seen from Argentina
seen from Germany
seen from Czechia
seen from Czechia
seen from Czechia
seen from Czechia
seen from China
seen from Czechia
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from France
seen from Czechia
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
him and this damn wheel the entire interview
Dilf slash taking care of younger reader while she is drunk 🤭Similiar to your first fic but with dilf slash 🥲🤭🤭
Drunken attitude
summary: You rarely get really drunk, but this night you had really gotten enough and more than that. An unprepared Slash gets you home absolutely hammered and has to get you to bed, just to find out how stubborn drunk you can be.
paring: Older Slash x Reader
warnings: fluff, drunk flirting, references to sexual activities
word count: 5.4k words
a/n: im still alive yay. Sorry for the incredibly long wait anon! hope this is okay🫠 I've been working on this on and off for such a long time and finally decided to finish it. I don't know if I like the ending, might rewrite it someday… It is a Slash fic, but there's a lot of Duff in it too for all of you Duff loving readers on my page<3 enjoy everybody:)
(not proofread as always)
Day 2: Somnophilia
A/n: finally got to write on a computer, but it gave a space to the start of every paragraph 😔
Warnings: smut, somnophilia, masturbation, Slash cums on readers face, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!
Kinktober
When you first met Guns they were playing a show at the Cat House, you’d been having a hard day and they managed to cheer you up.
Cherry Girl
•🖤🍒💋🦇•
Summary: you were in a small town sitting in a diner in California and fate had in mind that Slash would be through town and sit at your booth, becoming very infatuated by you
Pairing: Slash x f!reader
Includes: Suggestive, flirting
•Masterlist•
Song Rec: Cherry Pie-Warrant
It was a plain Sunday evening and I had nothing better to do in this small town then to go down to the local diner and get my usual order
A cherry cola and an order of fries, the juke box was playing Cherry pie by warrant and I couldn’t help but hum along, it always made me feel….confident I suppose is the word
I swirled the straw around my drink looking out at the passerby’s, it was a hot day that’s why I decided to wear my short jean shorts and read tube top
“Can I get you anything else dear?” The waitress I’ve come to know as Marie asks
“Oh I’m fine thank you!” I smile and she walks off right as the door to the diner opens and the bell chimes
As I’m popping a cherry in my mouth I look up and my heart practically jumps out of my body, if I was a cartoon skunk everyone would be able to see it thumping 3 feet out of my chest
There in the doorway stood Slash, what the hell was Slash doing in this random town of all places?
I pluck the cherry off and just like that his eyes met mine as I continue to swirl around my drink as a way to ease my jitters
A smirk etches itself across his face as he strides over to me, his wrist and fingers covered in silver jewelry, I looked up at him and sipped through the straw
“Hey pretty girl, mind if I sit”
“Oh uh….yeah please” he sits and I have no idea what to do with myself but all I know is that he’s only said 7 words to me and I’m already weak in the knees
“What’s a lil thing like you doing here all by yourself?”
“Didn’t have anything else to do and this is my usual place to go”
“Hmm I might have to come through this town more often if I know a sexy thing like you is gonna be here”
“Oh yeah? Are you staying long?” I ask feeling a spike of confidence as the song moves through me
“Nah just stopping through”
“Well why don’t I give you something to remember this town by” I stand and step to his side of the booth taking his hand and he so easily followed me like a puppy out of the diner to my 1967 black impala, the inside lined in cherry red leather
“Nice ride” he says as I open the door to the back seat and push him in, quick to follow suit and straddle his lap
“You’re definitely memorable” his hands squeeze my hips and I can’t help but laugh as I run my hands up his chest to his curly hair
“Let’s make it even better” I whisper as our lips brush together
Quickly things heat up as our lips crash and all I can think about is I’m really in the back of my car making out hot and heavy with Slash, god damn Slash
We continue for a long time until the windows fog up and even though my lungs are screaming for air I can’t seem to care and neither does he, his hands roam all over my body
Damn this man knows how to make a woman shake and want more and more
“Shit girl where have you been” as I lean back in a knock raps on the, slash rolls in down and there stands Duff
“Sorry to interrupt but we gotta go man” he laughed and I couldn’t help the blush erupt across my cheeks
“Do you have to go it was just getting fun around here”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to come by again”
“I’ll be at the diner” I say biting his lip
“You better be” as we got out of the car and I leaned against the back I handed him my number and he took it giving me one last kiss before smacking my ass making me jump
“See ya later cherry”
“That’s not my name” I smirk
“It is now”
when they look like a lana del rey song 😫
Watching You III
Authors Note:
Part three is here you cute little readers. I honestly fell in love with this story sm. It will have another part. As always like, reblog, comment and share! It’s much appreciated. Also always happy for constructive feedback from you all. 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡
Tagging: @radio-heartbreak, @cocainaaxlsd, @sourwolf-32, @axlslutt,@being-worthy, @s2ckmylips
Pairing: Modern Axl Rose x Housesitter Reader
Summary: Circumstance—or perhaps something more—brought them together, each lending aid in a simple exchange, yet discovering in the other a spark that hinted at a missing piece of themselves.
Warnings: None
Words: 9.2 k-ish (sorry 😅)
You hadn’t expected packing to feel this way.
The guest room had once been just that — a temporary place, impersonal, tidy, meant to be used and then left behind. But now, as you folded the last of your clothes and zipped up your suitcase, there was a heaviness in your chest you hadn’t prepared for.
The house had gone quiet again. The hum of the AC, the soft click of cat paws across the floorboards, all of it wrapped around you like background music you’d grown too fond of. You paused for a moment, looking out the window. The garden shimmered in the late light, the same place where you’d sat so many afternoons, watching the cats laze around and Mr. Blue roll on his back in the grass.
You smiled softly to yourself.
You were going to miss this: the animals, the stillness, the space that somehow started to feel like your own little world.
You bent down to zip your bag when you heard a soft knock against the doorframe.
You looked up and there he was.
Axl leaned casually against the doorway, hands in his pockets, the faintest trace of nervous energy visible only in the way his thumb rubbed along the seam of his jeans. His hair was slightly tousled from running his hands through it too much, and there was something about the way he stood there, quiet, uncertain, that felt strangely human.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges.
You smiled back. “Hey.”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, glancing toward the open suitcase. “Just… figured I’d check in before you head out.”
“Of course.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just finishing up.”
He stepped inside, looking around the room like he was trying to memorize how it looked with you still in it.
“It’s weird,” he muttered after a moment, “seeing this room full again. Used to be empty most of the time.” He tried to fill the silence somehow.
You nodded, eyes softening. “It’s a beautiful house. Easy to feel comfortable here.”
He hummed quietly, gaze flicking toward you for just a second too long before he looked away again.
“Glad you did.”
There was a pause, not awkward, exactly, just heavy.
He shifted his weight, hands still buried in his pockets. “You, uh… did a great job. With the animals. And the place. Everything.”
You smiled, trying not to sound too flustered. “Thank you. They’re sweet. They made it easy too.”
Another pause. You reached for the handle of your suitcase, about to wheel it toward the door, when his voice stopped you.
“Hey… before you go.”
You turned, curious. He cleared his throat, eyes darting toward the floor briefly before finding yours again.
“Would you maybe…” He hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t betray how nervous he actually was. “Let me take you to dinner? Just as a thank-you. For everything.”
You blinked in surprise. “Dinner?”
“Yeah. Nothing big,” he added quickly, almost defensively. “Just something simple. Doesn’t have to be fancy or public or any of that crap. Could even be here if you’d rather. Just… something.”
Your fingers tightened on the suitcase handle.
“Oh, that’s really kind of you, but you don’t have to,” you said softly. “You already paid me, and—”
“It’s not about that,” he interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. “You did more than just a job. I’d like to say thank you properly. That’s all.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice made your chest warm. You hesitated for another moment, then nodded slowly.
“Alright,” you said finally. “But only if it’s casual.”
A small smirk tugged at his mouth. “You got it.”
He looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. Instead, he just nodded once and stepped aside to let you pass.
You wheeled your suitcase out of the room, the soft rumble of its wheels filling the quiet hallway, and with each step you took, something inside you tightened like you were leaving behind more than just a house.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
He lay in his bed, his own bed, staring at the ceiling while the faint hum of the night filled the room.
He’d thought coming home would make him feel grounded again, but instead, the silence pressed on him like a weight. The house felt too still. He didn’t know what he expected because she’d be not here anymore once he returned but somehow it bugged him. Weeks of watching his home being filled with this comforting warmth, always someone around that just made his heart feel lighter. But now there was no more comforting warmth. It was cold and silent again and he realized just how much he hated it.
His hand twitched toward his phone instinctively, toward the app he used to check the cameras only to stop halfway.
He caught himself with a small scoff.
Old habit.
Except now there was nothing to check.
He turned onto his side, trying to shake it off. He told himself it was just the noise, the movement, the signs of life he’d gotten used to. But deep down, he knew better.
The house had felt alive because she had been in it.
Across town, you were wide awake too.
Your apartment felt smaller than you remembered, quieter, colder. You’d tried to distract yourself by unpacking, by cleaning, by turning on some background noise, but it wasn’t the same. You missed the sound of soft paws on the floor, the faint jingling of Mr. Blue’s collar, the view of the open garden beyond the glass doors.
You pulled your knees up on the couch, hugging them to your chest as you gazed absentmindedly out the window. Maybe it was just the peace of that place that made you sleep better. Or maybe…
You sighed and shook your head before your thoughts could wander further.
Still, when you closed your eyes, you could picture him, that low, rough laugh echoing softly in your memory, the way his presence filled a room even when he wasn’t trying to.
You fell asleep like that, thinking of him without meaning to.
And miles away, he sat on his porch under the dim glow of the outdoor lights, staring up at the moon, thinking of you too.
Neither of you knew it, but you were both looking up at the same stretch of sky.
Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
At least, not in the way it used to.
Your apartment was small, tidy, familiar but after weeks of sunlight spilling through tall windows, of meows echoing down long hallways and paws clicking against wooden floors, it felt… dull. The air felt heavier somehow, the silence more sterile.
You stood in the middle of your living room, suitcase half-unpacked, eyes roaming over the pale walls. Everything looked the same, and yet, it wasn’t.
Maybe it was you who’d changed.
You told yourself you were supposed to feel relieved. The whole idea of that “house-sitting job” had been to take a break, to escape the weight of your last relationship and get your head back on straight.
And in a way, it had worked.
Your ex had stopped haunting your thoughts.
No more endless replaying of conversations, no more checking your phone for messages that would never come. You’d let go. Finally.
Except now, your head wasn’t empty. It was full, consumed, actually by someone else entirely.
You dropped onto the couch and let out a quiet, frustrated groan.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing your temples.
Because it was. Utterly, completely ridiculous.
He was too old, too famous, too everything. You weren’t even in the same world.
You’d met him under the strangest circumstances, half out of duty, half by chance and now your thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. You tried to brush it off as curiosity, a passing attachment, the kind of temporary bond people form when they share space for too long.
But it didn’t feel temporary.
You leaned your head back, closing your eyes. You could still smell the faint trace of his cologne, musky, warm, a little spicy. It was as if you couldn‘t get the smell out of your head anymore.
God, you were pathetic.
You’d even considered going to the mall just to sniff every men’s cologne bottle until you found it, just to catch that scent again, like some lovesick teenager. The thought alone made you want to bury your face in your hands.
You weren’t supposed to feel this way.
Not about him.
And yet, the more you tried to reason it away, the stronger the pull became. His voice, his laugh, the way his eyes softened when he wasn’t trying to keep people at a distance, all of it kept replaying in your mind.
You got up and started tidying just to distract yourself, but even then, you caught yourself pausing when the stereo on your shelf caught your eye.
After a moment of hesitation, you turned it on.
The familiar opening tunes of “Patience” filled the room, slow, sweet, almost taunting.
You froze for a moment before letting out a soft, helpless laugh.
“Really?” you said aloud, half to yourself, half to the universe.
But you didn’t turn it off.
Instead, you let the song play, the sound of his voice, younger but soft, echoing through the room. You sat back on the couch again, pulling your knees close, the corners of your mouth curving into something between a smile and a sigh.
You’d gotten into Guns N’ Roses more lately. You’d told yourself it was just because you’d been surrounded by reminders of it — the posters in the hallway, the old records stacked by the stereo, it was all-time present and naturally you grew curious.
But deep down, you knew it was more than that.
You liked the connection it gave you.
Even if it was one-sided.
Even if you’d never admit it to him.
When the song faded out, the apartment felt quieter than ever.
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, and let out a slow breath. You missed the animals, their little habits, their noises, the warmth they brought to the place. You even caught yourself scrolling through adoption sites earlier that day, hovering over the “apply” button before closing the tab.
You weren’t ready. Not yet.
You told yourself it wasn’t the right time, that you didn’t want the responsibility. But deep down, you knew the real reason: you didn’t want to fill that space with something else.
Because a part of you was afraid of losing what still lingered from that house, from him.
You glanced at your phone, half-expecting a message that wasn’t there.
Then you laughed softly to yourself, shaking your head.
“Get it together,” you whispered.
But as night fell and you crawled into bed, the scent of his cologne still lingered faintly in your nose.
And despite your best efforts, you found yourself thinking about him as you drifted off.
Home was supposed to feel good.
It usually did.
That familiar echo of boots against the marble floors, the low hum of silence that wrapped around the halls, it used to be comfort. Now it just made him aware of how empty the place was.
The first thing he noticed was the smell, the faint trace of her perfume, not even consciously at first, but the difference. Something missing. The air didn’t feel the same.
He told himself that was normal. Someone had been living here for weeks; the house had absorbed her warmth, her rhythm. It would fade soon enough.
He took his time walking through each room, half out of habit, half because he couldn’t help himself. The kitchen was spotless, cleaner than he’d ever kept it but the mugs in the cupboard were stacked differently, and that alone made his chest tighten a little. Her small traces lingered: the folded towel on the counter, the window slightly ajar where she used to let the morning air in, the faint sound of the wind chime she’d hung up for no reason other than it sounded nice.
And yet, that small difference, the human touch made the house feel less like home now that she was gone.
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, muttering something under his breath about getting too sentimental for his own good.
It wasn’t like him.
He’d been on the road half his life, surrounded by people who came and went. He’d learned to compartmentalize, to not grow attached to temporary things.
But the quiet tonight gnawed at him.
He moved into the living room, dropping onto the couch. The leather groaned softly beneath him. On the table sat a neatly stacked pile of mail, a few magazines, and a small note in Beta’s handwriting reminding him to rest. His eyes drifted to the far corner where the cats used to nap and the spot where Mr. Blue’s toys were scattered. They were all asleep now, peaceful, well-fed, cared for just as they’d been under her watch.
He should’ve felt content. Instead, he felt like something was out of place.
For a man who’d made a career out of noise, the silence was unbearable.
So he filled it with thoughts, her voice, the way she’d spoken about the animals with that soft affection that couldn’t be faked, how patient she’d been even when things got hectic.
And that laugh.
He could still hear it, the way it carried through the phone, light but genuine. It had disarmed him completely.
Axl leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, half to himself.
But his brain didn’t stop.
She hadn’t been impressed by who he was, not once. That alone had caught him off guard. She hadn’t looked at him like Axl Rose, the rockstar, just a man with two cats and a dog who needed looking after. She’d done her job without complaint, without fanfare, with quiet care that somehow reached through the screen and settled somewhere he didn’t want to name.
He’d never really thought about trust before, not like this.
Trust had been transactional, earned, kept close, often broken.
But with her, it had been effortless.
And that… scared him a little.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
The rational part of him tried to speak louder, it told him it was just gratitude, nothing else. She’d done well, and he appreciated it. End of story.
But the silence kept arguing back.
And deep down, he already knew which side was winning.
It took him two whole days to type the damn message.
Two days of pacing around the house, pretending to be busy with small things, sorting mail, playing Piano, half-watching old movies, when really he was just fighting the urge to reach for his phone. He‘d been thinking about it nonstop, about what he would say to you to not ruin this.
Axl wasn’t the kind of man who hesitated once he had made up his mind. On stage, in meetings, in any kind of negotiation, he was decisive — quick, sharp, certain. Years and years of performing taught him enough. But this wasn’t business, and it wasn’t a stage.
This was something that could look like what it really was: a need to see her again.
So he waited. Forced himself to.
He told himself two days was enough to look casual, enough time to make it seem like a polite thank-you, nothing else.
When he finally opened the chat, his thumb hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before he wrote:
„Hey, what‘s your plan for the next couple nights?“
His damn perfectionist mind made him read it five times before hitting send. It looked fine. Simple. Safe.
But as soon as the little “delivered” mark appeared, he cursed under his breath and threw the phone on the couch, like distance might somehow undo the message. He felt stupid, stripped of any confidence he‘d needed years to build up.
He didn’t even know what exactly he wanted from her: dinner, company, just… presence. Something to make this house feel alive again, at least that‘s what he told himself.
For the next ten minutes, he pretended not to care. Then he picked the phone back up.
And there it was, your reply.
You blinked at the notification lighting up your screen. His name.
Your heart did a strange little flip, excitement tangled with a hint of panic.
Your thumbs hovered uncertainly before you typed back:
„I don’t really have plans at the moment. I’m free most evenings actually. But I’m happy to adjust to your schedule, you probably have more going on than I do.“
You paused, biting your lip.
Was that too formal? Too eager? You deleted the word probably, then added it again, then sighed and hit send before you could overthink it another second.
The response came quicker than you expected, not instant, but close enough to make your pulse skip.
„That’s good. Was thinking we could have that dinner I mentioned. Just something simple.“
Your gaze lingered on the screen. Right Dinner, he really meant it.
It shouldn’t have felt like such a big deal, but your stomach twisted with nerves. You exhaled slowly, trying to calm the racing thoughts in your head.
Then you typed:
„At your place, right?“
A moment passed. Then another. Then your phone buzzed again.
„Yeah. Just here. Don’t want anything formal.“
You smiled faintly. Anything more would make you feel self-conscious.
Still, your brain refused to settle, so you typed:
„So… just casual? Nothing fancy? Normal clothes, yeah?“
This time, the reply came with a single word that somehow made you laugh out loud:
„Exactly.“ He typed his reply with almost trembling hands, hoping he’d guessed right about what you wanted. Part of him wanted to take you somewhere fancy, to show you how grateful he really was — but he knew you well enough to know you’d never let him go that far. And on top of that, it would’ve felt too much like a date, and he couldn’t risk overwhelming you.
You set your phone down, smiling to yourself, and whispered under your breath,
“Casual. Right.”
If only your heart would listen.
The sun had already begun to set when your phone buzzed.
It was a short message from him.
“Car’s on the way. Should be there in 20 minutes. See you soon.“
Your heart skipped a beat.
You’d told him earlier that you didn’t have a car, not that it was unusual for someone like you to not own a car but you hadn’t expected him to send someone for you personally.
You stared at the message for a moment, unsure how to respond, before finally typing back a simple “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.“
As you waited, you grabbed your sunglasses and jacket, checking the time again for no reason other than to have something to do with your hands.
When the dark car pulled up outside, the driver stepped out to open the door for you. You offered a polite smile and climbed inside, the cool leather seats swallowing you up.
As the car pulled away from your street, you glanced out the window, the familiar skyline fading into open road and trees.
Your stomach fluttered again.
You told yourself to relax, to breathe, to stop overthinking.
It was just dinner.
A simple thank-you.
But as the car wound through the quiet roads toward his mansion, the truth pressed in like the air before a storm.
You could lie to yourself all you wanted but nothing about this felt simple anymore.
The drive felt longer than you remembered.
Maybe it was because you were more aware of every turn now, the trees lining the winding road, the way the sunlight dipped behind them, throwing the world into that golden, slow-moving hour between day and night.
Your heart had started beating faster the moment the familiar gate came into view.
That same gate you’d passed through every now and then without much thought back then. But now, watching it open again, it felt different. Almost like stepping back into something you weren’t sure you had the right to miss.
The car rolled down the long driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. The mansion loomed in the distance, warm light spilling through its windows, familiar, yet somehow foreign now that you were no longer a part of it.
You pressed your palms together in your lap, trying to will your nerves into stillness.
It was fine. You’d got this. You were good at keeping it together.
Because if there was one thing you’d learned, it was how to wear calm like armor.
Even when you were burning inside.
By the time the car stopped, your heartbeat had steadied, at least on the outside. You thanked the driver with a polite nod and reached for your small backpack, stepping out into the cool evening air.
For a moment, everything felt exactly like it used to.
The scent of the garden. The quiet hum of the fountains. The way the front door opened just as you turned toward it.
And there he was.
Leaning casually in the doorway like he had been waiting there longer than he’d ever admit.
Jeans. A soft, dark crewneck sweater that somehow managed to look both effortless and deliberate. A few rings glinting in the porch light, a few chains resting against his chest.
You almost laughed at how him it was — that ability to make comfort look like style, to make casual seem like an art form. You’d seen it the last few times social media had actually shaped your For You pages to Guns N’ Roses content.
For a split second, neither of you said anything.
His expression softened when your eyes met, something gentle flickered there, warm and unspoken. Then, almost as if he remembered himself, he cleared his throat and gave a small smile.
“Hey,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar rasp that never failed to do something to your stomach.
You managed a smile back, matching his easy tone even as your pulse spiked.
“Hey yourself.”
You barely had time to process the sight of him before a blur of movement shot past his legs.
“Mr. Blue!”
The French bulldog barreled straight for you, his stubby legs sliding across the floor as he rushed into your space like you’d never left. You dropped to your knees before you even realized it, setting your backpack aside and meeting him halfway as he wiggled, snorted, and pawed at you with excited grunts.
Your laughter filled the air, that easy, genuine kind that burst out before you could stop it.
“Hey, buddy… did you miss me?” you murmured, rubbing his chest and pressing your forehead to his. He responded with a delighted little huff, tail wagging so fast his whole body seemed to shake with it.
Behind him, you heard Axl let out a quiet exhale, something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh under his breath. When you glanced up at him, he was leaning against the doorframe again, arms crossed, watching the reunion unfold with a softness he didn’t even try to hide.
And before you could even say something clever, two familiar meows echoed through the hall.
“Whiskey… Dijon,” you whispered, grinning as the cats trotted in like tiny shadows, meowing their complaints at once. Within seconds, they were brushing against your legs, tails up high, looking far more offended that you’d ever dared to leave.
Axl raised his brows, half-amused, half-bewildered.
“Well,” he muttered, “guess they missed you too.”
You glanced at him, your smile widening.
“Looks like it.”
For a moment, the air between you shifted — not heavy, not awkward, just… easy again. The warmth of the animals filled the silence that would have otherwise felt too loaded.
You finally stood, brushing fur from your jeans, and when you met his eyes again, he gestured toward the inside.
“Come on. Don’t let them hog you in the hallway.”
Stepping back into the house felt like stepping into a memory. The familiar scent, the quiet hum of music in the background, the way the evening light spilled over the hardwood floors — it all rushed back, hitting you with a sense of belonging you weren’t prepared for.
You followed him toward the living room, Mr. Blue trotting loyally by your side while the cats wove between your ankles. The moment you sank into the couch, they were on you, Dijon curling in your lap and Whiskey climbing onto the armrest beside your shoulder like he used to.
“Guess I lost my spot,” Axl teased lightly as he sat across from you. But there was something behind the humor, a quiet ache, a strange pull as he watched how naturally they settled around you.
You stroked Dijon’s soft fur, shrugging playfully. “They made their choice.”
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Can’t even compete in my own house.”
You grinned at that, and for the first time since arriving, the tension was completely gone.
Axl got up after a moment, walking over to the small bar by the wall. “What can I get you? Wine? Whiskey? Something stronger?”
You hesitated, still petting the cat. “I’m good with a Coke, thanks.”
He glanced over his shoulder, smirking faintly. “Keeping it safe, huh?”
“Just pacing myself,” you countered, and his low laugh rumbled across the room, that deep, easy sound that made your stomach twist.
When he handed you the glass, your fingers brushed for the briefest second. It was nothing, really, just an accidental touch. But it lingered, more than it should, and you both felt it.
You took a sip, trying to seem casual. The cats were purring. Mr. Blue lay stretched out at your feet.
And Axl sat back down, watching the scene unfold with a quiet realization that hit deeper than he’d like to admit.
His house had never felt this full when it was just him.
You were sitting on the couch, Dijon purring contently in your lap and Whiskey half-asleep on the armrest beside you, when you finally glanced up at him again.
“So,” you started softly, eyes flicking toward him as he leaned back in the armchair across from you, “how did it feel to be home again?”
He let out a low breath, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Weird,” he said after a pause. “Too quiet.”
You tilted your head, curious. “You don’t like quiet?”
“I used to hate it,” he admitted, voice low. “Back in the day, silence was just… too damn loud, you know? Couldn’t stand being alone with my own head. So I’d fill it with noise, people, parties, chaos, whatever worked.”
You watched him, surprised by the honesty in his tone.
He glanced toward the window, as though the words had come out before he could stop them. “But I’ve gotten better at it, I guess. Learned to deal with it. Doesn’t bite as hard anymore.”
You nodded slowly, feeling a faint ache in your chest for him. “Maybe you just needed time,” you offered gently.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Time’s a funny thing. It doesn’t fix shit, it just teaches you to live with it.”
You fell quiet at that, unsure what to say. There was something raw in the way he said it, like a truth he’d lived with too long.
But then he looked back at you, softening the edges of his expression. “Guess I don’t mind it so much now,” he added. “Having the quiet means I can hear the important things again.”
“Like what?”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “The cats. The dog. My own thoughts, when they’re not trying to kill me.”
The honesty in his tone made you smile, even as your heart tightened. “That’s a good start,” you teased lightly.
He smirked. “Yeah, well, baby steps.”
The moment eased again, the heaviness fading into something quieter, gentler. You were both smiling now, and it felt like a truce, not between you, but between him and the silence he’d spent a lifetime running from.
Your curiosity sparked again. “Did you ever miss touring then?”
He leaned back, eyes thoughtful. “Sometimes. I mean, there’s nothing like it. That noise, that energy, it makes you feel alive. But it takes everything out of you too. You‘re never still long enough to think.”
“And that was bad?” you asked softly.
“Used to think it wasn’t,” he said, his voice lower now. “Now I know better. Sometimes the stillness is the only thing that reminds you who the hell you are.”
You let out a quiet breath, watching him, not the rockstar, but the man beneath all that noise. And for a fleeting moment, you thought you understood him in a way few probably did.
He met your gaze and gave you a faint smile, almost self-conscious. “Didn’t mean to get all heavy on you,” he murmured.
“It’s fine,” you said gently. “I like hearing how you see things.”
Something shifted in his eyes then, something deep and unguarded. You couldn’t quite name it, but it made your chest flutter before he cleared his throat and stood up.
“Alright,” he said, voice brisk again, “enough of that. Time to eat. You like salmon?”
You blinked, thrown off by the sudden change. “You’re cooking?”
“Yeah,” he said with a half-grin. “Try not to look too surprised.”
“I just… didn’t expect that from you.”
He arched a brow, pretending to be offended. “What, I look like I don’t know how to feed myself?”
You laughed. “No, no — I just thought you’d have a chef or something.”
He smirked. “I do. But I don’t need one to make pasta.”
When he mentioned what was on the menu, salmon pasta in a creamy cheese sauce with tomato mozzarella salad, your face lit up instantly.
“That’s… actually perfect,” you said, genuinely delighted.
He looked up, a bit surprised at your tone. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “It’s like… my comfort food.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said with quiet satisfaction, turning toward the stove.
Naturally, you started to rise, brushing off your jeans. “Can I help?”
But before you even made it to the counter, he turned around, shaking his head. “Nope. You sit. You’re the guest.”
“But—”
“No ‘but,’” he cut in gently, pointing a wooden spoon your way. “I invited you for dinner. That means I do the cooking.”
You rolled your eyes but sank back onto the couch, pretending to be annoyed, though, if you were honest, you were kind of enjoying the view.
He moved easily around the kitchen, opening drawers and stirring sauces, all while keeping the conversation going. The space between you didn’t feel awkward anymore. It felt… alive. Warm.
At one point, Whiskey jumped onto the coffee table and started batting at one of the napkins. You laughed, gently shooing him away, and the sound of your laughter drifted into the kitchen.
“Whiskey,” you scolded playfully, “don’t you dare knock that down again.”
He looked at you like he understood, flicked his tail, and did it anyway.
“Asshole,” you grumbled before you burst into another laugh, shaking your head as Axl glanced up from the stove, grinning despite himself. Watching you laugh like that, surrounded by his animals, comfortable and bright, did something to him.
He turned back to his pan, stirring the sauce a little too deliberately.
You were still talking softly to the cats when he caught himself staring again. The light hit your face just right, your laughter mingling with the faint clinking of utensils and the sound of sizzling butter. It was a picture of calm domesticity he didn’t know he’d missed, or maybe never really had.
And for a split second, he let himself imagine it.
You there, just like that.
Everyday warmth in his living room.
Your laughter filling his quiet house.
Then he cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to focus on the pasta.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he called out, voice a little rougher than before.
You looked up, still smiling, and he caught the softness in your eyes, that same warmth that had started to unravel him from the moment he’d met you.
Axl wasn’t the type to half-ass anything, not even dinner.
You could tell from the way he plated the food, precise, deliberate, a quiet kind of artistry. The salmon glistened under a drizzle of creamy sauce, flecks of herbs perfectly arranged, the pasta twirled into elegant little nests. Even the salad looked like something out of a restaurant catalog, bright and fresh and balanced.
You stood there for a moment, momentarily forgetting how to move.
“Jesus,” you murmured, eyes wide. “That looks incredible.”
He smirked, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. “Told you I could cook.”
“You undersold yourself,” you said softly, stepping closer. “It smells amazing.”
He only hummed, clearly trying not to show how much the compliment pleased him. Then, without a word, he walked over to the table, pulled out a chair, and gestured for you to sit.
You blinked, a little taken aback by the old-fashioned gesture but you played along, letting him guide the chair in as you sat down. “Well, thank you, Mr. Rose,” you teased lightly, “didn’t know you had such manners.”
“Guess I still remember how to be civilized,” he said, his mouth twitching into a half-smile.
He reached for a bottle of white wine, chilled, elegant and poured a generous glass for you before filling his own. You recognized the way he handled it: careful, almost reverent. You could tell it wasn’t just any bottle, though he made no fuss about it.
You hesitated for a second, then accepted the glass. “Alright,” you said, lifting it slightly. “I won’t say no this time.”
“Didn’t think you would.”
The clink of glass against glass echoed softly in the kitchen. You took a sip, dry, crisp, but smooth and blinked in surprise.
“Wow,” you said honestly. “That’s… really good.”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Glad you think so.”
He didn’t tell you it was one of his best. You’d probably stop drinking if you knew what it cost.
When he finally sat down across from you, the two of you just looked at each other for a moment, the sound of the rain faint against the windows, the soft hum of music still playing in the background.
“This is…” You trailed off, shaking your head as you twirled your fork through the pasta. “You seriously cooked this?”
He arched a brow. “You think I ordered it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have blamed you,” you said, grinning. “Rockstars and kitchen aprons don’t usually mix.”
He smirked. “Guess I like proving people wrong.”
You took the first bite and practically melted. The sauce was rich and velvety, the salmon perfectly cooked. You let out a small, involuntary sound of delight that made him chuckle.
“That good, huh?”
You pointed your fork at him. “That good. Don’t act like you’re not proud.”
“I might be,” he admitted with a low laugh, eyes softening as he watched you eat. “You’re easy to impress, though.”
“Not really,” you said, swallowing another bite. “I just appreciate effort. And this—” you gestured to the table “—this is effort.”
He shrugged, taking a slow sip of wine. “Guess I just like doing things right.”
You smiled faintly. “I can tell.”
For a while, the conversation drifted easily, a little about food, music, travel. You could feel the wine warming your cheeks, your body relaxing, your laughter slipping out more freely.
Then the tone shifted, almost imperceptibly, when you said, “You know… you’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”
He looked up, eyebrow raised. “Yeah? What’d you expect?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Someone louder, maybe. Rougher.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back in his chair. “That’s what most people think. Hell, that’s what they want to think. Makes for better headlines.”
“You mean the whole ‘control freak, always angry’ thing?”
His jaw flexed slightly, but not in irritation, more in thought. “Yeah. That one.”
You hesitated. “You don’t seem angry.”
“I’m not,” he said, voice steady but low. “Haven’t been for a long time. But once people make up their minds about you, they don’t bother to look again.”
You nodded slowly. “That must’ve been… exhausting.”
He looked at you for a moment, then gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You learn to stop caring. I spent too many years trying to explain myself to people who weren’t listening anyway.”
You didn’t say anything, you just listened. And he noticed. He noticed how your eyes stayed on him, open and curious, no judgment there. Just quiet understanding.
That was rare.
And it hit him harder than he wanted to admit.
“I think people just needed someone to blame sometimes,” you said softly. “You were easy to blame because you didn’t play along.”
He laughed under his breath. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”
“But they don’t really know you,” you added. “Not like this.”
Something flickered in his gaze, something almost vulnerable before he looked down at his glass again. “No,” he murmured, “not like this.”
You both took another sip of wine. Yours went down a little too easily, and you could feel the warmth spreading through your limbs now, that fuzzy, pleasant blur that made everything a little softer.
“You’re quieter now,” he said after a moment, his tone lighter now, teasing. “Wine getting to you already?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Maybe a little. I’m not much of a drinker.”
“I can tell,” he said, that crooked smile returning. “You’ve got that look, the one where everything starts to feel a little too funny.”
You covered your mouth, giggling. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And it’s cute.”
You blinked, your breath catching for half a second. The word hung between you, unspoken tension curling into the air like smoke.
But he didn’t take it back.
He just watched you, calm and composed, like he was still deciding what to do with that truth.
You were definitely tipsy now, not drunk, not even close, just light-headed in a way that made everything feel softer. The edges of the world had blurred pleasantly, the wine warming you from the inside out.
When the last bites were gone, you leaned back in your chair and sighed contently. “That was… unreal,” you murmured. “I don’t think I could eat dessert even if you had one.”
He chuckled, looking mildly sheepish. “Good thing I didn’t make any, then.”
You laughed, resting your chin in your hand. “Guess it worked out.”
He smiled, that quiet, knowing kind of smile, then gestured toward the living room. “Come on. Let’s get out of the kitchen before I start cleaning.”
“God forbid,” you teased, standing up carefully.
You made your way to the couch again, shrugging off your flannel, the alcohol made your body feel so hot now and you settled in while he went to the turntable and put on another gentle track to fill the room.
Back on the couch, everything felt more comfortable, more natural. The second you sat down, the cats were on you again — Mr. Blue circling your legs while Dijon climbed halfway into your lap like you’d never left. You couldn’t help but giggle, gently scratching their heads. “They really haven’t forgotten me, huh?”
“Guess not,” Axl said from behind you, voice carrying that trace of warmth that made your stomach flutter.
He disappeared for a moment, then came back with another bottle, this one red and two fresh glasses. “Thought we’d try this instead,” he said, settling down beside you again.
You raised a brow. “You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”
He smirked. “If I wanted to, you’d be drunk already.”
You let out a soft laugh and accepted the glass. The wine was darker, smoother, rich with warmth and something deeper that lingered on your tongue. You hummed, pleased. “Mmh. I like this one even better.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said softly, smiling into your glass.
The conversation drifted easily again. About music, about life, about small, unimportant things that somehow felt important anyway. The wine loosened everything, words, smiles, tension.
You turned toward him fully now, folding one leg beneath you, your body facing his, Dijon giving a quiet meow of protest as you moved. Axl mirrored you almost instinctively. Your arm rested along the back of the couch, your hand holding up your head as you watched him.
And for the first time that night, you really looked at him.
The light caught in his hair, a soft light halo against the dimness of the room. His expression was relaxed but his eyes, those deep, searching eyes, still carried something heavy behind them. You saw the quiet in him, the loneliness he didn’t voice. And it hit you somewhere you couldn’t quite name.
He felt it too. The way your gaze lingered, steady and open, almost too much.
It stripped something from him, not in a bad way, but in a way that made him feel seen.
“What?” he asked quietly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
But the way you said it was too soft, too honest.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint purr from Dijon in your lap and the soft clink of the wine glasses when he refilled them again. The world felt very far away, just the two of you and the warmth of the evening.
He rested his arm along the backrest too, close, so close that his hand hovered near your arm. The distance between you was a breath. And without even thinking about it, his fingers brushed against your skin, light as a whisper.
You felt it immediately. The trail of warmth spreading across your arm, goosebumps rising in its wake.
He paused, waiting, maybe expecting you to pull away. But you didn’t.
Instead, you shifted, laying your arm fully along the backrest, wordlessly offering him more of your skin.
He took it as permission, or maybe as invitation and let his fingers move again, slow and absentminded, tracing small patterns against the soft inside of your arm.
Neither of you said a word.
Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t move. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t strange. It felt right, warm, intimate, grounding. Like something that had been waiting to happen all along.
When you glanced up at him again, his gaze met yours, steady, unguarded, with that quiet fire that made your chest tighten.
You gazed at him, wondering if he thought the same thing as you. You could practically see it.
You could feel it too.
But for now, neither of you broke the spell.
You just sat there, with the wine, the quiet, the warmth between you, both of you aware that something had shifted, even if neither dared to name it yet.
The silence stretched comfortably between you, only broken by the soft hum of the record player somewhere in the background.
You’d stopped thinking about the time. The wine, the warmth, the dim glow of the room, it all made the moment feel suspended, unhurried. His touch was light and almost distracted, but you could tell he wasn’t really thinking about anything else.
When he finally pulled his hand back to take a sip of wine, you felt the absence immediately, a strange little ache where his fingers had been.
You exhaled softly, trying to focus on the glass in your hands, but the thoughts in your head were louder now, all the things you’d been thinking since that very first call.
He looked so at ease right now, his posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the faint sound of the record.
You didn’t even realize you were speaking until the words were already there, leaving your lips softly.
“You know,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, “I think people get you wrong.”
He blinked, a slow, surprised glance in your direction. “Hm?”
You turned your glass in your hands, searching for the right words. “All that stuff people say about you, I mean, I’ve read it, I’ve heard it. I’m sure everyone has. But I don’t see any of that. Not in you.”
He gave a quiet laugh, the kind that wasn’t really amused. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t see much past what’s printed about me.”
“I know,” you said softly. “But I do. Or at least… I think I do.”
He looked at you again, properly this time. The shift in his expression was subtle but it was there, something flickering behind his eyes, guarded but curious.
You felt your pulse in your throat. The wine made it easier to speak, but also harder to filter. “I just think you’re a good man, Axl. For what it’s worth.”
The room felt suddenly smaller after that, your words hanging between you like something fragile and real.
He stared at you, not the kind of stare that demanded, but the kind that searched, quietly disbelieving. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if whatever he wanted to say got lost somewhere along the way.
You smiled faintly, nervous now that you’d said too much. “Sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous. I just, I know I don’t really know you that well, but the way people talk… it’s not fair. And I wanted you to know that I don’t think that way. You’ve been nothing but kind. You’ve been… real.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer.
Then he exhaled, a deep, quiet sound, like something loosening in his chest. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost rough. “You don’t know how long it’s been since someone’s said something like that to me.”
His words hit you harder than you expected. There was something in the way he said it, not grateful, not emotional exactly, but stripped of all that armor he usually carried. Vulnerable in a way that made your throat tighten.
You didn’t know what to do except smile, soft and genuine. “Well, then maybe someone should’ve a long time ago.”
He looked down for a moment, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass. Then he laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it, only disbelief. “You don’t even know me,” he said again, almost like he was trying to convince himself of it.
You tilted your head, watching him. “Maybe not everything. But what I do know? I like.”
Something broke in his expression then, a small crack, almost invisible, but you saw it. The slight tremor in his jaw, the way his shoulders fell just a little, the brief glimmer of something raw in his eyes before he looked away.
He cleared his throat, trying to mask the emotion tightening it. “You really shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmured, half to himself.
You smiled softly, eyes still on him. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll start believing you.”
You felt your heart stutter at that, your breath catching somewhere between a laugh and something deeper. You wanted to tell him to believe it, that you meant every word but you stayed quiet, just letting the silence settle again.
Only this time, it wasn’t heavy.
It was soft.
It was warm.
The red wine softened the room into something warm and hazy, a comfortable blur where the lines between you and him weren’t so sharp anymore. You felt loose, open, heavy in that pleasant way that came just before sleep. Axl, meanwhile, seemed steady, relaxed, yes, but clear-eyed and very present.
Dijon had been asleep on your lap for so long he felt like an extension of your body, warm, heavy, purring faintly. Axl was sitting beside you, turned slightly in your direction. Close enough for your knee to brush his when you moved. Close enough that you could smell his cologne every time you breathed in, that damn scent bringing your thoughts back to his hoodie.
And then Whiskey decided he needed attention.
He strutted across the backrest with all the confidence of a creature who owned the place, paused behind Axl’s head, and meowed dramatically into the room.
Axl snorted. “Alright, alright. Come here, you little dictator.”
He reached up to stroke behind Whiskey’s ears. The cat accepted it for maybe four seconds, then meowed again, louder this time. The cat moved again but didn’t step in between the two of you, no.
He hopped down, strolled with purpose, and plopped himself right next to Axl on the far end of the couch leaving Axl directly between you and the demanding little feline.
Whiskey meowed at you. Loudly.
You laughed quietly. “Oh, you want me?”
Whiskey meowed again. Absolutely.
So you shifted, leaning closer, reaching over Axl to scratch under Whiskey’s chin. The angle was awkward, but Whiskey immediately melted into your hand, tail quivering with contentment.
As you lifted your hips up to scoot closer to the cat (and Axl), Dijon just merely lifted his head, not bothering to move an inch and just looking up at what you were moving around for. He lazily dropped his head again but remained in your lap.
Your shoulder began to complain about the way you had to stretch, but Whiskey melted into your touch and refused to let you pull back. Every time you tried to draw your arm back even an inch, he chirped in protest. You groaned softly and leaned forward again, stretching over Axl to continue petting him.
You shook your arm out once, trying to ease the ache, before settling it back down, this time resting gently on Axl’s upper arm as you reached past him to keep petting Whiskey. You didn’t even fully register the contact. The wine, the warmth, the animals: all of it made the closeness feel natural.
Axl noticed, though.
He felt every point of contact, your arm, your thigh brushing his, the faint warmth of your body leaning closer than before.
You didn’t. Not really. The wine kept you blissfully unaware of little things like that.
But he noticed.
And he liked it more than he would ever admit.
Whiskey purred loudly, Dijon purred softly, and the whole room seemed to hum.
You shifted a bit more, adjusting your angle, and that’s when your neck gave a warning throb. You inhaled sharply, rolling your shoulders once, trying to shake off the tension.
It didn’t help.
Instinctively and without really thinking, you tilted your head, then let it settle onto the nearest comfortable place.
Axl’s shoulder.
“Is that okay?” you murmured, the words slow and soft, your head already resting there.
His breath caught just slightly.
Then, quietly: “Yeah. ‘Course it is.”
You let out a tiny, relieved sigh and relaxed fully, your body molding into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were warm. Soft. Completely unguarded.
Whiskey purred loudly under your hand, Axl’s arm brushed yours every time he moved, and the blanket pooled warmly around both your legs. Dijon shifted in his sleep, leaning a little heavier against you.
The couch felt smaller now.
Or maybe you simply felt closer.
Conversation faded into small murmurs. A hum from you. A quiet chuckle from him. Then quiet again.
Your eyelids kept drifting lower. You tried to keep them open, once, twice, three times but the warmth, the wine, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the soft heartbeat you felt where your head rested…
It all tangled together into this slow, sinking comfort you couldn’t fight.
You yawned, a tiny, sleepy sound that made him smile.
Just resting them for a second, you thought. Just a second.
A minute later, the weight of your body softened entirely, your hand slipping gently off Whiskey as your breath evened out.
Axl felt the exact moment sleep took you, the way your head settled fully onto his shoulder, the way your body melted into his side like it belonged there.
He didn’t move you.
He didn’t dare.
He just sat there, still and warm and quiet, listening to your soft breathing.
For the first time in a long time, the quiet didn’t feel empty.
prev part.〢next part.
can you do a subby axl?
at first even if he is horny he doesn’t want to let all out and he resist even making sounds but the he becomes a babbling begging sweaty mess
Thank you so much for this request!🌹 I was super happy to receive it, especially since it's my first one here. ✨
Since you didn't specify the ship, I got carried away by Izzy's chemistry with him, because I feel that Izzy is the only one who can disarm Axl like this. 🖤
I'll confess something: those who know me know that I prefer Izzy bottom a thousand times (my heart beats hard for him! 🤭), so I don't usually write Axl much in this dynamic. But I just can't deny a challenge, especially one as good as this one!
I sincerely hope you like the result as much as I enjoyed writing! ;))
Breaking Point- Axl x Izzy
Axl Rose doesn't beg.
That's the first rule. The one he carved into himself years ago, back when he was still a scared kid in Indiana learning that showing weakness meant getting beaten. Axl Rose doesn't beg. Axl Rose doesn't break. Axl Rose is a hurricane, not a leaf in the wind.
But Izzy Stradlin has a way of undoing him.
They're in Izzy's apartment — a tiny, stuffy place in Hollywood, with piles of records scattered on the floor, an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table, and the perpetual smell of old weed and burnt coffee. The rest of the band has scattered to whatever bars or beds would have them. Only the two of them are left, as always at the end of the night.
Axl is sprawled on the torn couch, legs spread, taking up space like he owns the world. Because that's what he does. Takes up space. Dares anyone to try and move him. His red hair is loose, falling over his shoulders, still damp with sweat from rehearsal earlier. He's wearing a thin white t-shirt and tight jeans, and his bare feet are propped on the edge of the table.
Izzy sits beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that Axl can feel the heat of his thigh, the smell of cigarettes and cheap soap that's so familiar. Izzy says nothing at first. He just lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, and watches Axl with those dark, patient eyes — eyes that seem to already know how this night ends.
"You're tense," Izzy finally says. It's not a question.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." Izzy's hand lands on Axl's shoulder. The touch is light, almost casual, but Axl feels like he's been shocked. His muscles tense even more. "You've been a bundle of nerves. Fighting with everyone. Screaming on stage like you want to kill someone."
"That's my job."
"No." Izzy squeezes the shoulder, his lean but strong fingers gently digging into the tense muscle. "Your job is to sing. You're using the stage as an outlet for something you're not dealing with."
Axl turns his face away, jaw clenched. He hates when Izzy does this — reads him like an open book, names the things Axl spends his whole life trying to bury. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, I do." Izzy releases the shoulder, but only to slide his hand to the back of Axl's neck. His fingers bury themselves in the red hair, at the base of his skull, and pull — not hard, just enough to tilt Axl's head back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. "You need something, Axl. And you've been avoiding asking for weeks."
Axl's heart races. He knows what Izzy is hinting at. He's known since that tension started building between them — in the looks that lasted too long, in the touches that lingered a second more, in the electricity that crackled in the air every time they were alone. But Axl Rose doesn't ask. Axl Rose doesn't submit. Axl Rose doesn't...
"I don't want anything from you," he snarls, trying to pull away.
Izzy doesn't let him. The hand on his neck holds him firm, and the other hand — Izzy was always ambidextrous, the son of a bitch — comes up to Axl's face, thumb running along his lower lip. "Liar."
The word is said without anger. Just a statement. And somehow that's worse.
"You do want it," Izzy continues, his voice low and hoarse, that drawn-out tone that always made something warm spill in Axl's stomach. "You want me to put you in your place. You want me to take you apart. You want to stop thinking, stop controlling, stop being Axl Rose for a few hours. You want to be just... mine."
Axl trembles. He hates that Izzy is right. He hates how his body is already responding — heat spreading through his chest, tingling at the base of his spine, his cock starting to harden inside his tight jeans. But he won't give in. Not like this. Not without a fight.
"You're delusional, Stradlin."
Izzy smiles — that rare, crooked smile that transforms his angular face into something almost dangerous. "Am I? Then why are you hard?"
The hand that was on his face slides down, quick as a serpent, and squeezes the bulge in Axl's jeans. The contact is sudden, firm, and it pulls a surprised moan from Axl — a sound he immediately tries to swallow, but it's already escaped.
"I'm not—"
"You are." Izzy squeezes again, his palm pressing against the throbbing erection. "I can feel you pulsing against my hand. Your body doesn't lie, Axl. Only your mouth."
"Fuck you."
"Maybe later." Izzy releases Axl's cock and stands up. For a moment, Axl thinks he's leaving, that the game is over, and relief mixes with a disappointment so deep it hurts. But Izzy doesn't head for the door. He extends his hand. "Get up."
Axl hesitates. Every fiber of his being screams at him to resist, to tell Izzy to go to hell, to storm out of the apartment. But his eyes meet Izzy's, and what he sees there isn't mockery, isn't challenge. It's patience. It's a silent promise: I'll take care of you, if you let me.
He takes Izzy's hand.
Izzy pulls him to the bedroom. It's a tiny room, with a messy single bed, a lamp casting yellowish light, and the unmistakable smell of Izzy — musk, cigarettes, and something undefinably him. Izzy closes the door. The click of the lock sounds loud in the silence.
"Take off your clothes."
Axl crosses his arms. "You first."
Izzy laughs — a low, almost affectionate sound. "Always so difficult." But he obeys. He pulls the black t-shirt over his head, revealing his lean, pale torso, faded tattoos, dark nipples. He unbuttons his jeans, lets them fall to the floor along with his underwear. His cock is half-hard, swinging between his legs, and Axl can't help but look.
"Your turn."
Axl grits his teeth. Every piece of clothing he removes feels like a surrender. The t-shirt. The jeans. The underwear. When he's completely naked, Izzy watches him for a long moment, dark eyes traveling over every inch of exposed skin.
"You're beautiful," Izzy says, and there's no irony in his voice. Just a raw admiration that makes Axl's face burn. "So beautiful it hurts. Now lie down. On your stomach."
Axl's heart pounds. He knows what comes next. He's known since Izzy mentioned putting him in his place. And every fiber of his being wants to resist — but he's tired. So tired of fighting. Of being the hurricane. Of never being able to rest.
He lies down.
The mattress is thin, the springs creak under his weight. He turns his face to the side, his cheek pressed against the pillow that smells like Izzy. He hears Izzy move around the room, open a drawer, take something out. Then the mattress sinks as Izzy kneels beside him.
"You're going to take ten," Izzy says, his voice calm, as if he's announcing the weather. "Not as punishment. As release. Every time you want to scream, want to curse, want to fight — you let it out. But you won't stop me. Understand?"
Axl squeezes his eyes shut. "Understood."
"Good boy."
The words hit Axl like a punch to the stomach. Good boy. He was never a good boy. Never good enough for anyone — for his stepfather, for his teachers, for the world. But Izzy says it like it's true, and something inside him breaks a little.
The first blow comes without warning.
SLAP.
Izzy's hand — not a belt, not an instrument, just his open palm — hits his right ass cheek. The sting is immediate, heat spreading through his skin. Axl bites the pillow to keep from moaning.
SLAP.
Left ass cheek. He doesn't moan. He won't moan. Axl Rose doesn't—
SLAP. SLAP.
Two in quick succession, harder. His skin is already burning. He sinks his teeth into the pillow fabric, eyes squeezed shut, body tense.
"You're holding back," Izzy observes, his voice dangerously soft. "That's not the deal. Let it out, Axl."
"I'm not—"
SLAP.
Harder, on the curve where his ass meets his thigh, where the skin is most sensitive. The sound escapes before Axl can stop it — a low, hoarse moan, torn from somewhere deep.
"There it is." Izzy strokes the hot, sensitive skin, fingers tracing the marks already beginning to form. "Again. Don't hold back."
SLAP.
Axl moans louder. Tears spring to his eyes, but he doesn't know if it's from pain or relief. Maybe both.
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
The last three are fast, relentless, and when Izzy finally stops, Axl's ass is on fire, burning, throbbing. But his cock — his fucking traitorous cock — is completely hard, crushed against the mattress, dripping pre-cum.
Izzy leans over him. Axl feels the hot breath on his ear, the brush of lips on his skin. "Look at you," Izzy whispers, his voice full of dark admiration. "So beautiful like this. So surrendered. And we haven't even started."
Axl wants to snap back, wants to curse, wants to regain some control. But the words won't come. Only a sound escapes — a weak, broken moan that's half protest, half plea.
Izzy pulls back and Axl hears the sound of something being opened — a bottle, probably oil or lube. Then Izzy's hands are on his ass, spreading him open, exposing him completely. Axl feels the cold air on his entrance and shivers.
"Relax," Izzy orders, his voice firm. "I'm going to open you up. It's going to hurt a little. But you can take it. You're strong."
Cold, slick fingers press against him. Axl holds his breath as one finger begins to push in — slow, relentless, making its way. The sensation is strange, intrusive, but not exactly painful. Izzy moves with a patience Axl didn't know he had, pausing with every inch to let him adjust.
"You're doing so well," Izzy murmurs. "So tight. So perfect."
Axl moans, his face buried in the pillow. He wants Izzy to stop talking. He wants Izzy to never stop talking. The words are like honey poured over his skin, sweet and suffocating.
A second finger joins the first. The burn is more intense now, a stretching that borders on pain. Axl arches his back involuntarily, a sharp sound escaping his lips.
"Shhh." Izzy strokes his thigh with his free hand. "You're almost there. Trust me."
And Axl does. That's what terrifies him. He trusts Izzy in a way he's never trusted anyone. And when Izzy curls his fingers and finds that spot inside him — that spot that makes his whole body explode with pleasure — Axl screams.
"There," Izzy says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Now you're ready."
The fingers withdraw, leaving Axl empty and gasping. He hears Izzy position himself behind him, feels the hot, wet tip of his cock pressing against his entrance.
"Breathe," Izzy orders. "And tell me what you want."
Axl swallows dryly. The words are stuck in his throat, fighting against years of pride and fear. But Izzy waits. Doesn't push. Just waits, the tip of his cock there, a promise.
"I... I want," Axl begins, his voice a thread. "I want you. Inside me. Please, Izzy. Fuck me."
"Good boy."
And Izzy pushes.
The invasion is slow but relentless. Inch by inch, Izzy makes his way inside him, filling him in a way that's overwhelming and perfect at the same time. Axl moans continuously, a stream of sounds he can no longer control. When Izzy is fully buried, he stops, letting Axl adjust.
"Look at you," Izzy whispers, his voice hoarse. "So full of me. So mine."
Axl can't respond. He can only feel. The weight of Izzy over him, inside him. The stretch, the fullness, the sensation of being finally, completely, where he belongs.
Izzy starts to move.
The rhythm is slow at first, deep, each thrust pulling a new moan from Axl. He no longer tries to hold back. The sounds escape freely — moans, pleas, Izzy's name like a prayer. He's sweaty, messy, red hair plastered to his face, tears and drool wetting the pillow.
"More," he begs, his voice broken. "Please, Izzy, harder, faster, I need—"
Izzy obliges. The rhythm quickens, becomes more brutal, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. The bed creaks, the headboard hits the wall, and Axl is beyond any shame. He's begging — senseless words, promises, Izzy's name repeated like a mantra.
"I'm gonna— Izzy, I'm gonna come—"
"Come," Izzy orders, his own voice tense, breathless. "Come for me."
And Axl obeys.
The orgasm hits him like a train. His body contracts violently, his inner muscles squeezing Izzy's cock in rhythmic spasms, as hot jets of cum dirty the sheet and his own stomach. He screams — a loud, broken sound that's pure surrender.
The sensation of Axl coming around him pushes Izzy over the edge. With a hoarse grunt, he buries himself to the hilt and comes, his hot release flooding Axl from the inside.
They stay still for a long moment, panting, sweaty, connected. Izzy finally pulls out and collapses beside Axl, pulling him close. Axl nestles into his chest, his body still trembling, his mind completely blank.
"Are you okay?" Izzy asks, his voice soft now, fingers stroking Axl's hair.
Axl takes a moment to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is a hoarse whisper. "Yes. I... thank you."
Izzy kisses the top of his head. "Always, Axl. Always."
And there, on that tiny bed, in the stuffy apartment, Axl Rose — the hurricane, the untamable, the one who never begs — allows himself to rest. Broken and reassembled. Empty and filled. Exactly where he belongs.
End.
