'he Would Not Fucking Say That' Maybe He Would If He Knew He Was Starring In His Very Own Porn Fic For

Helloo, how are you? :)

I wanted to ask you if you can write something random that i just saw in tiktok haha please if you want

idk if you saw those videos where a girl is recording her boyfriend being a soft baby like "who's my good boy?" and he says "me", and they're cuddling and she's babying and praising him without him knowing and when he notices he gets all manly again lmao

i wanted you to write that with Dave Mustaine. like 80s Dave but at the present time

sorry for my bad english. i hope you can write it. thanks!! <3

p.s: i love your writing, you're so funny🤧

THANK YOU SM!!!!! love you. anyway, here’s the fic, i hope it’s alright! i whipped it up in a hour instead of doing my reflection papers.

so many fanfic ideas not enough time to write </3

LOVED TO DETH, dave mustaine.

pinned rules masterlist

pairing; dave mustaine x fem!reader

summary; a very fatigued dave mustaine finally gets home after a very lengthy megadeth tour and all he wants to be is with you but you have other plans.

warnings; veryy fluffy, 1990s/countdown to extinction dave, slight cussing, no use of y/n, vague mention of drowning (unserious), bathing(??), dave is so fucking clingy you’d have to pry him off with a crowbar, & dave is really smelly. if im missing anything else let me know!

word count; 1.4k

requests open, not proofread, based on this ask.

Dave couldn't be happier to be back home. It felt like he aged twenty years on the road. Don't get his words twisted, he loved what he did. He was eternally grateful that he was able to make a living off of what he loved most. Well, maybe not most. But he really couldn't figure out an ethical way to make money off of doing you—so the music would have to do. 

Three years ago Dave would have never dreamt that he could be in a healthy, loving relationship that wasn’t all about lust. Sure, he had great times with other girlfriends, but the lack of stability and his ever-growing dependency on various drugs truly put the nail in the coffin for anything he had going for him. And he was tough according to the press, anyhow. Rude, rough, abrasive, an asshole; all adjectives used to describe Dave. And none that could describe you.

Your pure love and innocence were sweet enough to rot all of his teeth out. The way you smiled at him—the skin around your eyes would crinkle as they dazzled in the light that guided him to sanctuary. The way your voice was ever so smooth and gentle whenever you spoke to him, almost like you were cooing at a child was like a melody to his ears he never grew tired of. The way your lips were so soft and inviting when you’d pout when you were mad at him. The way you cared for him like nobody ever had before—cooking his meals, ironing his clothes, cleaning the house—the whole nine yards.

A younger Dave would’ve gagged at the thought that he had fallen into a routine with someone that was so.. mundane and domestic. He was Dave Mustaine for God’s sake!

Yet, fate had different plans.

You had spent all day cleaning up the house and doing laundry that you had forgotten all about Dave coming home today. Not that you’d necessarily forgotten, but you had collapsed in Dave’s armchair in the living room. That was a problem. He forbade you from sitting in his chair when he was home, something about not wanting to wear out the cushion. However, you couldn't help but nestle into a little ball in it. It was so comfortable and soft, and it smelt just like him. It smelt just like home.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” A soft chuckle from above stirred you out of your sleep. For a second you believed you hallucinated his voice. Maybe your sleepy eyes deceived you as they landed on the tall ginger standing before you. The moment his eyes met yours, the slight furrow of his brow faded away and it felt like his hard, deep hazel eyes softened just for a moment.

“Hi,” you breathed out with a smile, looking up at him as his hands rested on your cheeks, calloused palms gently pressed down on your soft skin. “You’re home..,” It was almost adorable how endearing your tone of voice was whenever you spoke—like you missed him. And you truly did.

“I’m home.”

The subtle submission and admiration he had for you made your heart flutter in your chest and your stomach flip and churn as you giggled at him. I mean, who else gets to see Megadeth’s Dave Mustaine all domestic and loving like this? You wanted to take a photo of this moment and frame it in the Louvre—No. You wanted to keep this moment to yourself forever. Your special secret.

“I’ve missed you, so much..,” Dave hushed tiredly, but the gleam in his eyes only lightened up, his smile widening so far that his cheeks ached. His hands scaled down your face to reach your arms as he clutched your palms. His grip was firm but gentle—as if he were to let go you’d vanish.

“I think you’ve got it the other way around, honey. C’mere,” you beckoned him to lay beside you in the armchair. He immediately complied, snuggling up protectively to your side. Dave wrapped his girthy arm over your shoulder while his other arm rested on your thigh, hands playing with the hem of your shirt innocently.

A small, gentle laugh left his lips. Dave just couldn’t help but feel so joyful around you, the love blooming in his chest just made him want to jump up and down with you in his arms and squeeze you til you turned blue. You were the light of his life that shined bright, even in his darkest hour. His sin, his soul. He was undoubtedly and unconditionally in love with you.

Suddenly, his eyes shot up as your head recoiled back, your cute nose scrunching up in disgust and your lips pursing.

“My God Dave. When was the last time you showered? You smell terrible!”

“Uhh… Well..,” Dave awkwardly cleared his throat and chuckled. There goes sappy, sentimental Dave, I guess. To be frank—he hated it when he got that way. It made him feel so weak and vulnerable.

You quickly scrambled out of his lap, walking away to your shared bedroom. He watched your frame trudge up the stairs, the way your legs swished back and forth. Dave half considered jogging up to catch up with you, but he was honestly too exhausted. The road took a lot of energy out of him and the last thing he needed was a stupid argument the moment he went inside his own house.

Then the bedroom door slammed shut. Seriously?

He waited a minute for you to come down. Maybe you had to use the bathroom. He knew you hated the downstairs one. He knew everything. Then he waited two. Dave yawned sleepily and with a dramatic huff, he stood up from the chair.

Only when he arrived upstairs into your shared bedroom he could hear the light whispering of water running, but no lights seemed to creep from under the door. Oh God, were you drowning yourself because he stunk that badly?!

Dave slowly crept the door open, peeking into the bathroom. His hazel eyes adjusted to the darkness—the only light being a few vanilla candles surrounding the bathtub that you had placed down previously. Your “spa day” candles, as you say. Two towels lay on the counter—one for his hair and the other for his body.

“Did I really smell that bad—?”

“No. It's your spa day, babe. Now I want you to lie down and relax, okay?”

Dave chuckled and sent you one of his iconic smirks you often saw on his band’s posters, “If you wanted me naked you could’ve just asked—”

“Mustaine. Bath. Now.”

How could he argue with such a pretty face?

The next morning, you could hear birds chirping outside, a domestic tune that often greeted you in the morning, a natural alarm clock. Your face scrunches up as the sun’s blinding rays peeked from the curtains. You roll over with a groan, eyes still shut as your hand feels around the side of the bed for your (now clean) companion. Instead, you were greeted with coldness.

The door to your bedroom gently opened and your eyes slowly adjusted to the sight before you, blinking ever so often. A ginger figure approached you, holding out a TV tray with a hot plate of chocolate chip pancakes and sizzling crispy bacon. Wait—what?

“Good morning… I thought I'd make you a little treat since you were—y’know, nice, Yesterday..,” Dave’s voice came out in a mumble and if it weren't for having a visual before you, you would’ve thought it was a little schoolboy this. His cheeks flushed a soft red, almost rivalling the color of the messy locks that framed his face. He looked ethereal. A Greek God, if you will.

His large, calloused hands carefully placed the tray on your lap, careful not to spill a single drop of syrup on your lap. Dave’s sharp eyes scanned the meal before he noticed the lack of a drink on your tray. Goddamnit!

“Damnit, I forgot your orange juice. Stay here,” Dave demanded and pointed a stern finger at you. His brows furrowed in concentration: the man was on a mission.

And right there, on that random Tuesday morning, with the sun in your eyes and the hot pancakes melting the butter Dave scraped on top, the (not so) quiet banging of unfamiliar cabinets opening and shutting in the kitchen, you knew that you had made it in life.

a/n; i had so much fun writing this! please give me feedback, this is my first fanfiction LOL.

© lagunned (2025—) all rights reserved.

i'd purposely get him mad so he could scold me like this

Hii !! In the continuation of the guns n roses x reader one shot, ik that izzy is the main love interest, but can you please give reader having sexual tensions with the other members? Like with slash, axl or duff? Its fine if you dont want to, no worries, i know that the fic will turn fantastic and thank youu ❤️❤️

oh don’t worry. if it’s a guns fic, there will be tension EVERYWHERE. not only for my sake but you can’t tell me all the guys didn’t flirt with every woman within a ten mile radius. you just can’t.

I'LL GET EVEN, dave mustaine.

pinned rules masterlist

pairing; modern!dave mustaine x fem!reader

summary; dave is angry at a producer and comes home, just wanting to see you. you have other plans, deciding to join in on a couple tiktok trend—he doesn’t find it as funny as you do.

warnings; very fluffy, modern era but with 1980s dave, slight cussing, no use of y/n, mentions of toxic masculinity, dave gets butthurt, tough boy isn’t so tough anymore. if im missing anything else let me know!

word count; 750

requests open, not proofread, based on this ask.

You never thought you’d see the day when Dave Mustaine—the snarling, sharp-tongued leader of Megadeth, the same man who wrote lyrics about death and betrayal—would be curled up in your arms like an overgrown cat. But here he was, his spiralling, copper curls a mess against your chest, his breath warm against your collarbone, completely unaware that he was currently being recorded, despite your quiet, hushed giggles that left your soft lips. He was so fucking tired he didn't even think anything of it: his first mistake.

It had started out as an innocent cuddle session. He’d come home after hours in the studio, grumbling about producers who didn’t “get” his sound, and immediately toppled onto you like a weighted blanket. You knew better than to say anything at first—Dave was a like cat in human form; if you pointed out that he was being affectionate, he’d immediately "hiss" and pretend he wasn’t. So you just let him rest, lazily running your fingers through his hair while his arm draped possessively over your waist, his strong, calloused thumb stroking the hem of your pants.

That’s when the idea struck.

With your phone angled just right, you hit record, keeping your voice soft, teasing. This will fucking get him. You knew he wasn't active on social media, let alone TikTok. And you loved your pranks—rather, you loved to push your boyfriend’s buttons.

“Who's my good boy?” you cooed, fingers tracing light patterns on his back.

A sleepy mumble; “...Me.”

Your grin nearly split your face into two. Got him.

“Yeah? My bestest boy?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed, nuzzling closer into your warm neck.

You held back a laugh, heart melting at how completely relaxed he was. This was the Dave most people didn’t get to see—the one who craved softness, who would willingly tangle his limbs with yours just to feel safe for a while. The one that just yearned for intimacy and love, and admiration. Even if he didn't admit it. His gentleness with you proved it right—despite what the people had to say in the media. It was all bullshit.

Then, as if some internal alarm sounded, his whole body suddenly stiffened against you. Uh-oh…

“Wait,” he muttered. You felt the pause; the slow, tired wheels turning in his brain. He lifted his head slightly, hazel eyes squinting in suspicion. “The fuck did you just say?”

You bit your lip, trying not to giggle. “I said, ‘Who’s my good boy?’”

His brows furrowed. Then his eyes flickered to your hand—manicured nails clasped around your phone. His domestic, exhausted eyes met his own within your phone. What the fuck was wrong with you—on every level. Mentally, emotionally, physically—hell, spiritually. You don’t do that shit to thee Dave Mustaine!

“…Are you recording this?”

“Maybe.”

Dave shot up faster than a rocket and you barely had time to react before his tall frame was towering over you, his expression caught somewhere between betrayal and damage control. No, no, no, no—fuck no!

“Delete it.” His voice was gruff now, like you’d just walked in on him playing with kittens and he was scrambling to reassert dominance. He had an image to uphold—both with the fans and you. “Right fucking now.”

You pouted. “But you were soooo cute.”

"I’m not cute,” he grumbled, already crawling back into his toxic masculinity shell. He ran a hand through his thick golden hair, shoulders straightening, jaw clenching. “I’m fucking dangerous."

You tilted your head, still recording. Your phone shook as you held back a laugh. “Oh? Who’s my big, strong, dangerous boy?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek as a vein popped in his forehead. Dave pointed at your phone. “I swear to God—”

But before he could finish, you gave him the look. The one that said, I’ll stop recording if you just play along for two more seconds, pretty, pretty please sweetheart.

Dave groaned, rubbing his face. You could tell he was so done with your antics. And then, with the deepest, most reluctant sigh you'd probably had ever heard from his lips, he muttered under his breath:

“…Me.”

You burst out laughing, nearly dropping your phone in the process—but you relentlessly gripped it for dear life. Gotcha!

Dave, realizing what he just did, let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a feral growl before launching himself at you, trying to snatch your phone from your iron grip.

“You’re fucking dead,” he grumbled, burying his face in your neck, but the warmth of his arms tightening around you told you otherwise. Dave even shocked himself sometimes, it's like his heart reacts before his head. The little things made him realize that he truly was infatuated with you. Inside and out, no matter how cruel you may be. You took to him when no one else did.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind being your "good" boy after all.

© lagunned (2025—) all rights reserved.

CHAPTER 3 | KILL 'EM ALL.

w.c. 3.8k

tags. original female character, mild period-typical misogyny (it’s the late 1980s), some cussing, slowburn, arguing, possessive/slight controlling behavior via mc’s boyfriend, toxic masculinity/insecurity, manipulative behavior via mc’s boyfriend, smoking, if there’s anything else to be added let me know!

a/n. hey all! i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it. you’ll have to bear with me for the first few chapters in the beginning, as i’m trying to naturally and realistically flesh out everyone’s story while writing the real life people “in character.” i’m expecting to start the legit drama SOON just.. let me enjoy my slowburn.

taglist. @prettypersuasion, @creepindeaathh, @nelnroses, @hyperiondickrider, @hollywoodroses, @tranquilitybasegrunge

you can find chapter three on wattpad and AO3, linked under the respective platforms aforementioned.

last two previous chapters:

chapter one: welcome to the jungle - wattpad and AO3.

chapter two: terror 'n tinseltown - wattpad and AO3.

IT'S SO EASY, guns n' roses.

pinned rules masterlist

pairing; guns n' roses x fem!reader

summary; your band, lethality, is the hottest thing that’s hit the sunset strip since mötley crüe and the notorious guns n' roses. after a sensational night playing the whisky a go-go, you to meet a very interesting group of men that take a peculiar liking to you.

warnings; cussing, no use of y/n, alcohol & cigarettes mentioned, veryy dialogue heavy, nothing really happens because i didn’t know if anon wanted it to be romantic/romantic encounter with a band member(s), steven is having fun somewhere else.

word count; 1.6k

a/n; i honestly loved writing this. i had a hard time starting it, but when i got it going i couldn’t stop. i was even considering making this a full fledged fanfic, if anyone would be interested.

requests open, not proofread, based on this ask.

The Whisky was packed, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of sweat. The crowd of people blended into one the further you looked out—was jumping around, their energy feeding into yours as you gripped the mic stand, swinging it around erratically. Your heart pounded with adrenaline as the house lights dim for dramatic effect, and with a deep, intentional breath, you launched into the final chorus of your band, Lethality's, set. Your voice was raw, passionate, and uniquely fresh. The audience erupted, fists pounding in the air, whistling and clapping being heard.

This is what made every sleepless hour, every shitty bar gig worth it. The feeling of the audience, the bass vibrating your core, the drums pounding hard and intentional, the guitar wailing along to your voice. You were in your element. This was everything.

With one last powerful belt, you let the song ring out, clutching the microphone as the sound of your heavy breath mixed with the cheers. A slow, sexy smirk tugged at your lips. They loved you.

You turned, locking eyes with your guitarist, tossing your damp, messy hairy over your shoulder and stepping back from the microphone stand. The applause and whistles followed you offstage, still roaring in your ears as you grabbed a towel and wiped your damp face.

You were shocked that Los Angeles had loved Lethality that much, given that they didn't take to women-led bands very kindly. They often watered them down to being a "woman in Rock" and not a "rockstar." You loathed it, and you be damned if it happened to you. You deserved to be on the same playing field as the rest of these young, dumb, and full of cum men. Not that you honestly wanted to be compared to that, though.

"You really know how to work a crowd," a voice called out.

Your eyes shot up to see an older, chubbier man leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking at you in thought. He nodded towards the dressing rooms. "You've got some serious fans wanting to meet you."

You raise an eyebrow in uncertainty, "Fans?"

The man sends you a shit-eating grin and sniggered, "Yeah. Ever heard of Guns N' Roses?"

For a brief second, your heart skipped a beat as you felt your hands get clammy—but you played it cool, tossing the wet towel onto a nearby beer crate. You exhaled through your nose and ran a hand through your hair. You knew Guns regularly went to the Whisky and other clubs you and your band frequented, and you were bound to run into them, but you still felt extremely nervous. You absolutely adored their newest album, Appetite for Destruction.

"Well," you eventually muttered, rolling your shoulders, "guess I better not keep them waiting, huh?"

With that, you strode down the hall, your heart beating so loudly you could feel it having a concert in your head. The hallway was dimly lit the further you walked down, the sounds of the Whisky still thrumming in the distance. Your heeled boots echoed against the floor as you approached the dressing rooms. Guns N' fucking Roses wanted to see you. You weren't one to get starstruck, you had met some of the best musicians to come out of the strip, but you weren't oblivious either. Part of you was curious, another part cautious. You knew how these men were. Hungry for sex, drugs, and dabbled in Rock 'n' Roll when the job called for it. You also weren't one to get caught up in the rock mystique. Yet, if they had something to say, you were damn sure going to hear it.

You reached the dressing room door and took a steadying breath. You took a second to smooth your hair and shake out the last of your post-show adrenaline. Then, you pushed it open.

The room was buzzing with soft conversation. The scent of fresh leather, whiskey, and cigarette smoke hung in the air. The ginger lead singer, Axl Rose, was the first of the four to look up, reclining in his chair, a drink idly dangling from his fingers. His sharp hazel eyes flickered with something unreadable as he took your figure in. Slash was perched on the couch, lazily tapping ash from his cigarette, while Duff and Izzy leaned back in conversation, their laughter cutting off the second you entered. Instantly, you noticed the lack of their drummer, Steven Adler. Huh.

Four pairs of beady eyes locked onto you.

"Well, well," Duff spoke up, giving a slow, acknowleding nod. "The woman of the hour."

You smirked, stepping inside with your arms crossed. "Didn't realize I was on your schedule."

Axl's lips curled into something between amusement and intrigue. "You weren't. But we couldn't ignore what we just saw out there," he tilted his head, studying you. "You don't just perform—you own that stage."

The way Axl said it wasn't flattery. On the contrary, it was a statement. A challenge, maybe. You couldn’t tell. Not yet, anyway.

You met his gaze without flinching, a newfound confidence overtaking you. "That's the job, isn't it?"

To your right, Slash chuckled, flicking his cigarette once more. "Yeah, but most people don't do it like that." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his leathered knees. "Where the fuck did you come from?"

You shrugged, "Same story as everyone else. Small-town band, a lot of shitty gigs, and too much cheap beer."

Axl smirked at that you noticed. He must've liked that reply, you thought.

"Not everyone makes it out of that."

Something about the way he said it made the air feel heavier, just for a beat. You could feel them sizing you up, trying to figure out if you were just another wannabe act, or something more. Maybe they were checking you out, who fucking knows?

You glanced around, then raised an amused brow. "So, you dragged me in here just to stroke my ego, or is there something else?"

Axl took a swig of his liquor, sliding his arm onto the armrest. "Maybe both."

Axl's words hung in the air, stretching the moment just long enough for you to feel the weight of their attention. You didn't mind it—if anything, you were used to being watched, analyzed, judged. But this? This was different.

Slash took a slow, tentative drag off of his cigarette, exhaling a thin breath of smoke before speaking again. "How long have you been playing as a band?"

You walked over to the other side of the couch he sat on, your eyes not leaving his hidden ones. "Long enough to know what I'm doing."

That earned a chuckle from Duff. "Yeah, we picked up on that, Susie-Q."

Izzy, who had been quiet until now, studied you with that easy, unreadable gaze. "Your sound's different. It's not just your voice—it's the way you hold a crowd. Who are your influences?"

You shrugged, "A little of everyone."

Axl chuckled and swirled the whiskey in his glass. "That's the safe answer," he retorted, clicking his tongue in amusement.

"Safe," you echoed with a knowing, smug smile, "or just true?"

That got a reaction—albeit a small one—a flicker of something behind Axl's eyes. The kind of interest that wasn't politeness. He wasn't just shooting the shit with you. None of them were. They had intentions—intentions you were unsure of.

Slash tilted his head softly, "You got a label yet?"

"Not one worth signing to," you replied smoothly as you shook your head.

Izzy and Duff exchanged what felt like their tenth glance of the night. Axl's smirk deepened as you quietly let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You were very nervous, after all.

"Good," Axl clicked his tongue, "means you're not an idiot."

You huffed a quiet laugh, "I try."

This whole conversation had your mind reeling: panic mode on. This was going nowhere, and you didn't really come here to get drilled about your music. They didn't even ask to see the rest of Lethality, just you. You weren't sure what to expect when walking backstage, but being rallied up by Guns wasn't it. Their gaze was still on you, making you feel small. You look at Axl from across the room—the gears in his head were moving. You soon realized that never meant anything good.

Axl turned his head to look at you dead on. "So, what's next for you?"

You met his gaze without hesitation, your eyebrows furrowing. "Why? You planning to keep tabs on me?"

Slash grinned, putting out his cigarette in the steel ashtray on the coffee table. "Wouldn't be the worst idea. Not every night we someone actually own the stage instead of just.. standing on it."

Duff gestured towards you with his beer bottle. "Crowd was losing their fucking minds. You got 'em wrapped around your pretty little finger."

You shrugged. “Like I said, that’s the job.”

“And like Slash said, most people don’t get that. They think it’s just about playing the songs.” Izzy eyed you, like he was still trying to figure you out. He motioned towards you as he pulled out a Marlboro from his pack. “You’ve got something else.”

Axl let out a low chuckle and cleared his throat while shaking his head slightly. Then, he raised his glass. “Right. Here’s to whatever the fuck happens next.”

Your eyes flicked to the band’s whiskey bottle on the table. Without a word, you picked it up, twisted off the cap, and took a deep gulp before setting it back down on the coffee table with a quiet, gentle clink.

“You’ll be seeing more of Lethality,” you said simply.

Slash huffed a quiet laugh. “Good. Scene’s getting boring.”

Duff nodded in agreement. “Listen—If you keep playing like that, you won’t be stuck in clubs forever.”

Izzy didn’t say anything, just gave a small, knowing smirk.

Axl’s gaze lingered for a second longer before he set his now empty glass down. “Guess we’ll have to just wait and fucking see.”

The conversation shifted, drinks flowed, and the night stretched on. Whatever this was—whatever had started here—you had a small feeling burning deep inside that this was just the beginning.

© lagunned (2025—) all rights reserved.

hey all!!! if youve submitted something, im definitely working on it atm. the first few subs should be out soon 💋