honeymoon❦

Izzy Stradlin world dominance

[girlofconstantsorrrow]

Lana performing heart shaped box is my roman empire

[groupieelove]

Some of my fav quotes and a little behind-the-scenes author analysis from the Then as it Was (Then Again It Will Be) saga!

I'm a hopeless literary nerd...like I still annotate the books I read and write notes in the margins. I've been wanting to talk about some of my favorite bits from the anthology, and you guys will unfortunately be front and center for my yapping 😋

This one comes a little later in the first installment, right after a pretty dramatic sequence of events where Izzy is still vehemently denying anything having to do with his confusing sexuality. I noticed a pattern of behavior kinda quickly with these two; they almost always have heavy conversations only after the dust of a fight settles. It seems like they can't bring themselves to get 'real' with each other until a big blow-out happens, usually sprung out of feeling guilty. They have a habit of bringing each other to the point of snapping—whether it be sexually, physically, or emotionally. They're both extremely big personalities in their own regard: Duff with his people-pleasing nature, and Izzy with his impulsivity. When a conflict arises between them, they'll usually resort to quick tempers, even Duff, who isn't really a shit-starter. They bring the best out of each other musically, but simultaneously, they bring the worst out of each other emotionally sometimes. Like the quote says, the hits from Duff are always verbal. They're fucking fantastic at arguing, despite it all. But the funny thing about them (which I'm sure you guys as readers have noticed), Izzy has guilty conscience like a motherfucker. He'll drag his heels and mope and pout like a baby, but who's the one usually apologizing? Izzy. Always. He knows he fucks up (particularly with Duff) to almost biblical proportions—and itnevitably, he tucks his tail because of it. Poor boo-boo, he's always landing himself in the dog house.

Admittedly, this is definitely a bit of a self-insert passage. But to the same effect (and yes, this is absolutely parasocial behavior), I feel like I identify with Izzy in this aspect. We both have nihilistic tendencies, especially when faced with nothing but the quiet of your own thoughts. Everyone knows he left GNR because he was the only sober one, and he just couldn't stand being around all the bullshit and drama without a chemical buffer, but Izzy's also said that when he took a step back and really looked at what was going on, he started thinking that there's just gotta be more to live for than the routine he'd grown accoustomed to. Obviously, he loves music, he loves travelling, and he loves getting to roam like a nomad—but there's also something to be said for 'too much of a good thing.' And if there's anything about this band, they were known for indulging in too much of everything to the point it started to fracture them fundamentally. When I was writing this specific part, I was in a very confusing place personally. I really put myself in Izzy's shoes for a lot of this anthology, actually. I feel like we both were allowed to chase our dreams at a tender age, and when you finally get what you've been working for, it's like...okay...well, what the fuck now? How long until it goes up in flames? How long until I find a way to fuck it up, y'know?

In Spring Cleaning, there are a few hidden moments of Izzy's religious guilt peppered throughout, but it's definitely not as forward-facing and expanded as it is in Dirty Laundry. IRL, I have zero clue if the man has any sort of religious trauma; he once mentioned going to church with his grandparents and how fucking boring it was, but for the sake of this story, I decided just to torture him LOL. This excerpt is really the first mention of Izzy's relationship with God, and from this sentence alone, we can tell it's strained. At this point, we don't know why it's strained, but he has complicated feelings regardless. The concept of him only talking to God when he's stoned or afraid is so primal to me, like, he only resorts to something like that when he's vulnerable, or in a headspace that's clouded. Another self-insert moment (there are a lot of them): I got really fucked up when I was younger, and skirted the lines of an OD, and I remember at one point mumbling to myself, paralyzed by dread, 'Oh, God, please, no.' And that's what I mean by primal fear, and only talking to a higher power when you're cornered...kinda like Izzy is in this scenario.

Aghhh, it was so hard to choose between these two, but I personally love getting to write Axl/Izzy friendship moments. If we thought Duff and Iz had a complicated relationship with each other, phew...these two are another beast entirely. Not even in a romantic sense (even though I'm def an Izzaxl truther) but just from the standpoint of knowing someone from such an early age, and watching them turn into someone you don't recognize—that's heavy shit, man. These two quotes are from a really tender moment in the chapter; we have Axl attempting to console, albeit in a very Axl way. Even the mere mention of Indiana causes a physical reaction in him. Unlike Izzy, his ties to Lafayette are steeped in rot. Yeah, Izzy's got bad memories, as do most people who flee their hometown, but Axl? Billy? He's haunted by that place. He left because he wanted to, but he also left because he had to. If he didn't, who knows where his life could've turned—jail, death, etc... For as controversial a figure as Axl is, he's got deep scars, and he's a tough motherfucker behind all the temper tantrums.

Writing the Lafayette arc was a very layered process emotionally. Not only did I want to incorporate Izzy's discomfort with it all, but I also wanted to write what it would feel like from Duff's perspective. On one hand, we have this small, Midwestern family of a single mother of three boys who've tucked their entire lives away in the same house for the past fifteen years, and on the other, we have the youngest boy of eight who grew up a hop, skip, and a jump from a counter-culture epicenter. Very different upbringings, very different approaches to independence. Also, we have Sonja's grand entrance, and I wanted to make her the warmest maternal figure possible. I'm not a midwesterner, but I've been around enough down-south moms to know what their love looks and feels like. I absolutely treasure the little nuances between Iz and his mom. When you picture him, you picture standoffish, you picture attitude—but the second his mom enters the room, he literally shrinks himself to fit in her arms. No matter how hard he tries to run or outgrow his roots, he'll revert to Jeff every time.

Of course, I had to do the photo album humiliation. When you bring someone home for the first time, it's obligatory. But there's also something a little sweet in Izzy allowing Duff to see what he was before LA. It's vulnerability disguised beneath embarrassment. There are certain things I feel really maternal toward, and seeing baby photos of people is one of them. Writing from Sonja's perspective, I put myself in her shoes to see what it would feel like to witness your baby growing up. She's looking at photos of herself after labor, taken 24 years ago, cradling her firstborn boy. At the same time, said firstborn boy is now big and sitting right next to her. But no matter how big he gets, she still sees him as the little thing that she carried around for nine months and used to sing to when he was restless. Also, yeah. I feel like he definitely peed on a nurse when he came out. A truly Izzy entrance into the world.

Woof. Okay. So this is one of the heavier things I've written. A big aspect of Dirty Laundry is Izzy confronting the religious guilt he has. Not just about his relationship with Duff (which is the biggest no-no in the book), but also just the libertine lifestyle he's living in LA. He doesn't necessarily believe the things that the people around him have been indoctrinated to, but those hooks were dug into him at such a young age that it's hard to remove them without blood, y'know? You have to understand, in 1986, satanic panic was rampant. People believed if you played a KISS record backwards, the devil was speaking to you—now imagine what a really small, WASPy town would feel toward two guys kissing. That plays a HUGE part in why Izzy feels so cornered. His relationship with God has been completely soiled by the community revolving around the church, which is really disheartening when I think about it. A private relationship with faith can be such a beautiful thing, and it's such a shame that it could become so tampered with by outside forces. I also feel like anyone who's struggled internally about their belief, and how it goes against what they're 'supposed' to be doing, has asked that same exact question: Why would you punish me for making me the way you did? It's a very convoluted feeling, and the inner-turmoil that he's going through during this period was so palpable for me.

So, for the first quote, I leaned into the maternal feeling again. I'd imagine as a mother, it would never matter how difficult your child could be at times, or how annoying their peccadillos are, you'd still miss them brutally the second they set off to do their own thing. ESPECIALLY in a single-parent household. It must be an awful feeling turning around and expecting to see your baby's face only to find out he's miles away, and you never know when you'll meet his eyes again. We also see Sonja's everlasting gentleness really shine here. She can tell Izzy's in a funk, so she throws him a life raft she knows will cut through. Because even if he won't admit it out loud, Izzy still harbors that last thread of faith that God's out there, and maybe one day he'll make everything right, even if a part of him believes he doesn't deserve it. For the second quote, it's really me just being a total fucking dork. That's a line from Midsummer Night's Dream by Lysander in Act 1, and it paralleled Izzy's current feelings in that moment perfectly.

Chapter ten was written primarily from Duff's perspective, and I had a lot of fun poking around in his head despite him absolutely going through the wringer for the entire time. For the majority of both books, we learn that Izzy's big on not being tied down. He's weird with girls, he's weird with Duff, and he's even weird with the band if he starts feeling too smothered by them. But Duff, we don't really know how he perceives commitment until this moment. He has a sort of optimism about love, almost childlike. A part of him wants the picket-fence fantasy, and an even bigger part of him knows he could pull it off. But then there's this undercurrent, this pinch beneath his skin that starts to burn when he's stagnant for too long. Izzy gets the same one. And that's where Duff starts to fight with himself. Because simultaneously, he's also living the rockstar fantasy, and that elates him more than the family-man thing ever could (at least at this point in time.)

Ending on a bit of a sweet note, chapter twelve is one big fluff-fest. Like I said before, Izzy gets itchy when he's in the same place for too long. We see it in his relationships, we see it in his day-to-day, and we also see it even in the moments where he's settled into something comfortable, but still needing to go just so he doesn't feel trapped.

Duff, ever the patient sweetheart for Izzy's bullshit stunts, usually follows along with him (even just to keep a watchful eye because who knows the trouble he'll get himself into). Sacrifices, people. Love makes you do a lot of them.

I also really love the quiet moment Izzy allows himself as he watches the sunrise. This particular moment is kinda like the calm after the storm. He'd just gotten off the road, and now he's back in a place where things are steady after knowing and getting lost in nothing but turbulence for a long time.

He's having one of those grounding moments where he just breathes and reminds himself, 'I'm still a person. I'm still here. A lot of shit is still bigger than me.'

He's fine doing it alone, but the fact that Duff's there just makes a feeling of completeness. Like, 'okay, yeah, this makes sense and feels right.'

And continuing from the thought of Duff having to babysit him when he wants to run away, there are fragile moments like this one where he kinda gets it. They both get the same feeling of wanting to disappear when life gets too loud and crowded, but at least they want to disappear together.

BLEGH. BARF. SO CORNY. Love 'em, though. And I love you guys even more. Thank you for the continuous support and for reading all my babbling!!! 💋💋💋

[tripletalkinjive]

[groupieelove]

Move to the City

Chapter Thirty

Izzy Stradlin x F!Reader

Cross Posted on Ao3

Masterlist

Word Count: 4,666

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Izzy Stradlin x F!Reader, Slow Burn, Age Difference

A/N: A ride, a bar, a bet, and a lot of clarity.

Mojave Desert: Interstate 15, 1987

The Harley grumbles and throttles beneath you and Izzy as he sails through the long stretch of highway that’s bordered by absolute nothingness. Orange rocks, sand, canyons, and the occasional mile marker riddled with bullet holes are the only things ahead of you. You’re perched behind him, wrapped around his middle like a backpack with a full-face helmet strapped securely around your noggin. Every up and downshift of gears under Izzy’s boot makes you feel like you can be hurtled into a vast, unyielding desert horizon, left lifeless on the side of the road with nothing but the vultures to pick on your corpses. You tighten your grip around his waist as you take a sharp curve, your helmet bumping lightly against his shoulder. It’s not that you don’t trust him—well, maybe you don’t entirely—but the wildness in Izzy, that part of him that always seems two steps away from catastrophe, keeps you wary. The emptiness out here is oddly liberating, miles away from the noise of the city and the suffocating walls of the apartment. You take in the barren scenery thrashing by, the sky an endless expanse of turquoise without any clouds to shield your sun-kissed cheeks.

Izzy takes his hand off the clutch, reaching behind to squeeze your thigh in huYoud reassurance. The gesture is so casual yet grounding. Like he’s telling you without words, ‘Relax, I’ve got this.’ You don’t need to see his face to know he’s grinning. He’s been riding since he was a kid, he got his first bike when he was eleven. A shoddy, tinny-sounding 1968 Yamaha DT-1 crotch rocket. His dad bought it as a birthday gift, he found it at some garage sale in the neighborhood and presented it to his son with a less-than-pleased expression from his mother. You couldn’t pay Izzy to get him off that thing. He spent every day after school, and even some afternoons when he skipped class unbeknownst to his parents, whizzing around Lafayette, terrorizing its quiet, church-going inhabitants with wheelies and burnouts on the road that stretched through town. After the tour and receiving a hefty check from the record label, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that his first purchase was going to be a new hog. It’s the one hobby besides the obligatory insulating of his nostrils with powdery poison that offers him some resemblance of escape. When it’s just him, a V-twin engine under the seat of his pants, and the open road, he feels something parallel to freedom.

“We’re gonna stop soon! I know a place!” Izzy shouts over his shoulder above the roar of the motor and the whipping wind. You nod in response, not really hearing a word but trusting the tone.

In the distance at the end of asphalt, almost like a mirage exhuming itself through the heat waves wafting from the pavement, an old-style saloon and a squat, peeling motel that looks ripped out of a spaghetti western materializes. The bar’s sun-bleached wooden facade leans slightly, its warped planks and faded lettering reading "Rusty Spur" barely visible under layers of sand and time. A rusted-out pickup truck leans drunkenly in the dirt lot, its flat tire sinking into the ground, and a crooked hitching post stands out front, though there’s nothing tied to it except a limp strand of barbed wire. Izzy pulls up outside the hidden treasure, flicking off the idling engine and wiping the dust from his sunglasses. You dismount with a stifled grunt, your lower half growing increasingly saddle-sore from the two straight hours of riding. You shuck off your helmet and comb through tangled strands of hair with your fingers. A line of mismatched rocking chairs sit abandoned on the porch, one swaying slightly in the breeze like a ghost might have nudged it.

“How the hell did you manage to find this place?” You question as you examine the wooden building that seems to be dropped square in the middle of nowhere. Izzy hops off and puYous his hair back with his shades.

“Went driving out here and stumbled on it.” It’s fitting that he’d be able to find the one bar and by-the-hour bed in a 150-mile radius. “Thought we could grab a drink, maybe get a room for the night?” He offers as he snakes an arm around your lower waist, guiding you towards the batwing doors that rattle in the breeze. You hesitate at the threshold, timidly peaking your head inside the dive Youint. The smell hits you first— a concentrated cocktail of a scent. Leather, gas, hickory, and something oddly nostalgic like someone’s cologne lingering in an old jacket.  

The dim interior is lit by a hodgepodge of neon beer signs and stained-glass overhead lights. The wooden floorboards creak with every step, worn down to a shine in high-traffic areas. Scattered tables and mismatched chairs are occupied by a handful of patrons, all of them turning briefly to curiously assess the newcomers before returning to their muted conversations or solitary drinks. A jukebox leans against one wall, a song crackling faintly through its speakers, something twangy and heartbreak-laden that feels right at home here. Merle Haggard or Hank Williams, you can’t tell. The bar itself is a long stretch of scarred mahogany, its surface sticky from years of spilled beer and neglect. Behind it, a grizzled bartender poliYous a glass with a rag that looks no cleaner than the glass itself, his face unreadable beneath a scruffy beard.

Izzy strides up to the bar without missing a beat, plopping down on an old leather stool that’s adapted its shape to someone else’s ass. You slide in beside him, trying not to let your eyes linger too long on the faded naval tattoos that decorate the bartender’s forearms.

“What can I do for ya?” The man’s sandpaper voice grates out, thick with years of tobacco and whiskey.

“Two Budweiser’s please,” Izzy says with a forced polite smile. The bartender lets his cloudy eyes loiter on you for a moment, almost like he’s warring with himself if it’s worth the trouble or not to ask for ID. When Reagan raised the drinking age to 21 in ’84, almost every bar in the country lost half its clientele. He decides it’s not worth the hassle, pulling out two glasses and filling them to the brim from the tap. You gulp the hoppy beverage speedily, your throat feeling parched and dry from the desert climate.

“You cool with spending the night here? Rooms aren’t the fanciest but…” Izzy says over the rim of his beer glass.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s cool,” You say with as much feigned swagger as you can, still wanting to come off as cool and indifferent to Izzy. You still stumble to match his levity in a way that compliments his nature instead of dragging it down and dampening his fire with logistical thinking. He nods, happy that you’re on board with his spontaneous stealing of you for the weekend. His eyes land on a beat-up pool table tucked in the corner of the saloon, an impish smirk cracking the sides of his mouth. You know that look. He’s cooking something ill-behaved.

“You up for a game?”

You flick your gaze to the table, You’re not the best at billiards, but you get the gist of how it operates.

“Sure. We wagering bets?” You get a falcon-wing, cocked eyebrow in response.

“Hmm… how serious are the stakes?”

You ponder the terms. You could be really, really cruel— make him go streaking through the desert or something ridiculous. You drum your fingers on the sticky bar top in thought, an equally playful and mischievous grin spreading across your lips.

“I win: You gotta show me the song you wrote for me.” You propose, crossing your arms over your chest. Izzy’s smirk falters, the puckish confidence that usually lives in his eyes dimming slightly like someone turned down the volume on his arrogance. He rolls his eyes and takes another long sip of his drink. It’s not like he’s purposefully keeping the full thing from you, he’s just… nervous. The small tidbit he strummed for you over the phone was nail-biting enough and he had a substantial amount of Bacardi and Coke to help him limp through. He’s still tweaking it, working out the lyrics and chords that reflect the gentleness of your personality. It’s the first song he’s written for a girl that wasn’t sloppily put together or just a ploy to charm his way under a skirt— he wrote it for you, about you, because of you. Every word, every harmony, feels like a piece of his chest cracks open and gets put on display. The idea of you hearing all of that makes him want to squirm out of his skin. He huffs out a breath, rubbing the spot at the back of his neck where the muscles knot when he’s overthinking.

“Alright, fine. But if I win…” Izzy leans back, the stool creaking under his weight as he taps his fingers against his sweating glass, deliberately dragging out the pause, stalling for time. His smirk spreads wider, almost wolfish as his eyes glint with trouble. “You get a tattoo tomorrow.” He gambles.

You choke on your beer, snorting a few bubbles up your nose. You splutter, coughing into your arm. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” You say through a hacking fit.

“Yes.” Deadpan. Spoken through a half-smile.

“I’m not getting a tattoo.”

“Then I guess you better win.”

“Izzy—” He’s already slipped off his barstool, sauntering to the pool table and chalking his cue. You groan, scrubbing your face harshly, and follow him.

You grab your own stick, the weight awkward in your hands as you lean down to inspect the table like it might offer you some divine guidance. The balls are racked tight, the triangle snug against the felt.

“You break,” Izzy says, stepping back with an exaggerated bow.

You squint at him. “I plan on it.” You bristle, forcing yourself to appear confident.

Izzy grins, leaning casually on his cue. “It’s called sportsmanship. Plus, I wanna see how hard you can hit.”

You line up your shot, trying to mimic the poise of every bar regular you’d ever seen, but the tip of your cue scrapes against the cue ball with a painful thunk. The ball wobbles forward, kissing the edge of the rack and barely budging it. You drop your head against the lip of the table with a sigh.

Izzy barks out a laugh. “A scratch on the break? Damn, that’s impressive. I think you just invented a new technique.”

You scowl, your lips in a tight flat line. Izzy lines himself up, his stance fluid and relaxed. He sends the ball flying with a sharp crack. The rack explodes, sending stripes and solids scattering across the table. Two solids sink on his first hit.

“Solids,” he declares, circling the table like a predator with a smug smile. “Looks like you’re stripes, sweetheart.”

You lean on your cue, already regretting this bet as you feel a burst of annoyance in your chest. “Don’t get cocky. It’s a long game.”

“Mm-hmm,” he replies, tapping the cue ball with just enough force to send another solid rolling smoothly into a corner pocket. He straightens, spinning the cue in his hand like a baton. “I’m thinkin’ maybe a heart with ‘Izzy— greatest guitarist of all time’ written inside. Maybe right above that birthmark on your—”

You flip him off with downturned brows, your patience thinning with every snorted chuckle that comes from him. You’re not getting a fucking tattoo. Your turn comes, and you take your time lining up a shot on a stripe near the side pocket. You try to remember what little you know about the game— something about angles and where to hit the cue ball— you finally sink a couple. On the third hit, the cue ball kisses the edge of the 9-ball, barely nudging it forward. You let out an immature noise, stomping your foot in a petty display of frustration. You pout. Furiously. Izzy puffs out a laugh through his nostrils and circles the table to your side, hovering behind your shoulder.

“Don’t rub it in. I’m trying.” You whine, rolling a discarded cigarette butt under the heel of your sneaker.

“I know you are, baby. Here, lemme help…” He coos in a softer tone, almost sympathetic. He puts his cue aside and guides you over to the table, leaning you down with two palms pressed on your shoulders.

“First, you gotta relax, you’re gripping the cue like it owes you money.” You huff, but don’t bite back as he positions you in front of the next clear shot. His hands glide down to your wrists, letting him adjust your hold. He leans over you, his front pressed flush against your back. His voice tickles your ear when he speaks, his words mingling with a slow blues jam that plays over the bar speakers.

“Relax your shoulders, keep your bridge hand steady like this…” You stiffen at his proximity, still unaccustomed to being so overtly touchy in public with so many prying eyes. The side-eye glances from the other patrons aren’t helping.

“Since when are you a pool shark?” You quip dryly, trying to keep the upper hand despite feeling a flush creeping up the back of your neck at his closeness. Izzy can tell you’re getting fidgety. He smooths a hand over the length of your spine, tracing the rivulets of your bones and rubbing warm circles above the waistband of your jeans. Not enough to be overtly sexual, but enough to convey the message that it’s not casual.

“Knock it off…” You can feel the smirk on his lips, you don’t even need to look at him to tell.

“You’re sexy when you get all bossy.”

“Izzy, I swear to Christ—”

“Take the shot. Aim for the edge of the ball and hold your breath when you shoot.”

You suck in a breath, closes one eye to focus in on the target, pull the cue back, and crack it forward.

11-ball sinks into the corner pocket without hesitancy.

You straighten, looking over at Izzy who’s slowly clapping in a mock impressed manner.

“Oh! Look who decided to wake up and play.”

You try to bite back the proud little smile that’s pulling on the edges of your mouth. You shove his shoulder, but he catches your wrist pulling you into a lazy embrace. “Shut up…” You mumble, an endearingly familiar blush on your cheeks. Izzy rests his grip on your waist, looking down at you with a full-teeth smile.

“Never. You love it.”

It takes an hour and a half to get down to the eight ball. Between Izzy not-so-subtly missing shots he could’ve easily made and you attempting to sink your own without any more help, it takes you until the sun goes down before the final one. It’s Izzy’s turn, the ball sits in a clear path that leads to the back right pocket. You worry your bottom lip as you perch yourself on the corner of the table. He’ll make it, no doubt. You’ve guzzled two more beers in the time it took to get to this point, slowly accepting your fate of permanently painting your virgin skin with ink that you can’t fully decide if you want or not. You’re not completely turned off by the idea of tattoos, Izzy’s got one on either bicep; an American traditional rose and dagger on his left, and GNR’s band logo surrounded by knives and flowers on his right. You’ve traced the edges and lines of them a hundred times. But on yourself? It seems so… everlasting. What if you like it one week, and completely abhor it the next? It's not like you can just wash it off in the sink.

Izzy lines himself up for the shot, his eyes flickering to peer at you at the other end of the table through threads of his bangs. He pauses. Deliberating. He strikes the cue, and it cracks against the edge of the eight ball. It rolls toward the corner, but ricochets off the felt and avoids the pocket completely. You knit your eyebrows and hop off the table.

“Absolutely not, you missed that on purpose!” You argue, not thrilled with your impending loss of the game but still wanting to earn your win fair and square. Izzy shrugs with an exaggerated sigh and chalks the end of his cue.

“Did not. Now’s your chance for redemption, lil’ lady.” He totally missed it on purpose. He just can’t stand when you get that look on your face— like a goddamn kicked puppy.

You put a hand on your cocked hip, staring over at him inquisitively. Your gaze flickers between the billiard table and Izzy sipping his beer indifferently, leaning against a bar stool as he waits for you to make a move. You grumble out a muttered, “Alright, fine.”

You square your shoulders and line up your shot, remembering Izzy’s earlier aggravatingly correct advice to hold your breath and keep yourself steady on flat feet.  

You pull back, hit the cue square in the middle, and the eight ball rolls forward. Almost like it’s taunting you, it teeters on the lip of the pocket once, twice, three times before falling in with a clunk. You snap up straight with wide eyes, whipping your head in Izzy’s direction. He spits out a low whistle, clapping lazily as he rises from his seat.

“Good game, McKagan. Well played.” He drawls with a slothful smile. You have triumph glowing all over your face, but suspicion slithers onto your features.

“Why did you let me win? I would’ve held up my end of the bargain.” You frown.

“I didn’t let you win, you won. Full bragging rights.” He smiles, plucking a cigarette from the pack he had tucked in his rolled sleeve. He places it between your lips and flicks a lighter at the end. You suck in a deep drag, blowing the smoke upwards. “Guess you’ll get to hear the song sooner than I thought.”

You smirk, the smoke curling around your fingers. “Guess so…”

—

One beer turns into two. Two turns into four. Then beers turn into rum and sodas, and then you and Izzy transform into red-faced, snickering, heavy-footed idiots singing off-key and dancing badly around the saloon. Around 9 o’clock, Izzy stumbles up to the bartender who’s been watching you two fall all over each other for the past hour, and slurs out, “H-Hey, man… can I get a room for the night?”

“One bed or two?” Izzy looks over at you who’s swaying on your feet at his side. He nudges your ribs with a boyish giggle.

“One, please. Heart-shaped and vibrating if ya got it.” Izzy says through a poorly concealed chortle. You snort into your glass as you knock back the rest of your drink, quite tickled by how unimpressed and jaded the burly man behind the counter looks. He sighs and slides a key across the bar.

“Ice machine is by the side of the building, try not to smoke in the room, it’s got bad ventilation.” Izzy gives him a mock salute, hooking your arm through his own and dragging you in the direction of the motel that’s connected to the bar.

The temperature has dipped considerably lower. The season is inching toward the middle of winter, and the desert is unforgiving in its weather. You shiver and clutch Izzy closer as you stagger to your room. Much like the saloon, the entire space feels frozen in time. Encapsulated in amber as a relic from the 60s with ripped floral bedsheets and peeling wallpaper that’s quite an offensive color on the eyes. The bedside table lamp flickers like it’s trying to keep you company in the barren landscape and the ancient radiator hums a low frequency as it struggles to warm the space. You slam the heavy door shut with a dramatic swing of your arm, kicking off your sneakers haphazardly and feeling the shag carpet under your toes that has distinct track marks from the repeated shuffling of past occupants. You’re too drunk to hesitate before flopping down on the musky mattress that squeaks horribly under your bulk, the frame sounding like it’s one dead-weight drop away from collapsing. Izzy does the same after chucking his keys, wallet, and cigarettes on the nightstand, crumpling beside you with a heavy exhale.

“If this place gives me crabs I’ll key your new bike.” You slur, feeling like you’re riding a roller-coaster despite being supine, staring at the water-stained ceiling.

“I’ve slept in worse; we’ll be alright.” Izzy props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with hazy eyes and a face that feels too warm. Your hair fans behind your head like a halo and you stare back up at him with half-lidded eyes that carry so many silent words, The thin bridge of your nose is speckled with sun-gifted freckles and your spit-wet lips hold a pinkish shade that Izzy seems to fantasize about. Fuck, you look like an angel.

“You’re so goddamn pretty, you know that?” Izzy mumbles, his words seeming to slip through his mouth much easier thanks to the $100 worth of drinks he ingested. You squirm under the praise.

“Stop…”

“M’serious— love looking at this fuckin’ face,” He grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him as he squeezes your cheeks in his grip. You swat his hand away with a heavy palm. Too much attention. Too much of his concentration feels like a vice press on your chest.

“You’re drunk.”

“Y-Yeah, so? Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” He brushes some strands away from your eyes, silently appreciating the Venus that’s allowed him to associate with her again. He starts to feel that guilty pit in his gut again, he tries to bury it beneath blow, booze, and ignorance. It always comes out when you two get like this.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers lowly. You screw your face up in confusion.

“’Bout what?”

“What I did…” He chokes on his words; he wants so desperately to just be transparent with you. “Before I left for tour.”

You avoid his gaze, focusing your attention on tracing the flower embroidery on the comforter with your fingers. You’re still trying to move past it, to work through it, and just move forward with him… but the wound is still there, it’s just wrapped in loose gauze.

“It’s in the past, Iz,” You’ve picked up some of his skills of evasion, not wanting to dwell on the previous damage— no matter how painful. You still feel it. That word. You just refuse to say it, not after what happened last time. He rests his heavy head in his palm, still looking down at you as he wraps a fray from your denim jacket around his finger tight enough to turn it purple.

“I know it is, but still… feel guilty.” He peeps meekly, wanting to fidget and crawl out of his skin at how much of a pansy he feels like for talking about his feelings. You reach up and tug on his nose ring playfully, almost like you’re trying to shake him from the confines of his own mind and break the film of tension slowly casing you.

“C’mere…” You coax gently, tilting your chin up in silent request for a kiss. Izzy happily obliges. He keeps his eyes open, watching how your irises twitch slightly beneath the lids with every peck. It’s slow and tentative, Izzy’s hand resting on your cheek as you tangle your fingers in the silver chains that dangle from his neck. You’re breath hitches when he pulls back, your lips still tingling from the contact. You don’t move away. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him closely with a small smile as if you’re seeing him for the first time in a long while.

“Izzy…” You start, your voice lulled and soft. The way you say his name— weak but heavy with something unspoken— pulls at his chest and makes something inside of him stir.

He swallows hard, unsure of what he’s about to hear. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment, not now, not when things feel like they’re finally starting to make sense between you. But he can’t ignore the weight of the past or the vulnerability that’s always swimming in your eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about… everything,” You continue, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric of his shirt. “About us. What happened before… what we’re doing now.” You meet his gaze, your eyes searching his with an intensity that makes his heart pound against his ribs. You always looks at him like you’re able to see through every piece of armor that he’s built for the last twenty years with x-ray vision. Every cinder block that he’s formed around the mushy, puny underbelly of his psyche seems to crumble under the wrecking ball of a fucking teenager. Nobody sees him like you do. You realize if you want whatever you’re doing to work, you can’t keep pussyfooting around reality. You can’t keep kicking the can down the road and hoping it lands the way you want. You’re grabbing the reigns and praying to God you steer this horse in the right direction.

Izzy feels a wave of guilt ripple through him again. He knows he’s not the most reliable guy, hasn’t exactly been the easiest person to trust, but what you have now feels too real to ignore, just like it did before he skipped town. He takes a breath, leaning down to kiss your forehead softly, his lips lingering against your skin.

“I know I fucked up. I don’t even know if I can make up for it, but I need you to know that…” He trails off, suddenly unsure how to continue. The weight of his words feels heavier now, like they matter more than they ever did before. He wants to say it, but the words feel caught in his throat like a fishbone.

You close your eyes, your fingers curling around the edge of his jacket. “You don’t have to keep apologizing,” You say, your voice low, steady. “I don’t need that from you. I just need you to be here. Now. With me.” That’s all you want— for him to be present. You don’t want the doped-up, opaque fascia of Izzy hidden behind smoke and mirrors; You just want Izzy.

He feels a knot loosen in his chest, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself feel something real. Not synthetic, snorted, smoked, or shot. He feels. He lets himself feel you—your warmth, your presence, the way you’re not pushing him away despite how much he deserves it.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice raw, vulnerable in a way he’s not used to, but it feels right. “I’m here, babe.”

You lie there in the quiet of the room, the only sound the hum of the radiator and the distant howling of the wind outside. It’s a fragile, fleeting moment, but it feels like a promise.

Izzy’s hand finds its way back to your face, tracing the line of your jaw as he gazes down at you. “Do you want me here?” It surpasses the literal sense— it means do you want me in your life?

You nod, your eyes still half-lidded as you look up at him, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. There’s no need for more words. Not now. The room, despite its seedy, rundown state, feels like the safest place in the world.

You press your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breath. “Yeah, I want you here.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t wanna leave.”

[tripletalkinjive]

It's been a while since the last time I was constantly active on tumblr, this was one of my fav fanfic and it hasn't finished when i left. I don't remember which chapter i last read, but i do still remember the plot, my fav part, and how much i love this fanfic. I decided to reread again from chapter 1 to the previous chapter i haven't read. This is soooo exciting, life's been a mess these past months and i totally need this. Though i noticed the last update was in january which is SO long ago, i hope it doesn't discontinue and the author will post again.

[hammettsulrich]

duff stuff !! my favorite beanpole

[vanilladolllies-deactivated2024]

i love this song :p

[iluvaxlrose]

if I saw him in person I would probably moan

[rockmagazine]

could you repeat that

[iluvaxlrose]

are you feeling slutty today ,duff?

🎀💌🎀💌🎀

[gnr-fashion]

Izzy & Hats

Questionable Bonus:

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

Pls pls pls do pt 2 of the izzy fic 🙏🙏🙏

Warnings: Smut, I wrote this over a week so if you see anything that should be warned let me know bc I forget what I wrote

Part 1

After months of your sneaking around, bringing Izzy over, staying out for weeks at a time and staying with him, you weren't sure how much longer it could last.

Axl wasn't big on school or anything in Indiana, really. The second he got the chance he got up and left, taking you with him because there was no way he was leaving you with your parents.

Izzy came as well but got himself an apartment away from Axl, which worked out perfect for you.

You told Axl that you'd stay back home and let him handle working and such unless you absolutely had to get a job. Axl liked this arrangement because it meant he knew where you would be and he could keep you safe.

You were safe but he didn't know where you were and you were none too concerned with him not knowing you were in Izzy's arms while he rearranged your insides.

While Axl was busy, on the phone or off with some band, you'd go out for 'groceries' and walk down to Izzy's apartment.

The raven haired man would be waiting for you on the couch and when you entered the room a smile would spread across his face.

You'd come and sit next to him, he'd shower you with love, littering kisses all over your face while his hands roamed your body.

He'd pull you into his lap, his hands would slide up your shirt and grope your chest before he'd pull it off and kiss your collarbones. Your hands in his hair, tugging on it gently as his hands worked their way down to your pants, pulling on the waist band, sneaking in and rubbing your clothed clit.

But your little meetings never ventured far past heated making out. A few times he'd fingered you, making you a whiny mess on two digits pumping in and out of you, hitting a spongey spot you never knew of, but that was it.

Months passed with this being your little secret. Axl wasn't oblivious to your outings, question how you'd leave for groceries so frequently and come back with nothing. He knew something was up and he asked you about it but you played innocent and he wanted to believe you.

It was late and you'd snuck out, it was stupid and you did a terrible job at it but you were so needy. You just couldn't sleep and no matter what you did you just couldn't get off, nothing Izzy taught you to do was working, nothing was as good as him.

You needed him.

When you knocked on his front door he answered, lidded eyes and shirtless, his pants sagging and showing off his happy trail of dark hair. Again, when he saw you he smiled, but it was just as tired as he was.

"What are you doing here..?" He mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

You opened your mouth to say something but nothing came out. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him. He didn't hesitate and kissed you back, pulling you into him. Tasting him only made you needier and you were moaning into the kiss.

A window shut loudly down the alley between the two buildings, both you and Izzy looked to the noise but didn't see anything. "Shit, come inside." He pulled you inside, keeping his eyes down the alley until he finally closed the window.

He sat you down on the couch, holding you in his lap. "What are you doing here?" He asked again, cupping your face in his hands, those same hands that had you seeing stars not long ago, the ones you remember tasting like you, how he'd lick your cum off of them afterwards.

"I couldn't do it." You mumbled, kissing him again and moving to straddle his lap.

You could tell he wasn't hesitant to stop the kiss but he pulled away. "Couldn't do what, darling?"

A pout pulled at your bottom lip and you could feel your eyes watering. "Anything..." You muttered. "Please, need you so bad." He had a sympathetic look on his face as he held yours, caressing your cheek with his thumb in a soothing motion.

"Aw, you couldn't get off?" You shook your head, moving closer to him and accidently rubbing against his thigh. You let out a soft gasp and your body moved on its own, grinding down on his thigh again and again.

Izzy chuckled lowly at your sad attempt. "Aw, you really couldn't do it? What about what I told you?" You shook your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. He held you close as he stood up and carried you to his bedroom.

He laid you down on his, quickly ridding you of your clothes. This was the first time you'd ever been completely naked in front of him, or anyone for that matter. The lights were off which helped you some, but Izzy still had his pants on as he hovered over you.

"We'll go slow, alright?" You nodded, finding comfort in his voice.

"Keep talking." You said softly. You weren't used to being this vulnerable, not even when that dude walked in on you both the first time. This was different.

Izzy kissed your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and kept trailing kisses down your neck between sweet words while he got his pants off. "Tell me if you want to stop." He said, you could feel his tip against your hole. "I mean it, alright? I'm not doing this if you're not comfortable."

"How could anyone be comfortable naked with someone?" You asked with a small smile.

"Don't worry," he said, "you get used to it, and one day we'll have a house and you'll be begging me to walk around naked." You laughed at his comment but it was cut off when he pushed into you. It was an unfamiliar stretch but a welcomed one. "You're so beautiful like this." He mused.

He kept whispering praise in your ear and littering your face in kisses but he wasn't moving. In hopes of encouraging him to move, and fulfil your needs, you rolled your hips and a sting shot through you.

"Don't do that." He muttered. "Let me do the work, you just sit pretty, alright?" You nodded, a pout on your lips. "Wait a minute so you get used to it" You nodded again and let him continue to shower you with love.

He slowly pulled his hips back and then pushed into you again, watching your reaction carefully. When he saw the look of pleasure spread over your features he did it again and again until he had a steady rhythm set.

The room filled with your soft moans mixed with his grunting and groaning. "Fuck, you feel so good." He'd say, smiling sweetly down at you.

"Faster." You hummed. "Please."

He shook his head. "Darling, take it easy, it's your first time and I want to make sure it's good." The thought was cute but you just couldn't take it, you came here for one thing and one thing alone.

"I've cum before, just do it, please." You couldn't help but at the 'please', a hint of begging already in your voice.

He leaned down, closer to your ear. "Tell me if you want to stop." He said and bit your earlobe. His hips moved faster, instead of rolling against you it was a snapping motion.

The new angle he was thrusting into you with had him hitting a spongey spot inside you that made you see stars. "Hah! Right there, right there!" You moaned out, much louder than you probably should've given the thin walls. In the moment you didn't care and just wanted more.

Izzy did as you asked and kept with that pace, hitting that same spot over and over again. You were already clenching around him, sucking him in deeper. "Fuck, Izzy! Izzy, m'close, m'so close!" Izzy was too focused on not hurting you and putting your pleasure and comfort over everything else to respond.

All he wanted was to close his eyes and fuck you like you deserved, to call you a whore and degrade you so he could watch you cry. All he wanted was to hold you close and make sure no one ever hurt you, the thought of you crying because of anyone made him inexplicably angry, never mind if it was his own doing.

"So pretty, taking all of me like-" a dirty slut, he thought, "that." He grunted, barely censoring himself. He didn't want to admit it but he was getting close himself, it had been so long since he'd been with someone like this and it was hard to contain himself. "Fuck, gonna make me cum, darling."

You could feel that knot that stuck in your gut the past few hours coming undone. Whines and whimpers left you like a second language, spewing out of you as Izzy went impossibly faster.

Finally, your breath hitched and your eyes rolled back as you came around him. Izzy pulled out and finished himself off, cum spurting onto your stomach and chest.

He kissed your cheek and forehead as he fell onto the bed beside you. "Fuck," he breathed, "should've done that sooner."

You looked up at him, shifting closer. "Why didn't you?"

Izzy laughed. "I thought Axl would kill me."

Just then there was a loud banging on his front door. "Izzy! Izzy, get your ass out here!" Axl yelled.

"Fucking Duff." Izzy grumbled as he got out of bed. He through on his pants and headed to the door.

You followed shortly after, pulling one of Izzy's shirts on.

Axl was going off on Izzy for tainting you or something, for lying to him about everything, and when he saw you he stomped in and took you by the wrist. "Come on, we're leaving." He paused just outside. "And you!" He said. "You are not going near him again, understood?"

You glanced back at Izzy and shook your head. "No, I don't see what's wrong." You said simply.

"Are you kidding?" Axl demanded.

"You like Izzy, I like Izzy a little more-"

"Only a little?" Izzy teased. You shot him a look.

You looked back to Axl. "Why does it matter? You know he's not gonna do anything bad, if anything this should be better for you."

Axl chewed his cheek and let go of your wrist. "Fine." He said. "But, I swear, if you do anything-!" You waved your hand in his face and walked back to Izzy, wrapping your arms around him. Axl groaned and left.

Izzy picked you up, letting you wrap yourself around him like a koala as he carried you back to bed.

[https-letti]

@imizzystradlin someone's a little tired

[psycholoverbtch]

Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty

[groupieelove]

Move to the City

Chapter Twenty Three

Izzy Stradlin x F!Reader

Cross Posted on Ao3

Masterlist

Word Count: 2,435

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Izzy Stradlin x F!Reader, Slow Burn, Age Difference

A/N: Oof. More drama. That Duff story is unfortunately true, he talks about it in his book.

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987 

He stills completely, still sheathed inside of you. You both stare at each other like idiots, frozen in a space that immediately turns the mood sour and acidic. From what you can see of his face that’s partially illuminated by the TV, he looks even more dumbfounded than you.

“I… I said I love you.” You croak again, this time more feeble and dry-mouthed. 

“Oh. That’s– that’s sweet.” He replies with a forced half-chuckle, his face a little more blanched than usual. He leans down again to hide in the crook of your neck and resume his strokes, but you place your palm on his chest with furrowed brows, forcing him out of you.

“You’re joking, right?” You say aghast with a curled lip. He opens and closes his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, sitting up on his haunches and avoiding your eyes. The silence permeates the living room, even Izzy, always quick-witted and fast with his tongue doesn’t know how to slither his way out of this.

“I, uh–” He clears his throat awkwardly and rubs the back of his flushed neck. Tucking himself back into his pants, his zipper shutting and his belt fastening closed is almost a comical metaphor for how this entire night is playing out. His eyes flicker to your face, hoping you’ll be the first one to change the uncomfortable subject. But when all he gets in return is a sharply arched brow and a facial expression that screams, ‘Go, on. Explain yourself out of this one, dickhead.’ he lets out a shaky breath and swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“I don’t really know what to say.” You narrow your eyes at him, your mind running on overdrive and desperately trying to keep up with your mouth. You muster a scoff and throw your legs over the side of the couch, slipping your panties and shirt back on with a cold shoulder turned to him.

“Uhm, I don’t know, Izzy… maybe say it back?” You spit sardonically, feeling torn between being completely mortified and enraged. You whip your head in his direction when you’re left with eerie silence. He’s staring down into his lap, wringing his hands nervously. This is so uncharacteristically like him. Befuddled and totally discombobulated by your unnerving display of vulnerability. He peers at you from behind his bangs, silently chewing on the inside of his cheek as you both stare at each other incredulously. 

“I think I should head back home.” He mutters in a barely audible tone, rising from the couch and slipping his boots over his heels. The embarrassment churning inside of you is quickly overtaken by anger, bubbling to the surface and turning your ears hot. You’ve spent the last few months baring your unadulterated personalities and bodies to each other, and this is how he verbalizes his thoughts for you? 

“What?” It’s your turn to throw out the sharply asked question. Izzy sniffs and shrugs his shoulders like he didn’t just put your heart under the sole of his shoe and squashed it until it was nothing but atoms.

“Yeah. Think I’m gonna– uh, head back to my apartment.” He doubles down, acting clueless. It only serves to light the fuse within your head.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, what’s wrong with you?” It comes out louder and more pungent than before. He turns his head to look at you with the nerve to show an expression of confusion.

“With me? That’s like, heavy shit you just dropped on me.” His words hold more bite to them as well, the atmosphere quickly darkening in the living room. You both can feel the nasty brewings of an argument beginning to froth. You give him a face you’re sure mimics a gunshot victim, your chest might as well feel the same phantom pain. “I was just being honest. Do you–” You start to fumble over your words, the tightening of your throat and the dropping of your stomach signaling the imminent tears threatening to spill from your waterline. 

“Do you not feel the same?” Your voice breaks off into a whisper but it carries the same weight. Izzy just stares down at the carpeted floor, shifting his weight to either foot and gripping his car keys in his fist so tightly his knuckles turn white. 

“I… I don’t know.” He whispers it, but it feels like someone drops a brick on your skull from a skyscraper. Everything you’ve been through, every shared commonality, laugh, tear, and kiss… and he doesn’t know? Was it all just a fucking farce? For what? You can feel the wetness roll down your cheek before the bubble in your throat bursts with a sob.

“Just get out of here, Iz. Just fucking go home.” Is all you can muster with a slight shake of your head and a vague raise of your hand to the door. You can't even bear to look at him. His brows pull together slightly at the sight of you slowly unraveling, a flicker of empathy washing over his face for the briefest of moments. He goes to say something again, but his words fall flat. He quietly turns on his heels and leaves the apartment with his head pointed to the floor. The sound of the door shutting behind him is the only sound you can register before your knees buckle and you fall into a heap. You feel like your sternum caves in, the shuddering and sharp inhales of breath reverberate throughout your entire frame and bounce off the walls of the apartment. Every soft and tender moment that you’ve split with Izzy flashes behind your eyelids like a montage just to make you suffer. Doubling over on the floor you curl into yourself, unable to move, unable to breathe. You wish Duff was here.

***

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987 The Next Morning

“Yeah, I just don’t feel very well. Is it alright if I stay home just for the day?” You squeeze your hand into a tight fist to brace for the impending negative answer. It’s not a complete lie. You do feel like shit. You barely got a few hours of sleep between the muffled crying into your pillow and Duff stumbling back into the apartment around 3 am, knocking over the side table with his gangly legs in the process. You don’t have the energy to pretend today, you’d rather just sulk in private.

“No problem, Ms. McKagan, the office is slow this week anyway. Rest up!” Mr. Owens says warmly, still treading on eggshells around you since the entire Brent debacle. He’s still not fully convinced you won’t try to sue the company for negligence. If it gets you out of work for the day to lick your wounds then by all means, you’ll exploit it. You end the call with a forced friendly smile and thanks, your cheery visage immediately dropping the second the landline rests in the cradle. You’re exhausted. Your eyes burn from all the tears and your face feels so puffy like you downed an entire shaker of salt. Even swaying on your feet in the kitchen takes too much effort. You pad heavily back over to the couch, but before collapsing you look over to Duff’s room. It isn’t until now that you realize that apart from Duff and now without Izzy, you feel completely alone. Tiptoeing over to his door you knock gently, poking your head into his space.

“Duff? You up?” You don’t expect an answer. He was out doing God-knows-what or who all night. Surprisingly, his grainy voice answers through the dimly lit room.

“Yeah?” You inch the door open with your shoulder, your nostrils instantly invaded with the overwhelming scent of Duff. It smells like home. You don’t know why you crawled over to him, it’s not like you can tell him why you’re all torn up. 

“Can I… never mind, it’s stupid.” You cut yourself off before you can dig yourself into a deeper hole. He’s probably the last person who wants to hear you whine about boy troubles. Especially considering the boy in question is one of his best friends. You hear him stir in the sheets, sitting up slightly. His blonde mop atop his head ruffled and sleep still clinging to his eyes.

“What’s up?” He motions you back over to the foot of his bed. Once again you find yourself with the truth attempting to break through your teeth. A part of you wants to desperately come clean, to lift the burden of secrecy and tell him, ‘Hey, your rhythm guitarist kinda dumped me last night. Any advice?’ But you fear that might open an entire can of worms that you aren’t exactly ready to crack. You’ve learned that Duff can be a little oblivious at times, but he’d be straight-up dense to not realize that you and Izzy have become somewhat conjoined at the hip. You inhale a shaky breath and curl your fingers at your sides, the raw emotions still simmering inside of you starting to climb their way back up your throat. 

“Can we just– talk for a minute?” You say timidly, mentally trying to dance around any real information coming out. He shifts again in his sheets, twisting his upper body to inch open the blinds. You both wince at the sudden assault of sunlight that comes pouring through. He looks just as rough as you do, most likely for different reasons.

“Yeah, ‘course. C’mere.” He beckons softly, patting the empty space beside him. You regress back into your 9-year-old self, curling by his side and pulling the blankets up to your nose. He props himself on the wall and by his silence alone you can tell he’s surveying your cadaver-esque appearance. 

“What’s goin’ on?” You wish you could tell him. There’s a beat of hesitant silence.

“If I told you I met a guy… would you freak out?” He instinctively pulls a face but tries to mask it.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Is he the reason you’ve been so weird lately?” You let a weary laugh push through your nostrils. Yeah. You could fucking say that. 

“Yeah, kinda.” He sighs and lets his head thunk against his postered wall. He knew something was going on. You’re barely home anymore, and when you are, you’re either pouting wordlessly with headphones on or sleeping half the day away. It’s strange seeing the receiving end of a girl’s broken heart, it makes Duff reconsider some of his recent and past escapades. 

“What’s his name?” You feel your chest tighten and the cogs turn in your brain. 

“Doesn’t matter. I think it’s over anyway.” The words burn your throat and lips like you just shot straight whiskey. “What happened?” You don’t even know.

“I told him I loved him.” Duff sucks a sharp breath in through gritted teeth. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s wincing. 

“I’m guessing he didn’t take it too well.” Your brows pinch together slightly and a stray tear slips down your temple, you rub it away on Duff’s pillow before he can notice. The slight stunt of your breath and a few sniffles answer his question. He lays a warm palm on the crown of your head, petting gently.

“M’Sorry, kiddo.” He huffs, allowing you to burrow further into his sheets to hide. Out of all the emotionally naked moments you’ve had with Duff over the years, this feels the rawest. 

“I just thought he felt the same, I guess.” You bleat raspily, holding onto the remaining strands of composure you have. You’re too tired to sob anymore. 

“Did I ever tell you about the girl I was with in high school?” Duff questions, brushing some greasy hairs from your reddened eyes. You shake your head weakly, you’ve only heard whispers about her. You weren’t too concerned about your older brother’s lady friends at the ripe age of ten.

“You might’ve been too young to remember her, but we were together for a while. I was really, really into her. Like– thought I wanted to marry her typa shit.” You chortle, the thought of Duff settling down anytime soon seems implausible, let alone when he was sixteen and humped anything that had a pulse. 

“Remember when I went on that short tour with one of the punk bands for a few weeks? I told you I was going to military boot camp to fuck with you?” You shoot him an annoyed glance from the corner of your eyes, yes, you remember that vividly.

“I was genuinely fucking worried. I begged Mom not to send you away and she had no idea what I was talking about.” Duff laughs and bumps your shoulder with his own. You crack an actual smile for the first time in hours.

“Well, anyway, I went on the tour. When I came back all of our friends were acting really weird around me. Like they knew something I didn’t, finally, after a couple of days she told me that she cheated when I was on the road. I was fuckin’ crushed.” You frown slightly, fiddling with the blanket frays between your fingers as you listen. You remember a period of time when you were younger when Duff didn’t leave his room for what felt like weeks. You never realized that was why. 

“Sorry that happened.” You peep flatly, not knowing what else to say or where he’s going with this little story. 

“My point is the only way you grow from shit like that is to live through it. Yeah, it sucks and it hurts right now, but unless you let yourself experience it, you won’t mature from it.” You hate how easily he drops poetic shit at random. You appreciate it, but it’s grating to know that he’s still your guiding older brother. You lean your heavy head against his bony shoulder, exhaling a long, languid sigh. 

“Thanks… for being here for me still. M’Sorry I’ve been cagey the last few weeks. Just trying to figure my shit out, ya know?” He drapes an affectionate arm over your frame and squeezes lightly.

“I’m always gonna be here for you. You know that. And if I’m not and I’m being a dick, feel free to kick me in the nads.” Another natural laugh escapes your mouth. It feels refreshing. 

“Wanna get breakfast? I’m feeling IHOP.” Duff offers, hoping to distract you from whatever maelstrom is fermenting in your brain.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here for a while.”

[madamsixx]

The caption is self-explanatory

[duffsmckagan]

Izzy from the 2000s doesn’t get talked about a lot.

[tripletalkinjive]

rare picture let's goooo

[only-cat-memes]

[blaumeise]

Izzy as a cat.

[greeneyezblackheart]

OMG, IZZY! 🥺

Bless his precious little heart! 😭😭😭

(Taken from the bio Last Of The Giants: The True Story of Guns N Roses by Mick Wall)