Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > No Regrets - 1
“We thought you were dead…I thought I was gonna have to find another guitarist.” ~Axl
Axl ran until the cold had rubbed his skin raw, ran until the tears coursing down his cheeks had frozen. When he was nearly at the apartment he slowed down, shivering in nothing but his leather pants, and thought about Slash. God, he’d always thought the guitarist was cute; he’d always considered him to be his best friend, it had always been easiest to talk to him; but never, not until now, had he actually wanted Slash, wanted to take him and get him off and make him come crying his name. Axl had known that there had to be a reason for the lacerations on Slash’s arm, but he hadn’t expected that reason to be him.
The singer unlocked the front door and slipped into the dark interior of the apartment. He went upstairs to Slash’s room and only had to dig around for a moment before he found what he wanted: a shoebox collection of photos of himself and the guitarist. There weren’t that many, only about five or ten, but Axl knew that Slash wanted to keep getting them as the years went on. One was of them onstage, one of them laughing at something someone had said. The best one had been taken in September; Axl remembered Duff had taken it because he’d been bored. Slash had his feet in Axl’s lap and Axl was smoking a cigarette and looking totally chill about it; Slash was saying something and Axl was watching him talk, smiling faintly behind the cigarette. As Axl stared at the picture, he became suddenly aware of something: never, not since they’d reunited a year ago, had he and Izzy looked at each other like that.
“What’re you doing in here?”
Slash’s voice startled him and he hurriedly stood up, letting the photographs fall from his hands. He turned and saw the guitarist standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He had removed his shirt, and the scars were visible and ugly. He didn’t look hostile, exactly, but he wasn’t smiling, either.
“Just looking at our pictures…” Axl muttered something that could have been anything from ‘sorry’ to ‘fuck you’—and knowing the singer, it was probably the latter. “I’ll just go…” He started to turn away but Slash shot his hand out and grabbed him around the wrist, stopping him.
“No, wait, Axe,” he said, sounding slightly desperate. “Look, about earlier…”
“Don’t,” interrupted Axl, wrenching his arm away. “I can’t stand apologies. I don’t ever know how to reply to them…I said I’d go, and I will.” He tried leaving again, and this time Slash pushed him back on the bed.
“Fucker, listen to me,” snarled Slash. He crawled on top of Axl and leaned down, so that his long, curly jet black hair was brushing against the singer’s red-gold straight hair. “Look, I didn’t mean for you to see my arms. I’m sorry I almost kissed you out there when you’re with someone else. I’m sorry I ruined the best friendship I ever had. But there’s one thing I’m not sorry for: I fell in love with you, and I’m damn proud of it.” And then he leaned down even further, capturing Axl’s lips between his own. Axl tensed up at first, uncertain, then changed his mind and relaxed, kissed Slash back, dragged him down even closer. They fought for dominance in each other’s mouths; occasionally Slash would draw back for air and Axl’s sore lips would be briefly assuaged by the cold air coming in from the ventilation system.
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Slash asked at one point, when they were lying there, pushing against each other, Axl’s arms tense against his guitarist’s sides.
The singer wrapped one leg around Slash’s waist in response and kissed him, running his tongue slowly over his and pulling a quiet moan from him.
“If I didn’t want this,” he pointed out, “I wouldn’t be here.”
The guitarist smirked, tracing his caramel-colored calloused fingers over Axl’s sides. He stared down for a moment into Axl’s intense gaze and saw for the first time what he’d always wanted to see: his raw desire and lust, reflected in the centers of the singer’s darkened green eyes.
Then Axl pulled him in for another kiss. God, he couldn’t get enough of those kisses; they went the same way that Axl talked: deep and even, languid, sexy. And like Axl, they were beautifully dangerous. Slash rocked his hips against Axl’s; their erections brushed and the redhead let out a soft gasp. He reached down between them and began pulling off Slash’s boxers. Once they were too far for him to reach, Slash kicked them off the rest of the way, then pulled off Axl’s underwear. For a moment, the two men were silent, staring at each other, then Axl murmured, “You’re fucking beautiful…”
“So are you,” replied the guitarist softly, his hair falling into his eyes. He dipped his head, trailing soft kisses down Axl’s neck, stopping at his collarbone. He gently intertwined their fingers; bit lightly at the nipple ring; licked his chest and the hollow of his neck. He positioned himself between Axl’s legs, waiting for him to stop him; but he didn’t, he just nodded once and smiled a little. Slash went in slowly, and Axl tensed for a moment, biting down on his lower lip, then changed his mind, relaxed, and let Slash take him.
And oh god, it was great, better than they could have imagined, better, even, than Izzy. Like the couple themselves, it was full of contradictions: fast but slow, gentle but rough, hard but soft. Slash wrapped his hand around Axl’s cock and pumped him, causing the singer’s moans to change in pitch; his breath caught and he managed a few words, mostly Slash’s name, before he started screaming again. He was like a wild animal, scratching at Slash’s back, biting his neck, eyes blazing with so much power. Then he started tensing again, and his screams were occasionally cut off by words:
“Saul…oh…oh my god Saul I’m so close!...” He tilted his head back and thrust his hips up against Slash’s hand, and the guitarist couldn’t hold back; he came, hard, with Axl’s name on his lips. Moments later, the singer joined him and then Slash collapsed, pulling out and wrapping himself around Axl. They lay still for a while, in the warm euphoric glow of post-coitus, the smell of sex strong in the air, then Slash murmured, “How was that?”
“So amazing,” said Axl. He rolled over and pressed his lips to Slash’s. “I love you, Saul.”
“I love you too, Axe.” He kissed his forehead lightly; moments later he felt the singer relax against him and knew he’d fallen asleep. He knew they’d have some explaining to do come morning, but he didn’t care.
Some things were definitely worth it.
Axl ran until the cold had rubbed his skin raw, ran until the tears coursing down his cheeks had frozen. When he was nearly at the apartment he slowed down, shivering in nothing but his leather pants, and thought about Slash. God, he’d always thought the guitarist was cute; he’d always considered him to be his best friend, it had always been easiest to talk to him; but never, not until now, had he actually wanted Slash, wanted to take him and get him off and make him come crying his name. Axl had known that there had to be a reason for the lacerations on Slash’s arm, but he hadn’t expected that reason to be him.
The singer unlocked the front door and slipped into the dark interior of the apartment. He went upstairs to Slash’s room and only had to dig around for a moment before he found what he wanted: a shoebox collection of photos of himself and the guitarist. There weren’t that many, only about five or ten, but Axl knew that Slash wanted to keep getting them as the years went on. One was of them onstage, one of them laughing at something someone had said. The best one had been taken in September; Axl remembered Duff had taken it because he’d been bored. Slash had his feet in Axl’s lap and Axl was smoking a cigarette and looking totally chill about it; Slash was saying something and Axl was watching him talk, smiling faintly behind the cigarette. As Axl stared at the picture, he became suddenly aware of something: never, not since they’d reunited a year ago, had he and Izzy looked at each other like that.
“What’re you doing in here?”
Slash’s voice startled him and he hurriedly stood up, letting the photographs fall from his hands. He turned and saw the guitarist standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He had removed his shirt, and the scars were visible and ugly. He didn’t look hostile, exactly, but he wasn’t smiling, either.
“Just looking at our pictures…” Axl muttered something that could have been anything from ‘sorry’ to ‘fuck you’—and knowing the singer, it was probably the latter. “I’ll just go…” He started to turn away but Slash shot his hand out and grabbed him around the wrist, stopping him.
“No, wait, Axe,” he said, sounding slightly desperate. “Look, about earlier…”
“Don’t,” interrupted Axl, wrenching his arm away. “I can’t stand apologies. I don’t ever know how to reply to them…I said I’d go, and I will.” He tried leaving again, and this time Slash pushed him back on the bed.
“Fucker, listen to me,” snarled Slash. He crawled on top of Axl and leaned down, so that his long, curly jet black hair was brushing against the singer’s red-gold straight hair. “Look, I didn’t mean for you to see my arms. I’m sorry I almost kissed you out there when you’re with someone else. I’m sorry I ruined the best friendship I ever had. But there’s one thing I’m not sorry for: I fell in love with you, and I’m damn proud of it.” And then he leaned down even further, capturing Axl’s lips between his own. Axl tensed up at first, uncertain, then changed his mind and relaxed, kissed Slash back, dragged him down even closer. They fought for dominance in each other’s mouths; occasionally Slash would draw back for air and Axl’s sore lips would be briefly assuaged by the cold air coming in from the ventilation system.
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Slash asked at one point, when they were lying there, pushing against each other, Axl’s arms tense against his guitarist’s sides.
The singer wrapped one leg around Slash’s waist in response and kissed him, running his tongue slowly over his and pulling a quiet moan from him.
“If I didn’t want this,” he pointed out, “I wouldn’t be here.”
The guitarist smirked, tracing his caramel-colored calloused fingers over Axl’s sides. He stared down for a moment into Axl’s intense gaze and saw for the first time what he’d always wanted to see: his raw desire and lust, reflected in the centers of the singer’s darkened green eyes.
Then Axl pulled him in for another kiss. God, he couldn’t get enough of those kisses; they went the same way that Axl talked: deep and even, languid, sexy. And like Axl, they were beautifully dangerous. Slash rocked his hips against Axl’s; their erections brushed and the redhead let out a soft gasp. He reached down between them and began pulling off Slash’s boxers. Once they were too far for him to reach, Slash kicked them off the rest of the way, then pulled off Axl’s underwear. For a moment, the two men were silent, staring at each other, then Axl murmured, “You’re fucking beautiful…”
“So are you,” replied the guitarist softly, his hair falling into his eyes. He dipped his head, trailing soft kisses down Axl’s neck, stopping at his collarbone. He gently intertwined their fingers; bit lightly at the nipple ring; licked his chest and the hollow of his neck. He positioned himself between Axl’s legs, waiting for him to stop him; but he didn’t, he just nodded once and smiled a little. Slash went in slowly, and Axl tensed for a moment, biting down on his lower lip, then changed his mind, relaxed, and let Slash take him.
And oh god, it was great, better than they could have imagined, better, even, than Izzy. Like the couple themselves, it was full of contradictions: fast but slow, gentle but rough, hard but soft. Slash wrapped his hand around Axl’s cock and pumped him, causing the singer’s moans to change in pitch; his breath caught and he managed a few words, mostly Slash’s name, before he started screaming again. He was like a wild animal, scratching at Slash’s back, biting his neck, eyes blazing with so much power. Then he started tensing again, and his screams were occasionally cut off by words:
“Saul…oh…oh my god Saul I’m so close!...” He tilted his head back and thrust his hips up against Slash’s hand, and the guitarist couldn’t hold back; he came, hard, with Axl’s name on his lips. Moments later, the singer joined him and then Slash collapsed, pulling out and wrapping himself around Axl. They lay still for a while, in the warm euphoric glow of post-coitus, the smell of sex strong in the air, then Slash murmured, “How was that?”
“So amazing,” said Axl. He rolled over and pressed his lips to Slash’s. “I love you, Saul.”
“I love you too, Axe.” He kissed his forehead lightly; moments later he felt the singer relax against him and knew he’d fallen asleep. He knew they’d have some explaining to do come morning, but he didn’t care.
Some things were definitely worth it.
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