Y’all don’t realise how much of a goldmine Izzy Stradlin’s non-gnr works are for someone who has listened to guns n roses for a good while and always liked the parts most that reminded of american folk/country but it was always just short of enough to scratch that itch. Then you find his solo/juju hounds work and it’s all just root rock stuff which absolutely fucking scratches that itch so well in places so deep that you didn’t know existed but good lord they do exist
"You Ain't the First" is such an underrated song. It's one of my favorites from "Use Your Illusion I" and it's one of those songs I can listen to over and over again without getting tired of it.
Hello:) i have an idea about an agegap smut w dave mustaine, reader is in her early twenties working at some recording studio as some sound engineer and dave is there in his forties w his band to record an album
“Sculptures of Anything Goes,” Dave Mustaine x Reader ʚɞ
⋆ . ࿔ ˚ SYNOPSIS: You’re a sound engineer at SARM Hook End Studios, LDN. When Megadeth comes in to record their next album, ‘United Abominations’, you cannot contain yourself! Dave is insanely hot, even better in person. He’s so nice to you too. There’s definitely something there, so what happens when you’re finally alone?
CONTENT: smutty, power-dynamic, older!man x younger!woman, employer x employee, oral sex, sound room sex, daddy kink, pre-sexual tension. OLDER!DIVORCED!DAVE MUSTAINE X TECH!READER
Your job as a recording engineer got pretty boring sometimes. As much as you had a great passion for collaborating with amazing artists to help make their desire come to fruition, sitting at a computer on Pro Tools all day got fairly exhausting.
However, when Megadeth came to London? You had never been so early to the studio before. Since you were a little girl, your parents - massive metal-heads, had ingrained a love of the Thrash Giant into you. Ever since you had a sense of sexuality and lust, Dave Mustaine had been a fantasy.
Watching MTV when you were 17, thinking to yourself about how gorgeous his face was, how luscious his hair was, made you get all flushed in the living room with your family. Then, you’d tape it secretly to save for later. Distinct memories like those came to mind on your drive to work on the first day.
But, professionalism was key. As much as you loved the thought of drooling over the band and their leader, you were a grown woman. A 23 year old needed to have integrity, as did anyone else. Though, it was so impossibly hard to cling onto when the band walked into the studio and Dave introduced himself.
“Hey, we’re Megadeth. I’m Dave and uh, I’m assuming you’re the recording engineer?” He asked in a gentle and warm voice. He looked different to how he did in the tapes/posters you kept as a teen, but he looked better. His slightly pale stubble, his quintessentially 2000s shirts that hugged his broad torso and big arms.
Before, he was hot. Now? That was a daddy and a half.
You nodded with a slightly awkward smile, unsure what to do with all of your emotions and duty to professionalism. He smiled—it was such a precious smile too. You wanted to see it all of the time. “Nice to meet you, I’m sure we’ll be working well together.”
Ah, right. Dave was co-producer. That meant working closely to architect a beautiful project. Cooperation. Intimacy on an artistic level. God, you could feel your cheeks flush at the thought of being in a booth together.
Initially, you were quite shy. Not even because of Dave, but the band themselves. You were a young woman, confident but cautious of the world around her, whereas they were men in their 40s, of grand stature, and high status. They were apart of The Big Four! You were around metal royalty you have been a loyal subject of since conception. It was terrifying, the pressure of it all.
Despite this, over the weeks you spent working together, slowly you came out of your shell. The guys were all lovely, and so were the other members in production. Dave was especially nice. It was simple in its sweetness, but a vanilla sponge was just as sweet as chocolate cake. He would greet you when you came in, compliment your hair or makeup if you had worn any, but mainly he appreciated your work ethic.
When you noticed an issue before he could even vocalise it, he’d compliment your keen eye: “Didn’t even need to say anything, dealing with a pro here.” If you suggested an alternative that he thought sounded better, “Huh…didn’t think of that. You’re a talented girl.”
Every single word that left his plush lips made your head spin even more than it ever had. It felt unreal. You had dreamt about this man as a young girl, and now as a fully-developed woman, you were in front of him.
Things were small in their progression, but it was somewhat like exponents. First, it was a sweet compliment on your outfit. Then, it was a look at your breasts. Then, he would pat your shoulder as a thanks. Before you knew it, he was patting your butt as he came past you to reach his coffee.
He loved it. Seeing you flush and laugh slightly at his actions—you weren’t intimidated by him in a fashion that told him you were just a fan. Your ability to separate your interests and work was admirable, but he wanted to see those worlds mix together. You were a beautiful young thing, he was some older divorcee who felt he was past himself physically. Yet, he still affected you—it was a great ego boost.
The tension grew the more confident you became in yourself. The more your feet found its footing in the sand of the project, the faster you ran to meet his level. Winking at him to signal recording was ready, teasing him with sarcasm when he asked for your opinion on vocals. It was no longer a younger, delicate woman to dominate, it was a competitor he wanted to respect.
Things culminated into one beautiful mess when he asked for you to stay behind on a session. He disguised it as ‘wanting specific help on the vocals’, not from a producing perspective, but as an engineer. He really just wanted you alone, and you could see it in his eyes when he asked you about it.
He asked the night before, and in preparation for it, you made sure you were thoroughly ready for whatever would come of it. In the morning, you put some joggers and a hoodie on, secretly hiding a nice lingerie set beneath. A set that hadn’t been cracked out in months. The nerves that flooded your body when your session, with another band, before your and Dave’s 1-on-1, were things you had never experienced before.
“Hey, sweetheart. Thanks for agreeing to do this with me, I just needed your help.” He chimed softly from behind the soundboard, hazel eyes lighting up as you came in. You smiled and blushed at the notion of him needing you. This 46 year old man, thrash godfather, needed you.
And you craved him.
It was slow first. Simple, genuine work chatter about how the two of you thought the vocals needed to be recorded, which tracks could be redone, if the instrumentals needed it too. You were just standing by his chair as the two of you tinkered with Pro Tools to find a sound that best suited the recordings.
He noticed your standing, ‘how cute’ he thought to himself. Patting his thigh, he offered indifferently, “Sit here if you want to. Don’t have to, but it’s easier.” You looked to his lap, not even hiding your interest at the sight of his big, meaty thigh waiting to be straddled.
“Thanks, Dave,” you hummed as you sat down where he’d patted, leaning forward to go back to the computer as his strong, experienced hands rest upon your hips, keeping you steady. Keeping you close. The feeling of his hands, knowing they had touched countless women and knew what they were doing, made heat pool between your legs.
And he could feel it on his thigh. God, if it didn’t make him feel like he had the biggest dick on earth. How could someone as precious and beautiful as you get all twisted up for him? He knew the power dynamic between you two may have had some influence, or that he may have possessed some idolatry place in your mind. He didn’t feel like you were after that. You knew what he was like by now, disillusioned by the idea of ‘Dave Mustaine.’
“Warm in here, huh?” He teased gently, resting his chin on your shoulder to have a look and see what you were up to. He found how you worked fascinating.
Trying to ignore how wet you could feel yourself getting as his hands stroked the fat of your hips, you just agreed, “Mhm, we have the heating on all the time.” London was fairly chilly this time of year, not too cold, but quite miserable.
Suggesting simply, not knowing what you had beneath it, “Why don’t you take your sweater off?” He glanced at the thick fabric like it personally offended him, which it kind of did. How dare it obstruct his view and feel of you?
“Uh,” you started, realising that you weren’t as confident as you thought going into this encounter. “I can’t.” You mumbled bashfully, remembering you had next to nothing on beneath it. Why would he want to see that? He had slept with countless beautiful women, all oozing with sexuality or classiness. You didn’t feel sexy or classy.
“I can.” He chimed back softly as he moved his hands up to your armpits, prompting you to put your arms up in the air. You didn’t resist it, but you flushed with heat everywhere realising what he’d see. You feared that he’d pull back in disgust, consider you a disgrace to music and fire you from the project!
Instead, as your hoodie came up, showing off the precious baby pink bra you had on beneath, the back detailing presumably as precious as the front, he just…hummed. Not in disinterest, not in confusion, but admiration. “Making an effort for me, baby?” He asked delicately, feeling your shaking body, hoping to calm you down as he placed a delicate kiss to your shoulder.
“Mhm,” you nodded nervously as you pressed your plush lips into a line. Thank God you couldn’t see his face—his sexy, stupid, face. But he wanted to see yours, and the beautiful flush of colour he knew was on there.
“Let me look at the front.” He coaxed you gently, his voice as soft as pillowcases, as he turned you in his lap to see the front of the brassiere. His hazel eyes, low-lidded, scanned you appreciatively. How your hips were hugged by your bottoms, how soft your stomach was, your pretty tits. They were presented to him in the most delicate wrapping paper too.
Seeing you this vulnerable, dressed in a colour this sweet, didn’t feel childish. It felt feminine. You were a strong feminine presence, a capable and confident woman who worked as well as any man he knew, and that didn’t intimidate him at all. It aroused him.
“Pretty girl. You’re beautiful, baby.” He whispered against your skin, pressing soft kisses over your chest as his hands sat on your lower back. You couldn’t help but shudder a moan—your chest was a sensitive part of you, and he made you sensitive.
You couldn’t help but whisper back, “I wanted to look beautiful for you.” Because you had. You’d been putting more effort into yourself at work than you ever had, caring about your appearance more. A crack of insecurity crept through your voice, making it bend slightly.
Looking at you with sympathy, frowning as he saw your eyes gloss over, he stroked a piece of hair from your face and let his fingers brush over your cheek. “You didn’t need to try, baby girl. You looked beautiful to me, regardless of a bra or not.” He shushed as he kissed your lips, oh so delicately.
Whilst he saw you as this confident worker, a competitor, the softness in your face and fear in your eyes now you were undressing reminded him what you really were. You were still a young woman. Half his age, half his experience. His eyes had seen countless women naked, your eyes were presumably still somewhat fresh in comparison. It made his heart ache a little, thinking of you as insecure.
You had no need to be.
Kissing him back gently, letting him cup your face with utmost care, tears slipped down your face. “I know what’s gonna happen here, Dave…I don’t, I don’t mind that. I want it. But what if I’m not any good?” You broke the kiss with a cautious tone.
Cutting you off with a soft shush, he kissed your nose and mumbled against it, “Are you a virgin, sweet girl?” He asked, no judgement in his tone, because ultimately people moved faster than others. Men were grimy, and you were clearly of higher standard, so he wouldn’t be surprised.
“No, no,” you stammered, hoping that wasn’t the impression you gave. “It’s just…been a really long time.” The admission was wary, not wanting him to be thinking any less of you because of your inexperience.
Assuring you tenderly, “Don’t worry about that, baby. Daddy’s gonna take care of you, make you feel better than anyone ever has. That sound good?” His question came with no pressure, no weight on your shoulders to say ‘yes.’ You just wanted to.
Hearing him call himself ‘daddy’ was a bit of a rush too. He knew his age, didn’t try to be younger than what he was, and knew he looked fucking good for it. He was most definitely worthy of that title. “Yeah,” you replied simply, but were startled with a sharp-ish pat on your thigh.
“Yes, what? You know what to call me, you’re a clever girl.” He coaxed gently, moving you off of his lap like you weighed nothing as he did. Now, you stood between his legs, watching as his eyes scanned your face and body.
Out of sheer instinct, you sank to your knees before him. “Yes, daddy,” you whispered back to him, correcting yourself on his title as you heard the zip of his fly. You looked so beautiful on your knees in front of him, he thought. So eager and needing for him and his approval, with no need to feel so, because you already had it.
“Atta girl, wanna make me feel good?” He cooed as he slowly took his thick, hard cock out of his pants. He could see the desire in your big, wide, eyes and he was absolutely obsessed with how gorgeous you looked like this.
Nodding, trying to hide how intimidating his size was, you carefully wrapped your mouth around his dick. Slowly, you began to sink your lips down his shaft, shuddering as his hands slid into your hair. Not pulling, just guiding. “Shit, mouth feels so good around me, baby girl, fuck,” he groaned as he closed his eyes and lay his head back into the chair.
Hearing his praise only made you more eager. Quickening your pace, the sound of his ragged breaths caused you to clench your thighs to try and soothe the ache in your cunt. Suddenly, you gagged around him, struggling to take the size. “Sh, sh, careful, sweetheart. No need to rush.” He assured you, pulling you off of him for a moment to let you get your breath and stroke your face.
Once you got back to it, he realised that you were just too good at it. He didn’t want to cum too quick, how embarrassing would that be! Raggedly, “Stop, baby, stop. Take your pants off, let daddy see that pretty pussy waiting for me.”
Immediately, you sprung up to your feet. Then, you shimmied off your jogger bottoms, along with your panties. He stood up in front of you, oozing with lust and need, as he crashed his lips into yours, cradling your body close to his. The kiss was soaked with desire and mutual passion.
Moving your body like it was putty, he turned you around and bent you over the console, letting your hands brace the edge of it. Leaning in close to your ear, “Ready for me, baby girl? Not too late to say no.” His tenderness as he stroked your side with a gentle caress made your heart race.
“I’m ready, daddy. I want you so bad, please,” you begged helplessly, unable to control the ache your pussy had for his cock. For his love. With that confirmation, he took his dick in his one hand, interlacing his fingers with yours with the other. Patiently, he slid his cock through your slit, making sure he was lined up comfortably before slowly sliding in.
The mutual gasp that bled through the room was more beautiful than any of the songs the two of you had worked on before. He stretched you so well, filling up every spot you never knew existed before. You hugged around him so tight, squeezing him close, and he never wanted to leave.
The pace he set wasn’t too slow, but it was soft. Leaning down, he pressed kiss after kiss against your back and neck whilst whispering sweet praises to you. “You feel so good for daddy, baby,” “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever had,” “That’s my girl.”
His girl.
Ultimately, both of you knew you were his girl the moment you laid eyes on one another, and this was just confirming it. Your moans were music to his ears, and like drops of ink signing the beautiful signature on a contract of devotion. Hearing ‘daddy’ and little curses from your wet lips and feeling the clench of your cunt around his cock as he made tender love to you made him feel powerful. Worthy.
His ego had taken a hit post-divorce. The woman he’d loved for years had finally gotten sick of his bullshit, which made him feel like the worst man around, but making love to you? Tilting your head back with his hand on your neck to see how dazed you were by his cock? It made him feel complete again.
You were a new start. And as the two of you came simultaneously, coating the studio in the scent of sex and sweat, he knew he wanted to pick your brain and body a little more. Understand truly what girl lay behind that work ethic.
“Let me take you out?” He asked breathlessly as the two of you sank down into the chair, his cock still twitching inside of you. You just nodded lazily against his shoulder, letting him stroke your back until you fell asleep.
When you woke up, you were in his hotel room, and for once, you didn’t feel so incomplete or insecure either. You felt like his.
I know we've all seen this but the pain in Izzy's eyes literally breaks my heart every time 💔
"When something like that happens, you can't help but think back to Donington," noted guitarist Izzy Stradlin, referring to the 1988 festival at which two fans died during Guns' set. "What's to stop us having some more people trampled, because the singer doesn't like something?"
- Izzy talking about the st Louis riot in rolling stone magazine 1991.
