Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses
He comes in, in a flurry of red hair and jangling bracelets. I barely have time to stand before he tackles me, nearly throwing me against the wall of the hotel room. His fingers grip my shoulders as he pushes me between his heated, pale body and the cracked plaster. I feel his leather-clad thigh pushing between my legs as he grinds his half-hard crotch against mine, and I moan into his mouth as my own cock twitches. His kisses are fierce, more teeth than skin, and I have to admit it’s turning me on. Usually I’m the dominant one when it comes to our sex life, but not tonight.
After a while, he breaks away from me and stares hard into my eyes. I melt beneath his gaze; I am liquid in his hands. His skin is all bruised where I attacked him, and I wonder how we’re going to explain it to the others. Sometimes I wish we could just tell Duff, Izzy, and Steven the truth, because it’s getting harder and harder to hide it, but for whatever reason he won’t let me. I guess telling them would make our relationship solidify itself, and maybe he’s not ready for that type of commitment. In fact, I know he’s not, and that’s okay. But me? I’m not too sure what I want. Lately, more and more often, I’ve had to catch myself before I cry his name in climax, or call him some term of endearment, or even just snuggle with him, because all of that would signify a real relationship, and what we have is more about the sex than anything else. And I guess I’m fine with that; if it keeps me with him, I’ll have to be.
He kisses me again, still roughly, and I feel a hard shiver run down my spine. He pushes his tongue against mine, leaving his taste lingering in my mouth. I start to slide my hand down his pants, working my fingers at the zipper to allow myself easier access, but he pulls away and steps back.
“No,” he says, voice hoarse. He looks up at me and again I am drawn into his powerful gaze. This time, though, I am startled to see tears glistening in his emerald irises. Without thinking, I reach out and cup his jaw in my hand.
“Axl,” I say, “what’s wrong?” He shakes his head and steps back again; then, abruptly, he starts crying. I am surprised, worried, but I don’t let him see it. I just move forward and take him in my arms, and he doesn’t protest, just lays his head on my chest, his own arms going around my waist. I can feel his tears soaking my bare skin.
After a while, I lead him over to the bed by the window—because, traditionally, that’s the bed we always use when we’re in hotels. He lies down of his own accord, then, surprisingly, he reaches up for me. Like he needs me or something. I lie next to him, pulling him against me again. I know that I’m never really going to learn why he’s upset this time, but I doubt I’d understand anyway—Axl’s so damn complicated, with such a complex view of the world, that what normally upsets him would not upset anyone else. Just the fact that he’s comfortable enough with me to let his barriers fall, that’s good enough.
Then he speaks, soft lips moving on my chest. “…Stay?” he asks quietly, and it takes me a minute to realize that he’s not asking me to stay—because, after all, it is my room—he’s asking if he can stay.
“Sure,” I reply. I look at him, at how incredibly fragile he appears, and I ask, “All night?”
A hesitation, then a slow nod. He gives me a faint smile, a shy look. His cheeks flush faintly pink and he kisses my chest gently, rubbing his fingers against my back, causing me to shiver slightly. Slowly, I stroke his fine copper hair, and suddenly I’m imagining us waking up wrapped around each other, our bodies twined like vines climbing up a wall. We’ve never slept all night together, never shared the warmth of a mattress until the sun cracks orange shades over the window, because that’s what couples do, and that’s not how Axl is. With him, it’s always a fuck-and-run… until now.
“Slash…” he murmurs sleepily.
“Yeah?”
He smiles faintly. “Thanks…” he whispers, and then, suddenly, instinctively, I know that the next time we have sex, whether it’s quick, hot after-show backstage sex; or slow, passionate hotel room sex; or even angry fighting sex; one or both of us will be crying out the other’s name.
After a while, he breaks away from me and stares hard into my eyes. I melt beneath his gaze; I am liquid in his hands. His skin is all bruised where I attacked him, and I wonder how we’re going to explain it to the others. Sometimes I wish we could just tell Duff, Izzy, and Steven the truth, because it’s getting harder and harder to hide it, but for whatever reason he won’t let me. I guess telling them would make our relationship solidify itself, and maybe he’s not ready for that type of commitment. In fact, I know he’s not, and that’s okay. But me? I’m not too sure what I want. Lately, more and more often, I’ve had to catch myself before I cry his name in climax, or call him some term of endearment, or even just snuggle with him, because all of that would signify a real relationship, and what we have is more about the sex than anything else. And I guess I’m fine with that; if it keeps me with him, I’ll have to be.
He kisses me again, still roughly, and I feel a hard shiver run down my spine. He pushes his tongue against mine, leaving his taste lingering in my mouth. I start to slide my hand down his pants, working my fingers at the zipper to allow myself easier access, but he pulls away and steps back.
“No,” he says, voice hoarse. He looks up at me and again I am drawn into his powerful gaze. This time, though, I am startled to see tears glistening in his emerald irises. Without thinking, I reach out and cup his jaw in my hand.
“Axl,” I say, “what’s wrong?” He shakes his head and steps back again; then, abruptly, he starts crying. I am surprised, worried, but I don’t let him see it. I just move forward and take him in my arms, and he doesn’t protest, just lays his head on my chest, his own arms going around my waist. I can feel his tears soaking my bare skin.
After a while, I lead him over to the bed by the window—because, traditionally, that’s the bed we always use when we’re in hotels. He lies down of his own accord, then, surprisingly, he reaches up for me. Like he needs me or something. I lie next to him, pulling him against me again. I know that I’m never really going to learn why he’s upset this time, but I doubt I’d understand anyway—Axl’s so damn complicated, with such a complex view of the world, that what normally upsets him would not upset anyone else. Just the fact that he’s comfortable enough with me to let his barriers fall, that’s good enough.
Then he speaks, soft lips moving on my chest. “…Stay?” he asks quietly, and it takes me a minute to realize that he’s not asking me to stay—because, after all, it is my room—he’s asking if he can stay.
“Sure,” I reply. I look at him, at how incredibly fragile he appears, and I ask, “All night?”
A hesitation, then a slow nod. He gives me a faint smile, a shy look. His cheeks flush faintly pink and he kisses my chest gently, rubbing his fingers against my back, causing me to shiver slightly. Slowly, I stroke his fine copper hair, and suddenly I’m imagining us waking up wrapped around each other, our bodies twined like vines climbing up a wall. We’ve never slept all night together, never shared the warmth of a mattress until the sun cracks orange shades over the window, because that’s what couples do, and that’s not how Axl is. With him, it’s always a fuck-and-run… until now.
“Slash…” he murmurs sleepily.
“Yeah?”
He smiles faintly. “Thanks…” he whispers, and then, suddenly, instinctively, I know that the next time we have sex, whether it’s quick, hot after-show backstage sex; or slow, passionate hotel room sex; or even angry fighting sex; one or both of us will be crying out the other’s name.
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