#hard rock nick

[undercooked-icicle]

Do you go to jail if you don't follow the laws of physics? Like if I start floating will I get arrested?

[wilson-is-a-whore]

Which one is your otp

[guzmarat]

[musicalthought]

I look like a mix of these two

[teethmouth]

me and my bsf as them part 2

[rocketqueen1989x]

🩷3 fucking legends🩷

[myvinylplaylist]

Megadeth: Rust In Peace (1990)

Cover Art by Edward J. Repka

Capitol Records

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Rock, Meet Hard Place 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss makes a deal that proves less than beneficial for you.

Characters: Nick Fowler, Lloyd Hansen

Author’s Note: This is what you asked for so don't even.

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

“Alright, sweet thing, you just make sure he knows I’m on his way, won’t you?” Hansen drawls over the phone. You roll your eyes. 

“Yes, I will definitely do my job, Hansen,” you click around the computer as you drone dully towards the speaker phone. 

“Always so obedient, baby face.” 

“Mm, sure. ETA?” You ask curtly. 

He chuckles, “you sure know how to sweet talk.” 

“I’ll say... about an hour? Is that correct?” You rebuff. 

“You’re good,” he praises. 

“I’ll let Fowler know.” 

You reach over and hang up before he can get his next quip out. You can see why your boss isn’t his biggest fan, though you can’t say Fowler isn't much better. He’s grating in a much different way. 

You stand up and check your watch. You cross the office and knock on the door to the left of your desk. Your boss grumbles from the other side. 

“One hour,” you call through. 

“In,” he demands. 

You sigh. You really don’t need any more of his griping. All morning he’s been stressing you about Hansen. He really has no right to be so whiny. He chose this. He said the contract was too good to pass up. Faced with consequence of his own greed, he makes sure he’s not the only one to suffer for it. 

No matter how many times you remind him that business is business and you need to just get it over with, he doesn’t let up. You open the door and step inside. 

“Fowler,” you cross your arms. “I wouldn’t recommend any more caffeine.” 

“How do you know—maybe I don’t want another coffee.” 

“You shouldn’t have one but I could make some decaf,” you suggest. 

“Do you always have to do that? You don’t know what’s in my mind.” 

“I know you have your knife is in your boot and I would suggest you leave it at your desk,” you shrug. 

“You don’t always know,” he snarls and rolls his chair back. He bends his ankle over his knee and unstraps the sheath. “There, happy.” 

“Happy is a relevant emotion. I’m content. One hour, Fowler.” 

“One hour,” he mocks. “If you weren't so damn efficient...” 

“I know, sir, I’d be working for some CEO in New York, living every young girl’s dream.” You turn to the door. “About fifteen years too late.” 

You leave him as he issues another grumble. You pace around the office and go to the window. You peer out at the green lawns and let your vision blur. You chose to never be a wife or mother, too much hassle, yet after everything, you’re still reining in children. Forty-year old manchildren. 

“New jacket,” Fowler comments as he emerges from his office. 

“It was new about five years ago,” you turn to face him and lean on the trim of the window. 

“Which one?” He holds up two hangers; a leather jacket and a blue blazer. You squint.  

“You joining a golf club or a biker club?” You snip. 

“Don’t be a smart ass,” he tosses the leather jacket into the cushioned chair against the wall and unhooks the blazer from the hanger. “I swear, I don’t need lip from the both of you.” 

“What do you mean? Hansen was absolutely delightful.” The dryness in your voice chafes in the air. He shakes his head. 

“Idiot,” he mutters, “but a deadly idiot.” 

He pops his collar before he pulls the jacket over his shoulders. He folds it back down and goes to the oval mirror hung to the right of the door. He fixes a shank of his short hair as it juts up from his crown. You watch, disinterested, from your perch against the window sill. 

“You couldn’t put a dress on for the special occasion,” he challenges as he faces you. 

You have to keep from flicking your eyes up. You go to your desk and sit, “I’ll wear one when you do.” 

“Wouldn’t you like a peek?” He scoffs. 

You don’t answer. He might despise Hansen for the same, but he can be cocky in his own right. Most men in this line of work, or just at that level, have an overinflated ego. Likely a bit of compensation for lacking elsewhere. 

“Come on, let’s get moving,” he snaps his fingers. “What do you think? Outside? The den? Dining room?” He asks. “I could sit at the end of the table, have him stand at the other end like a peasant in a medieval court?” 

“Oh, this is going to go well,” you stand again. 

“Ah, come on, Harpy, you’ll be there to keep us civil.” 

You give him a look. He tosses the nickname out when he wants to irk you but he’s yet to get the reaction he wants. You don’t let him have that much. He gets twelve hours of your day, sometimes more, and nothing else. 

“So maybe I should bring the knife,” you remark. 

“Mm, interesting. He definitely wouldn’t see it coming but I think those daggers in your eyes are sharp enough to keep him at bay,” he snickers.  

“If you really want my opinion,” you approach him, “meet him in the den. Have a drink. Keep his hands busy.” 

“Oh, are you worried about me? You think I can’t handle him?” 

“Not worried. I know the kind of man he is. And the kind you are,” you muse. “You should both keep your hands visible. I don’t like cleaning up blood.” 

He laughs again. 

“No coffee, but I can have whiskey? Guess that’s fair,” he turns on his heel and struts into the hall. You follow.  

You won’t say it, but you don’t see why you need to be there at all. It’s hardly the sort of meeting where you need to keep minutes. 

[metal-sludge]

MEGADETH (1983 - present) | METAL MANIA, January 1989.

[bayareabadboy]

Happy Birthday to Nick Mason, drummer for Pink Floyd, Born In The Rock 1/27/1944. He is the only member to play on every album since the band’s formation in 1965

[millaren]

put too much effort into this to only post it in rpscord so here's a 3ds theme i made!

should be on theme plaza eventually ^^ After 2 months it's finally on there

and as a bonus here are the 2 uncompressed halves:

[90sd0ll]

David Gilmour, Nick Mason, Rick Wright and Roger Waters posing for a portrait circa August 1968 in Los Angeles, California - 💋

📷; credit to Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images !

[sunrisemill]

I'm feeling in the mood to beat Chris’ ass in Mario Kart and watch him pout like a baby

[questintheskies]

Jay was a savage!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Rock, Meet Hard Place 4

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss makes a deal that proves less than beneficial for you.

Characters: Nick Fowler, Lloyd Hansen

Author’s Note: This is what you asked for so don’t even.

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself 💜

“His dick is out.”  

The words wake you out of your daze. You barely remember grabbing the phone, but you have it pressed to your ear as Nick snarls on the other end. You put your hand on your forehead and yawn. 

“Fowler, it’s two in the morning--” 

“I said his dick is out, harpy,” he snips. 

You sigh, “tell him to put it away.” 

“Oh, thanks, didn’t think of that,” he retorts sarcastically. 

You shake your head, “I’m sleeping. Figure it out--” 

“Harpy, I haven’t had a blink. He’s been ranting at me for hours. And his robe keeps—Goddamnit, Hansen, close it!” 

You hang up before you can hear the rest. You set your phone to do not disturb and roll back over. You sink into the white noise and another blissful reprieve from consciousness. You work hard when you’re paid to. Outside of those hours, you don’t put thought to it. 

You wake with your alarm. You have your routine; cleanse, moisturise, tone. Then a light glimmer of concealer and gloss of lip oil, a bit of mascara. Many women tend to put on too much in an effort to hide their wrinkles. You never minded the lines. 

You dress; a high-collared boucle jacket and cigarette pants. You put on your usual leather boots and tap out of your house. The heels are thick and pointed but not high.  

You have enough time to stop for coffee. You grab the seasonal flavour and head off to Fowler’s. As you do, you smirk to yourself. You almost forgot about the late-night SOS. You hope he ended up getting some sleep. Either way, he’ll be a treat. 

You claim your usual spot and enter through the gate. All seems as it should be as you head for the door. Still, you feel a sort of unease. 

As you enter the house, your toe meets an empty bottle that skitters over the floor. You close the door and look around. There’s a puddle of liquor near the stairs. It must have been some night. 

You hover your foot over the bottom step as you sense something through the doorway of the front room. Hansen’s naked ass hangs off the couch as he teeters on the edge. You blink and shake your head. You head upstairs.  

You enter your office and put your bag on the desk. Fowler’s door is open. You can hear him snoring. You near and peek inside. He’s slumped over the side of his chair, an empty glass on his desk. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. 

You return to your desk. You could wake him up but you’re not his mother. You sit and set to reviewing your roster. Contracts but no meetings. You made sure his schedule was mostly clear for Hansen’s visit. 

You focus on getting through your task list. Eventually, you’ll need him to wake up but you can have mercy. Let him make up for lost sleep. 

As you sip your coffee, you hear footsteps in the hall. There’s a grumble through the door as it opens from the other side. You glance over your monitor as Lloyd walks in with only a pillow to hide his pelvis. He at least has an ounce of shame. 

“Nicky--” he calls then stops himself as he sees you. “Ah, there she is, the shrew. Ready to be tamed?” 

You roll your eyes. “Good morning, Hansen. I’m afraid Fowler’s not taking walk-ins.” 

“Well, aren’t you a peach,” he tuts. “Have a sense of humour.” 

“You’re not a very funny joke.” 

“Oh, ouch,” he touches his chest as if he’s been shot. “That stingggs.” You stare at him. His brows tweak and he winces again, “now that cuts deeper.” 

“I’m afraid Fowler is not up to visitors right now. He had a late night,” you look at your monitor and click around. Those leather boots are to die for.  

You ignore the man as he lurks. “I can wake him up.” 

“I won’t stop you,” you mutter. 

“You know,” he diverts and approaches you, “I’d like you to try. I mean, you sucker punch a guy once and you think you got him figured out--” 

“You come any closer and I’ll snip it off,” you grab the scissors from the pen stand and flash the blade at him. 

He looks down as he keeps his hand around his groin. 

“Hey, if you want a peek, you just gotta say the word,” he snickers. You open and close the blades and he gulps. “No fun.” 

You keep the scissors and swivel your chair. You grab your cup with your other hand and sip. You stare at him dully. He tilts his head coyly. His eyes wander over to the screen. 

“Nice boots. You should get them. I’ll let you step on me, mistress,” he purrs. 

You angle the scissors under his hand and press the flat to his balls, “go put some pants on before you have nothing to put in them.” 

“You’re fucking spicy. I like it.” He snarls and wiggles his hips. 

You retract the scissors and stand. He puffs up his chest. Is he flexing? You put the scissors under his nose and snip the ends of his mustache. He yipes and recoils, swinging free as he feels his upper lip. 

“Woah, ho, what the fuck? You don’t mess with a man’s stache!” He roars as he reels and pats his lip frantically. “Goddamnit! You really are goddamn harpy.” He searches around and runs over to the decorative mirror by the coat rack. “Fuck. It’s uneven!” 

“Not much of a difference. Still looks awful,” you snicker and slide the scissors back in the holder. 

“What the fuck?” A grumble rolls like gravel as Fowler staggers through his office door. He buttons his shirt but one tail is longer than the other. “All this fucking noise—ah, Jesus, Hansen, I’m having nightmares about your fucking taint.” 

“Oh, but your dreaming of me, pretty boy,” Hansen winks and drags his hand from his mustache. 

Fowler growls and his chest deflates. He looks at you, “I need coffee and he needs some goddamn pants!” 

“Should I put on the assless chaps or the snakeskin?” Hansen taunts. He meets only stolid silence. “Holy balls, you two are just lively. Aren’t you? Look, we’re workin’ together. I’m tryna break the ice.” He rolls his eyes and turns to strut away, “fine, better get one last look before I put the cake away.” 

[f4rydie]

kellin quinn