#rattnroll

Requested by @idontwannabethat xoxo

Authors Note: Thanks for the request we love Juan! (Fluff with flirting and teasing) if you have a request for any of your favorite rockstars comment or shoot me a text ❤️

Set sometime in 1990:)

The backstage hallway smelled like hairspray, leather, cigarettes, and spilled beer — basically the perfume of every rock venue in 1990.

You leaned against the wall outside the dressing room, arms crossed, trying your hardest to look unimpressed while muffled laughter and guitar noodling echoed behind the door.

Then the door swung open.

And there he was.

Juan Croucier, bass slung low against his hip, dark curls messy from the show, black silk shirt half-unbuttoned and sticking slightly to his chest from sweat.

His eyes dragged over you slowly.

Too slowly.

“Well,” he drawled with that smug little grin, “there’s the girl who’s been staring at me all night.”

You scoffed immediately. “Please. Your ego’s already big enough.”

“Mm.” He stepped closer anyway. “So I imagined the part where you were practically undressing me during ‘Lay It Down’?”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it.

“You wish.”

Juan laughed softly under his breath —low and cocky— then leaned one arm against the wall beside your head, caging you in just enough to make your pulse betray you.

“Oh, I definitely wish.”

You hated how good he smelled. Smoke, cologne, sweat, something warm and expensive underneath it all.

“You flirt with every girl after shows?” you asked.

“No.” His gaze dipped to your lips. “Just the cute ones who pretend they hate me.”

Your stomach flipped.

God, he was insufferable.

“You know,” you muttered, trying to recover, “for someone in a famous band, you’re kind of annoying.”

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning closer, “you’re still standing here.”

Before you could think of another comeback, someone shouted his name from inside the dressing room.

Juan barely looked away from you.

“Hold on!” he yelled back lazily.

Then his attention snapped right back to you like nothing else existed.

It should’ve felt ridiculous.

Cheesy.

Like every over-the-top rockstar cliché wrapped into one gorgeous man.

Instead, it felt dangerous.

His fingers brushed lightly against the hem of your sleeve, teasing. “C’mon,” he said. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“That you’re coming to the afterparty.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And if I say no?”

Juan smirked — slow, wicked, unfairly pretty.

“Then I’ll spend the rest of the night trying to change your mind.”

And honestly?

February 13, 1984: RATT released Out Of The Cellar.

Round And Round

📽️ https://youtu.be/0u8teXR8VE4 📺

🎪

The original CIRCUS Magazine Official Website is👇

Authors Note: Part 2 hope y’all enjoy little bit of spice added 😉 Send me requests I’m thinking of making one for Robin sometime soon!!!

Setting: Afterparty (1990)

The afterparty was chaos in the best way possible.

Music blasted through the penthouse suite while people crowded around the bar, laughing too loud, dancing too close, cigarettes glowing against the dark balcony windows overlooking the city. Empty champagne glasses littered every surface, and somewhere in the corner someone was attempting karaoke horribly off-key while a group of roadies cheered them on like they were performing at Madison Square Garden.

The entire place smelled like expensive perfume, smoke, alcohol, and sweat from the concert still clinging to everyone’s clothes. Girls in leather skirts and teased hair leaned against musicians twice their age, photographers wandered around trying to capture candid moments nobody would remember tomorrow, and every few seconds another burst of laughter erupted from somewhere across the suite.

But you barely noticed any of it.

Because Juan Croucier noticed you.

Again.

You stood near the hallway trying to cool off after the concert, still wearing the backstage pass around your neck like you couldn’t believe it was real. Your pulse hadn’t settled since the moment he pulled you side stage earlier that night during “Round and Round.”

Even now, flashes of the concert replayed in your head every few seconds—the blinding stage lights, the roar of the crowd vibrating through your chest, Juan glancing over at you while he played like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And now here he was across the room, leaning against the bar in tight black jeans and a partially unbuttoned silk shirt, dark curls falling around his face while he laughed at something one of the crew members said.

He looked unfairly good under the dim lighting. Relaxed. Confident. Completely at home in the chaos around him.

Then his eyes found yours.

Instantly.

Like he’d been searching for you the whole time.

Your stomach flipped so hard it almost annoyed you.

For a second neither of you looked away.

The noise around you faded strangely, your attention narrowing entirely onto him as he lifted his drink slightly in acknowledgment, the corner of his mouth pulling into a knowing smile.

He excused himself from the group without hesitation and crossed the room confidently, drink in hand. Even surrounded by rockstars and models and industry people, he somehow only looked at you.

“You disappeared on me,” he said with a teasing smile once he reached you.

“I didn’t disappear,” you replied nervously. “There’s just… a lot happening in here.”

Juan chuckled softly. “Yeah. Welcome to an after party.”

The way he looked at you made the room feel smaller somehow. More intimate. Dangerous in a way you secretly liked.

“You survived your first Ratt show backstage though,” he added. “That’s impressive.”

You laughed. “Barely. I think my hearing is permanently gone.”

“Worth it?”

His voice lowered slightly when he asked that.

You looked up at him and smiled. “Definitely worth it.”

For a second neither of you spoke.

The tension between you was ridiculous now. Thick enough to feel.

Juan tilted his head toward the balcony doors. “Come outside with me.”

Not really a question.

You followed him through the crowded room and out onto the balcony where the cool night air immediately hit your skin. The noise from the party became muffled behind the glass doors, leaving only the distant sounds of traffic below and the bass thumping faintly through the walls.

It felt like another world out there.

The city stretched endlessly beneath you, glowing gold and white against the dark sky. Cars moved like tiny streams of light far below while warm wind tugged lightly at your hair.

Juan rested his arms on the railing beside you, city lights reflecting in his eyes.

“You know,” he said casually, “I’ve had people backstage before.”

“Oh really?” you joked.

He smirked. “Smartass.”

You grinned.

“But seriously,” he continued, looking over at you now, “most people just want the rockstar thing. The stories. The attention.” He paused. “You didn’t.”

Something about the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.

“I didn’t know what to want,” you admitted quietly.

“And now?”

Your breath hitched a little at the question.

He stepped closer then—not enough to touch you, just enough to make your heartbeat completely betray you.

Now you could smell the faint mix of cologne, leather, smoke, and stage sweat lingering on him. Very 80s rockstar. Very unfair.

“I think,” you said carefully, “I want to know if you flirt with everyone like this.”

Juan laughed under his breath and looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again.

“No,” he said simply.

The honesty in that answer made your stomach twist.

Inside, the party suddenly erupted louder for a moment when someone turned the music up again, but neither of you moved.

“You looked terrified when I brought you side stage earlier,” he teased.

“I was terrified.”

“You still are?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Good?”

His grin turned cocky again. “Means I still have an effect on you.”

“Oh my god.”

“You denying it?”

You opened your mouth, then immediately closed it because unfortunately he was right.

Juan noticed.

Of course he noticed.

That smug smile spread across his face as he leaned closer, forearms resting beside yours against the railing. “Cute.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re still out here with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you completely.

For a moment the conversation softened again.

“You know,” he said quietly, “when I saw you in the crowd tonight, I couldn’t stop looking over there.”

Your chest tightened.

“Seriously?”

“Mhm.” His gaze stayed fixed on yours. “You looked like you actually felt the music. Not just watched it.”

Nobody had ever said something like that to you before.

The vulnerability in his expression surprised you. Beneath the confidence and flirtiness and rockstar attitude, there was something genuine there too.

“You were incredible tonight,” you admitted softly.

Juan looked down with a small laugh, almost shy for half a second. “Careful. Compliments are dangerous.”

“You don’t seem like someone who gets shy.”

“I don’t,” he said. “Usually.”

The air between you shifted again after that.

Slower now.

Warmer.

You became painfully aware of how close he was standing.

Then his fingers lightly brushed yours against the railing.

Not accidental.

Your breath caught.

Juan glanced down at your hand before looking back at you carefully, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His expression softened instantly.

“You have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked quietly.

Your face immediately heated. “Juan—”

“I’m serious.”

The teasing tone was gone now.

That somehow made it worse.

Or better.

Definitely more dangerous.

“You keep looking at me like I hung the moon or something,” you muttered.

He smiled faintly. “Maybe you did tonight.”

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to hide how hard your heart was pounding, but Juan reached up then and gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

The movement was so soft compared to his stage presence it almost shocked you.

Inside the suite, people screamed excitedly at something stupid happening near the stereo, but out here it felt like time slowed down completely.

Juan studied your face for a second before speaking again.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

You couldn’t.

Didn’t want to.

So instead you whispered, “I don’t think I want you to.”

That was all it took.

His hand slid lightly against your jaw as he kissed you—slow at first, careful, like he was testing whether this was real.

And honestly?

It didn’t feel real.

The city lights blurred behind your closed eyes while his other hand rested against your waist, pulling you slightly closer. Warm. Confident. Addictive.

The kiss deepened gradually, his mouth moving against yours with growing confidence until your fingers instinctively curled into the front of his silk shirt. Juan made a low sound against your lips at that, something rough and pleased that sent heat straight through you.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist.

“Jesus,” he murmured softly between kisses, eyes half-lidded when he looked at you again. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Your pulse thundered.

Neither of you seemed capable of putting any real distance between yourselves now. Every time he pulled back, he just kissed you again—slower, deeper, more intoxicating than before.

One of his hands slid from your waist down along your hip, fingertips pressing possessively through the thin fabric of your clothes before returning upward, like he was forcing himself to behave.

Barely.

You felt dizzy from him. From the attention. From the way he touched you like he already knew exactly how to make you unravel.

Juan’s forehead rested briefly against yours as he exhaled shakily, laughing under his breath. “You’re dangerous.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah,” he smirked softly, thumb brushing over your lower lip, “but I’m not the one making it very hard to be a gentleman right now.”

The way he said it made your stomach tighten deliciously.

Your hands slid up around his neck without thinking, and Juan immediately kissed you harder, backing you gently against the balcony railing. The cold metal contrasted sharply with the heat of his body pressed close to yours.

Every sensation suddenly felt amplified.

The scrape of his rings against your skin.

The warmth of his breath.

The faint taste of whiskey and champagne on his tongue.

The distant bass vibrating through the floor beneath your feet.

One of his hands slipped beneath the hem of your top just enough for his fingertips to brush bare skin at your waist, and the sharp inhale you gave made him grin against your mouth.

“There she is,” he teased softly. “Knew I could get that sound out of you.”

“Juan…”

“Mm?”

You could barely think with him kissing along your jaw now, slow and deliberate, his lips brushing the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“You flirt like this with everyone?” you managed weakly.

He laughed quietly against your skin. “Still stuck on that?”

“Maybe.”

His teeth grazed your neck just enough to make you shiver.

“No,” he said again, voice rougher this time. “Definitely not like this.”

His hand slid up your back slowly, fingertips tracing your spine through the fabric while he looked at you like he was trying to memorize every reaction you gave him.

It was overwhelming in the best possible way.

You’d never been looked at like this before.

Like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.

When he pulled back, both of you were smiling a little breathlessly.

“Well,” Juan murmured, forehead still close to yours, “that definitely beats the after parties I’m used to.”

You laughed softly. “You say that to all the girls?”

“Only the ones kissing me on balconies.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

He brushed his thumb lightly across your cheek again, softer now, almost affectionate.

And somehow—even with the teasing grin returning—you believed him.