Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pumpkin when will we be fed with more writing, we are starving 😖
Soon, hopefully very veryyyyyy soon !
I appreciate that Youre waiting for me to post again, it truly is an amazing feeling knowing you have people who enjoy what you write, so thankyou for that 🫶🏼
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
he’s not the type to run a bath or whisper sweet things while stroking your cheek
but he’s not cold
his care is quiet — in the way he holds you after, one arm thrown lazily over your waist or the way he pulls the blanket over both of you without saying a word
sometimes, he lights a cigarette and just watches you in the dark, his thumb running circles on your hip as if he’s grounding himself through your skin if you shift closer to him, he’ll let you
if you need something, he gets it — no questions, no fuss
B = body part
on you: your hips
the way they move
the way they curve beneath his palms
whether you’re walking across the room in nothing but his shirt or grinding against him in bed, it’s always your hips that pull his attention
he holds you there when he’s taking his time, grips you hard when he’s losing control, when you ride him — like he's trying to memorize every rhythm you make
on himself: his hands
scarred knuckles, callused fingertips, veins like thin cables running under the skin
he’s aware you watch them — sliding a pick, flicking a lighter, curling around your throat
he likes their effect, how a simple drag along your thigh can feel like a threat and a promise
C = cum
Izzy’s possessive about it in subtle ways
he doesn’t say “I want to come inside you”—he just does, like it’s his right
he finishes deep with a low grunt, his hands digging into your skin, his body heavy against yours
sometimes he pulls out and lets it drip across your thighs or belly, watching like he’s claiming territory
he likes the mess. the proof. he’ll run a finger through it absently, then slide it into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours
D = dirty secret
he likes keeping you marked
not in obvious ways — no bruises you’d have to explain — but in places only he knows to look
a bite on your inner thigh
fingertip-shaped shadows at your hips
scratches down his back that match the ones he left on you
sometimes he’ll catch sight of them later, when you’re changing or stretching and you’ll see it — that flicker of pride, of ownership, like he’s reminding himself you’re his
E = experience
more than you could ever count
Izzy’s past is full of half-naked girls in back alleys, bathroom stalls, motel beds, and dressing rooms
he’s not proud of it — just honest. but with you? it’s nothing like that. his experience makes him calm, confident, in control — but never lazy
he doesn’t need to ask what makes you moan. he knows. he listens with his hands. and he never gives all of himself at once — he leaves you wanting, addicted
F = favorite position
he loves you in his lap, facing him — your knees on either side of his hips, your chest pressed to his
it’s not about speed
it’s about feeling every movement, every shift of your body
his hands stay on your back, holding you in place while he rocks up into you, making you take every inch
he likes how close it keeps you, how your breath mixes with his, how he can kiss you between every thrust — slow, deep, and impossible to escape
G = goofy
Izzy’s not goofy — at all
he’s got a dry wit and a half-smirk that could make you melt but he doesn’t joke during sex
he gets serious when he's turned on — focused, intense
there’s mystery in the way he looks at you, like he’s seeing something deeper than just skin
if you laugh or get awkward, he won’t shame you — he might kiss your cheek or tug you back down to him
but when the clothes come off, the game ends. he’s real then. raw.
H = hair
messy, always. on his head, his chest, down below — he doesn’t trim much, doesn’t style, doesn’t care
it’s all soft, dark, and natural. you’ll find strands of his hair on your pillow, in your sheets, clinging to your thighs after he’s gone down on you for what felt like hours
he loves when your hair’s wild too — tugged, fanned out on the bed, tangled between his fingers. clean-cut isn’t his style. he wants you ruined
I = intimacy
Izzy isn’t izzy to get close to
even when his body’s pressed flush to yours, he feels like a mystery
but when he lets his guard down — when he really touches you — it feels like the earth stops spinning
he doesn’t say he loves you during sex but he shows it in the way his lips linger on your skin, the way his voice breaks when he moans your name, the way he slows down right before he finishes, just to look in your eyes
with Izzy, intimacy is rare and sacred. he doesn’t give it to everyone — just you
J = jack off
Izzy does it often — usually when he’s away from you
tour buses. hotel rooms. studio nights alone
but he’s not just getting off — he’s missing you
he thinks about the way you taste, the sound you make when you come, the way your eyes roll back when he hits just the right spot
sometimes he’ll call you after, his voice low and rough, not saying what he just did — but you’ll know
K = kinks
power play
he likes being the one in control, but it’s never theatrical — it’s in the way he pins your wrists above your head and whispers what he wants
begging
he’ll get you right to the edge and stop, just to watch you beg
public risk
not full-on exhibitionism but the thrill of someone seeing or hearing
mild breath play
a hand on your throat, a whisper in your ear — nothing dangerous, just intoxicating
sensory kink
he loves when you're blindfolded or when he can overstimulate you slowly
also i think he is into plugs especially in the public
L = location
Izzy doesn’t care about comfort
he likes the heat of the moment
a quiet corner backstage
the backseat of a car with fogged windows
the floor of his apartment with a record spinning in the background
he also loves the romance of a crumbling motel room — paint peeling, sheets thin — just him, you and nothing to prove
M = motivation
sometimes all it takes is you saying his name in a certain tone
other times, it’s the way you touch his arm or roll over in bed and press your body into his
he doesn’t show lust obviously — no wide eyes or groans — but you’ll see it in the way his jaw tenses. the way he gets very still, just watching you, deciding how badly he wants you
and then he moves — slow, steady, like fire catching on dry wood
N = no
he’s not into humiliation, pain that crosses a line or anything performative
if it feels fake, he’s out
Izzy’s turned on by connection, even if it’s raw and dirty
he’ll respect every boundary without needing to ask twice — his style is slow consent, the kind where you say yes with your body and he reads it like a map
O = oral
he likes going down on you but prefer receiving
although he will spend ages between your thighs, fingers slow and patient, tongue deep and methodical
he likes making you come more than once — pulling back, watching you pant, then diving in again
receiving? he leans back, mouth parted, fingers in your hair
doesn’t say much — just stares down at you like you're the only thing in the world. he’ll let you take your time, groaning low when you make eye contact
loves pushing himself deep into you and usually just grabs your hair and shows you how you should do it
P = pace
Izzy’s sex is slow and deliberate
he’s not a jackhammer — he doesn’t need to be
he knows how to grind. to push deep and stay there
but when he’s jealous, drunk or starved for you, it gets rough — fast thrusts, sharp grips, panting breath against your skin
he likes building tension, then snapping it like a wire
Q = quickie
he lives for them, especially when they’re raw and half-hostile
bent over a backstage sink with the smell of bleach in your nose, one of his hands braced against the mirror and the other shoving up your shirt
there’s no aftercare here, just a muttered “Later” as he zips up and walks back toward the noise
R = risk
Izzy’s entire life is risk
also like i said he loves the risk
but he never gambles with you
he’ll fuck you with your leg over the gearshift in his car while parked behind a dive bar
S = stamina
he can go for hours
not in a loud, porn-star way — but in that slow, steady, won’t-stop-until-you-break kind of way
one orgasm isn’t enough for him
he wants to see you wrecked — trembling, breathless, used and then he wants to do it again
T = toys
he doesn’t need them
his dick and mouth are enough
but if you pull out something fun — a blindfold, a plug, a vibe — he’s curious
he’ll use it on you until you’re begging
also loves using them on you in public even tho he still thinks he doesn't need them
U = unfair
he’ll stop just when you’re about to cum, stand there smirking while you try to drag him back in
sometimes he’ll make you beg outright, ignoring every plea until you use the exact words he’s waiting for
it’s not about cruelty — it’s about proving he can own your patience as much as your body
V = volume
he’s quiet but not silent
breaths heavy. groans low and guttural
the occasional curse or ragged “fuck…” when he’s close
W = wild card
sometimes he’ll disappear for hours — no call, no warning — and come back with that restless, hungry look in his eyes
he won’t explain where he’s been, just press you against the nearest wall and fuck you like he’s been holding it in all day
later, when you’re both sprawled out and catching your breath, he’ll dig something out of his pocket — a record he found, a ring, a matchbook from some dive bar — and give it to you like it’s nothing
but you’ll keep it anyway, because you know it’s his way of saying you were on his mind the whole time
X = x-ray
long
lean
slight curve upward
about 7 inches, thick at the base, uncut
veins visible
he keeps it clean but doesn’t care about aesthetics
he’s not flashy about it — he just knows how to use it. and he does. very well.
Y = yearning
Izzy doesn’t show need like most men
but he feels it — deeply
it’s in the way he touches you at 2am when he thinks you’re asleep
the way he stares at your lips before he kisses you like it’s been weeks
he doesn't chase anyone — but when he craves you, it’s all-consuming. desperate
and he’ll make you feel it in every thrust, every kiss, every whisper in the dark
Z = Zzz
flat on his back, one arm draped over you like instinct
sometimes shirtless, sometimes in boxers
he doesn’t snore but he sighs in his sleep — those deep, slow exhales that let you know he’s finally at peace. with you
no more warm vanilla-scented evenings, no slow kisses with water lapping against bare skin. no sponge. no softness. no him
he’s been gone a lot lately
not gone gone, not missing. just… absent. stumbling in at 3 am, smelling like cheap whiskey, lipstick smeared on his collar even if he swears he didn’t let anyone touch him. mumbles about new gigs, flyers, some dude named Slash maybe joining. Hollywood Rose is “blowing up” he says — like that’s an excuse to forget you
you don't even know where he slept last night
and now it’s noon and he walks in like it’s nothing
hair wild, sunglasses on even though he's inside, boots tracking dirt across the kitchen floor
you don’t say anything
he tries to kiss your cheek on the way to the fridge and you flinch
he notices
“...What?”
you stare straight ahead “Nothing”
his brows draw in under the shades “Don’t give me that passive-aggressive bullshit. Say it”
you slam your coffee mug down “You told me you wanted to learn how to take care of someone”
he scoffs “Jesus”
“You did” you stand “You sat in that fucking bathtub with me and told me you wanted to be better. You said you’d show up. That you weren’t gonna be like every other idiot with a mic and a god complex”
Axl doesn’t answer
“You’re turning into that exact guy, Axl. You know that? Distant. Selfish. Letting me rot in this apartment while you’re out until 4 in the morning playing rockstar with people who don’t even give a shit about you”
his jaw flexes “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about”
“Oh, don’t I?”
he takes off his glasses finally — eyes bloodshot, tired. but it’s his mouth that hardens “This is what I do, okay? This is what I’ve been trying to build. I’m not some nine-to-five guy who comes home with fucking flowers and foot rubs—”
“No one’s asking you to be that!” you cut in, voice rising “I’m just asking you to try. To remember I’m still here. That I’m not your fucking roommate who cooks and waits up like a pathetic little wife”
silence. thick, sharp
then he mutters “If it’s that miserable being with me, maybe you shouldn’t”
your heart drops
he instantly regrets it. you can see it — the way he blinks, the way he shifts like he wants to grab the words and shove them back in his throat
but it’s too late
you nod, jaw clenched “Cool”
you walk past him. into the bedroom. you don’t even slam the door
and Axl just stands there. quiet. lost in his own mess. knowing he’s fucking it all up but not knowing how to fix it
not yet
later that night — at some grungy dive bar on Sunset
Axl’s nursing a warm beer, shoulders tight, eyes hollow. there’s a bruise under one of them, faint from a pit scuffle at last night’s gig. he hasn’t showered. he hasn’t eaten. and he hasn’t stopped thinking about the way she looked at him — like he’d become something she didn’t even recognize anymore
Izzy slides into the booth across from him, lanky and cigarette-stained as ever
“She mad again?”
Axl doesn’t answer
Izzy exhales smoke through his nose “So she’s mad”
Axl just rubs his temples “I dunno, man. She says I’m not showing up, that I’m turning into some asshole rockstar”
Izzy raises an eyebrow “You’re not even a rockstar yet”
“Exactly” Axl mutters “But I’m tryin’. This band, it’s everything. I have to make it work. We have to”
Izzy leans back, sips his drink “So? Then make it work. And ditch the drama”
Axl looks up slowly
“You’re gonna let some chick guilt you outta chasing this?” Izzy scoffs “Come on, man. You’re finally making noise in this town. You want to throw that away because some girl gets lonely when you don’t rub her feet after soundcheck?”
Axl’s jaw tenses “It’s not like that”
“Then what’s it like?”
“She’s not just ‘some chick,’ Iz” Axl snaps “She was there before any of this. When I had nothing. She gave me a place to sleep. Fuckin’ fed me when I couldn’t pay for fries. She saw me when I was still just… nobody”
Izzy shrugs “Cool. So what, you owe her a lifetime of cuddles and home-cooked meals?”
Axl doesn’t answer
Izzy leans forward now, his voice lower. sharper “You gotta pick, Axl. That simple. You want the girl? Fine. But you ain’t gonna make it in this scene babysitting feelings every damn night. She’s sweet, whatever — but that kind of girl doesn’t last in this world. She’ll just slow you down”
silence. the kind that makes Axl’s chest burn
Izzy slaps the table once, final “Break up with that bitch. Move the fuck on”
it lands like a punch in Axl’s ribs
he swallows hard. doesn’t say anything for a long, long time
and Izzy’s already looking away, calling for another drink — like the conversation meant nothing
but for Axl?
it meant everything
because he’s never felt farther from the girl who once bathed him in vanilla scented water and kissed his broken pieces back together
and he knows — deep down — that if he loses her, it’s not her who’s the bitch
it’s him
you don’t remember falling asleep on the couch. just that your head’s been pounding for hours and your throat feels like it’s filled with glass. the apartment is quiet, except for the dull hum of the fan and the occasional honk outside your window. somewhere in your haze, you heard the door open and close. he’s home
you don’t move
not when you hear his boots stop in the hallway. not when he walks in and mutters your name like he’s unsure you’ll answer
"Ay... baby?"
he sounds careful. like he knows he’s on thin ice. you don’t look at him. you just shift under the blanket, your arm slung over your burning face, used tissues on the coffee table
“Are you sick again?” he asks. his voice is scratchy, low "Fuck… you should've called me"
“I’m fine” you croak
you’re not
he kneels beside the couch, tries to touch your hand but you yank it away. his expression tightens
“You don’t have to do this” he says “I can go get you somethin'. Soup or meds or—”
“I don’t need anything from you, Axl” your voice comes out hoarse, more broken than you meant “Just...”
you reach under the blanket, pull out a crumpled fifthy from your pocket — the last of your tip money. you thrust it toward him without looking “Go get yourself some food. Whatever you want”
he doesn’t take it. you keep your arm extended until it trembles
“I don’t want your help” you whisper
“Why are you acting like I’m some fuckin’ stranger?”
you laugh — dry and ugly “Because you are”
that silences him. completely
you sit up halfway, dizzy, but still holding out the bill “Take the money, Axl. Please. Just go”
“I don’t want your fucking money” he bites
“Then what do you want?”
silence again
he doesn’t answer. he just stares at you with something haunted behind his eyes — like he wants to say the right thing but can’t figure out how. like guilt and pride and fear are all chewing at the same nerve
you drop the money on the table beside the couch and turn your face away
“Close the door when you leave” you say quietly
and for once... he does
but before he left he looked at you like you betrayed him
you wake up drenched in sweat. the blanket feels like it's suffocating you, but your skin is ice. the world tilts when you try to sit up. every part of your body aches — head pounding, throat raw, chest tight. it’s the kind of sick that makes everything else disappear. time. people. feelings. everything, except the heat behind your eyes and the deep hollow ache of being alone
until there’s a knock
then a key turns in the lock
you groan, barely able to lift your head from the couch cushion
“Ay—fuck” Axl’s voice comes in, and your stomach clenches. you didn’t think he’d come back at all
he’s carrying a brown paper bag, plastic rustling inside. he smells like cigarette smoke and early morning air. his hair’s messy, shirt thrown on backwards like he didn’t even look in the mirror. he pauses in the doorway when he sees you, blinking like he wasn’t ready to see you like this
you push the blanket down and force yourself to sit up “What are you doing here?”
he puts the bag on the table, shrugs “You’re sick”
“No shit”
“I brought stuff. Medicine. Ginger ale. Crackers. Some kinda flu tea the lady at the store swore by”
“I didn’t ask you to come back” you mutter, voice low and sharp
“I know” he says “But I came anyway”
you turn your face away “You should go”
“Not happenin’ ”
“Axl—”
“I said I’m not fuckin’ going” his voice raises, then softens “You can hate me. Scream at me later. I don’t care. Right now you look like you’re about to pass out and I’m not leaving you like this”
you open your mouth to argue but you cough instead. deep and wet and painful. you curl up on yourself, eyes squeezing shut from the pain in your ribs. Axl’s hands are on you before you even realize he moved
“Don’t—don’t touch me—” you try to shove him off weakly
“Too late. I’m already touching” his voice is warm, shaky “Jesus, you’re burning up…”
you feel a cold bottle of ginger ale pressed to your lips. you turn your face, but he follows you gently
“Come on, sweetheart” he murmurs “Just a sip”
you crack your eyes open and meet his. they’re tired. but real. and worried in a way you haven’t seen in weeks. the vulnerability there makes you cave
you take a sip
he breathes, relieved
“Attagirl”
Axl peels off your damp sweatshirt, replaces it with one of his soft flannels from the chair. he props you up with pillows, brushes your hair back even though you try to slap his hand away. he takes off your socks and rubs your feet with a towel to warm them. everything he does is clumsy, too fast, like he’s worried he’s already too late.but it’s all… him. no half-assed apologies. no fake tenderness
just Axl. showing up
finally
when he presses a cold rag to your forehead, you actually whimper
“I’m fine” you whisper, even though you’re shivering
“You’re not” he murmurs back “But you will be”
you don’t answer. you’re too tired
he wraps the blanket around your shoulders and sits beside the couch, just close enough that your arm brushes his. his fingers hover near yours for a second, hesitant. then he curls them around your hand
you don’t stop him
for a long time, the only sound is the creak of the fan and the occasional rasp of your breathing. you feel the heat pulsing behind your eyes, the way your body aches everywhere and still — somehow — it hurts less now. like just knowing someone’s there dulls the pain
you glance at him once through heavy lids. his ginger hair falls in his face. his lashes are thick and his jaw is tight. he looks like he’s afraid to breathe too loudly, like one wrong move might scare you off again
your voice is a ghost “You really came back”
his fingers tighten on yours “I never stopped being here”
you don’t believe him. but it doesn’t matter
not tonight
you drift off again, hot and shivering, his hand still holding yours
later that night
you don’t know what time it is when you wake up again but the only thing you know is that you had a nightmare about Axl leaving you
the apartment’s dim, the only light a crooked line from the cracked bathroom door. Axl’s still here — you feel him before you see him. a quiet hum of presence near your feet. his fingers are resting on your ankle, like he never let go
you shift. it takes all your energy just to turn your head
he perks up immediately “You need something?”
his voice is hoarse. tired. like he hasn’t slept
you swallow hard. your throat burns “You should go”
he blinks “What?”
“I said you should go” you try to sit up but your arms tremble too much “I don’t want you here”
he flinches a little — not from anger but confusion “Okay, well, that’s too damn bad”
you press your palms to your eyes “I’m just… I’m dragging you down. I’m nothing but a sick, needy girl with no money and no strength and—fuck, Axl—you’re supposed to be someone. You’ve got gigs now. You’ve got fans. You shouldn’t be babysitting some girl with a fever and no future”
he goes so quiet you hear your heart beating in your head
you breathe hard through your nose, choking on tears “I’m dead weight. I don’t want to be the thing that slows you down. I don't want people to look at you and think ‘why is he with her?’”
the air between you thickens
and then he says — very quietly — “You have no fucking idea what you just said”
you blink, dazed “What?”
he stands slowly. rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to keep it together. but his voice shakes'
“Izzy said that exact same shit to me. Exact. Implied that you are a ‘dead weight’. Said I should dump you. Said you’d just… get in the way”
your throat tightens
“I almost believed him” Axl admits “Because I’ve never had anything good. Not really. Not without it being taken. Or ruined. So when you started matterin’ too much, I didn’t know what the fuck to do”
you turn your face away, ashamed
he kneels beside the couch, resting his chin on the cushion near your shoulder
“You didn’t hear us. But you still said what he said. And hearing you say it…” he lets out a shaky laugh, sad and amazed and broken all at once “That’s what fucking hurt”
you whisper “I didn’t mean it like that”
“I know” his hand finds yours again, warm and calloused “You said it ‘cause you think I deserve better. And that’s the only part Izzy didn’t get”
he brushes your damp hair back, his fingertips surprisingly gentle
“You never dragged me down” he whispers “You’re the only reason I haven’t burned it all to the ground already”
you can’t stop the tears. you hate crying in front of anyone — but your whole body’s too tired to hide anymore. your breath shudders, your chest heaves and Axl leans in without hesitation, pressing a kiss to your temple like it might seal the cracks in you
you cling to his shirt
“I’m sorry” you whisper “I’m so sorry—”
“Shhh. Don’t apologize”
“I don’t wanna be a problem”
“You’re not”
“I don’t wanna lose you”
“You won’t”
he wraps himself around you gently, like a shield. his hand strokes your spine. his forehead rests against yours
“We’re not perfect” he murmurs “But I’d rather be with you — sick, sad, stubborn you — than any of those groupies who think I’m a god”
you laugh, wet and rough “You’re definitely not a god”
“Exactly” he grins faintly “I’m a piece of shit who loves one girl too much and doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it”
you smile through the tears into his chest. just a little
he doesn’t leave that night. he doesn’t even sleep
he just stays with you — hot forehead to hot forehead — whispering things no one’s ever said to you before
the light through the cracked blinds is soft. pale and gray. one of those slow, cloudy mornings where the world feels distant — quiet in a way that presses down on your chest
you're asleep against him, cheek nestled in the crook of his arm. your breathing’s steadier now. Sweat on your forehead cooled, lips still chapped from crying. you looks so small under that worn-out blanket, like you could disappear if he stopped touching you
and for some reason, that thought punches something sharp through his ribs
he hasn’t slept. can’t. not with the sound of your voice playing over and over in his head
"I’m dragging you down"
"I don’t want to be the thing that slows you down"
the same damn words Izzy threw at him a day ago at that damn bar and a week ago in the alley behind the club. crouched over his lighter, Izzy said it so casually, so cold
"She’s sweet, man, but you’re not built for that. She’ll break you. You’ll start missing rehearsals and then what? You’re finally getting somewhere and you’re wasting it on a girl who needs saving"
and then, lower — the one that stung the worst
"That girl's dead weight. You keep carrying her, you’ll sink"
Axl didn’t even fight him. not really. just walked off and got drunk with the rest of the guys and hated himself the entire time. and now? now the girl he’d do anything for said the same thing back to him — without even hearing it
he wonders if you really thinks that
If you meant it
If maybe you're starting to believe he’ll leave, just like everyone else
your fingers twitch in your sleep. he watches them curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt like you're trying to hold on. even now
his heart lurches
he brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead
"I’m not leaving"
he doesn’t say it aloud — just thinks it over and over, until it turns into a promise
few hours later you wake at the morning to his arms around you, tight and warm. his heart is pounding under your cheek. you shift a little, then stop when you feel how rigid he is
“Axl?” you whisper, voice scratchy
he blinks down at you “Hey, baby”
“You didn’t sleep?”
he shrugs. “Didn’t want to, prefered watching over you”
there’s something strange in his eyes. something heavy
you swallow, nerves crawling up your throat “You’re… not gonna leave, are you?”
his brow furrows “What?”
“I mean—just… everything I said last night, I know I sounded like a mess and maybe you realized Izzy was right or maybe you’re tired of taking care of me—”
“Stop.”
he says it so firmly it makes your heart jolt
he cups your face with both hands, leaning down until his nose brushes yours. his eyes are soft but intense
“You listen to me” he says, voice low, raw “I don’t give a fuck what Izzy says. Or anyone else. You think I wouldn’t trade every gig, every sleazy dressing room, every dumbass party for one more night falling asleep with you?”
you can’t breathe
“You’re not dragging me down” he continues “You’re the only reason why I haven’t died yet. I could’ve still live on the streets, if not a beautiful girl that took me into her life and started calling me her boyfriend”
you started crying, silent and sudden
he wipes your tears, his thumb trembling slightly “I’m so sorry I was gone for some time now... I was a fuckin’ dumbass. Maybe still am... but I just got fuckin’ scared. That I will ruin it... The thing between us”
you cling to him. like you’re afraid he will disappear now
and for the first time, Axl doesn’t feel like he’s running from something he feels like he’s home
you stay wrapped around him for a long time. you don’t say much. he doesn’t either. your bodies are close, warm and a little sweaty under the blanket but neither of you moves. his hand just keeps stroking the back of your head, his thumb making slow circles at your temple
he’s still trembling a little. you can feel it in the beat of his chest against your cheek. you think maybe he’s crying quietly too but you don’t press. it’s a moment neither of you knows how to name
eventually, your stomach growls loud enough to startle both of you
Axl pulls back just enough to look down at you, eyes still red-rimmed but shining now “Guess I’m not the only starving one anymore” he says, lips curving into the softest smile
you wipe your face with your sleeve and roll your eyes “Don’t act like you didn’t hear that three times already”
he kisses your forehead again “I’ll make you something”
you stare at him “You? Cook?”
he’s already sitting up, stretching his sore back “Hey. I’ve made toast before. And uh... eggs, maybe once. Don’t look at me like that”
you can’t help it — you laugh. not a sarcastic one, not tired. a real laugh, even if it hurts your throat a little. you sit up slowly, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, watching as he pads toward the tiny kitchen in his boxers and your faded band tee that hangs too tight on his chest
he looks back “You stay right there. Don’t even think about moving”
you smirk “You gonna carry me back if I do?”
“Hell yeah” he calls from the kitchen, opening drawers like he has no idea where anything is “Princess rules today”
you lean your head against the arm of the couch, eyes fluttering half-closed, listening to the chaotic sounds of pans clanking, a spoon hitting the floor, a muttered “shit,” and then the low hum of him singing under his breath while waiting for the toast to pop up
he brings you a plate eventually. burnt toast. a barely-scrambled egg and a banana
you blink at it
he sits beside you, looking proud as hell “Gourmet shit”
you take the plate, bite the toast and try not to gag “So… what do we call this dish? Charcoal on bread?”
“Babe” he gasps “That’s love you’re tasting”
you snort, then cough a little. he instantly reaches for your water and holds it up so you can sip
you stare at him while drinking and suddenly, your chest aches with something warm. something so tender it makes you want to cry all over again
he notices you staring
“What?” he murmurs
you just shake your head. “Nothing. Just... you”
he leans in and kisses your cheek
“I like you better when you’re not running around yelling at me, y’know”
“Yeah?” you whisper, leaning into his kiss
he shrugs “I mean, I still like it. But this... this is good too”
you rest your head on his shoulder
outside, the world is moving. LA noise, distant sirens, another heatwave already rolling in. but inside, you and him are still — held together by burnt toast, bad jokes and the unspoken promise that this love, however messy, is real
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
slash taking reader, who can't skate, to a skating rink (can be ice skating or normal skating) please, I BEG 🙏🏻🙏🏻
YESSS
𝓢𝓴𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓷 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝓘𝓬𝓮
𝓈𝓁𝒶𝓈𝒽 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇
you weren’t sure what was more absurd—the idea of you on skates or the fact that Slash had suggested it
“Do you even skate?” you asked, side-eyeing him as the two of you stood outside a grungy old skating rink on a lazy Sunday afternoon. The neon sign buzzed above you like it had been flickering since 1979
he just smirked, shoving his sunglasses further up his nose “Used to mess around at Venice back in the day. Not ice. But this—” he gestured lazily toward the sign “This is just wheels. You’ll be fine”
you weren’t buying it
“I’m going to fall on my ass in front of children” you muttered, crossing your arms “Or worse—break my neck while some preteen zips past me doing spins”
he slung a lazy arm around your shoulder and pulled you in, smelling like Marlboros and leather and whatever earthy cologne he always wore that somehow never came off “I’ll catch you”
you gave him a dubious look “That’s what I’m afraid of”
but fifteen minutes later, you were lacing up an offensively orange pair of rental skates with wheels that looked like they’d seen a war zone. Slash sat beside you on the bench, already laced into his own with practiced ease, spinning his wheels idly as he watched you fumble
“Seriously, you look like you’re about to perform surgery” he chuckled
“I might die today, so I want the laces tight”
“Wouldn’t let you die in a dumpy rink, babe” he leaned in and kissed your temple, voice soft “I promise I’ll be good”
the second you stood up, you regretted every decision that led to this moment. your legs felt like cooked spaghetti, your balance nonexistent. you grabbed onto Slash’s arm like it was a life raft
“Okay, this is it” you said dramatically “This is how I go. Tell my family I loved them”
he barked out a laugh and held both your hands, steadying you “C’mon, drama queen. Just move slow. You don’t have to go fast. Just feel it out”
you didn’t move. not a single inch “I am feeling it. I feel like I want to sit down and cry”
he just grinned and started skating backwards, tugging you gently with him “Just trust me. I got you”
you looked into his eyes—warm, amused, completely unbothered—and something about it made your heart slow down a little. so you let yourself roll
clumsy, wobbly, absolutely ridiculous—but somehow, it started to click. sort of. your arms flailed once or twice and your knee buckled hard enough to make you squeak but Slash caught you every single time. not once did he let go
“Okay, okay, I’m doing it” you whispered like you’d just discovered flight “Holy shit, Slash, I’m skating!”
he gave you a cheeky grin “Barely. But yeah, baby, you’re doing it”
by your third lap (still gripping his hand like your life depended on it), a cheesy 80s ballad came over the speakers—something with synthesizers and heartbreak—and you burst out laughing
“This place hasn’t updated their playlist since 70s” you teased, still a little breathless
“Perfect” he said with a crooked smile, pulling you closer “Fits the vibe”
you didn’t expect him to spin you in a slow, awkward circle in the middle of the rink. but he did. right there under the rainbow lights, surrounded by kids and teenagers and a few bored parents, Slash swayed you gently in a slow dance on wheels. it was awkward, ungraceful and totally perfect
“This is so stupid” you whispered against his shoulder
“Yeah” he murmured back, brushing his lips over your hair “But I think I kinda like it”
you clung to him for dear life more from emotion than fear now “I think I might, too”
he chuckled low “I’m still not letting you go”
you smiled “Don’t... please”
after you collapsed on a bench you peeled off the skates and let your feet breathe, groaning dramatically while Slash got you a soda from the vending machine. he came back with two sodas—one for you, one for him—and dropped beside you
“Well?” he asked, nudging your shoulder “Scale of one to ten, how bad was it?”
you tilted your head, considering “Honestly? Solid eight of terror. Two of joy. But the joy part’s your fault”
Slash gave a small smile and reached over to brush a stray hair from your face “Next time we’re trying ice”
you stared at him “You’re out of your mind”
“Probably” he said with a shrug “But you like that”
you couldn’t argue with that
that night, back at home, your bruised ankles and sore legs didn’t stop you from curling up in Slash’s arms on the couch. the TV played something neither of you were really watching and you were too tired to move. but his hand rested over your thigh, thumb tracing little patterns
“You did good today” he said quietly
“You laughed when I screamed...” you mumbled
“Me? No! I would NEVER laugh at you” he said seriously. then after a beat, added “Okay. Well—maybe a little. But only ‘cause you’re cute”
you smiled into his chest “If you make me skate again, I’m buying knee pads”
instinctively nurturing even if he sometimes fumbles with words
he’ll wrap himself around you like a blanket, stroke your back, whisper things like:
“You okay, baby? Was I too much?”
he might not ask for comfort, but he craves it too—quiet, mutual holding until you both feel safe again
B = body part
His: his fingers
long, slender, a little calloused from years of playing bass
he’s always touching—tracing your skin, brushing hair from your face, holding your jaw when he kisses you like you’re something delicate
they move slow and precise when he’s inside you, like he’s learning every inch of you by feel
Yours: your tits—though he’d never say it outright
he’ll swear he loves all of you and he means it
but the way his eyes soften every time you undress?
the way his hands cup them like they’re precious, mouth worshipping you slow, murmuring soft nothings into your chest?
yeah. he’s obsessed. quietly. reverently.
C = cum
he always gets a little overwhelmed when he comes—like it sneaks up on him, especially if he’s buried deep inside you
there’s this shaky exhale, a quiet “God… baby…” like he’s surrendering everything in that moment
he loves finishing inside you, not just for the sensation, but because it feels close—safe
he’ll still stay close, forehead to yours, breathless and flushed, whispering, “You’re unreal…” before quietly grabbing something to clean you up
he’s tender about it—grateful. like you gave him a gift
D = dirty secret
maybe it's not dirty but
he craves being taken care of.
not just in bed, but emotionally
the idea of someone stroking his hair when he’s tired... holding his face when he’s unraveling... whispering “you’re okay, I’ve got you” when his chest is tight? yeah. that lives rent-free in his head
he’s used to being the strong one—or at least pretending to be the calm, collected guy. but when he trusts you?
he wants to be the one cradled. kissed on the forehead. wrapped up in arms that don’t ask for anything but his presence
sexually, the thought of someone calling him “good boy” when he’s soft and shaky? when he’s begging or holding back tears from the intensity of it all?
it wrecks him—in the best way
he’s never told anyone. maybe he’s a little embarassed to
but that secret? that fantasy of being emotionally seen and wanted in the same breath?
that’s the thing that keeps him up at night
E = experience
Duff’s had a lot of sex—but not much real connection
he’s still surprised when you want to touch him slowly, learn him, look him in the eyes
he knows what he’s doing physically, but emotional intimacy during sex is newer territory
F = favorite position
spooning
he loves holding you, kissing your shoulder while slowly moving inside you
it’s the perfect mix of closeness and safety
he also likes being on his back while you ride him—gives him time to just worship you
G = goofy
he’s such a goof sometimes—and he doesn’t even realize it
nervous chuckles when he fumbles with your bra clasp
“shit—hang on, I swear I knew how to do this yesterday”
loves to make you laugh in bed—little wiggles of his eyebrows, dramatic groans when he stretches or whispering stupid jokes while he kisses your stomach
sometimes he’ll trip over his own jeans or knock something off with his long legs and just lie there in mock defeat until you’re both in tears from laughing
sex with Duff isn’t always some serious, cinematic moment—it’s full of warmth and silliness and breathless giggles between kisses
and the truth? he lives for that. that lightness. that freedom to be totally himself with you—awkward, ridiculous and still so wanted
you make him feel safe enough to be silly. and that’s the biggest turn-on than he’ll ever admit
H = hair
he keeps it pretty natural down there—maybe trims a little if he remembers but he’s not obsessing over it
there’s a soft patch of blondish hair, nothing too wild, just... him
if you mention liking it, he’ll get all shy and mutter something like “Yeah? You sure?” while scratching the back of his neck
he definitely doesn’t expect you to be bare, either. in fact, he loves it when you’re natural
there’s something real and intimate about it—like you’re not performing, just existing, and that turns him on more than anything
he’s the type to lazily run his fingers through it when he’s running his tongue through your folds, completely unbothered, totally focused on you
I = intimacy
Duff doesn’t just have sex—he feels it. all of it.
it’s in the way he lingers after kisses, how he threads his fingers through yours mid-thrust, how his eyes soften when you moan his name like it means something
he doesn’t rush. he wants you to feel held, known, adored
when it’s real, it’s slow. quiet. like a whisper between your bodies
he’ll press his forehead to yours, breathe your name into your mouth, stroke your skin like it’s sacred
it’s not about dominance or performance—it’s about connection
it’s about making you feel safe and worshiped in equal measure
J = jack off
he doesn’t do it just for release—it’s when he’s missing you
it usually happens late at night, when he’s alone on tour, curled in some lonely hotel bed
he’ll close his eyes and try to remember the way you sound. the way you arch into him. the way you whisper “I love you” when he’s trembling
it’s slow. like a longing. like a homesick ache
and when he finishes? he lays there quiet, breathing hard, whispering a soft “fuck, I miss you…” into the dark
he lights up when you take the lead—when you ride him and tell him how good he feels, when you hold his face and say “You’re doing so good, baby”
he doesn’t need to be in control to feel powerful—sometimes letting go is what turns him on most
he also loves soft restraints—your hands holding his down or silk ties he could slip out of, but doesn’t
he’s into emotional surrender—the kind where he feels safe to unravel in front of you
L = location
he doesn’t care about adventure—he wants comfort
a warm bed. a worn couch. somewhere soft, where you both can take your time
his dream location? In a messy hotel room, post-show, with your legs over his lap, music still buzzing faintly in the background
somewhere you can make a little world just for yourselves, even if it’s only for the night
M = motivation
you.
always you.
the way you look at him like he’s more than just a bassist from gnr or a body
he’s motivated by emotional closeness more than lust but your sleepy voice or soft touch? instantly turned on.
N = no
he needs emotional safety. if something feels cold, detached or performative, he shuts down immediately
no cruelty. no humiliation. no ignoring your boundaries
he’ll always check in with you —if something feels off, he’s stopping, gently brushing your hair back and asking “Are you okay?”
sex with Duff only works when it’s rooted in care
O = oral
giving: he loves it. will stay down there for way longer than necessary
likes being between your thighs, tongue slow and focused, holding your hips down
he’s slow, focused, completely absorbed in you. loves holding your thighs apart and taking his time with long, soft licks that build to something intense
it’s not a race—it’s devotion. he wants to hear every gasp, feel every twitch, stay there until you’re begging
receiving: he’s shy at first.
blushes when you go down on him. doesn’t know where to put his hands. tries not to make too much noise
but if you look up at him while your mouth’s on him? if you moan around him? he loses it. fingers in your hair, breathless, stuttering “f-fuck, baby…”
P = pace
slow
deliberate
gentle but deep
Duff likes to draw it out—he gets off on watching you fall apart gradually, giving you his full attention
his thrusts are smooth, rhythmic and loving
Q = quickie
not his favorite but if you kiss his neck and whisper something dirty in his ear, he’ll melt and say
“Shit… okay, yeah, c’mere.”
he still manages to make it feel sweet—whispers, forehead kisses, pulling you close even if there’s barely time
it’s never rushed in a bad way—it’s urgent, not impersonal
R = risk
pretty risk-averse
he’s more focused on emotional safety than danger
but if you ask him to try something new, he’ll listen and adapt—he just wants to feel close to you, not perform for thrills
S = stamina
he’s not a marathon guy but his attention is enduring.
he’d rather go slow and savor one beautiful session than rush through multiple rounds
but if you whisper something needy? he’ll get hard again faster than he expects
not endless, but meaningful
one long, emotionally intense session can wreck him in the best way—he’ll be shaky, sweaty, burying his face in your neck with a blissed-out moan
T = toys
curious, but only if it brings you closer
he likes the idea of you holding the vibrator against yourself while he watches, mesmerized or using one on you while you’re in his lap, whispering in your ear how beautiful you look when you fall apart
he’s not controlling—it’s all about trust, pleasure and slow discovery
U = unfair
you're more unfair in your relationship than he is
you being in his lap, slowly grinding without letting him inside?
torture.
he’ll beg.
whimper.
Hands gripping your hips but not forcing anything “C’mon, sweetheart… please let me feel you…”
You looking up at him with those soft eyes and whispering “please” while placing your hand in his pants?
he’ll lose his mind.
red-faced.
voice shaky.
he wants you so bad it hurts but he’ll wait if it means making you win
V = volume
whimpery, breathy, occasionally moany
he’s quiet at first—especially if he’s overwhelmed—but if you take control, he gasps
and if you praise him?
he lets out those low, needy groans that make your stomach flip
W = wild card
sometimes after sex when you’re curled up in his arms and everything’s quiet, he gets weirdly shy
he’ll bury his face in your hair and whisper stuff like “You really like me, huh?” like he still can’t believe it
and once? he cried. just a little. after a particularly tender night where you held him through everything
he doesn’t talk about it but he remembers.
every time.
X = x-ray
he’s got a good length—around 7.5 to 8 inches, give or take—longer when he’s fully hard, especially when he’s turned on by something emotional (which, with you, is often)
not overly thick but solid—enough to stretch you just enough without hurting, more about the deep kind of pressure than sheer girth
it’s curved slightly upward, which makes certain angles dangerously perfect—especially when he’s slow and watching you fall apart underneath him
he’s not the guy who brags about it
he probably has no idea how much it wrecks you every time
but trust: once he’s inside you, it’s not just the size—it’s the way he uses it. with focus. with care. with this tremble in his voice like you’re the only thing that’s ever felt this good
blushes when you look down and whisper something filthy about his cock
but once things start? he’s all in—slow, deep, focused. he loves watching your reaction, how your body opens up for him, how you gasp when he bottoms out
he’s the type to check in right as he’s sliding in, voice low and worried “Still okay? You sure I’m not too much?”
and when you tell him no, when you pull him closer, whisper “I want all of you”
that’s when he breaks—trying not to come too fast because your body feels like home around him
Y = yearning
Duff doesn’t just miss you—he feels you when you’re not there
in his chest. in the quiet. in the places you used to sit
he gets soft in the middle of a tour, staring out a window in some random city, headphones on, wondering if you’re thinking of him too
it’s not just sexual. it’s emotional. it’s wanting your fingertips on his neck. your voice humming through the phone. your stupid jokes
he replays your last night together in his head like a movie—how your mouth felt, the way you whispered his name right before falling asleep, how you reached for him without thinking
Duff doesn’t do well with distance. not because he’s clingy—but because once he loves you, it runs deep. rooted. quietly desperate.
he’ll write you little notes and never send them
sleep with your shirt close to him and call it an accident
jerk off not because he’s horny but because he’s lonely for your body. for your sounds. your rhythm
when he gets home? it’s not fireworks. it’s him standing in the doorway, dropping his bag, eyes glassy, whispering “God, I missed you,” like the words couldn’t come fast enough
Z = Zzz
cuddler.
HUGE cuddler.
arms draped around you, legs tangled
he’ll stay up a little too long watching you breathe, brushing his thumb over your hip, wondering how the hell he got this lucky
rubs your back until you doze off. mumbles soft little phrases like “So lucky to have you…” as he slips under
with you next to him, he sleeps deeper than he ever has. peaceful. whole.
soft older boyfriend Dave, spoiling his little princess (in bed too)
𝓓𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂’𝓼 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼
𝒹𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇
Dave’s house always feels warmer when he’s home. not temperature-wise—just… safer. more alive. like the shadows don’t settle so heavy when his voice is echoing down the hall, muttering about traffic or whatever bullshit the studio people threw at him today
you’re in his bedroom—your bedroom now, really, since you started staying most nights—wearing that pale pink silk robe he bought you in Paris. you’d barely looked at the damn thing in the shop before he was pulling out his card
“Looks like something a princess would wear” he’d murmured
now you’re stretched out across the bed like a gift, that robe barely covering your soft skin, watching the doorway with a lazy little smile that only widens when you hear him
boots. low muttering. the heavy clink of keys on the hallway table. and then—Dave
God, he looks tired. but when his eyes find you, everything about him softens. his shoulders drop. that crooked smirk tugs at his mouth
“There she is” he says, voice low, rough like honey and whiskey “My sweet girl”
“Hi, Daddy” you say, voice all sugar and silk
he groans. actually groans
you sit up a little, robe slipping off one shoulder “Missed you”
he’s already crossing the room
“I missed you more” he murmurs, cupping your cheek and leaning in to kiss you—slow and deep, with that signature heat behind his teeth “You been good while I was gone, sweetheart?”
you nod, fingers tugging at his shirt “So good. Been waiting for you”
he smiles against your mouth “My perfect little thing”
then he pulls back to really look at you, his eyes trailing down your body, hungry but reverent “You wore the robe”
“Wanted to be pretty for you”
“Baby” he breathes “You’re always pretty. But right now? You look like something outta a fuckin’ dream”
you let out a little whimper when he starts kissing down your neck, his hands slow and possessive—one at your waist, the other cupping your breast through the silk. his lips brush your collarbone
“Been thinkin’ about you all day” he whispers “My sweet little princess. Bet you missed Daddy’s hands on you, huh?”
you nod, desperate already
and Dave smiles—dark, knowing, sweet
“Lay back for me, angel”
you do. obedient and glowing under his touch
he takes his time undressing you. unties the robe with slow fingers like he’s unwrapping treasure. exposes you inch by inch with little murmurs of appreciation
“Goddamn” he says under his breath, brushing his thumb over your nipple “So soft. So fuckin’ perfect”
you gasp when his hand slides between your legs
already soaked
he huffs a soft laugh “All this for me, huh?”
you nod, wide-eyed “Only for you”
“Good girl” he growls
and then he’s sinking down between your thighs, settling in like he plans to be there all night
“Daddy’s gonna take care of you now” he murmurs, mouth brushing your inner thigh “Gonna spoil you like you deserve”
when his mouth finds your pussy, it’s slow. loving
he licks you like he’s savoring the taste of you, groaning into your heat, hands gripping your hips to hold you in place. one thick finger joins his tongue, curling inside you with practiced skill and your back arches off the bed
“That’s it” he coos “There’s my good girl. My perfect little thing. You just lay there and let me love you”
you’re shaking. moaning. hands fisting in his hair. every time you whimper Daddy, he moans like it hurts
he doesn’t stop when you come—just keeps licking, gentler now, easing you through it. whispering praise. kissing your thighs like you’re made of silk and light
when he finally crawls up beside you, his chin slick and eyes heavy with affection, you’re trembling in that blissed-out, floaty way that only he can get you
you nuzzle into his chest “Did I do good?”
he laughs—melts “Baby, you were perfect. You’re always good. Daddy’s so proud of you”
you hum against his skin, sleepy and satisfied
but Dave’s not done spoiling you yet
he runs a warm bath, carries you to it with your legs wrapped around his waist. sits behind you in the tub, washing your hair with those big hands like you’re the most precious thing in the world
“Gotta take care of my girl” he murmurs as he soaps your shoulders “You give me everything, baby. Least I can do is treat you like the princess you are”
later, back in bed, you’re in one of his soft old T-shirts, curled against him, cheek on his chest
his fingers stroke your back lazily “You want me to fuck you slower next time, sweetheart?” he murmurs “You look so pretty when you cry a little. When it’s so good you can’t even speak”
you nod, dazed.
he kisses your forehead “Then we’ll do it right. We’ll go slow. Gonna make you feel so full, baby girl. So loved”
hiii babee, if you are not busy, can I ask a shot w duff with another one of those times when his fear of airplanes comes on a tour or smth, and reader is there to comfort him maybe even in a maternal way?
You alright?
Summary- Boarding the plane with your boyfriend, you notice he’s nervous. Things only worsen when you’re in the air, but luckily, you’re there to bring him comfort.
Content warnings- anxiety, mention of puke but none happens!, comfort, kissing, general fluff.
A/n- hello lovely, thankyou for being patient with me. I know im a little slow with getting these requests done 🫶🏼
——————————————————————————
“C’mon we don’t wanna be late!” Is all you hear from Axl (always sounding severely annoyed).
“Alright, alright” you listen to slash say, putting his hands up in a surrender-like position.
You walk hand in hand with Duff, enjoying the comfort his touch provides you with. As you reach the bottom of the Aeroplane stairs, he makes an exaggerated movement with his arm, bending over halfway in a bow while whispering, “ladies first.”
You can’t help but chuckle at the silly actions of your boyfriend, absolutely head over heels for this man. But you climb a grand total of two steps before you turn around to look at him “you comin’?” You question, concerned for the man behind you.
He looks pale, a little too pale for your liking and beads of sweat are begining to form at his temple. The silence almost feels thick, well, that is until he seems to break out of some sort of trance. “Yeah, yeah im coming.” He rubs his eyes.
When he steps up next to you, you grasp his hand in yours, giving it an extra squeeze. “You alright?” You ask, feeling the tension in his shoulders.
“Mhm, Im fine.” Was his answer. Sure. very convincing Duff, maybe he should tell you that when he doesn’t look like he’s going to puke.
As you reach the top of the stairs, you nod your head into the far corner of the plane. You don’t get much of a reaction out of him besides a small hum, something you wouldn’t have heard if you wasn’t paying attention.
Unease slowly creeps through your veins, unfamiliar with this version of your boyfriend. You scan back thoughts of the day, trying to pinpoint what was going on—why he was acting this way—. That’s when it hit you. Planes— you were about to fly on a plane. Duff was terrified of planes. How could you forget?
It all started to make sense now, the way he was completely fine the first few weeks of the tour, up until the European leg where you of course have to take a flight. Poor guy was scared out of his mind and you had completely failed to notice.
Immediately, you followed him to your seat on the sofa next to him. He was sat with his legs spread wide, one bouncing speedily up and down. Your hand brushed his knee, trying to provide whatever comfort you could for the time being. When his leg stopped moving after your touch, a small feeling of victory crept through your head, evident in the little smile on your face.
The thing with Duff, is that he was fine when in the air, it was the take offs and landings that made him nervous. So the Second that announcement was made to put your seatbelts on, you ran your hand up his leg until you reached his hand, covering it with your own. He squeezed your hand in a silent thank you, a gesture of appreciation without really doing anything. To you, everyone else (the band) on the plane right now didn’t exist, it was just you and him, joined together by one simple hand touch.
His head turned to yours, and his glassy eyes searched your face. The looks he was giving you spoke more than words ever could.
After the plane had taken off, and you had started to just cruise in the air, both you and Duff released your seatbelts, stretching out and cracking tired joints. You could tell he had remaining fear from the way his hands were shaking, so you took it upon yourself to help him, to make his negative thoughts dissapear for just a few hours.
You scootch up to the end of the sofa, laying your legs out long, and spreading them just a little. He looked at you with what could only be described as pure confusion. “What’re you doin’ honey?”
“Lay, now, head here.” You say while patting your inner thigh. If he was going to complain, it had completely dissolved by the time that his head was rested in between your legs. Despite the innuendo, it was quite innocent. His eyes were looking up at the ceiling, while content sighs poured from his lips, especially when you started playing with his hair.
If you carried on the way you were, scratching his scalp perfectly, and softly humming in a way that makes him melt, then he was going to fall asleep in no time.
He doesn’t verbally thank you for your kindness, but he shows it, in the way he lightly squeezes your thighs, and the way he looks at you like you have hung the stars yourself. And when you exit the plane, panic free, he pulls you into a hug and places a delicate kiss along your hairline.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Ahhh, I beg you to write a slash x reader. Where Slash and Y/N get married.....
And fresh off the wedding, he wants to seduce and fuck his pretty bride. That's why he can hardly wait until they get home. And Y/N is a virgin, and Slash convinces her to have sex. 😋😋👰🏻♀️ Please include dirty talk.
𝓥𝓲𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓷 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮
𝓈𝓁𝒶𝓈𝒽 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇
your wedding dress rustles as Slash slams the door behind you both, finally alone
his mouth is on your neck before you can even catch your breath, hot and possessive, hands already pushing aside layers of white satin and lace like he’s unwrapping the most dangerous present of his life
“All fuckin’ day” he groans into your skin, voice hoarse and full of need “I’ve been dying to get you alone. Watchin’ you walk around in this dress—lookin’ so damn sweet, so fuckin’ perfect—knowin’ you’re mine now? You’re killin’ me, baby”
he presses you up against the door, breathing hard. his curls brush your cheek as he kisses a path down your jawline, pausing at your throat
“I married a goddamn angel” he mutters “But I’m gonna fuck you like a sinner”
your breath catches. the nerves rise up again, fluttering in your stomach “Slash…” you say softly, looking up at him “I’ve never done this before”
he freezes
you feel his heartbeat pounding as he leans his forehead against yours, hands still cradling your waist “You mean… you’re a virgin?”
you nod
and something shifts in him
Slash’s smirk fades into something deeper — eyes dark but tender, reverent. his grip doesn’t loosen but it gentles
“Fuck, baby” he breathes, brushing your hair behind your ear “That’s… fuckin’ beautiful”
you blush, unsure if that’s the right word but then he kisses you — slow and worshipful — and all the doubt melts away
“You trust me?” he murmurs
“I do” you say blushing
“Then let me show you how good it can be” he says, voice low and husky “Let me make it perfect for you”
he lifts you effortlessly — bridal style — and carries you through the house like something precious, still in your wedding dress, your veil falling to the floor somewhere behind you. he kicks the bedroom door open with one foot and lays you down on the bed like he’s been imagining it all night
“God, you look so fuckin’ sweet in white” he whispers, crawling over you “But I’m gonna make a mess of you”
you shiver at the way he says it — like a promise
Slash kisses you again, deeper this time, hands starting to roam. he’s slow, gentle at first — fingers brushing the straps off your shoulders, pulling them down one at a time
“Tell me if it’s too much” he murmurs “I’ll stop. But baby… I’ve never wanted anyone like this”
he undresses you piece by piece, laying kisses on every inch of newly bare skin — shoulders, collarbone, the tops of your thighs. his hands shake a little as he slides the bodice down, exposing your breasts, his mouth going slack
“Fuck” he groans “You’re unreal”
he doesn’t pounce. he takes his time. you feel like something sacred beneath his hands
then he gets between your legs and pushes your thighs apart gently, mouth pressing kisses along the insides, eyes locked on yours
“I wanna taste you” he murmurs “Wanna get you so wet for me, you’ll be begging to have me inside you”
“Slash” you whisper, cheeks burning
but he’s already lowering his head, his curls brushing your skin, his mouth warm and wicked between your thighs. your gasp echoes through the room as he licks slow and deliberate — learning what makes you squirm, what makes you cry out
you’re trembling when he finally comes up for air, chin slick, eyes wild
“Fuckin’ heaven” he pants “You taste like fuckin’ heaven”
he undoes his shirt with shaking hands, tosses it aside, then unbuckles his belt with a quiet urgency that makes your breath catch
“This is gonna hurt a little” he says honestly, leaning over you “But I’m gonna go slow. Real slow. Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. You’ll never want anyone else inside you”
your thighs part for him instinctively
his cock is thick and heavy against your pussy and your body goes tense with nerves. He notices right away and kisses your forehead.
“Relax” he whispers “You’re safe. I’ve got you”
and then—he starts to push in
you gasp as he stretches you slowly, carefully, inch by inch. it’s tight and a little painful but he holds still, giving you time, pressing soft kisses to your face
“You’re takin’ me so well” he murmurs, voice thick with awe “So fuckin’ tight, baby. Like you were made for me”
you grip his arms as he begins to move — slow at first, careful. the pain starts to dull, replaced by something new. a kind of fullness you’ve never felt. heat builds as his hips roll into yours, his rhythm gentle but possessive
“Oh, fuck—that’s it” he groans “That’s my girl. My fuckin’ wife”
you whimper, overwhelmed by sensation, your nails digging into his back. he hisses, biting your shoulder lightly
“Tell me how it feels” he rasps “Tell me how good I make you feel.”
“So good” you whisper, voice cracking “I didn’t know it could feel like this…”
“Only with me” he growls “No one else gets to have this. No one else gets to make you come like this”
his pace quickens, the heat building between your bodies until you’re moaning, clutching him, rocking your hips up to meet every thrust
when you finally come, it’s sudden — a sweet, aching release that has you crying out his name, legs tightening around his hips
Slash groans, hips slamming deep one last time as he spills inside you, burying his face in your neck “Fuck, baby… I love you. I fuckin’ love you”
you cling to him, still shaking, still trying to catch your breath
and he stays there — still inside you — breathing heavy, kissing you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered
“You okay?” he whispers
you nod against his shoulder
and Slash smiles — a real, crooked, beautiful smile — before whispering in your ear
Hey!! Please write something about current Axl, his videos on this year's tour are doing things to me 😩
Also, I love your writing, it's so good!! <3
Hey, honey!
Summary- you and Axl make your way home from his latest concert, and spend a nice evening lounging around.
Content warnings- swearing, flufffff, cuddling, kissing, they aren’t wearing a lot of clothes.
A/n- I had no idea what you had in mind, so I hope that this was alright for you my lovely 🫶🏼 also thankyou so much for the compliment i appreciate it‼️
——————————————————————————
What a night. From the sidelines, you were currently watching your boyfriend say his last goodbyes to fans on stage, a huge grin taking up his face. The evening had been filled with intense singing, roaring crowds and even louder instruments. You wouldn’t have it any other way, being able to watch the whole concert from just behind that curtain was truly amazing, the atmosphere was so surreal.
The crowd cheered and whistled as he walked off stage, immediately sweeping you into his arms. They rested around your waist, while his head found home in the crook of your neck.
“Hey sweetheart” he murmured.
“Holy shit, you did amazing out there Axl!” Was your very excited response.
“You think?” He pulled back to look at you.
“Yeah!” You nodded enthusiastically.
His hands squeezed your waist, three times. A secret little language shared between the two of you that would seem normal to any outsider, but to the both of you, it was more. It was a way of saying ‘i love you’ without ever speaking aloud, something so subtle but meaningful that was a reminder of the love you shared.
You could stare into those eyes forever, the eyes that have seen thousands of women, but still picked you. The eyes that remind you of the ocean, a slightly stormy day where debris has mixed with the clear water, converting into a light, but murky kind of blue. The eyes that scan your body up and down like he’s trying to memorise every feature.
“Let’s go home,” he says, walking away and slipping his hand into yours.
Weaving through the complicated maze of backstage, you eventually made it outside. He tugged you all the way to his car, —and like a gentleman— opened your door for you. You thanked him and giggled as you lowered your head into the doorway. As soon as he rounded the car and lowered himself into his seat, you lent over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
“What was that for?” He asked questionably, with cheeks flushed. “No reason, you just look pretty” was your answer, said behind a small chuckle. It was obvious he didn’t know what to do with himself after that, as he failed to put the key in the ignition at least three times, before successfully jamming it in.
The drive to your house was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The kind that has you appreciating everything you have, thinking it through and analysing it, always to leave a large grin on your face.
The drive wasn’t long, around fifteen minutes, and by the end of it, you were just so ready to spend the night with your boyfriend. It seems he was thinking the same, as the first thing he did after unlocking the front door and stepping in, was giving you a feather light kiss on your lips.
You made some sort of whimpering noise when he pulled away, not ready to face parting just yet. Obviously, he found this entertaining, and just had to tease you about it. “Miss me, honey?” You let out a small huff in faux annoyance and made your way to the bedroom door and pushed it open.
Upon making your way inside, you quickly stripped off all your clothes, ready to slide into some comfy pj’s. But, as you were about to slide a shirt over your head, Axl appeared in the doorway.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked calmly.
Oh shit, you thought. What have you managed to do to piss him off. “Uhh, getting changed?” You offer.
“Nuh uh, honey, take it off, I want you in the least clothing possible.” Was his response to that, said with a sly grin.
Letting out a slight sigh of relief, you abandoned the shirt and walked over to him. His hands came to rest on either side of your face, caging your head between his hands as if you meant everything. That’s when he leant in, locking his soft lips with yours in a delicate kiss.
After a few seconds, you pulled back. “You gonna get out of that?” You pointed to his clothing.
He let out a childish giggle before responding, “you tryin’ to get me naked, honey?”
Your laugh was loud now, caught off guard by the cheeky joke, huffing out a, “Just shut up and get in bed.” As you walked towards your side.
“Yes ma’am” was whispered quietly as he followed suit, sliding under the covers beside you.
You both quickly found eachother, him pulling you into his very warm chest. Your legs were entangled together, and your hands were roaming each others bodies.
It took about ten minutes to get into what Axl called the perfect position. This included your head lying on his chest, with his fingers in your hair. They massaged little circles into your scalp and twisted your locks round and round. Both of your legs were intertwined, and at first glance it looks seemingly uncomfortable, but the truth is, you’re as comfotable as it gets.
He has this certain comfiness to him that you can’t get anywhere else. Something that just feels like home.
——————————————————————————
Taglist:
@cherrypopidol —— Whoopsies this took a little longer than I was expecting (I got distracted by watching the lost boys) 🤦🏼♀️🤦🏼♀️
