FicWad

Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't want to own them. This is just a story, it isn't real and it never happened. Ain't making money either. For entertainment purposes only.

~ * ~

Author's Notes: Another old one. Cross-posted on another archive. Much thanks to Andy for helping me with it.

~ * ~



He's not on drugs, but he might as well be. He just sits there on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, his body limp and dejected; he does this from time to time. When he was on the drugs, it wasn't so noticeable - I could dismiss it as just being the heroin but he's not on heroin. He's clean for change, and trying to stay that way.

Maybe this is what the heroin hides, maybe this is why he drinks, to cover up and hide these periods of complete and total grief. What is going on in his head when he is like this? Where has he gone? His eyes are so sad; they look into the far distance and what they see, he won't share with me. I imagine all sorts of horrors. Horror and I are old friends but he doesn't tell me what is bothering him, he never does. He doesn't talk about his past much.

I feel shut out, rejected. Even though I know that it has nothing to do with me, I still feel that way; he's supposed to love me, isn't he? So why can't he let me in? I hate seeing him like this.

I try to comfort him, run my hands up his neck and across his shoulders. Back and forth, back and forth across the contours of muscle and bone, sliding over smooth, soft skin. I cup my hand over the roundness of his shoulder, circling gently and softly only to edge back up into his hair. He likes having his hair stroked, the gentle touch of a lover's hand caressing his head as he lies safe in protective arms. He says he finds it soothing, that he feels safe and protected but he only says that when he's coming out of one of his black periods. Never when he is all right. Never when he is just Slash, happily drunk or singing his soul through that guitar.

I am jealous of his guitar, did you know that? Isn't that ridiculous? Me. Jealous of a block of wood strung with steel. It touches him in a way I never could and never will. Sometimes on stage, I watch him, wishing with an almost possessive hatred that I could bring that wild, animal side out in him. The side where he is feral and powerful, primal in the way a jaguar can be. That I could touch his soul and give it expression the way that fucking ax does, but I know I can't and sometimes all I can do is just rage at him deep inside of myself.

If he can't be like that with me, he shouldn't be like that with anyone. Or anything.

Not even music.

My thoughts have turned dark and my touch has turned sensual. It is no longer a matter of comfort, no longer an attempt to reach him and tell him it's all right. It's become physical; sexual. The feel of him is turning me on and he senses it. He shudders and pulls away; he's not interested. Not in the mood.

Sorry, honey, I've got a headache.

Fuck you, Slash. I don't give a shit.

I continue to fondle him, exploring the lines of his back and shoulders, admiring the feel of his body beneath my hands. It doesn't matter that he's almost cringing, that his skin twitches and shivers involuntarily as if he doesn't like what I am doing. I don't care. In fact, it kind of turns me on.

"Axl..." he says and shrugs me off, leaning forward to escape me.

I get angry. How dare he? No one rejects me. Least of all, him! He belongs to me! He's mine! Mine!

Snarling, I reach forward and tangle my hand in his hair, pulling viciously back, twisting his head around and forcing him back on the bed. I dive in before he has a chance to react, running my teeth along his neck and biting at his jaw line. He tells me to stop, but I don't listen; his whining is beginning to bore me. I mean who is he kidding? He's a slut and he likes it rough; I'm only giving him what he really wants.

Aren't I?

I'm tired of listening to him whine, tired of his bullshit and his lies. Tired of putting up with him shutting me out. I raise my head and look at him for a moment, enjoying his pain and then plunge my tongue down his throat. He struggles and I find myself enjoying it, even though he doesn't fight hard enough to throw me off. I yank harder at his hair and he stops, submits while I explore his mouth, clawing at his flank with my other hand and biting down on his lip.

I'm angry now. Angry at him for shutting me out, for loving that guitar more then me, for giving everyone a piece of his soul except me. I'm angry at him for shrugging me off, for refusing me when I know damn good and well that he wants it. Craves it. I'm angry at what he does to me without even trying, by being just who he is. For making me work so hard for something that should have been easily mine.

I can't help myself, I can't stop. I want to hurt him. I want to see him bleed.