EURODYNE

# 𝑼𝑹𝑶𝑫𝒀𝑵𝑬 .  |  independent & highly selective  𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐄𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐄  from cdpr’s 𝐂𝐘𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝟐𝟎𝟕𝟕. heavily headcanon based. low activity. written by grandpa  |  27  |  they/them.  est. december 26th, 2020.    *    𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃.    |  

     𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑨𝑳𝑲𝑺 𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑪, wearing his usual attire when he attempts to try and lay low. Shades were removed, the sound of a plastic bag crinkling alongside a pair of car keys as he made himself known. The usual white noise seemed to fill the space, the sound of a boxing match, the sirens outside, and the sound of his hands quickly at work with whatever implants he happened to be tinkering with at his desk. A welcome distraction- hopefully- setting down the bag nearby to offer him. 

@themechaneer​ asked:  “ If you want a kiss you’re gonna have to get down here & get it. “ (when your man is a mechanic and is on his creeper cause he’s half under a mizutani shion)  //  𝑲𝑰𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺

     𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫 𝑶𝑭 𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑽𝑶𝑰𝑪𝑬 echoed with a metallic twang, half lost beneath the machine and the shop radio that blared when it was just him hard at work. He had let himself in without warning, just so happened to be on his side of town and decided to drop in unannounced. Amazed he could even hear him at all, knew him by the sound of his footsteps and before he even made himself known. A keen and confident man, speaking like he could read his damn mind, like he knew what he really stopped by for: because he missed him- because he was lonely. 

      Eyes rolled as he made his way over to the pair of legs under the vehicle, using his boot to hook onto the creeper and pull him out with sudden force. Hands propped on the hood of the car as his legs straddled where he lay beneath him.

      “Well, I guess that's one way to say hey- too busy for me now?” 

     Teasing, of course, for while his mouth said one thing, his body said another, lowering himself down on top of him, feeling the strength of his core as he came to his level, leaning down to meet his lips. The scent of gasoline and oil lingered on his skin, something that became so familiar over time. Lips were fleeting, more so teasing him with a good time rather than giving it away. Instead he sat back on his hips, a hand moving down his chest as he watched him. 

@cityburns​ asked: ❝ guess i left a lasting impression. ❞   𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 : 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

      𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑻𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑨𝑳𝑾𝑨𝒀𝑺 𝑺𝑶 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑻, while a smug expression upturned the corner of bloodied lips. As if it was all one big game, a bar fight being nothing more than a joke- something he could sit and laugh at as if it wasn’t him with a bloodied nose. Chances were he couldn’t feel it, too drunk or high to really care. 

     The night had started off so strong, small gig in a small dive bar with nothing to lose nor gain- but it was always the cramped places where most fans managed to find them, and when Johnny brushed shoulders in an after party at the bar, a few drinks in and there was usually always someone who wanted to start a fight. And when it came to a fight with Johnny, he knew there was usually only one person to walk away standing. Most never really considered the strength behind his silver arm, and were left face down in a puddle of their own blood while they grabbed their things and ran for the door. Never one to go anywhere without leaving his mark, the place erupting into chaos while the bartender ran them out back with a slew of cursing, even tossing a bottle as they both dove into his Porsche and took off.

     It would be a while for the adrenaline to wear off, and he could tell Johnny’s blood was still pumping by the look in his eyes and the way he let the engine roar down the road. 'guess I left a lasting impression.’ The comment was spoken in jest, and from it he couldn’t help but roll his eyes, watching the street lights blink by in varying colors as he laughed.

@malgatillo​ asked:  ❛  would  it  be  alright  if  i  borrowed  this ?   i  can’t  find  my  shirt .  ❜ //  𝑫𝑨𝑾𝑵 - 𝑭𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 .  

      “𝐇𝐮𝐡-?”

     𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑  that left his head a mess, taking a moment to process he was even talking to him in the first place. A miracle alone he made it out of bed, capable of stumbling to the kitchen to try and make  coffee, as if it would help his situation at all. He’d still feel like shit, the hammering still present in his head, and probably would be for some time.

      “Yeah kid, knock yourself out. Probably wouldn’t have even noticed if you took it in the first place, unless, I don’t know, you wore it back here- returned it- whatever.” 

     He turned to face him then, back pressed to the countertop as the cup was raised to his lips for a drink. Black as tar, and surely something that he’d regret drinking later. The shirt fit him, hell, probably looked even better on him than it did on himself, but the thought was cast aside as wandering eyes met his gaze over the porcelain rim of his mug between sips.

     𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒, kohl rimmed eyes scanning over him as he’d entered the room. The sun had set, the streets filling with a night time chill while most piled into the establishment as a means of warmth and entertainment. The room was filled with a white noise, a sort of comforting, monotonous tone of the regulars that would come and go as they pleased. He’d begun to learn their faces in the brief time he’d come to town, each Hardie Boy so distinct, but their names seemed to all blur together in his mind. No one holding any particular interest, faces in a sea of people that would one day come to pass.

     Yet there was one that stood out among the rest. It was the bright orange bomber jacket of the man beside him that had caught his eye since day one. Given any other situation, he may have referred to him as a pig- a badge- but after hours, and to stay on his good side- he’d refer to him by his real name. Kim Kitsuragi, a mouthful he couldn’t forget. 

“ 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑫𝑰𝑫 me how you got this…” The thought was spoken aloud, fingers trailing along the distinct line of the scar that encompassed his wrist. Maybe it was out of line, to ask something so out of the blue- so personal. But he too had his fair share of scars, some he was less proud of than others- but not a single one came without a story. Surely his were no different. “ It’s kinda cool actually, shit you’d see in the movies… you care to explain?” 

    ❝𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧.❞ The word trailing out with a laugh. ❝I used to think you rockerboys, and just musicians in general, didn’t have much of anything to stress over. I mean money makes everything, right?❞

   Clearly he was wrong. Maybe the whole “more money more problems” shit was right, even if money could make the life of many people. Fuck it certainly made his in the end. But the more he heard about people that actually had money, expendable money, it didn’t sound like a black and white happy life.

   Dealing with all that shit, no “luxury” life was worth all the hassle. If you gotta keep working hard to have it, to keep it, then you might as well just live as is. Maybe not as a merc though, if you could help it.

   ❝Glad my little childhood dream of being one of y’all didn’t pan out.❞

@urodyne​ s.

    “Yeah- people think its all sunshine and synth-coke, that you never have a fucking problem in your life. Shit was different back in the day, starting Samurai, getting off our feet. We hardly had an ed to our name, scraping by from show to show, somehow managing to keep it together.” Fond memories, despite the stress, a part of him knew that if he could go back in time, he’d never change a thing. 

     “Hell, even when we made it big, shit was never easy. Someone was always late to a show, getting in fights, keeping the band together was a struggle in itself- but fuck if it wasn't worth it. Best years of my life. Doesn't get any easier though, even now- the shit I gotta go through to keep my music my own is, well, y’know.” A wave of the hand was given, a vague gesture as if it could summarize everything they’d experienced, with Us Cracks and the whole ordeal. If anything it made him crave a smoke, the mere thought causing him to light up a cigarette between his lips, as if it would solve all his problems.

     “Sometimes dreams aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Fuck, even when it comes true you’re left with what-? where do you go from there?” He was a prime example of that life, a big empty house up on a hill- lonely on a throne of dirty money.