Older Izzy - Blog Posts

⋆˚ izzy stradlin and bernard fowler , cir. 2015 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

need him

Backstage Heat (modern izzy birthday story!!) I can’t believe he is 63 today🥲

Izzy x reader (Warning!! Slight smut)

This is my first story btw so let me know if I should write more😊 -slutz

The second the hotel room door clicked shut, Izzy had you pressed up against it. His mouth crashed onto yours like he’d been holding back all night and maybe he had. That look in his eyes during dinner, the little smirk he gave you when you leaned in too close, the way his fingers brushed your leg under the table like an accident; none of it was innocent.

“Happy birthday, rockstar,” you whispered, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe.

He looked at you like you were the only gift that mattered. “You gonna behave tonight?” he murmured, low and teasing, his voice gravel rough and dripping with heat.

You smiled wickedly. “Not a chance.”

His laugh rumbled deep in his chest, like thunder. “Good.”

In seconds, you were in his arms again, your back pressed to the wall, legs wrapped around his hips. His hands were everywhere, gripping, trailing, teasing. You tugged his shirt up over his head, revealing the lean muscle, tattoos, and that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You think you’re in charge?” he asked, breath warm against your ear.

You nipped at his jawline. “It’s your birthday. I’m just here to ruin you.”

“Oh, baby…” he growled, spinning you and tossing you onto the bed. “You already have.”

You laughed breathlessly as he crawled over you, one knee pressing into the mattress, his fingers hooking under the hem of your dress. His rings were cool against your skin, but the heat in his gaze was pure fire.

“You wore this for me?” he asked, sliding the fabric up slowly.

“Maybe I wanted to make tonight unforgettable.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“And you love it.”

He didn’t respond with words; just his mouth against your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. Every kiss was possessive, every touch practiced and hungry. His hands knew every curve, every spot that made you arch and gasp. The room was filled with the sounds of breathless laughter, rustling sheets, and low groans that lit your whole body on fire.

Clothes hit the floor, one by one, and the rest of the night blurred into heat and motion; his body pressed to yours, the sharp contrast of his rough hands and your soft skin. He took his time, but never slowed down. It was fast, wild, but somehow still intimate. Every look, every touch, said mine.

And when it was over, when you were both breathless, tangled in the sheets, limbs heavy and hearts racing, he lit a cigarette with one hand and pulled you into his side with the other.

Smoke curled toward the ceiling as he kissed your temple and said, “Best damn birthday I’ve ever had.”