actually happening to her.

She followed Johnny into the large office on the 25th floor, Johnny leaned over the counter of the receptionist’s desk, “Hey Joan, how’s my favorite lady today?”

Joan stared at Johnny with a hard look, the older lady in her mid forties obviously not having Johnny’s flirtatious advances, “You’re late to your appointment, Mr. Ray.”

“Is he pissed?”

Joan smirked, “Fuming.”

Johnny shrugged, walking towards the wide, large doors on his left. Without knocking, he pushed to doors open, strutting inside like he owned the place, “Alright, sorry I’m late, but I was caught in traffic.”

Tristan Roberts, who was sitting behind his desk, leaned forward on his desk, “Traffic? It’s fucking 10 AM,” his hard stare fell on Y/N; he took in her appearance, smirking as he stared at her standing there in her signature green Docs, black jeans rolled up to cuff above her boots. Her fishnets she wore under the jeans rested above the waistband, clinging to her skin, the old standard round neck t-shirt that rested at her hips, eyeing the obvious tattoos on her skin, “Nice, I see why you were adamant about his one Johnny; record sales will skyrocket if someone as good looking as her is in that band.”

“I recruited her for her skills, Tristan,” Johnny said with irritation in his voice, “Now, let’s get this shit started.”

Johnny motioned for Y/N to sit beside him as he dialed the band’s trusted lawyer while Tristan handed Y/N a copy of the contract. She looked over it, listening to Johnny’s lawyer explain to her the legality of it all, “Now, here’s the thing, since you are going to be signing a temporary contract, the only revenue you will make is from playing shows. You will not receive any pay from streaming sites, royalties or record sales until a full contract is signed; this is just so we guarantee that you stay in the band, once that has been established, we will make a permanent contract and you will receive the same amount of pay as the rest of the members, including participating in the making of their future albums.”

Y/N nodded, knitting her eyebrows at the legal jargon on the paper. Tristan and Johnny stared at her when she looked up from the paper, “So,” Johnny said, handing her a pen, “What’s it going to be?”

The tour bus was thick with the scent of cigarettes and cheap beer, Johnny hoped the guys weren’t up partying in the fucking bus again, but once he gazed at the sight in front of him he slowly felt himself die inside; Vic was sprawled over the small couch, Belch was retching in the restroom, Henry laid naked next two blonde women and Patrick was nowhere to be found.

Angrily, he grabbed the air horn he kept hidden in the driver’s seat of the bus and obnoxiously squeezed it; the boys automatically jumped up in surprise, yelling in shock “What the fuck, Johnny?!”

“You guys leave for touring today, get your shit together,” he chastised, his patience wearing thin as he tried not to yell, tossing the blonde woman her skimpy clothing, “Where the fuck is Hockstetter?”

“Fuck if I know,” Henry answered, recording the whole ordeal on his phone; which was going to end up on his instagram account, “Ask mom over there.”

Johnny turned to Vic who shrugged, rubbing his face as he stretched, “You know Hockstetter, he wanders off doing god knows what and doesn’t show up until it’s time to leave, he’ll be here.”

Belch slammed the door of the restroom shut behind him, rubbing his forehead with his sleeveless flannel shirt, “Coffee, aspirin.”

“The coffee is on it’s way,” he said, “Aspirin is in the cupboard right there; you guys really should reevaluate your partying, I don’t think this mess is going to make a good impression on Y/N.”

Henry rolled his eyes, sitting up on the floor, still naked, “I think it will; she’ll see that I’m not a weak three inches and soon enough, she’ll be on her knees begging me to fuck her.”

He laughed at his own joke, amused with his humor. Vic rolled his eyes, tossing Henry his faded jeans, “She’s out of your league, Hen.”

As if it couldn’t get worse, the door suddenly opened and Y/N furrowed her brows at the mess inside the tour bus. She smirked slightly when she saw Henry’s back as he pulled his pants up, catching a glimpse of his ass, “I can’t say much about your dick, but you do have a cute ass.”

Henry turned beet red while the guys all laughed, he marched off towards the restroom in a huff, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Sorry for the mess,” Vic apologized, a sheepish half smile on his lips, his fingers carding through his hair.

“The only thing you need to be sorry for is not fucking inviting me,” Y/N said, pushing the guitar on her strap behind her.

Belch and Vic smiled, already liking the new member of the band. Johnny rolled his eyes, glancing over at Y/N, “Did you bring your equipment?”

“Yeah, your roadies are hauling my stack into the trailer,” she said, kicking the beer cans aside as she sat near Vic, photobombing his selfie with a kiss to his cheek. Vic didn’t seem to mind, as he moved his arm further to catch both of them in it.

“Belch get in here,” Vic called.

Belch jumped on the their laps, prompting groans of pain from Y/N and Vic.

“Vic, show Y/N to her bunk, I have to get back to the office; but remember, try to be on your best behavior- ugh I don’t even know why I bother,” he said, mostly to himself as Belch began to play with Vic’s nipple guard through his mesh shirt, “Make sure Hockstetter is on this bus before it leaves.”

Johnny promptly exited the bus, leaving Y/N alone with the boys for the first time.

Vic and Belch weren’t bad however, they both immediately started complimenting her on her playing, “Your riffs were sick; even Bowers was blown away, though, he didn’t want to admit it.”

Vic got to his feet and motioned for Y/N to follow him to the back of the bus, “The bunks are back here; Henry, Belch and I have the bottom ones, Pat has the top one and that leaves you with the other top one.”

He pointed to the only empty bunk in the crowded room, “It tends to get hot up there, so be careful. Also, there’s an empty drawer over there for your clothes. Make yourself comfortable, breakfast is being brought to us.”

“Thank you,” she said, shooting Vic her most sweetest smile, making the blonde haired guy blush slightly.

Y/N took a moment to glance around the dark bunk room, admiring how each bunk was easily identifiable to whom it belonged to. Vic’s was neat, with fluffy pillows and what looked to be like a soft, feather blanket. Belch’s was slightly ruffled, a pair of drumsticks tossed on it. Henry’s bunk was- surprisingly- somewhat neat, save for the numerous amounts of shirts piled on it. Patrick’s, however, was the filthiest of all. The blankets were on a heap on his bed, the thin mattress peeking out below the blanket; there was no pillow at all and a guitar lay on top of it, with small pieces of paper stuffed into the walls along with a half smoked joint and a pack of Camel Bolds.

She tilted her head, setting her own guitar on the bed. She began to unpack her clothes, fitting them and her accessories into the one drawer. She pulled out her small clip on fan, grateful that she even decided to bring it in the first place.

As she turned to head back towards the “dining” area of the bus, she bumped into the tall, lanky, shaggy haired guy that was Patrick. He wore tight black skinny jeans that were torn at the knees, the cuffs pushed into large, black combat boots. The blue and black flannel overshirt he wore barely covered the dried bloodstains on his white undershirt, his knuckles were cut open as if he was fighting.

He didn’t say a word, he just stood there, staring at her as he smoked his cigarette. Frustrated with the awkward silence, she asked,  “You gonna say something or just stand there and stare?”

Patrick’s stare was still blank, until he finally pushed beside her and climbed into his bunk, his eyes still on her while he exhaled a large cloud of smoke as his hands began to play his guitar.

Y/N scoffed, knowing full well that he was still trying to intimidate her. Just to spite him, she stayed in the room, climbing into her bunk and enjoying the cool breeze of the mini clip on fan, smirking at Patrick’s sweaty face. The heat didn’t seem to bother him, as he was unaware of it, still staring at her.

Belch’s voice cut the silence in the air, “Yo, Pat, Y/N; breakfast is here!”

Y/N continued to stare back at Patrick, finally breaking her gaze as her stomach rumbled, betraying her.

She jumped off of her bunk, heading towards the delicious smell of pancakes, bacon, eggs and coffee in the air; she could still feel Patrick’s eyes on her as she left however, somehow, she knew that the only reason she was here was because of Johnny, Vic, Belch and maybe even Henry.

This was something that Patrick obviously objected to, and he wasn’t going to make her time with Mind Failure easy, she somehow also guessed that he would do anything in his power to make her quit. But, he had another thing coming if he thought he could get rid of her that easily.

Tag List: @owentteague @pattycake-hockstetter @purplezebra68 @livelikewonderland @nurserykryme @gizmo-the-gay @thicctor-victor @slyprides-blog @ashisthresh @toungepopperr @i-am-mcbroken @caddywhompered