guns n' roses preferences & imagines

things arent working out pt. 3

axl: The phone rang again; the sixth time in the last hour. There's no doubt in your mind as to who it is and why they're calling. Axl hadn't been able to get you out of his mind since he ran into you a few days ago, and now he was calling you in hopes of a second chance; a second chance he knows he doesn't deserve.
You sigh and pick up the phone; it's the first time you've answered it in three days, too afraid that it would be Axl and you'd have to face those feelings that you had been avoiding ever since you broke up and didn't want to have, simply because you should have moved on by now. After all, you were with somebody else –you were with David – and you shouldn't still be in love with your ex; that wasn't fair on him.
"Hello?"
"Y/N, look, I know that I messed up and you probably don't want anything to do with me but I really miss you and I just need to know..." His voice trails off and you can imagine him running a hand through his hair, a deep sigh passing through him. "Do you miss me too?"

Duff: He'd finally done what he should have done the first time around, and it was a shame that you had to break up for him to realise that. He'd finally stood up for you, stood against the paparazzi.
"So does this mean we're back together?" you ask him, walking with your hand still in his.
"If you're willing to give me another chance," he smiles.
"I am," you shrug, then turn to him with a grin, joking, "As long as I get the last slice of pizza and you stop leaving dirty socks everywhere."
He grins and for a moment there's nothing to worry about; no words said for a moment or two.
"About the paps-"
"Duff, I get that you-"
"No," he says firmly, interrupting you, "No. It's not fair on you; that they bother you so much, that I don't stand up for you."
"They're just doing their job," you say, "It's okay, really."
"No it's not," he replies, but the fight in his voice is gone and his words are only just above a whisper, "It's not. I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm sorry that I... I'm sorry."

Izzy: Your blood boils. How could he just shrug you off like that? Like you weren't even there? You'd tried to be friendly, to explain why you were outside his house, and he just ignored you!
You storm up to his door and knock, perhaps with a little more force than what was necessary, but you'd never admit to it. A moment later he opens the door, his eyes dimming and his face falling when he sees you.
"Oh, it's you."
"Yeah, it's me. I'm here to pick up my shit," you growl.
He smiles curtly, a note of sarcasm in his voice, "Right this way, princess."
He pulls the door open wider, and you step inside, brushing your shoulder with his forcefully. He leads you through the familiar hallway until you get to the room you had once shared. The bed still had the same sheets, the same ones you'd both picked out together. You wondered if he'd washed them, if they still smelt like you. You remembered the way you both fitted so well together when you'd lay there, so close; he made you feel loved, protected. But now all he made you feel was angry.
"It's all where you left it," he sighs, "I didn't want to touch it in case I contracted bitch disease."
You turn around, "What is your problem, Izzy?"
"Hmm?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, "What do you mean?"
"I mean why are you being so rude?"
He ignored your question and asked his own. "Why did you break up with me, Y/N?"
You stood there shocked for a moment, silent, and it was then that you realised that you hadn't even given him a reason. Instead of sitting down and trying to work out your relationship, you'd exchanged names and insults and said things that neither of you meant and then you'd walked out and that was the end.
"I... I-I didn't..." You shake your head, "I never meant to...I'm sorry."

Slash: He kept hoping that you'd come back. The second day when he woke up on the couch in the living room, the television still blaring, slightly hung-over, he'd hoped that you'd walk through that door; he thought you'd be back soon, maybe before evening, maybe afterwards. But when you didn't, he figured you'd just decided to spend another night on a friend's couch complaining about him, crying maybe; he wasn't sure, he couldn't remember a reason as to why you'd left anyway, why you'd be so upset. He'd been mean last night; rude. He was drunk and angry and he took it out on you, made up lies to hurt you. He didn't remember all of it though – only bits and pieces – the alcohol made his head fuzzy and he couldn't think as it was with the pounding in his skull – another side effect of last night's events.
But after the fourth or fifth night that you still hadn't walked through that door, he started questioning himself; what had happened, where you were, why you weren't answer his phone calls or texts. He came to the conclusion that you were upset with him, and he could only think of one reason as to why. His ex.
He'd seen the magazine on the coffee table too, the one you'd been looking at before storming out. He knew that you probably had believed it, believed him too when he said he was out with her even when he wasn't; he just wanted to make you jealous, but their relationship wasn't anything but a friendship. He always thought you were cute angry, hot when you were jealous. But you weren't angry or jealous now, you were upset. And he feels horrible because he knows that it's his fault.
So he calls up all your friends and family and anyone else he think you might be staying with, until one of your friends tell him that you're staying at her house. And then he's driving there, even if it's not the smartest idea, because he needs to make things right between you both – even if you don't want to see his face, and if you still don't want to be with him then fine, but he couldn't just walk away with things like this.
"Can I talk to Y/N?" he asks your friend, standing on their porch. She looks hesitantly back inside before nodding her head.
"Be quick."
Saul's already over the threshold.
And when he finds you sitting on the couch, he's instantly sinking down next to you, apologising a dozen times over and begging for you to forgive him, to take him back, explaining that he wasn't cheating and that he still loved you and that he wanted nothing more than a second shot with you.

Steven: "I miss you," he repeats, "I miss you so damn much."
You don't reply. You're afraid to say that you miss him too, that you love him, and even if you lied and said that you didn't, you're afraid that your voice will waver or break and he'd know.
There's a silence for a moment or two, before he asks you a question; simple enough and one that you knew the answer to.
"Do you miss me?"
"Steven, I-" You begin, but he interrupts.
"That's okay," he says, a sad smile on his face. There's pain in his words, real sadness, because he'd hoped so desperately that your answer would be yes. "It's okay if you don't."
"Stev-"
"I mean, I get it. I do," he interrupts a second time, "I mean... You walked away for a reason, Y/N, I get that."
"Steven, would you just-"
"Really, it's okay," he says, "I don't know why I even called you to be honest. I'm sorry."
"Steven!" you say over the top of his voice, and he stops talking, "I miss you too."
He freezes for a moment, silent. "What?"
"I miss you, Steven," You admit, voice softer, quieter this time. "I do."