guns n' roses preferences & imagines

things arent working out pt. 2

axl: He caught your eye in the street today, and for the longest while you tried to convince yourself that you hadn't seen him – as if that would mean he would forget he saw you. But he would know your bright eyes and soft hair anywhere, and it was far too late for a hasty escape from the busy street like you hoped so that you wouldn't have to face him.
"Haven't seen you in a while," he says, taking hurried strides up to you with his long legs, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.
"Oh," you smile, though it seems to be nothing but forced, "Hey, Axl."
"Who's your friend?"
The third voice comes not from Axl nor you, but the older boy wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin in the crook of his neck after pressing a quick kiss to the soft skin. His lips turn up into a smile as he directs the question to you. Axl looks confused for a moment, but then it must have clicked and all that was left on his face were the creases in his forehead and the sour look as his lip jutted out.
"This is Axl, David," you introduce, "Axl, meet David, my boyfriend."
Axl tries. He really does. He tries to hide his displeasure, and swallow his pride and admit that it was his fault that he lost you and he couldn't really blame anyone but himself – not you and certainly not your boyfriend. But he can't help it. He can't help but think as he walks away, regretful, that you would be better with him; if that was his hand you were holding, his lips you were kissing, him you were in love with.
And you regretted being spotted by him in the crowded street, because it meant that you had to pretend for those few moments that you didn't have feelings for him anymore, even though you were sure that there was still something there; a glimmer of hope, love perhaps, however small.

duff: Even after you broke up, your face was still everywhere in the tabloids. Even though you weren't with him anymore, you were still making headlines. And it was only because you had broken up with him that they were bothering you now – the paparazzi. They kept poking around, asking questions about your relationship with him and why you broke up. They asked if it was the hate, if he was cheating, if you couldn't handle the stress of him constantly being away on tour.
"No," you wanted to scream, but kept the thoughts to yourself, "It's you! It's all you!"
And you wanted to tell them, to tell them to put that in their magazines and see what reaction they got, but you couldn't. You didn't. Because that would only hurt Duff more, his ex-girlfriend being labelled as crazy, for yelling at a man with a camera or a woman a little too curious. What would they write about him then? What would happen to him, to his band?
Nothing good would come of it, you were sure of that.
"Back off," a voice growls, and you turn to see Duff pushing through the crowd, anger written all over his face.
But nobody listens, and the flash of the cameras continues and so do their prying questions, as they try to get a glimpse into the life of Duff's once-girlfriend.
"I said back off!"
Silence. That's all that follows Duff's yells, and when the paparazzi turn to see his dark eyes – once a warm tone – they move aside without a word, and let him through.
He looks into your eyes, his hand only millimetres away from your own, and you realise that he's asking permission; permission for him to touch you, to hold your hand and guide you through the gathered crowd like he used to, when you were together. He takes your hand in his, after you nod, a small smile playing on your lips.
"God," he whispers, lips by your ear as he ignores the confused murmurs of the paparazzi, and the not-so-constant clicks from their cameras. "God, I missed you so much."

izzy: You had broken up a week or so ago, and naturally, you were still a little upset over it; even though you told yourself that it was for the best, that he didn't deserve you if he treated you like that, but you still couldn't bring yourself to not loving him. It wasn't like you could just turn off your feelings for him, nothing was ever that simple.
You had gone back to his place, to pick up some of your things you had left behind in such a rush, but you were considering writing them off as lost and just buying new things if it meant you didn't have to step foot into that house and see him again. You weren't afraid of him, but of forgiving him and making the mistake to fall in love with him again.
So you sat in your car, for a solid five minutes, without the ignition on or the radio or anything else, just sitting there deciding whether it was worth it. With a sigh, you got out of the car and shut the door, standing by the shiny thing. He had bought it for you, for your birthday, and the thought made you sick. You suddenly didn't want the car you had been so excited to get on your birthday, not when you admitted that Izzy had bought it. When he still cared enough to even bother remembering your birthday.
It was then that you heard his car pull up, and him get out. He was holding brown paper bags, from the store, as he walked towards you.
"I was just-" You start, but don't bother finishing, because Izzy just walks straight past you without a word or a second glance. He heads to the front door, unlocks it, and then kicks it shut again; the last image you catch sight of him throwing an agitated look through the crack in the door, before it was shut and he was gone. For good.

slash: "Slash Back Together with Ex-Girlfriend?"
You scoffed at the headline and threw the magazine down on the coffee table. It wasn't that you did it out of blindness – that you believed he wasn't back with her – but because you were sick of the idea. You didn't want to have to think about it; him and her, her and him. It was all getting so fuzzy too, the text printed so neatly on the page becoming one massive inky blur, but that was probably the alcohol's effects and not the problem at hand.
It's around then that he stumbles back in through that door, maybe more drunk than he was most other nights, but that could only be deduced by the way that he was sagging against the wall and had nearly walked into the table, the little black buttons of his shirt in all the wrong holes.
"Where were you?" you ask him and he freezes. He thought you were asleep, because it was nearing the early hours of morning; almost sunrise. He thought he could have gotten away with it this time, but he hadn't. He couldn't.
"Drinking." And it's not really a lie, but it's not exactly the whole story either.
"With who?"
"Just some friends," he defends, "Would you get off my back?"
"So your ex is just a 'friend' then? Nothing more?" You question.
"Yes," he says, taking pride in the fact, "Is that the answer you want? Yes, I was with her, Y/N."
You shake your head, "I can't believe you!"
"What are you doing?" he asks, watching as you stand up and run about the apartment, gathering clothes and whatnot.
"Leaving."
He laughs, "Really? You're overreacting, Y/N!"
You freeze. You were overreacting? He was cheating on you! You felt anger bubble up inside you, but you try your hardest to supress it; arguing wasn't going to help the situation.
So you stay silent, and continue towards the doorway, your bags in your hands full of clothes folded messily out of haste.
"Fine then," He calls from the living room, already switching on the television, "Leave! I don't even care anymore, Y/N!"
So you did.
And you had been afraid of losing him, but wasn't it about time that you faced your fears? You didn't deserve that; him cheating on you, treating you the way he did. So you left, and you lost him, and it didn't hurt as bad as you thought it would because it was okay. For once, it was okay.
And he didn't realise, when you walked out, that he would miss you so much; maybe not as soon as you left, because he would still be angry and upset and a little drunk, but afterwards he felt horrible; when he realised that you weren't coming back anytime soon.

steven: He missed you. That was the understatement of the century, because it was as if his heart had been torn in two. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat. He couldn't live without you; that much was obvious, through the way he would break sometimes when he thought of you, and slam his fist into walls as he sobbed. How could he be so stupid, he wondered. How could he have let you slip through his fingertips like sand?
He had you. He had you right in front of him, in his arms with his lips on yours, and when he blinked you were gone.
He didn't want to think anymore. Of how he'd let you get away. How he'd let you just walk out that door without doing a thing. There wasn't much he could say that would convince you to stay anyway, and he realised that, because once you had your heart set on something you couldn't let it go. And this time it was that decision, but once it had been him.
"Hey," he says into the phone, once again catching the answering machine rather than your sweet sleepy voice he had hoped for. He runs his hand through his hair, standing there for a moment in his living room, sighing as he murmurs under his breath at how stupid of an idea it had been to call you.
And he doesn't know what to say, even though it's not you on the other end, because he's still a little nervous. He wanted you back. He knew that. But he was so afraid that you wouldn't want him, that he wasn't good enough.
"I just wanted to call to..." his voice trails off, and he's left standing in the silence, "See, that's the thing, Y/N. I don't know."
"I miss you." He admits after a few seconds, but he regrets the words the instant they tumble from his dry lips. What if you didn't miss him? What if he was just making a fool of himself?
"Steven?" you ask through the speaker, having picked up the phone after his words, your soft voice laced with a tone of confusion but also affection; sadness, but also joy that he had called - that he had been thinking of you.
He smiled softly, "Hey, Y/N."