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petals-and-bullets · 4 years

Text

Insecurities

Pairing: Izzy x Reader

Word Count: 2326

Info: Anon request! ‘Hello if you have time could you please write a smut and fluff fic with Izzy where Izzy is feeling really self conscious like maybe he doesn’t like his nose or his appearance and he doesn’t think he’s good enough for the reader but she reassures him that he’s perfect 💕 ‘

A/N: Sorry for taking so long! This is my longest fic yet, so I hope you all enjoy it! 💕 💕

There were two things he missed about being high; the high, for one, but the confidence that seemed to surround him whenever he did a line. He could just walk around with no fear of its repercussions; he wasn’t afraid of anything. Hell, he was brave enough to start dealing, but as the years passed and the band started to get its claws in the music industry, he fell deeper into the embrace of the same thing he was dealing. It wasn’t until he saw maggots in a drawer full of screws that he realised he had fallen in too deep.

Perhaps becoming sober was a good thing. It meant a lot for one special person – you. He could tell in your body language that you were far more relaxed and actually happy that he was sober whenever he was with you. He wasn’t hidden in the darker corners of the house, his eyes drooping as his head lolled. It made you actually enjoy spending time with him, let alone actually have a chance to get to know him. The real him, not just the same Izzy that was plastered on the front pages of Rolling Stone and Kerrang!. The only thing that seemed to be a problem was Izzy’s libido. He seemed to be happy to kiss and hold you as close as he could, but he just seemed to avoid doing anything further than that. It… Frightened you. You immediately looked to yourself, wondering if he had stumbled across someone else while he was on tour and had fallen in love with them instead. Then, after a week or so of self-doubt, you realised it probably wasn’t you. It was the first time in years that Izzy was actually sober. Perhaps he just… didn’t have an interest in sex anymore.

You shook the hair out of your eyes as you finished drying the plate in your hand, the man in question sitting quietly behind you at the kitchen table. A cigarette hung loosely between his lips, and he was hunched over what seemed to be a magazine – and you knew immediately what he was reading. Since his departure, the media had seemed to hound him, egged on by the anger of Axl and Slash, who offered insults and unclear excuses for his leaving. You didn’t blame them; Axl had been one of Izzy’s closest friends since they were kids, and Slash and Izzy got along like a house on fire.

But Izzy had been collapsing under it all, and it wasn’t like he had woken up one morning and decided he’d had enough.

A sigh escaped you as you placed the plate in the cupboard, tossing the towel over your shoulder before you gently pulled the magazine away from him, your lips bowing into a frown at the rather unattractive photo they had used of him – it was probably when he was arrested for pissing on a plane. That wasn’t a pleasant experience for you to learn about, sitting in a police station at 2.30 in the morning in your pyjamas while listening to your boyfriend ramble and rave about how he hadn’t done anything wrong, and claims of drug-induced paranoia.

“Iz, baby, you don’t have to read this shit. It’s not important.”

“They’re acting like I’ve killed the band.”

“Let them. They’re upset and confused, and you said it yourself; Slash’s drug addiction and Duff’s drinking is going to kill them before the band itself dies. You’d only blame yourself for that, and then you’d be back on the drugs.”

You tilted your head as your boyfriend sighed, and you frowned before you moved to sit in his lap, gently brushing his hair from his face. Despite the tender gesture, he almost flinched from your delicate touch, and his face gave way to a grimace as if he suddenly couldn’t stand being touched by you. After a few moments of watching him, you sighed and got up, catching the towel that slid off your shoulder in the process.

“I’ll finish cleaning up,” you murmured, and you watched as he heaved a sigh and left the room.

Once everything was scrubbed clean and put away, then reorganised, you headed up the stairs with the full intention of having a shower and then heading to bed. The bathroom door was slightly ajar when you entered the bedroom, and you could faintly see steam slipping out through the crack; Izzy must’ve grabbed a shower while you were washing the dishes, you supposed, but you stopped at the sight of him hesitantly touching his nose and then the rest of his face. His brows were furrowed as low as they could go, and his lips curled into the same grimace that he showed whenever he was forced into an interview that he didn’t want to attend.

Then it hit you. The shying away, the avoidance of even talking about sex – his sobriety may have given you back your Izzy, but it also dragged up uncomfortable thoughts and insecurities.

“You’re gorgeous,” you spoke up, stepping into the bathroom and closed the door behind you. He looked at you with a raised brow, almost in annoyance, before he turned his gaze back to the mirror, swiping his hand over the glass to wipe away the condensation in order to glower at the pair of hazel eyes staring back.

“I’m not joking, Izzy. You are.”

“Y/N, darling, you don’t have to keep up the act. You can just admit you’re tired of me and go.”

“Izzy. Stop it. I’m serious,” you walked forward, and gently guided his hand from his face before you replaced it with your own, your fingertips dancing over his skin gently. His cheeks had filled out a little more, and his eyes weren’t as sunken as they had been in the past. Sobriety really did do wonders for him, you mused, before you allowed your lips to follow the trail your fingertips left. His cheeks were warm, and the soft sound of his breathing only lulled you into continuing your tenderness more, not even hesitating before you trailed your kisses down his sharp jaw and his neck, your hands moving to finish unbuttoning the blouse hanging loosely off his torso. Once your task was complete, you slid the fabric from his shoulders and let it drop onto the floor, only for it to be joined with his belt and jeans. Izzy seemed to have relaxed more under your ministrations, and his hands rose to grab at your hips gently, pulling you closer in order to press his own kisses along the bridge of your nose and your cheeks.

“… Still haven’t showered, you know,” he murmured against your skin, before he leaned down to press his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your perfume. It was one of his favourite scents; you smelled like home, like his mom, like everything that was right in the world. It was soothing.

“That can wait. Come on,” you responded, before you grabbed his hand and pulled him into the bedroom, your lips curved into a warm smile at the sight of a genuinely relaxed Izzy, and you guided him to sit on the bed before perching in his lap delicately. His hands slid up and down your thighs gently as you watched each other, not yet wanting to break the peaceful silence that hung in the air. After a few more moments of staring at each other, you leaned in and pressed your lips against his gently, your hands rising to grip at his shoulders as his fingertips wandered closer to your core.

The pair of you kissed slowly and tenderly, taking your time; after all, there were no more interviews, concerts, photoshoots, or tours to rip him from you. No, it was just the two of you in the dark room, the faint taste of tobacco staining his lips. He pulled away for a moment, his hazel eyes regarding your face curiously before he suddenly pushed you to lie back on the bed, his hands dragging the hem of your shirt up until he had pulled the cloth from your body completely. Sitting back, he tilted his head and smiled softly at the redness in your cheeks, only to blink when you reached up, wrapped your arms around his neck, and flipped him onto his back.

“My turn,” you whispered, and gently pressed a finger against his lips in order to ensure that he stayed quiet. After a moment, he raised a brow and parted his lips, sucking your fingertip into his mouth while you contemplated your next steps. It was rare for Izzy to let himself be under you, and yet you were there, straddling his hips and admiring the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Eventually, you slid your finger from his mouth and trailed it down his chin and neck, pausing when you reached his clavicle. After a moment, you leaned down and replaced your finger with your lips. He tasted just like you remembered, and you stifled a soft moan and you trailed kisses down his chest – and silently thanked everything in the universe for the fact that Izzy hadn’t dared to move and disturb your affections. Gently, you travelled further down his body until you reached his groin, your warm breath fanning across his skin before you smiled and pressed a delicate kiss to his hip.

“Just relax and let me show you how much I love you, Iz,” you murmured against his skin, looking up at him through your lashes before you parted your lips and licked a line across his thigh, stifling a snicker at the annoyed huff that escaped from Izzy at the fact you were avoiding the very hard matter at hand. Eventually, you pressed kisses across his skin until you reached his cock, watching his face intently as you licked a stripe up the underside of his length. His stifled sigh only urged you on more, and you gladly took him into your mouth as your hand slid up his leg to gently entangle your fingers with his. What was a gentle grip on your hand turned into a tight one, and what were gentle sighs and pleasured breaths turned into low moans and what could only be described as whimpers left his mouth, only for him to choke a little in shock.

“Socks!”

You sat up, and you were greeted with a pair of green eyes staring back at you, the owner having curled up on the windowsill. Huffing out a breath, you looked at your boyfriend and bit your lip to stifle a laugh, pressing your forehead on his hip as he scolded the cat, ushering her off the windowsill. With a disgruntled mew, she clambered across your back and jumped daintily down to the floor before she trotted out of the room.

“Well. There was our interruption from the gods,” Izzy joked, and you stifled yet another laugh before you sat back, running your fingers through your hair. After a moment of just watching each other, you leaned down and brushed your lips against his before his hand entangled itself in your hair and yanked your head closer to his in order to entrap you in a more bruising kiss. Unable to stop yourself, you climbed into his lap better and slowly slid down onto him, your fingers tracing his cheekbones once he finally released you from his wanton kisses. His breath fanned out across your face in slow, soft, pleasured pants as you rested your forehead against his.

For a moment, time seemed to slow for the pair of you as you slowly rocked your hips against his, his hands running down your back before he grabbed your ass, his fingers digging into the skin as he guided your hips faster before he was unable to stop himself from thrusting up into your heat.

Usually, the pair of you would be uttering words between you, panted out between kisses and moans, but you didn’t dare break the peaceful quiet that was occasionally interrupted by your moans and soft whines. After a moment, you pressed kisses across your boyfriend’s face, trailing them across his jaw and over his cheeks and nose, before you sat straight to watch the way his nose scrunched up every time you sank down onto his cock, and the way his brows furrowed in frustration as you teased him, slowing the movements of your hips until he let out a soft whine in protest.

“I don’t care what anyone says about you, Izzy. You’re my Izzy, and I love you,” you breathed out amid kisses, only to shudder as his hold on your hips tightened to the point of it being almost painful. He held you still for a moment before he started thrusting up into you, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss again before he took control of the pace, slamming his hips up into you in a punishing pace. Your breath caught in your throat and you were only able to moan out encouragements and praises for your boyfriend, tilting your head back as you tried to match his thrusts with your moans.

“Shit! Izzy! God, nobody else is like you-“ You panted out amongst moans, and you pressed further kisses against his cheeks.

“Just shut up and moan,” he muttered back, only to catch your lips in a bruising kiss again. It wasn’t long before you trembled against him as your release washed over you, only to let out a soft whimper as he thrusted into you one final time, releasing inside you.

As the two of you lay there, you on his chest, his fingers running through your hair, you mused softly at the fact that you knew this was the man you wanted to spend your life with.

“Izzy?”

“Mm?”

“I love you. All of you.”

#requests #izzy x reader #Izzy Stradlin #guns n roses fanfic #guns n roses smut #guns n roses #gnr fanfic #gnr smut #gnr oneshot #guns n roses oneshot #izzy x reader smut #izzy stradlin smut

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reallylonglies · 5 years

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Taylor Swift - Demon Hunter: Part 1

It was when she had me in the headlock that I began to wonder if I might have struck a nerve.

Was it something I said?

I thought back through everything I had said to her that day.

“You look nice today.”

Wasn’t that.

“Have you done something different with your hair?”

Pretty standard conversational fare, shouldn’t provoke this kind of reaction.

“Your boyfriend is a fire demon, and you need to exorcise him.”

I thought it might be that but then who can tell with teen girls, honestly?

“Why are you mad?” I asked her, or at least tried to ask her. My voice was a little strained because her elbow was tightening on my throat and her hair was hanging over my face so that every time I inhaled I got a mouthful of it.

“Why are you in my dressing room?”

Oh, yeah. Maybe it wasn’t even the fire demon thing, maybe I was just intruding. Suddenly it all made sense. Mystery solved. Case closed.

I made some strangled noises and tried to spit out a clump of blondeness but it wasn’t going to work. Country singers have big hair and now a good solid third of hers was clogging my airways. She was going to have to let me go if I was going to explain.

“You’re going to have to let me go for me to explain,” I whispered gently into her thoughts. It’s just mild telepathy, nothing fancy. I don’t have a nosebleed whenever I do it or anything.

She dropped me and shouted an expletive. It was uncouth, I was shocked and taken aback. You don’t hear that kind of language in the other realms.

“You can’t be shocked and taken aback, you’re the one who broke into my dressing room,” she shouted, her eyes had narrowed to thin slits of rage.

Perfect, I thought, we can use this.

“Use what? Who the hell are you?”

“See, this is why I don’t use the telepathy thing - once I get into the swing of it I start sharing thoughts I don’t want to and before long everyone knows where I’m going for lunch and there’s a queue for the burrito bar. It’s like inception. Suddenly everyone wants a burrito and I’m left at the back of the queue where the burritos are just wet tortillas filled with cold rice and the memory of beef.”

She kicked me in the face. She has really long limbs.

“I will admit I should have explained myself better.”

“Yes.”

She folded her arms and looked at me. There was an awkward silence before I realised it was now time to explain myself better.

“Have you ever heard of muses?”

“Like the Greek myth?”

“No, not the band. The Greek myth, you know, this is why my job has been hell since 1994… Oh, wait, you said myth didn’t you? That is the correct answer… That doesn’t happen often. Imagine if those muses were like the Greek myth except also they’re fire demons that possess men of influence and try to trick them into forming a global government of badness that will bring about the fall of mankind.”

“So not really like the muses at all then?” I liked her sarcasm, it was spunky, she’d need that in the hellscape. Demons love spunkiness.

“There are nine of them, plus assorted demons and servants. Can I move on to the good part?”

“Is that the part where you leave my dressing room before I call the cops?”

“No. It’s the part where I tell you that you, Taylor Alison Swift, are a Lightning Rod.”

They never react the way that I want them to. It’s not like telling someone they’re a wizard and they get to go to wizard school. Tell someone that and suddenly you’re like their best friend in the world: it’s all fun and laughter and shopping for owls. Tell someone they’re a kind of magical exorcist and the fate of the world depends on them and suddenly you’re the bad guy.

“Yeah, I’m calling security.”

“Wait, wait, wait!”

She paused, her hand hovering over the phone.

“Listen.”

She did, I saw her eyes, once angry slashes of rage, grow wide.

“What is that?”

“That’s me. You can hear me.”

“No, it’s like music. Like a melody.”

“It’s the sound of me disturbing the dimensions by being here, you can hear it because you’re a Lightning Rod, Taylor,” I always feel weird about this bit, sometimes they can smell us, sometimes they can taste us on the air, but every once in a million years there’s one that can hear it. Every one of us, demons, sprites whatever, we have our own little tune. We know each other’s, but Lightning Rods don’t have them because they’re technically mortal. It’s like having someone who hates the internet scroll through your Instagram and tut. I think that’s what it’s like. I don’t show up in photos so Instagram’s not really my bag. Stupid demon laws.

“What’s a lightning...thing?” she asked, her eyes a little misted as she concentrated on my tune.

“It’s a kind of exorcist. The muses are drawn to you. You’re like catnip...Demon-nip if you will.”

Her gaze snapped back to me, fire in her eyes again.

“What does that mean, am I in danger?” she asked. She didn’t sound afraid, more angry, like this whole thing was just some big inconvenience to her.

“No danger,” I said, “If you let me train you.”

“Ugh,” she sank into a chair, “Fine.”

********************************

New York, midnight. Rain falls.

He cracks open his hotel room door and stumbles in. He doesn’t feel good. Who would, in his condition?

“Hello John,” she whispers gently as the storm outside throws light across her face. She’s draped in a chair with it’s back to the corner of the room. The dress he left her in is gone, and she’s dressed all in black. A hood obscures most of her face.

“I thought I just…” his drunken vision swirls to the hotel door. His memory takes him back on a stumbling journey through the lobby, out into the street, crying girl in a dress.

“You left me to make my own way home, John,” she said. Her lips were blood red.

“How did you…” he was on the 20th floor. The elevator had taken ten minutes.

“I’m in good shape, John,” she looked at him, she was holding something silver and small. He wanted to look at her, and at the same time he wanted to close his eyes tight until she was gone.

“What do you want?” with a sudden wave of discomfort he realised how much she was scaring him, this wide-eyed nineteen year old girl whose heart he’d been toying with. He looked around the room, she’d taken the mirror off of the wall above the mantlepiece, it was leaning against the fireplace. She’d scratched something into its surface. “What did you do with the mirror?”

“Do you remember when he came to you? He said he’d help you and you shook his hand, and you never saw him again.”

“What are you talking about?” he didn’t like her voice, it sounded different: powerful.

“And even though you never knew his name, you always remember that after that encounter everything started going right,” she stood up, her clothes were wet from the rain. She held out her hand, her nails sparkled.

He didn’t want to touch her but something in him was compelled to reach out.

Before he knew what was happening he was on his knees, her arm was tight around his throat and she was pressing something cold against his head.

“Look up,” she said, wrenching his neck so his face was opposite the mirror. He did not expect what he saw. Two faces fought against each other on the surface of his skull. One moment he recognised his own deep set eyes, his square jaw. The next second, a different face, rounder, with odd, taught features seemed to pull against his skin and try to gain prominence.

“Get out,” she said, but as he tried to get away from her she wrenched his body back into position, “Not you John.”

She pressed the silver object harder into his skin, it hurt like hell. Something inside him was tearing. To his horror, the face in the mirror began to speak.

“You can’t beat me Swift, they’ve all tried - even Aniston gave it her best shot, he likes having me here.”

“Sure,” she said, her grip tightening, “But how many of them knew your tune.”

She whistled. Two brief, one long, and then two more quick notes. Rising and descending in pitch like a small hill of sound.

Something felt like it was splitting within him. Like his skin was pulling away from his whole body and falling backwards. In the mirror he watched as something horrifying emerged from his limp frame. She let him fall to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes.

“You’ve had your fun with him, asshole,” she said, and kicked the mirror hard. It shattered and burst into flames.

He woke in a cold sweat. The mirror hung above the fireplace.

A nightmare.

**************

“I just don’t think it’s fair to name-check him,” I said, reclining in an armchair. I liked her home studio. It was warm, my office in the Inbetween is cold and damp and the demon who sits next to me smells of actual brimstone.

“Why?” she said, strumming her guitar pensively, “His demon, his song. Doesn’t the world get to know what he did?”

“The demon or the man?”

“Both,” she stopped strumming and bowed her head, “Is it the muses that make them all assholes or do I have just awful taste.”

“Look,” I said, putting on my most authoritative voice, “You’re the best in the business. You’re a talented exorcist. I hear back at the office they’re even making a pamphlet about you for us to give to the next generation of Rods. You’ll be an inspiration.”

“That is not an answer to my question,” she said, putting her guitar back into its stand and spinning around in her chair, “I’ve heard of guys battling their inner demons but I never knew I would be the one that had to do all the vanquishing. It’s exhausting.”

I always came to watch her record the songs. There was something exciting about watching the lights flicker and the room shake as she trapped a demon in a melody. She was the first aural Rod since the invention of recorded sound, this innovation was helping us keep some real pieces of work at bay in her pieces of work.

As she hit that first line of the chorus I felt the ground quiver below me. Fabulous, a real spectacle. Something worth manifesting for.

#taylor swift #taylor #lover2019 #reputation #urban fantasy #demon hunter #fan fiction

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