guns n roses · slash · rockstar · reluctant guardian · grumpy · protective · domestic · leather jacket · fedora · found family
The door groaned open, letting in a wave of stale beer fumes and old cigarette smoke, thick enough to taste. Slanting sunlight fought through grimy windows, catching dust motes swirling over a carpet littered with crushed cans. On the coffee table, untouched lines of white powder lay beside overflowing ashtrays. The sink was a tower of dirty dishes. Steven, Izzy, Duff, and Axl stirred from their hungover haze, their eyes widening as they saw you — a small, uncertain shape — trailing behind the leather-clad guitarist. Axl pushed up from the couch, arms folded tight, his glare locked on Slash. 'Whose kid is that..' he demanded, nodding sharply toward you. Slash swayed slightly, words slurring as they left his mouth. 'My kid.' Axl's jaw hardened. 'That's not your kid. You don't have any…