Hi, could you write something about Axl and a reader who have been dating for a short time, and Axl notices old scars on her arm, from SH, and he asks about them, or how he would react, if you feel comfortable writing that
Axl Rose - Scars
Warnings: past self-harm, discussion of depression.
Notes: ty for requesting! hope it's what u hoped for :)
The flickering blue light of the television screen was the only illumination in Axl’s sprawling living room, casting long, dancing shadows across the cluttered expanse. The credits for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre had just begun to roll, the eerie soundtrack a stark contrast to the comfortable, heavy silence that had settled between you on the deep, worn leather couch.
You were tucked into his side, his arm a solid, warm weight around your shoulders, your legs curled beneath you. The scent of him—leather, faint cologne, and the simple smell of man—had become a familiar comfort in the few weeks you’d been seeing each other. It was easy, this thing with him, in a way you hadn't expected. Behind the larger-than-life persona was someone who craved quiet moments just like this.
You shifted, stretching your arms above your head with a soft groan to work out the kinks from sitting still for so long. The sleeve of your soft, worn- thin thermal shirt slid down your right arm.
You felt the exact moment he saw them.
It wasn't a gasp or a jolt. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the energy around him. The relaxed, loose hold of his arm around you went still. The easy rhythm of his breathing hitched. His gaze, which had been lazily tracing patterns on the ceiling, was now fixed on your forearm, illuminated by the TV's glow.
Axl’s eyes tracked the faint, parallel lines, old and silvered against your skin. They weren't fresh, not by years, but they were unmistakable. A history written in pale, faded script.
You slowly lowered your arm, letting it rest in your lap. You didn't pull the sleeve down. You didn't try to hide it. You just waited, your heart beating a little faster, but your mind strangely calm.
His hand, the one that had been draped over your shoulder, moved. He didn't grab you. His touch was feather-light, his calloused fingertips hovering just above your skin, not quite making contact, as if he were afraid the scars themselves might still hold pain.
"Baby…" he finally murmured, his voice low and rough, stripped of all its usual rockstar bravado. It was just his voice, raw and quiet. "What… what are these?"
He didn't say "who hurt you." He didn't get angry or dramatic. He just asked, with a heartbreaking gentleness, for the story.
You looked down at your own arm, then back at his face. His expression was unguarded, his blue eyes filled with a deep, pensive concern, searching yours not for salacious details, but for understanding.
You took a slow breath. "They're from a long time ago," you said, your voice even. You didn't sugarcoat it, but you didn't drown him in the drama of it either. "A time when everything just… got too loud in my head, and this was the only way I knew how to make it quiet for a little while."
He was silent, his gaze unwavering, listening with his whole being.
"It wasn't a great time," you continued, your tone matter-of-fact, almost clinical. "I remember there was one week… shit had really hit the fan. I couldn't get out of bed. Couldn't even brush my teeth for days. Just this… heavy, gray static everywhere." You shrugged a shoulder, a small, wry gesture. "And I looked at myself in the mirror and just thought, 'This is no way to live.' So, I finally called a therapist. Started the whole… process. It took time. A lot of it. But I got better."
You fell silent, letting him absorb it. The room was quiet save for the low hum of the TV now showing the DVD menu screen.
Axl’s hovering fingers finally made contact, his touch so tender it made your throat tighten. He traced the length of one of the longest scars, not with pity, but with a kind of reverence. It was an acknowledgment. A acceptance.
He looked from your arm back to your eyes, his own shimmering with a depth of emotion that stole your breath.
"You're the strongest person I know," he whispered, the words leaving him like a vow. "To carry that… and to come out the other side like this." He gestured to all of you, curled up next to him, whole and present. "Fuck."
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. He simply leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was profoundly different from any you'd shared before. It wasn't fueled by passion or hunger, but by a deep, aching tenderness. It was a kiss of understanding, of shared weight, of seeing the darkest part of someone's map and not being afraid.
When he pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed. His thumb continued its slow, steady stroking on your arm, right over the faded lines, as if he could somehow soothe the old wounds.
"Thank you," he breathed, "for telling me."
And in that quiet, dark room, with a slasher film credits sequence on a loop, you felt more seen, more safe, and more loved than you ever had in your life.
