Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izzy startles from his deep slumber when he feels the mattress dip. A hand nudges his shoulder. God, he hates himself for not locking the door. There can only be one culprit, so he nuzzles his pillow and tries to go back to sleep, hoping the "problem," discouraged by a lack of response, will go away, or at least lie down quietly next to him. 

“Izzy, Izzy, wake up,” a deep voice whispers with urgency. 

Izzy groans when the shaking persists. He lifts his head to toss a warning glare at his stubborn friend. “Fuck off, Axl,” he says, and turns to face the other side to make it clear this conversation is over.

But, of course, Axl is nothing if not obstinate. “I need your help, Izzy. I’ve got a problem.”

“You’ve got several,” Izzy grumbles into his pillow.

He gets a whine in return: “I’m being serious, man.” 

“Well, so am I.” Izzy keeps his eyes closed, hoping Axl will get a hint. “Now, go away. Or crash here, I don’t care—just shut up.”

“Jeff, please.”

The use of his old name sobers him real quick. He flips over onto his back to face Axl, who’s seated by his hip, feet curled up underneath himself, looking oddly demure. Which can only mean he has somehow managed to mess up big time. Again.

“Fuck,” Izzy exclaims, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “If it's something stupid, I’m punching you in the face.”

“Fuck you, my dick’s gone.”

Izzy blinks, convinced he's misheard. “Say that again?”

“My. Dick. Is. Gone,” Axl repeats, quickly losing his patience.

“What do you mean, your dick’s gone?!” 

“Like it’s not there anymore!”

Izzy squints at him, his hungover, sleep-addled brain having difficulty processing this information. “Are we talking figuratively or literally?” Because with Axl, you can never know for sure; he says weird shit all the time.

Axl gives him an exasperated look. “Literally, dumbass.”

“Are you trying to say you got castrated?” He's mostly joking.

“No! I mean—yeah, I guess. In a way.” Axl shrugs. 

Izzy pinches the skin between his brows in frustration. “Axl, please start making sense because I’m this close to writing this off as a hallucination.”

Axl looks away, securing a long strand of hair behind his ear. “I think I got cursed.”

Last night clicks in Izzy’s mind, and he snorts a small, derisive laugh. “Ah. I warned you not to mess with those oddballs, man, but no—you just had to retaliate. To top it all off, you told them to suck your dick. Look at you now.”

Axl sputters with indignation, “They deserved it! They were assholes.”

“Yeah? You’re one, too.” He’s still mostly convinced his leg is being pulled but goes along with it anyway. “So, what’s the situation down there, you like one of those mannequins now?”

“Hell, no! I have a pussy.”

Izzy sits up abruptly, staring at Axl in disbelief. “You’re fucking with me?”

Axl holds out his hands. “I swear I’m not! You can look for yourself.”

Izzy studies Axl’s face for a beat, searching for any signs of deceit, but finds none. Still, he warns him, “If this turns out to be a prank, I’m kicking you in the balls.”

“You’re welcome to try. It won’t hurt, though, given that I have no balls.”

Izzy snorts in amusement despite himself and reaches out. “Come here.”

Axl lifts up, still kneeling, and raises his t-shirt, exposing his pale, chiselled stomach so Izzy can have easy access to him. 

Izzy hesitantly traces a hand down Axl’s smooth navel and hooks two of his fingers into the waistband of Axl’s dark dolphin shorts. There’s something delicately intimate about the way Axl is holding up his shirt for him, milky thighs spread as fingers tug experimentally at those shorts.

Something stirs in Izzy’s stomach; he’s reminded of the women he’s slept with, and those intense moments leading up to it—the foreplay. Axl’s not a girl, yet Izzy feels a weirdly good kind of buzz as he trails his eyes up to read Axl’s expression. His voice comes out slightly hoarse when he says: “Can I pull them down?”

Axl nods. His skimpy shorts are already riding low on him, showing off his hips and teasing a pronounced V.

Izzy slowly peels them down further until they rest just below Axl’s firm ass, unveiling, much to his astonishment, a mound rather than a cock. His first thought is: that’s a pretty pussy, lightly dusted with red hair, slightly darker than the drapes. Stupefied, he forgets to ask for permission before he thumbs at Axl’s flushed clit that’s peeking out, making the redhead hiss.  

“Oh, sorry,” he says, glancing up at Axl in apology.

Axl’s eyes are dilated as he stares down at Izzy, silky hair curtaining his face. “It’s alright,” he grants.

With that, Izzy drags his thumb between Axl's slit, unabashed, to rub over his hole, which is growing wetter with each lingering touch. Axl’s hips jolt, and Izzy steadies him by the hip with his other hand. He’s very sensitive, Izzy notes and wonders if he’ll get punched in the face if he tries to finger Axl. But he doesn’t want to dick around and find out. 

“Damn, it’s the real thing,” he comments just to fill the silence, knowing he sounds idiotic, and retracts his hand, almost instinctively sucking on his thumb to taste the wetness coating it. It doesn’t dawn on him until he’s already pulling away, tangy sweetness on his tongue, and hears Axl make a sound very close to a whimper.

Cheeks flaring up, they avoid each other’s gaze. “Sorry,” Izzy finds himself apologizing once more.

Axl nods in acknowledgement and silently tugs his shorts back in place. 

“Maybe we should talk to the rest of the guys,” Izzy says. “Listen to what they have to say.”

“Let’s get breakfast first. I’m starving.”

It’s Izzy’s turn to nod.

Axl gets fed up with being told various renditions of "fuck off, very funny" by the rest of the guys the first time around. So, in the living room, standing before his seated bandmates, he drops his shorts for exactly three Mississippis before promptly pulling them back up. 

This time, he’s met with awed silence. He’s pretty sure Slash has stopped breathing.  

Then, the dam breaks:

“You should have led with that. Fuck, are you for real?!” Duff exclaims, the first one to speak. “You have a-a—”

“A pussy, man, you can say it,” Axl responds.

“How are you not freaking out right now?” Steven asks, perturbed by how unnervingly calm Axl is being; he expected a reaction closer to Axl flipping out and razing their place to the ground. 

Instead, Axl grins. “At first, I was, but now I think it’s kind of cool. I mean, I always wondered what it’d be like; I read somewhere that clits are more sensitive than dicks.”

Izzy shakes his head. “You’re something else, man.”

“Yeah, dude,” Steven says. “Your manhood—it’s, like, gone.”

Axl rolls his eyes. “Well, in that case, maybe they should’ve given me tits too.”

“Shouldn’t we call someone for help?” Duff interrupts, trying to get them back on the right track. “Axl can’t stay like this.” 

“I think my grandma might know someone who can reverse the curse,” Slash says. “I’ll give her a call.”

“You’re gonna call grandma for this?” Axl exclaims, incredulous. “And say what exactly?”

Slash looks affronted. “Nothing specific, obviously. I’m kinda offended you’d think otherwise, like, that’s my grandma, have some respect.”

Duff and Steven titter at this.

Axl wants to argue, but Izzy interjects softly, “If worse comes to worst, we can try Nikki Sixx. I know he’s dabbled in some pretty dark shit.”

“Great, because we have a tour coming up, and with Axl running around in his tiny shorts, it’ll be glaringly obvious he doesn’t have a dick anymore,” Duff voices a shared concern.

“Also, in the meantime,” Axl states, “I want to take advantage of this situation, and experiment.”

The rest of the guys shift in their seats, sharing nervous glances, because together, Axl and experiment spells disaster.

“How so?” Izzy questions, eyeing him warily. 

“Well, hear me out: this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to experience what girls do, firsthand. But I can’t go and sleep with just anybody. That’s where you guys come in—”

“Wait, hold on a minute,” Steven interrupts, finding it hard to believe. “You’re saying you want to voluntarily get fucked, by a dude—or dudes? Us, specifically?!”

“As if I’d choose any of you fuckers over a hot girl with a strap-on," Axl scoffs. "But it has to be someone I trust, who also knows about this—obviously, we can't have this gettin’ out. And don’t worry, I don’t plan on fucking the entire band.” 

“Do we have a choice?” Izzy drawls, cheek resting in hand, elbow on the couch’s armrest.

Axl scowls. “I’m picking you just for that comment, Stradlin.”

“You were always coming to me, sweetheart, don’t pretend otherwise,” Izzy contends.

“Shut up,” Axl hisses, because he can’t deny it.

“Who else?” Duff chirps, curious to know if Axl has anyone else in mind.

Axl cocks an eyebrow at him, teasing, “Are you volunteering?” 

Duff shrinks back, intimidated by the daunting responsibility of getting Axl off. He doesn’t think he can get it up under that kind of pressure. “No…? I mean, I don’t know-if—”

Axl stares, amused, and decides to take pity on him, “Relax, man, you can’t handle me anyway, so you’re off the hook. I have someone else in mind, though…” Impish green eyes cut over to the person who hasn’t offered another word to the conversation: “Slash.”

Slash straightens in his seat, surprised at being picked.

“Ooh, interesting choice,” Duff comments with a knowing smirk.

“You’ve all seen him play; I want those fingers on my clit.” Axl grins. 

Slash blushes so hard and surprises everyone when he suddenly stands up, almost bumping into Axl, forcing him to step back. “I-I should, uh, go make that call,” Slash stammers, as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself when his wide-eyed gaze meets Axl’s, and decides to just walk away. The front door clicks shut behind him.

“Well, he could’ve just said no,” Axl says with a frown. 

The guys burst out laughing. 

“What?” he snaps.

“No, you don’t understand, Axl,” Duff says, giggling. “You know he’s into wild and reckless redheads, right? Well, overnight, you’ve become a walking wet dream of his, and now you’re sayin’ some real salacious things, man. It’s more than his mind can handle.”

“Oh,” Axl deflates, shy all of a sudden. He chews on a thumbnail as he glances at the door. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come off that strong.”

“No, he’ll come around,” Duff reassures. “He’s just overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, as if he’d let this opportunity pass,” Steven adds. “If you grew a huge pair of tits to match, Slash would ascend straight to heaven.” He falls against Duff’s shoulder in a fit of laughter, taking up the space left vacant by said lead guitarist.

“Fuck off. Now you guys are just being dicks.” Axl rolls his eyes and exchanges an exasperated look with Izzy. 

“No, it’s true!” Duff defends.

“When it happens, can the rest of us watch?” Steven asks, already holding up his arms in defense, just in case Axl decides to jump him. He’s willing to risk Axl’s wrath for a chance to witness this monumental occasion.

Luckily, Axl only returns a look that says he’s being ridiculous. “Maybe. Let’s go, Stradlin.”

“Aw, man,” Steven pouts, while Izzy raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Right now?” 

“Yes, right now,” Axl replies impatiently, “while I’m in the mood. There’s no time like the present.”

“Fine,” Izzy concedes with a sigh and gets up, obediently following him. “You’re such a diva.”

“You’re eating me out,” Axl declares, choosing to ignore the comment, as he grabs Izzy’s hand and leads the guitarist back to his bedroom. 

Steven hoots. 

Izzy blushes. “Fuck, Axl, you can’t just say shit like that.”

“Yeah, man,” Duff chuckles. “You talk to Slash like that, he’s gonna pass out.”

Steven guffaws, while Axl glares at the two over his shoulder.

When it’s just him and Duff, Steven admits, “To be a fly on that wall.” 

Duff nods in agreement.

Chapter Text

“What am I getting out of this?” Izzy asks, just to argue with Axl, when the two of them return to the privacy of his bedroom. He’s not going to lie, he considers himself straight, but Axl has always been pretty, not just for a guy; it’ll be real easy imagining him as some long-haired ginger bitch, and with that pretty cunt of his, eating him out won’t exactly be a hardship.

Axl sniffs haughtily. “Consider this retribution for when you made me suck your dick.”

“Jesus, Ax, that was eons ago”—back in high school, when they were still Jeff and Bill—“Don’t forget who taught you all that’s to know about sex, jerked you off even; I believe that deserved a little appreciation, no?” Once in a while, when he’s buzzed and horny, the memory of that day replays in his fantasies. It was a power trip; he wanted to see just how much he could push and get away with, watch Axl let loose. 

Axl was nearly trembling with nerves, intimidated by the act itself, and paranoid of his zealot Pentecostal family somehow getting wind of his “sins," but still eager to please when he crawled over at Izzy’s request. The blowjob was sloppy with inexperience; Axl’s gag reflex acted up not even halfway down his cock. But there was something about the way Axl struggled—desperate to prove his worth, with tears rolling down reddened cheeks as he choked on Izzy’s cock—that Izzy’s lizard brain can’t help but fixate on, even after all these years. 

Embarrassed by the reminder, Axl tosses his head back, hair swaying from it, and concedes with a dismissive “whatever.” It hasn’t occurred to him to argue that maybe a blowjob was asking for too much in return for all that; sometimes he can still be so naive—and that’s kind of sexy, too. Izzy likes his girls a little provocative yet guileless, the two traits Axl also possesses, which he’s starting to dig. Moreover, he’s into the idea of being Axl’s first yet again.

He smirks at him. “Guess this ain’t so different. Just like old times. You can always trust me to treat you right, make you feel real good.”

Axl blushes and crosses his arms across his chest, clearly unnerved now that he has lost hold of the reins in this whole situation.

Izzy jerks his chin in the direction of his unmade bed. “Lie down.”

Not so cocksure anymore, Axl is slow to move, letting his arms fall back to his sides, looking the picture of doe-eyed innocence. 

At his hesitation, Izzy can’t help but tease, “Why so shy all of a sudden? You were so eager before. Come on, take those shorts off and get on the bed, you’re wastin’ my time.” 

This makes Axl bristle. “Why, you got better places to be?” he snaps. 

Leave it to him to act like Izzy ain’t the one doing him a favor; so, yeah, maybe he does have better places to be—but he knows not to stir the pot, so he doesn't say it.

“No. But we’ll be here for a while, better to get started now.” 

“For a while, huh?” Axl raises his eyebrows. “You’re that unconfident?”

Izzy knows Axl is being difficult on purpose, so he refuses to take the bait. Instead, he cocks his head to the side to fix him a look. “It’s cute that you think I’m gonna go easy on ya—I plan on taking my time, and you’re wasting precious minutes I could be using to make you feel good.”

This catches Axl off guard somewhat, and he turns red.

“Now, if you’re done delaying, come here,” Izzy coaxes gently, offering his hand.

Axl softens at this. He drifts over to Izzy and takes it, shyly lacing their fingers together. 

With his other hand, Izzy cups the back of Axl’s head and presses a chaste kiss to the singer’s forehead over his bangs. Tension dispels completely from Axl’s body, and he becomes pliant, leaning into Izzy; he has always been desperate for any affection from him, which is doled out sparingly.

Izzy guides Axl to the bed and nudges him to sit down at the foot of it. He runs his fingers through Axl’s long hair, gently tugging at the ends falling over Axl’s chest, feeling those silky strands glide from his fingertips.

He stares at Axl’s beautiful face and wonders how something so angular—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and all—could appear so soft-edged and delicate at the same time? And Axl’s voice: a soothing, low baritone when he speaks, like some divine messenger; but demonic when he sings, high-pitched, like a man possessed. Axl’s disposition boasts similar contrasting harmonies: he's bright yet naive, elegant yet coarse, sweet but vicious when provoked, sometimes without reason; he's fragile but resilient, trusting yet utterly paranoid, the list could go on.

Izzy wraps his fingers around Axl’s chin, forcing Axl to look up at him with those warm green eyes that appear grayish blue in certain light, sometimes varying with Axl’s mood even. As he gazes into them, watching wispy lashes blink, Slash’s offhand comment comes to mind: about being on the fence whether Axl is a demon disguised as an angel, or an angel disguised as a demon.

To Izzy, though, Axl is an angel who chose to fall from grace. The impression of Bill Bailey, who didn’t dare to do anything his parents disapproved of, his worst initial transgressions being his taste for rock music and staying out late, lives intact in Izzy’s memory.

He lets go to roughly palm Axl’s cheek in a caress, swiping his thumb across soft lips. He feels an unbidden urge to tip down and capture that pretty mouth in a harsh kiss, but he’s not queer so he dismisses the idea. Meanwhile, tempestuous green eyes narrow with suspicion at the sudden rough treatment. 

Izzy moves his hands to Axl’s hips, seizing the waistband of his shorts. Axl gets the hint; he raises himself a bit, gripping Izzy’s shoulders, and once his shorts are yanked down the curve of his ass, he braces himself on the mattress, scooting further up the bed as they’re freed from his ankles.

Izzy feels his cock twitch at the sight of Axl laid back on his elbows, half-naked, with toned legs splayed, exposing his bare pussy. Axl’s still a guy, yet Izzy’s brain is struggling to sync with the feelings of his own body—most notably, his dick. He abandons the shorts on the floor and follows Axl onto the bed. Crawling over, he keeps his gaze steady on Axl’s face for any signs of second-thought before he takes up the space between his legs, nudging them further apart. Axl looks somewhat overwhelmed, color dusting his cheeks as he stares back at Izzy.  

Izzy is met with a familiar tantalizing sight as he strokes Axl’s supple thighs to familiarize him with his touch. He sucks in a breath, feeling his mouth water in a sick Pavlov response from a closer look at Axl’s pussy, which is flushed just like Axl’s face, pink clit hard and protruding between lips slick with arousal.

“Fuck,” Izzy whispers to himself in reverence, biting his lower lip as he parts the folds with his thumbs, staring at Axl’s tiny hole, which clenches under his watchful gaze. “Someone’s happy to see me,” he jokes, eyes flickering up to take in Axl’s expression. “Your pussy’s so wet.” 

“Shut up, man,” Axl mumbles, embarrassed. The tips of his ears burn hot.

Izzy taps at Axl’s entrance with his right index finger, fighting the urge to sink it in. In the end, he loses out to temptation and dips just the tip of it inside just to feel Axl’s tight hole clench around the slightest of intrusions. He gets a light kick of the heel to the side for the effort.

“You’ve had your fun, now stop prodding; makin’ me feel like I’m at the doctor’s,” Axl grumbles, leaning back up on his elbows to glare at him.

Izzy chuckles. “What kind of checkups have you been getting, man?”

“Fuck off, Iz. I told you—stop messing with me.”

“I warned you I wasn’t gonna rush, didn’t I,” Izzy replies, but repositions himself onto his stomach until his face is just inches above Axl’s pussy, and slips an upper arm under one of Axl’s thighs, hooking that leg over his shoulder, while keeping the other one spread open and pushed back with a hand braced against Axl’s thigh, just under the inside of Axl’s knee.

“Fuck, this is weird,” Axl comments, watching him. “I didn’t realize how fucking weird this would feel.”

He glances up. “What does?”

“This!” Axl gestures at his own spread legs. 

“You asked for it,” Izzy points out. But he understands, it’s taking Axl a lot to allow himself to be vulnerable like this. It felt sort of fucked up back then too, when he had Axl kneeling between his legs, sucking him off. But it also came with a heady rush of excitement. Feeling tender about it, he moves to mouth at Axl’s inner thigh, slowly trailing closer to the edge of his mound to kiss the fold, before finally, briefly laying a faint one on his clit. 

Axl twitches in surprise with the faintest, “Oh.”  

His back goes taut when Izzy ducks back down to lick an experimental stripe up his slit. Izzy, then, sucks on the inner folds, carefully tugging them with his teeth just to tease, before going back to work on Axl’s tight hole with fat, wet strokes. He purposely keeps avoiding Axl’s clit.

Axl keens and lifts his hips, trying to buck against Izzy’s face. Izzy keeps him still with a forearm pressed to his pelvis and withholds his tongue until Axl settles back down with a small, objecting whimper. He trails his hand down to reward Axl by thumbing his clit while he laps at his entrance.   

“Feel good?” he pulls back briefly to ask, still rubbing Axl’s clit in circular motions with the pad of his thumb. 

“Fuck, yeah… This feels so good,” Axl sighs softly, closing his eyes as he lets himself fall back against the sheets, feeling a warm, satisfying buzz with each broad stroke of Izzy’s tongue at his pulsing entrance. He starts to palm his chest and tweaks his nipple ring over his shirt.

Izzy takes notices, and thinks, Fuck, that’s hot. 

Axl makes a noise of protest when Izzy’s mouth leaves him once more. “What—?”

Izzy shushes him and leans over to bunch Axl’s shirt up to expose his sculpted chest and nipple piercing. “Go on,” he orders. He wishes he could make Axl come from nipple play alone. 

Maybe next time. 

Axl stares at him meekly and then slowly brings his hands back up to cup his own chest. He pinches both nipples, but pays special attention to his piercing, moaning softly, eyes half-lidded as he keeps his gaze fixed on Izzy. 

Little minx.

“That’s it,” Izzy praises. “Keep going.” He grabs Axl by the ankle to hook that leg over his shoulder again and places a reverent kiss to Axl’s knee before settling back down between his thighs.

Izzy decides he has held out long enough and drags his tongue up from Axl’s entrance to swipe at his clit before sucking on it harshly just to see him thrash. 

Axl yells out, legs jerking, when Izzy’s warm mouth encloses on his clit, causing pleasure to strike him like lightning. “Oh, holy fucking Christ!” he exclaims, reaching to fist Izzy’s hair, wanting to simultaneously force him closer and push him away.

Izzy grins when fingers, twitching with uncertainty, thread through his hair. He purposely groans around Axl’s clit, smacking loudly as he sucks, so Axl can feel the vibrations. 

Axl’s hips jerk uncontrollably and his thighs try to close around Izzy’s head. Izzy continues to kiss and suck messily, ripping out a high-pitched moan from Axl’s throat. He sounds like a porn star when he does that; it’s fucking hot. Izzy wants to hear more moans spill from his lips.

Axl’s body first tenses, back arching, then spasms when his orgasm crescendos. Izzy doesn’t let up and works Axl’s throbbing, overstimulated clit until he feels wetness hit his chin. He pushes up to watch Axl come. Of course, Axl is a squirter; his pussy looks so red and obscene, a contrast to his pale skin, spurting trickles of clear liquid with each contraction. The sight of it makes Izzy almost delirious, his cock now fully hard inside his pants.

Fuck, he’s found his new addiction. Using his forearms, he forces his weight onto the inside of Axl’s thighs to keep them parted, and dives back down to greedily swirl his tongue through the wetness at Axl’s hole, lapping at his slick clit and folds. Axl cries out, legs quivering, when Izzy’s tongue stabs his clenching hole, while aftershocks of his orgasm still shudder through him. 

“Izzy, Izzy—too much, please,” Axl begs with a whimper, chest heaving erratically. Fingers card through Izzy’s hair once more, tugging on the strands hard.

Izzy huffs in annoyance when the grip on his hair gets too painful to ignore. He backs off, pushing himself upright. Something sadistic comes over him and he barely lets Axl catch his breath before he smacks him flat across the pussy, watching it bloom a deeper shade of red. Axl yelps and turns over to his side, pressing his legs together.  

“What the fuck, Izzy?” Axl twists to stare at him with glassy, accusing eyes. He’s too used to being coddled by Izzy, so the harsh treatment must have blindsided him. He looks so much like Bill this very moment, so sincere and hurt, that Izzy almost feels guilty. Almost.

“This is what you get for being a brat all the time. Come on, you’re going to take it.”

Wearing a scowl, Axl studies him for a beat, trying to gauge how serious he is; then, after weighing the pros and cons of retaliating, the fight leaves Axl’s body, and he gingerly turns onto his back again, letting his legs fall open. His body jolts when Izzy’s large hand comes down sharply on his pussy once more with a resounding smack, and a small sob escapes him, which he tries to muffle. The hits sting harder with his pussy so wet in the aftermath of his climax.

“Good boy,” Izzy praises, smirking.

Axl glares at him from the corner of his eye. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Izzy rebuts. “Now keep your legs open.”

Axl flinches, muscles locking up, when Izzy’s hand nears his pussy again. But Izzy only gently strokes at the reddened skin, trying to alleviate the hurt, rubbing Axl’s clit until he starts to twitch against the touch.

“I’m gonna get you off one more time,” he says. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Axl hisses, green eyes practically slitted.

Izzy chuckles. “You don’t want to?”

“No!”

“You sure? Because your body’s tellin’ me otherwise.” He thumbs at Axl’s slit, staring at the fresh trickle of arousal that leaks out of the hole. He flicks his eyes up to see Axl looking away with cheeks inflamed, too embarrassed to come up with a retort. He takes it as a positive sign, though, that he hasn’t been kicked away by Axl yet.

He caresses the inside of Axl’s thighs again with rough palms and slowly lowers himself down to give Axl a window to voice his objection. When there’s none, he flicks his tongue over Axl’s engorged clit before taking it into his mouth. 

Axl’s eyes cross with a cry and hips lurch at the overwhelming sensation. He mewls, fisting the sheets, with every suck that sends tingling stings of overstimulating pleasure through his clit. He tries to scoot up the bed but quickly runs out of space when the back of his head and shoulders hit the headboard. Izzy moves with him, curling his arms around Axl’s thighs to drag him lower and keep him put as he fucks him with his tongue, lapping at the arousal there. 

“Fuck, I can’t,” Axl gasps, his breathing growing quicker until he’s struggling to catch his breath. “Izzy! I think I’m gonna—” He cuts off with a squeak.

Izzy continues to dart his tongue in and out of Axl’s pulsing hole, faster and faster, until Axl sobs, overstimulated, and writhes, coming so hard into Izzy’s mouth, his vision whites out. “Oooh, fuck!” His hips jerk as he continues to squirt hard, soaking the bed sheets, even after Izzy pulls away, mouth and chin glistening with it. 

Axl groans and twists with a broken sob, aftershocks of pleasure still ripping through him. Izzy stares at the tiniest, pulsing gapes of Axl’s hole with each contraction. And, fuck, he wants to fuck him so hard, watch that tight little hole struggle to stretch around his cock. The thought makes his cock throb painfully, pre-cum wetting the tip.

“Jesus. Having a pussy is intense,” Axl huffs out a laugh, sounding breathless as he stares up at the ceiling, dazed. “I think you seriously blew my mind. Thanks, homes. I owe you big time.”

He looks like a vision, laid out, skin flushed with exertion, chest heaving as he winds down, long strands of strawberry blond hair splayed in soft waves across the sheets, bangs clinging to his sweaty forehead. 

Beautiful, Izzy’s mind supplies. Oh, fuck it. 

He clambers on top of Axl and captures his lips in an all-consuming kiss he’s been resisting the entire time. Axl lets him, even kisses him back shortly before tilting his face away, features twisted in disgust. “You fucker! You just kissed me with my cum all over your mouth.”

If you put it like that…  

Izzy grabs Axl’s cheeks in both hands to force him into another sloppy kiss. Axl makes a muffled noise of protest but otherwise doesn’t struggle; Izzy knows he would’ve gotten kneed in the balls if Axl was really bothered by it.

“I wanna fuck you,” he whispers against Axl’s lips. Even adds a “please,” that’s how desperate he is.

“Nooo,” Axl whines and shoves at his shoulders without any real effort to it. “You already pushed it with that second one. You’re going to wreck me before I get to fuck Slash.”

“Whatever.” Izzy pushes away, seething with jealousy. He feels used. All of this just for Axl to go and fuck Slash. 

Axl may have convinced himself he’s straight, but Izzy has seen the way he stares at their lead guitarist and enjoys being stared back, or how he tries to grab Slash’s attention, and clings to him on stage and allows him to cling back. His efforts are more than reciprocated—in fact, Slash might be worse. Those two could be fighting like cats and dogs but still keep gravitating back to one another, like two magnets, especially on stage, unable to escape their explosive chemistry. 

It’s irritating.

Axl was almost ravenous when he pleaded to have Slash in the band, despite Izzy’s vehement rejection. The feeling was certainly mutual: neither he nor Slash wanted the other in the band, initially. It’s all good now, though—they’re all great friends—except it’s always been him and Axl, now Axl can’t stop going Slash this, Slash that.  

When did it stop being him and Axl against the world? Two equals.

“Izzy…” Axl says, “Come on, dude, don’t be like that.”

Izzy ignores him, moving to sit at the foot of the bed, keeping his back to him, and reaches for the crumpled joint he keeps in his pocket, lighting it. He knows he’s being unfair because his own feelings were so different just a few hours ago.

Can’t believe his dick is messing with his emotions. 

“Are you really mad because I won’t let you fuck me?” Axl still sounds so hopeful, like he expects Izzy to tell him otherwise and they’ll be alright.

“Sure,” Izzy replies blandly. It’s better to let him think what he wants.

“Fuck you. You’re such a guy, Izzy,” Axl spits out and slips away from the bed to pick up his tossed shorts, angrily pulling them on. The honeymoon bliss over.

Izzy watches him leave, a flurry of red hair, the door slamming shut after him, and falls back against the mattress, taking another drag. 

He blows smoke.

Fuck, he’s still hard.

Chapter Text

Fuck Izzy.

Standing out in the hallway, hot tears prick at Axl’s eyes. He even finds himself waiting in hopes of being chased after, but quickly feels pathetic when the door remains firmly shut. 

"Fuck this," he says to himself in a voice not wholly steady. He doesn’t need this shit. What he really does need is a smoke. 

Embarrassed and dejected, he makes his way to the bathroom with a slight tremor in his steps and prays the others have cleared out so he can quietly slip away and maybe cry in the shower...only to bump into maybe the second-last person he’d want to see him like this—the first being Izzy, of course. 

“Whoa, sorry.” Slash chuckles, steadying him by the upper arms. “I don’t mean to keep crashing into you like this.” 

“It’s alright, man.” Axl ducks his head with an awkward half-smile, the best he can muster right now, and tries to hide behind his hair, hoping to part ways quickly. 

Slash’s brows furrow underneath dark curls. “Hey, what’s wrong, Ax?”

“Nothing,” he replies and tries to sidestep him. “I’m gonna go take a quick shower, okay?” But the hold on his bicep tightens, keeping him in place. Ring-adorned fingers reach up to carefully brush aside hair from his face, tucking them behind his ear. 

“You’re upset. You can tell me,” Slash says in a lowered voice to emphasize they're speaking in confidence. “Is it about your situation? Because granny says she might know someone.”

“No.” Axl sniffles quietly, averting his face. “It’s nothing, really.”

Slash’s gaze flicks over Axl’s shoulder toward Izzy’s room, putting two and two together. “Did something happen with Izzy? Did you two have a fight?”

An angry tear rolls down Axl’s cheek. God, it's embarrassing to be caught crying like this; was it even that big of a deal? He quickly lifts a hand to wipe it away, but Slash beats him to it, gently stroking his cheek. The tenderness of the gesture makes him feel like he owes Slash an honest answer. So, he relents, making a vague gesture over his shoulder as he says, “Izzy’s just being a dick.”

He waits for Slash to laugh and joke if he needs to beat Izzy up, rah-rah-rah, to lighten the atmosphere, like they always do when one of the Guns is being an asshole. Except this time, a frown tugs at Slash’s lips. “That’s not cool,” he says, somber.

“Hey, stop.” Axl latches onto Slash’s arm and blocks him in panic when the guitarist lurches toward Izzy’s room. “What’re you doing?”

Slash halts, glancing at Axl then at the door. “I’m gonna talk to him; he should apologize.”

“Nah, don’t.” Axl shakes his head. “I’ll get over it. Fights happen, it’s no big deal.” One pair of them going at it is bad enough, he can’t have Slash getting involved as well—they both fight enough as it is. 

“It is a big deal if it ends with you in tears. What’d he say to you?”

“Slash, please.” He grips Slash’s jacket by the zipline, hoping the desperation in his voice broaches no further dissent. “Just stop. I don’t need this.”

“Alright, fine,” Slash acquiesces; yet he still looks so worked up and indignant.

Axl can’t help but slowly smile because it’s on his behalf. He stares, seconds passing as he mulls it over and then leans up to press a chaste kiss to Slash’s cheek. “Thank you.”

This immediately disarms Slash, whose expression morphs from anger to puppy-like confusion. “What was that for?” he asks with an unsure, sheepish smile.

“Just appreciate you lookin’ out for me.” Axl blinks, smiling softly at him in return. 

Intensity sparks in Slash’s brown eyes. “I’ll always have your back, you should know that.”

When it comes to band-related stuff, it doesn’t always feel that way, but it’s nice to hear. In fact, it’s exactly what he needed right now. 

“Yeah?” He leans closer.

Slash’s eyes darken. 

A door slams somewhere, and the sound of Duff and Steven’s laughter filters in. 

Axl swears softly under his breath, stepping back to put some space between them. Slash clears his throat and averts his gaze. But neither of them seems to possess the desire to walk away first. He starts to feel self-conscious about standing there with his pussy and inner thighs wet with his own fluids and Izzy’s spit, fearing Slash will take notice of the skin not covered by his shorts glistening from it.

“I should, uh-I should go,” he says, giving his excuses, “I really gotta take a leak, my bladder’s ‘bout to burst.”

“Oh.” Slash blinks, blush tinging his cheeks. He shifts on his feet and rubs a hand across the nape of his neck. “How does that work?”

Axl’s lips curl in amusement. “I think you know how it works. I can’t do it standing up though—believe me, I tried, but aim’s kinda shit.”

“Right, right, right…” Slash nods agreeably, like that’s that, but then lingers, looking like he has more to say and is deciding how to say it—or to say it at all. 

Axl studies him with suspicion. “I hope you aren’t plannin’ on asking me for a demonstration.”

“I mean…?” Slash raises his eyebrows.

Scandalized, Axl gasps, “Slash!” and smacks him on the arm.

Slash laughs, holding up his hands. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!”

Axl glares at him, tongue in cheek, then allows the grin to take over. He can work with this—the joking around. “Punk,” he calls, shaking his head, the grin never leaving him as he walks away. 

“Hey.” Slash stops him with a hand around his wrist. 

“Hmm?” He glances back questioningly. Slash gestures over his own shoulder with a slight jerk of his head. “Come find me afterward.”

Axl takes in his sober expression. Humor has been replaced with something deeper, more intense. “Alright,” he agrees, feeling his insides flutter in ways he doesn’t want to describe.

Slash nods, satisfied, then lets him go. 

It’s almost evening by the time Axl finishes his long, hot shower, dresses comfortably and dries his hair, eats the leftovers in the kitchen to sate his hunger, and smokes a cigarette—or two. He notes, despondent, that Izzy still hasn’t come out of his room. Or maybe he did while he was in the shower. He doubts it, though: Izzy can hole up for long periods of time.

It didn’t use to be like this.

He eases the door open to the room he shares with Slash and finds him passed out, stripped down to just a tatty wife beater and tapered shorts, on one of the two full-size beds. There’s an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the nightstand—guess Slash found something to preoccupy himself with in the meantime. 

Axl decides he can use a nap as well and chooses to slip in next to Slash rather than his own bed. Slash is an overly affectionate drunk, so he knows he won’t mind the intrusion. He ensconces himself facing the other side and closes his eyes. He feels Slash stir behind him.

An arm wraps around his waist, tugging him back against a solid chest. His heart starts racing when Slash presses his nose to the side of his neck and hums appreciatively. “You smell good.”

“I hope so, I just took a shower,” he replies, gazing blankly ahead, suspecting he’s been mistaken for one of Slash’s hookups; it wouldn't be the first time Slash has macked on him, shit-faced, and then apologized with a drunken “oops.” 

As Duff pointed out, Slash does prioritize redheads, which has made Axl an unassuming target of multiple inebriated mix-ups. 

This time, however, Slash’s hold around him tightens at the sound of his voice instead of pulling away like he anticipated. “You always smell good.” 

Axl turns around to face him and receives a sleepy smile in return. His breath catches when Slash lifts a hand, thinking he’s going to caress his face, but Slash only grabs a lock of his hair, twirling it lazily.

“You’re drunk,” Axl voices.

“Nuh-uh,” Slash responds childishly, head cushioned on one arm while he continues to play with Axl’s hair.

Smiling, Axl rolls his eyes at him. “So, what’d you want?” he asks. “You called me here.”

Slash stops and holds Axl’s gaze, answering, “Nothing. Just your company.” His voice has a raspy tinge to it, courtesy of Jack, whose influence has certainly made him bold and handsy, thinks Axl in amusement when Slash’s hand relinquishes his hair in favor of his waist, sidling to stroke the small of his back. “I love our one-on-ones; wish we did ‘em more often, like we used to.”

Oh. Axl feels his heart swell. He knows he has a habit of talking people's ears off, which isn't always wanted or appreciated, so this gratifies him. “I, uh"—he clears his throat, finding his own voice too deep and loud for the softness of the moment—"I didn’t realize they meant something to you.”

“They do… You do.”

Axl blinks, touched. The intensity with which Slash is staring at him is starting to make him nervous and even a little bit exhilarated—something he hasn’t felt in a while. Since Erin left.

“What?” he asks softly at length, feeling bashful. For someone who's plastered, there appears to be too much clarity in those brown eyes. And Axl wonders if he’ll find blow residues on one of the surfaces if he decides to snoop.

“Are you ever gonna talk to me about what Izzy did to make you so upset?” Slash asks.

Axl’s eyes narrow. “Why do you care so much?” He doesn’t get why Slash won’t just let it go.

Typically, he’s never been one to shy away from venting his troubles, but this he rather not talk about. It’s embarrassing enough that Izzy made him come so hard he squirted, then also made him cry, essentially giving him the full premium rocker’s girlfriend experience.  

“Because I care about you, and I don’t like to see you upset—none of us do, whether you believe it or not… And I like it when you open up to me.”

Axl is mollified into silence once more. He wasn’t expecting Slash to say all this. The idea that anyone in this band still gives a shit about the feelings of another seems ludicrous when nowadays it’s apparent their vices are their paramount concern, fuck everything else. The camaraderie they shared when they put together Appetite for Destruction is long behind them; no one seems to be on the same page anymore.

But maybe there’s hope for them yet.

“You were with him for a while,” Slash comments in the way of observation. “Did you and Izzy—you know…?” 

“If you’re asking if we fucked: no, we didn’t,” Axl answers, blunt, wanting to pay honesty in kind and partly because he's curious to see how Slash will react. “But he did go down on me.”

Hearing this, Slash’s eyes dilate. Axl feels the hand at the small of his back rubbing soothing circles pause, fingers pressing in a rather possessive manner. Alright.

“Why, was he not able to get it up?” Slash inquires boldly, his sweet voice a juxtaposition to the mean line of questioning.

It startles a laugh out of Axl. “What makes you say that?” 

“Izzy ain’t that selfless. No guy is.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he concurs. “But no, I just didn’t want him to fuck me, at least for now.”

Slash looks surprised. “But isn’t that what you were looking to do? Like, Izzy’s an easy choice, since you trust him the most an’ all; thought that was why you picked him.”

“I did. But…” Axl hesitates. Slash’s hand strays underneath his shirt—and he feels warm, calloused fingers meet the soft skin of his back—caressing him encouragingly. He decides to just go for it, heart thudding inside his chest: “there’s someone else I want more. I thought Izzy would understand, but he kind of got mad at me.” He chuckles nervously, eyebrows lifting in the middle in an earnest expression. 

“Yeah, who’s the lucky prick?” Slash asks with a cocky grin, recognizing the privilege for what it is. 

Oh, Axl likes that. He likes that a lot.

Slash’s knowing eyes bore into his own with a rising hunger. Emboldened, he flirts back, “I’m in their bed.”

Slash groans, pleased. “You’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Am I?” Axl smiles coyly and directs Slash’s hand down between his legs, parting them an inch more. “You’re welcome to play with me however you want,” he adds. “Anything goes.”

“Jesus Christ, Ax,” Slash exclaims.

Axl finds himself flailing a bit as he’s pushed onto his back and kissed within an inch of his life, Slash nearly toppling them both off the bed in his enthusiasm. 

Slash cradles Axl’s jaw, gently stroking his cheeks like he’s a precious thing, a contrast to the hungry way he’s eating Axl’s face off. Kissing bandmates was not on Axl’s agenda, yet it’s happened twice now. He understands he’s asking for a lot, so if they wanna makeout to get the mood going, he can let it slide. He even parts his legs wider so Slash can settle on top of him more comfortably, and arches a bit with a muffled moan when Slash’s growing erection thrusts against his crotch. 

Slash smiles into the kiss, pleased by the reaction, and keeps his hips rolling in small movements, adjusting so that the length of his cock, covered by gray shorts, rubs over Axl’s clit through their clothing. He swallows Axl’s tiny moans of pleasure and deepens the kiss with a slip of tongue past parted lips. 

Axl loops his arms around Slash’s neck and rocks his hips to match the pace, desperate to gain more friction. Slash licks into his mouth, moaning softly in approval, and pulls away briefly to grip him by the back of the thighs, coaxing him into wrapping those lean legs around his torso before he slots their mouths back together.

Maybe it’s because he’s making out with a guy, his bandmate/best friend no less, Axl feels hyper-aware and self-conscious about everything, especially the wet sounds of their kissing and barely restrained moans that fill the quiet in the room. And even more so, the way Slash’s heavy cock glides atop the valley of his pussy, stimulating his clit. 

The weight of Slash holding him down and grinding against him is making his cunt throb with an aching desire to be filled. He imagines his pussy lips getting pushed apart and feeling the head of Slash’s cock nudge at his opening. It makes him grow wetter, soaking the crotch of his cotton trunks, which act as the flimsiest of barriers. 

He receives two more sweeter pecks to the lips before Slash says, “I want to see you.”

“Go ahead,” he greenlights. He didn’t expect to be this dazed from kissing Slash. He thinks he can get used to being pampered like this. Even when it comes to girls, he tries to take the lead, but more often than not, he enjoys a woman on top. 

Hands run down his ribs in a proprietary fashion, fingers briefly digging into his hips before Slash moves off of him to give him room. “I think I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve done this today,” Axl jokes as he lifts his hips to slip his trunks down his thighs, letting Slash take them off the rest of the way; the guitarist is a little aggressive in his haste and practically tears them off. 

“Whoa, easy there, dude.” Axl chuckles, slow to let his legs fall back open just to tease him. “I’d very much like to be able to wear them again.” He doubts he’s being listened to because Slash is too preoccupied by the sight between his parted thighs. He doesn’t get it, it’s just pussy—something they get in abundance—yet he’s been stared at by Izzy and now Slash like he’s made their dreams come true or something. 

“Hey,” he calls out with an airy chuckle, bumping his leg against Slash. “Why are you actin’ like this is your first time seeing pussy?” 

Slash glances up shortly with a perfunctory “sorry” before his eyes flick back down to gaze at the pink of Axl’s inner folds, mouth parted, mesmerized by the thin, translucent string of slick trailing from Axl’s hole to his right inner thigh. Slash wets his lips, asking, “Have you tried fingering yourself?”

Axl shakes his head. “I tried to rub one out but haven’t really fingered myself or anything. I don’t know, the thought of doing it to myself kind of feels weird.” And sort of daunting, he doesn’t say. So far, he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it.

“Can I?” Slash stares at him expectantly.

“Yeah,” Axl says with an airy chuckle. “If you’re gonna fuck me, might as well start with this.”

Slash is quick to settle between his legs with a hand curled around one of his bent knees while the other rubs down his pussy, spreading the slick seeping out from his hole over his clit and folds. Axl’s legs twitch and a small sigh of pleasure leaves him; he tilts his head back, eyes closed, as Slash plays with his clit.  

He feels the heat from Slash’s breath and the tickle of voluminous fluffy curls along his inner thighs before something soft and damp presses against his clit. He recognizes the brush of Slash’s nose piercing against his mound and lifts his head to watch Slash lay adoring kisses to his clit and hole. Arousal burns through him. He wants to shove his cunt in Slash’s face, but he’s not here for a repeat of his afternoon with Izzy—that can be saved for another day. 

“I need your fingers,” he says with a swing of his hips to express his desire to speed things along. 

Cheek pressed to Axl’s inner thigh, Slash groans heavy with want, undone by the demand. He sits up and palms Axl’s left knee, stroking a hand down the side of Axl’s thigh to the swell of his ass. Axl holds his breath when Slash’s hand wanders back to his pussy, stroking over his entrance. His inner thighs twitch involuntarily in anticipation when Slash’s finger finally begins to breach him. It’s…uncomfortable. He fidgets in place, trying to familiarize himself with the feeling of slowly being filled. 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Slash asks abruptly, as though he has suddenly realized that’s a possibility.

“No,” Axl shakes his head and scrunches his nose, “you’re fine. It’s just a different feeling than I imagined.”  

“How so?”

Axl flips his hair back from his forehead in a tense gesture. “I think I expected it to feel good right away.” He’s still aroused, just somewhat uncomfortable too. It’s different, though, from taking it up the back. 

“I’ll go slowly,” Slash assures. “It should feel better once you adjust.”

“I know, I trust you.” 

He’s adamant to see this through. He tries not to clench too much when Slash pulls his finger in and out. There’s a hint of burn from the friction—almost imperceptible, but still present; his body secretes more fluid to ease the way, spongy inner walls twitching around the digit as it moves. Slash dips down to give Axl’s clit kittenish licks to make him loosen up. It works, because he tries to rock his hips, fucking himself on Slash’s finger in an attempt to get him to take his clit in his mouth. 

He feels the press of another finger alongside the first and immediately bites back a wince. It takes longer and a little more work to slide in two. Maybe it’s nerves, but midway through, he reaches down between his legs and places a hand on top of Slash’s to make him pause. Unable to help himself, he tentatively clenches and unclenches around the fingers, trying to adjust to the thickness, then withdraws his hand when he thinks he can bear it. 

“You’re so hot and tight,” Slash groans in appreciation, carefully pushing in deeper until his base knuckles meet Axl’s labia. “You feel so good around my fingers—can’t wait to feel you around my dick.” 

This makes Axl mewl. Slash’s other hand pushes down firmly on his inner thigh. He gasps loudly when the two fingers inside him slowly twist until Slash’s palm is facing up and his thumb starts rubbing back and forth over his swollen nub. The pleasure from having his clit played with makes his legs slowly untense, and he shivers, feeling goosebumps form on his skin when Slash says, “That’s it… Relax for me, baby.”

Shit, it surprises him how much this turns him on.

Slash pulls slick fingers out to spread Axl’s folds with hooked thumbs until Axl’s entrance is forced to gape the tiniest amount, and he puts on a show as he spits, aiming for it. Axl feels a little bit insane watching saliva trail past Slash’s full lips and land on his pussy. His clit twitches when spit hits it, running down to his hole. His entire face burns as his hole clenches around nothing, that’s how flustered he feels, and his arousal goes into high gear. Slash works his fingers back in; Axl’s body accepts them more readily, slick and spit easing the way. 

“I like this,” he gasps, fisting the sheets, when Slash starts fingering him faster, grazing a spot inside of him that makes his toes curl.

A smirk lifts the corner of Slash’s mouth. “Oh, you like that, huh?” he says and slows down his movements, retracting his hand back just a little with a turn of his fingers, crooking them to gently press against the area puffier than the rest of Axl’s inner walls. 

Axl makes a pleased noise that sounds very close to a purr. The pressure against his “g-spot” tracks heated pleasure, starting from his pussy and fanning out to the rest of his body. His legs tweak, wanting to cave in, knock-kneed.

“I think I’m close—ugh!—keep doing that,” he begs, voice reedy. “Ah, fuck, I’m so close—so fucking close…” Then Slash takes his fingers out completely, and Axl’s building pleasure peters out with them. “What the hell,” he says in indignation at being edged. “I was so close,” he complains once more, fighting the petulant urge to kick his feet in frustration. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” Slash says, gliding between Axl’s legs to crowd him between his arms and kiss that angry pout away. “I’ll get you off.”

Axl is too furious to allow the kiss to linger and turns his face away. This doesn’t deter Slash the least: he laces their fingers together and changes course, trailing soft kisses along Axl's cheek and down the length of his neck. Axl inhales sharply in surprise when Slash nibbles on his neck and sucks a bruise there before moving to a new spot.

“Goddammit, Slash! You’re supposed to be gettin’ me off,” he whinges, trying to yank his fingers from the other man’s grip, “not givin’ me hickies like I’m your girlfriend!” 

Slash laughs, all melodic. “Be patient, I’m getting to it.” 

Axl watches, confused, when Slash lifts off of him to sit with his back cushioned by the pillows against the headboard. 

“Now what are you doing?” he demands, impatient.

Slash grins and pats his thighs as an invitation. “I want you to straddle me, facing away.” 

“Kinky,” Axl croons as he rolls over onto his stomach, smiling up at Slash, sly and seductive. “I get it, you want to imagine me as some chick instead.”

“Never. I’d love to see your pretty face, but it’ll feel better for you this way.”

Axl almost laughs it off, certain he’s being fawned on, but quickly loses his humor when faced with Slash’s intense earnestness. “Alright,” he tentatively agrees, blushing a little from the realization that Slash actually means the compliment and is not simply playing with him.

Using Slash’s shoulder as support, he tries to situate himself on his lap, awkward and ungainly about it, and goes stiff when his ass meets the hot and heavy shape of Slash’s erection with only a single layer between them now; his body instinctively refuses to put further weight on it. “Uh,” he says dumbly, brain short-circuiting.

“Come here,” Slash says, laughter evident in his voice. “It ain’t gonna bite.”

He won’t admit to the tiny overwhelmed sound that escapes him when Slash’s arms wrap around his waist in a tight hug and force him backward onto his lap with a firm yank. Seated properly, Axl feels his hair being gathered to one side, followed by the delicate press of lips to the nape of his neck. “You’re behavin’ so skittish about having to just sit in my lap, fucking you is out of the question, huh?” Slash chuckles into his shoulder from behind; hot breath grazes the silver of skin exposed by the drooping collar of his oversized plaid shirt.

Axl twists to glance back at Slash, pleading, “No, I can be better.”

“Let’s get you used to my fingers first,” Slash replies, evasively. It makes Axl frown.

Hands drop to his waist once more, squeezing his sides affectionately, before they take a dive down his navel to grip him by the inside of his thighs, nudging them further apart until the lower half of his legs bracket Slash’s from where they are splayed over the guitarist’s muscular thighs.

Cupping Axl’s hip, Slash brings his other hand, the right one, up to steadily roam over Axl’s taut abs, then down to his mound, pinching his clit between the pads of his index and thumb, coaxing a low, drawn-out moan. “I’m going to fuck you with my fingers now,” he whispers hotly into Axl’s ear, nuzzling the side of his head as he teases the seam with his middle finger.

Axl sucks in a shuddering breath and nods. He worries his bottom lip when Slash’s fingers, the middle two, continue to trace over his entrance, gathering slick, and then steadily sink in. He can’t help but moan at the feeling of those broad fingers pumping in and out of him in shallow motions, along with the heel of Slash’s hand rubbing over his clit. 

“Please, Slash,” he chokes out, desperate not to be denied again, as the fingers speed up, curling deeper inside him. His body feels entirely too warm, and he braces himself with his hands pressed to the sheets on either side of Slash, wanting to lift away from the onslaught of pleasure that has reduced him to moans and erratic breathing.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Breath stuck in his throat. He’s going to come. His hips shift and writhe in Slash’s lap, and he gives out a long, broken sob as his orgasm hits him like a punch, the force of it almost pushing out Slash’s fingers. He slumps down Slash’s chest, overwhelmed, when Slash continues to fingerfuck him even harder, prolonging his orgasm, forcing him to gush.

“Oh, shit, you can squirt?” Slash says in astonishment when Axl’s cunt squeezes around his fingers, impossibly tight, and jerky streams hit his palm.

Axl feels too fucked out to respond and curls against Slash’s chest. His chin is gently cupped, tilting his face up and back toward Slash.

“Did you know you could do that?” Slash asks, looking down at him.

Axl doesn't know why it even matters, but answers nonetheless, “No, not until Izzy ate me out.”

“No wonder he’s eager to fuck you. How many times?”

Axl’s eyebrows knit together. “How many times, what?”

“How many times did he make you squirt?” Slash probes, an all too familiar gleam in his eyes. 

The nerve of him! Axl thinks and exclaims, “The fuck? I ain’t lettin’ you turn this into some kind of sick competi—” He yelps, losing his train of thought when Slash abruptly scoots them both lower down the bed, effectively shutting him up. 

Slash plants his feet firmly on the mattress, knees bent and spread, acting as a barrier to prevent Axl from closing his own. His fingers find Axl’s pussy again, circling his clit and swiping between his messy folds, before they trail further down.

“Not there,” Axl breathes out when he feels the tight pucker of his asshole being teased and prodded. That’d be wading into dangerous waters. Luckily, Slash doesn’t push, and retreats his hand back up. 

Axl chokes on a gasp when three fingers shove inside his pussy without any warning. He’s so wet they slip in without a hitch, stuffing him. His breath gets further knocked out of him from a harsh, lurching thrust against his ass, with Slash’s erection digging into his backside. Slash dry humps him with powerful slams, hips bucking in tandem with the jerk of his fingers, making Axl bounce lightly on his lap.

Axl curses up a storm but finds himself secretly turned on by being manhandled and treated like a blow-up doll. “Why don’t you just fuck me?” he demands, voice straining.

“Think of this as a precursor. ‘Sides, I’m out of rubber,” Slash huffs out, all too dismissively. He rarely keeps them around anyway.

Axl seethes. “Fuck condoms. I’m clean, you’re clean; we can go bareback.” He internally titters when this throws Slash’s momentum off, that is until he receives a hard jab of Slash’s cock against the cleft of his ass, leaving him briefly tongue-tied and a little scared.

“Yeah?” Slash grunts out, breathless, and tightens his hold around Axl’s midsection like it’s taking him everything not to just give in. “What if I knock you up?” he asks after a beat, easing his thrusts to gentle, sedated undulations while he possessively kneads Axl’s stomach with his left hand, tracing small circles, clearly into the idea.

The curse has Axl’s body all fucked up, so it’s a genuine concern. Who knows what’s possible? “Maybe that’ll finally get me the family I’ve wanted,” Axl mumbles bitterly under his breath. He thinks Slash will relent, but then—

Slash kisses the back of his neck and shoulder apologetically. “Sorry, sweetheart, no soap. We can’t risk it.”

“Just borrow one from Duff, or Steven! Get one from Izzy for all I care. Just fuck me already!” His gripe ends in a hiss when Slash’s left hand, unoccupied, slips underneath the open placket of his plaid shirt—the top half he left unbuttoned providing easy access—and roughly kneads his chest, pinching his unpierced nipple to get him to behave. 

“Enough,” Slash says a tad darkly, when he’s rarely ever firm with Axl. 

Axl scrambles in Slash’s arms, trying to escape. “Slash!” he complains, only to be shushed.

“You’re gonna listen,” Slash asserts, his patience to entertain Axl’s prima-donna proclivities having run thin, “before you end up biting off more than you can chew.”

“Okay, okay,” Axl yields with a pained whimper, falling back with his shoulders cushioned against Slash’s firm chest, pliant and submissive, even though the pinch to his nipple makes him want to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation. It has to be the curse, but his chest is way more sensitive than ever before, almost to the point of soreness, and the tug on his nipple feels not too unsimilar to the unbearably pleasurable ache that came from his clit being squeezed. 

To his dismay, Slash doesn’t let go and switches to gentler plucks instead. He can’t stop the pitiful mewls as he nuzzles the side of Slash’s head, pressing his face into fluffy curls, trying to seek comfort. He’d have admired Slash’s dexterity—innate talent honed from years of playing—if he wasn’t overwhelmed as fuck right now, jounced by the force of the thrusts against his ass, propelling his pussy right into Slash’s pistoning fingers. 

He whines and mewls on top of Slash as the bed frame creaks and headboard bangs against the wall. “F-fuck,” he exclaims, “Slow down, you’re—gonna alert the whole damn building.” 

Of course, he’s ignored.

Slash’s grunts and harsh breaths from the exertion are loud in his ear, along with the lewd squelching sounds of his pussy being fingered hard. His legs start to shake uselessly with effort around Slash’s own, unable to close, and his hole clamps erratically as the need to come culminates.

“I can’t, I can’t—holyfuck!” His moaning cry gets cut off with a strangled gasp as he clenches hard around the fingers and squirts again. 

Slash guides him through it. “That’s it, let it out, baby.”

He grasps weakly at Slash’s speeding forearm with both hands, convinced the overstimulation might just kill him. His abdomen muscles tense and untense harshly, and hips jerk uncontrollably, clit twinging underneath Slash’s palm as he weathers his shuddering orgasm that seems to go on forever. 

Slash withdraws his fingers, triggering another trickle of squirt, which quickly tapers out. “Ngh—hnnn!” Axl keens when his pulsating entrance is rubbed instead, dragging out his orgasm. His mouth drops open in a breathless pant, a tiny choking noise caught in his throat when two fingers are plunged back into his convulsing hole.

Fighting against the intrusion, his walls tighten around the fingers to force them out. Overwhelmed, he pries at Slash’s wrist until they’re withdrawn. Slash goes back to stroking his clit and hole simultaneously in rough circles, making him spray fluids all over again, even harder this time.

Wrung out, he draws in harsh breaths, heart clanging inside his heaving chest as he’s gently coaxed off Slash and onto the bed. He watches with hooded eyes as Slash moves to kneel between his parted legs. Heat rushes to his already flushed cheeks when his gaze falls on the obvious dark wet splotches spread across the front of Slash’s tapered gray shorts from when he came all over him…multiple times. 

“Hold your legs up. Yeah, by the knees,” Slash orders when Axl gives him an unsure look. 

Axl tentatively pulls his legs back up against his chest by the underside of his knees, embarrassed by how exposed he feels, and stares at Slash expectantly.

Slash tugs his cock free from his shorts and finishes himself off with rapid strokes, directed at Axl’s pussy. He lets out a deep, guttural moan, enjoying the sight of his cum splattering all over the wet pink splay of Axl’s puffy cunt, coating the fine dusting of red pubic hair and adding to the already drenched lips.    

“Crude,” Axl ribs, staring up at Slash’s blissed out expression.

“Shut up,” Slash grumbles in return, squeezing the tip and shuddering in pleasure when the last stripe of cum lands diagonally across Axl’s pussy, over his twitching entrance.

Axl lets his legs drop when Slash tucks himself back in his shorts and leaves the bed. His eyes droop with drowsiness, which he tries to blink away but fails. He knows he should get up too and take another shower, but he feels totally wiped out. He’s close to nodding off when Slash climbs back into bed; he jolts, cracking his eyes open at the drag of something soft between his legs. He lifts his head and sees Slash, who gives him an apologetic look whilst gently wiping away at his inner thighs with a cloth. “Thought I’d clean you up a bit,” he explains.

“Thanks,” Axl says, appreciative. He's about to lay his head back down when he recognizes the pink material bunched in Slash’s hand, and gasps loudly. “Did you just wipe me off with my own shirt?!”

“We’re out of clean towels and this was on your bed.” Slash shrugs; a hint of a sheepish smile plays at his lips. 

“I should beat you up for that.” Axl side-eyes him and grumbles, turning onto his side with his arms crossed, too tired to raise hell. He continues mumbling under his breath, eyes closed, “No condoms, no clean towels either. Even The Ritz can’t compete with this level of service.”

Slash chuckles and ditches the shirt, promising, “I’m sorry, I’ll get it cleaned.” Curls descend on Axl’s face as the guitarist leans over and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek before settling down and spooning him from behind. “If you want, I’ll get you a new one,” he propitiates, burying his nose in Axl’s hair.

Axl immediately perks up at the offer of new clothes but pretends to be mad for a tad longer (although he knows Slash can tell otherwise) and declares, “Definitely. You’ll take me shopping.”

“Whatever you want,” Slash readily agrees.

Axl twists and blindly reaches back to touch Slash’s face in affection, inhaling softly when his fingers are kissed.

“We’ll get you panties too,” Slash tacks on with a puckish grin, giggling high and gleeful when Axl snatches his hand back and tries to elbow him.

Chapter Text

Izzy comes out into the living room and hesitates when he sees Axl seated at the kitchen island, chattering with Duff, who’s rummaging through the cabinets. 

There’s an ordinary, almost mundane vibe, as though nothing out of the norm has happened recently; if Izzy didn’t spend most of last night berating himself for pushing Axl away after the high wore off, he’d have questioned his sanity this morning, wondering if it were all some fucked up fantasy he dreamt of.  

Axl’s back is to him; thus, his presence has gone unnoticed so far. Why is Axl even up this early? Save for rare circumstances, such as yesterday, the guy sleeps through the daytime like a vampire: nocturnal, just like his childhood idol Elvis. 

Izzy can already feel the beginnings of a headache at the thought of having to deal with the fit Axl will likely throw at him—not that he doesn’t deserve it. He considers retreating before it’s too late when Duff turns around with a box of cereal in his hands and spots him. “Oh, Izzy, hey,” he greets cheerily.

“Hey,” he returns with a perfunctory nod and eyes Axl warily instead.

Axl acknowledges his unworthy existence with a cursory look over the shoulder before wordlessly returning to the magazine spread open before him on the marble top. Sensing the tension, Duff’s inquisitive gaze bounces back and forth between the two of them.

So, this is how it’s gonna be, Izzy thinks; he’s going to get the silent treatment. Affectionate exasperation fills him at Axl’s petulance. He wants them to be normal again. He feels guilty too because it’s his own fault; before Axl stormed out in a fit of pique, he saw it in Axl’s eyes just how upset he was, but he didn’t do anything about it. He’s not going to make the same mistake twice, so he pads up to them, stepping into the threshold of the kitchen.

“Are you done nursing those blue balls?” Axl quips when Izzy nears, without looking up from the magazine he’s browsing, and leisurely flips a page, acting blasé.

But Izzy can read right through him.

He enjoys the cute little surprised “ah” that escapes Axl when he cuffs him upside the head for the comment, and returns, “At least I still have balls.”

“Motherfucker,” Axl hisses and twists in place to grit his teeth at him. “Forget blue, your balls are gonna shine all seven colors of the rainbow when I’m done with you!” There it is, that indomitable temper of his—you could call him a cliché for being a hot-headed ginger.

Izzy isn’t cowed by it, though; Axl’s mostly all bark and no bite when it comes to him. It’s because he won’t put up with his shit like the rest tend to. They’re both loose cannons, intense in their own ways, two sides of the same coin and all—it’s what made their friendship work all these years—but at least Axl’s volatile personality is ironically predictable in a sense, the same can’t be said about himself. 

“Christ, Axl, isn’t it a bit too early to be talking about Izzy’s balls?” Duff remarks. And Izzy bites back a grin.

Axl’s face burns—half in embarrassment, half in anger. He turns his glare onto Duff, who smiles innocuously in return. 

Izzy stares down at Axl’s profile and rubs an affectionate hand down his back, an extension of an olive branch. “Are you done being mad at me?” 

“Me?” Axl exclaims, whirling around on the stool to face him fully with a dramatic hand to the chest. “Mad at—? What’s the matter with you?” he demands with his hands held out in a gesture of disbelief. “You’re the one who's mad at me!”

“Yo,” Duff laughs, munching on Cookie Crisps straight from the box. “What the hell happened yesterday?” 

“Mind your own business,” Axl snaps, twisting around again. Duff holds his hands up in surrender. Axl gives him a once-over through narrowed, judgemental eyes. “And have some milk with that. Stop rawdoggin’ cereal.”

“Okay, mom.” Duff rolls his eyes, but dutifully grabs a bowl from the cabinet and milk from the fridge.

Izzy’s chuckle stops short in his throat when his gaze catches on a small bruise on the side of Axl’s neck, partially veiled by tresses of red hair. He does a double take and pushes Axl’s hair out of the way while he’s still distracted, and frowns at the sight of hickies littering Axl’s neck. 

Axl swats his hand away and turns back with a dirty look. “What the fuck is your problem, Izzy?” 

“You went to Slash,” he accuses with a glare of his own.

Duff nearly chokes on his cereal. “You fucked Slash?” he interjects around a mouthful, only to be ignored as Izzy and Axl stare one another down.

Izzy sees guilt flash in Axl’s eyes before the anger resurfaces. “Why does it bother you so much, huh?” Axl demands. “If you want your dick wet this badly, call one of your many options. Whatcha need me for?” 

Izzy places his hands on the counter on either side of Axl and invades his personal space. Axl draws back, only to be halted by the countertop edge digging into his back. 

“What if I said I don’ want anyone else?” he challenges, meeting Axl’s astounded gaze. He stares into those green eyes until he’s reminded by an awkward cough from Duff that they’re not alone. 

Right…

He eases up and pushes away but lets one hand stay near Axl, on the marble top. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” he asks instead, circling back, soft and sincere. “He went easy on you?”

Axl blinks, pretty lips parted, like his mind hasn’t caught up yet, and then some of the rigidity in his shoulders leaves with the expression of Izzy’s concern. He sniffs, putting on a tetchy front. “You’ll be happy to know he hasn’t fucked me yet,” he replies with a hint of spite as though he’s forced to admit a loss to some one-sided competition he has going on with Izzy—which he probably does.

As made evident by the tone, it clearly wasn’t Axl’s decision, and knowing him, he won’t rest until he gets what he wants. So, no, it doesn’t bring Izzy any satisfaction. In fact, finding out that Axl let Slash mark him regardless kind of makes him feel worse than he started off. 

He knows how to take care of Axl; he’s done it for most of his life now and knows all of his best friend’s limits, which is why Axl going to someone else takes away his peace of mind. He could try to deter him, but that’ll only make Axl want to do it more. So, instead, he says, “When it does happen, don’t push yourself. If it hurts too much, you tell him to stop, alright?” He holds up a finger with a stern look.

Axl stares back at him with wide-eyed, ingenuous sincerity and slowly nods, not talking back for once. Something passes between them: Axl’s throat works, and Izzy finds himself wanting to step a little bit closer, to lean down and—

“Wait,” Duff’s contemplative voice snaps him back to reality. He can’t tear his eyes off Axl’s face, even when Axl’s gaze refocuses with a blink and darts away from his own. 

“If nobody fucked,” Duff proceeds, oblivious, glancing from Axl to Izzy before settling on Axl, “then what was up with the headboard banging?” 

Axl remains suspiciously quiet and avoids eye contact. When neither Izzy nor Duff’s attention wavers, he succumbs to scrutiny and reiterates, all querulous and defensive, “What’s with the third degree? We didn’t fuck.” His evasive answer, an equivocation, noticeably not denying being the source, gives away more than he intends.

“Wow,” Duff breathes out, amazed. 

As if summoned, Slash enters the living room all dressed up and ready to go out (in other words: he can’t be classified as almost nude, he’s actually got on layers). They’ve clearly been boisterous because he doesn’t look surprised to see them all—sans Steven, who’s staying over at his girlfriend’s—gathered around the kitchen island. “Hey, good morning, guys,” he greets, but it’s obvious Axl has his undivided attention. 

Izzy steals a glance at Axl and finds him trying to play it cool, but his eyes are practically twinkling like a Disney princess at the sight of their lead guitarist. 

“You’re in a good mood this morning, Slash,” Izzy comments with a smirk, just to be a dick. “Easy lay last night?”

Axl gasps (quite comically) at his audacity. 

“Asshole,” Axl curses, pissed as fuck, picking up the nearest object he can weaponize, it being Duff’s box of Crisps, and hurls it at him with unsurprising force. 

He deserves it so he doesn’t bother to shield himself. The box misses his face—the original target—and collides against his neck and collarbone before dropping to the floor with a dull thud. He’s grateful Duff is holding his ceramic bowl because Axl wouldn’t have hesitated to throw it plus its content.

He picks up the conscripted cereal box and places it back on the counter. It’s been demobilized, ha ha, he hears the joke in Axl's voice; one he imagines Axl would make if he weren't so pissed. He chuckles darkly when Slash purposely checks him with a shoulder whilst moving past him. 

Upon reaching Axl, Slash beams all dopey and shit, and gently cups the nape of Axl’s neck. “Did you have breakfast?” he asks, stroking Axl’s hair by gathering some of the strands cascading down Axl’s back in a loose fist and letting it descend. “I’ll go get you something from Denny’s,” he immediately offers without a prompt. 

Whipped as fuck.

Izzy can’t help the eye-roll when, staring up at Slash, Axl twirls his hair and responds, “Will you?” Then, for a brief moment, his gaze flits over to Izzy as if to say, Aren’t you going to do something about this? Don’t be a pussy. 

Fight back, Izzy. Fight back.

And Izzy is itching to insert himself into the conversation, to tell Slash he’s already making something for Axl—even though he planned to do no such thing—so maybe next time. But he can’t bring himself to because this is exactly what Axl wants: two of his best friends vying for him. 

Growing up in an abusive and frankly suffocating household, devoid of caring attention from his parents, left an insatiable void inside Axl, which he’s always trying to fill through other means, regardless of how toxic. That is Axl’s vice. His self-destructive tendencies are a symptom, where he acts out and wants someone to tell him they care.

If Izzy were to consider his own many vices, he’d say his proclivity to run away is the one he can’t seem to shake off. Especially now. It’s his nature, just like it is his parents’—prone to deviate than devote.

Axl always seems to be running toward something (or more so, chasing after someone), while he’s always running away instead. What a pair the two of ‘em make. In fact, that’s part of how Guns N’ Roses eventually came to be: he escaped Indiana, and Axl came all the way to LA searching for him.

“Sure,” Slash says. “What’re you in the mood for?”

“Get me the Grand Slam,” Axl says after some contemplation, then adds, indecisive as always but equally enthusiastic: “Maybe some French toast. And coffee!”

“I want some French toast, too,” Duff says.

“Come with me, dude. I’m not a delivery boy,” Slash replies to Duff without any real heat to it. “I could use an extra set of hands.”

They’re all delivery boys when it comes to Axl, so Duff can’t even protest the inequitable treatment just for the sake of arguing. “Never mind,” he says. “It’s cool. I’ve got stuff to do.” He’s hoping Slash will take pity and bring him something anyway.

“Thank you,” Axl beams up at Slash in advance, all beatific. The sight of his smile makes Izzy’s heart clench in a way it shouldn’t. Fuck no.

Clearly Slash feels the same way because he tips down to kiss Axl high on the cheekbone. 

Izzy looks away. Axl’s the one cursed, but it’s damned them all. He can hear the grin in Slash’s voice as he announces, “I’m gonna head out now.”

“Later!” “See ya!” Axl and Duff say respectively when Slash heads for the front door. 

Once he’s gone, Duff turns to Axl. “There’s no way y’all didn’t fuck.”

“We didn’t go all the way, you nib! God, you’re so annoying,” Axl exclaims with the energy of an irritated teenager to their nagging parent and gets off the stool. Duff takes a step back, laughing.

Izzy holds his hands up with a shake of his head when Duff looks to him for support. They exchange a smile when Axl grouses, “You can have my French toast if you stop bothering me! Gosh,” and stomps away from them. 

They’re already well aware he was going to share anyway.

Chapter Text

The air feels charged now that it’s just him and Axl in the living room. Slash was generous enough to bring plenty to share from Denny’s. They all ate breakfast together, and afterward, Duff and Slash fucked off someplace for the afternoon, he didn’t bother to ask where; it’s none of his business. 

He absentmindedly strums his guitar on the couch and finds his gaze meandering back to Axl, who’s curled up on the chaise lounge, lost in his own head. Izzy doesn’t know what’s compelled him to stay in and keep Axl company. It’s weird because there’s a persisting awkwardness, which has them both tiptoeing around each other like they’re still in a fight or something. 

When Axl’s attention snaps to him, he withdraws his gaze back down to his guitar, proving his own point. He feels caught, especially when Axl gets up and comes to stand before him. He waits for Axl to say something, but Axl remains silent. “What?” he softly prompts, setting aside his guitar.

He’s expecting the words “I should be askin’ you that” to leave Axl’s mouth, but gets thrown a curve ball instead when, in lieu of a response, Axl sinks to his knees between his splayed legs.   

“The fuck are you doing?” Izzy exclaims, grabbing him by wrists.

Axl looks miffed at being apprehended. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, struggling out of Izzy’s grasp. “I’m returning the favor.”

Nonplussed yet entertained, as one is when it comes to Axl’s offbeat antics, Izzy watches with his hands hovering as Axl paws at his belt, trying to unbuckle it. “Right here?” he inquires teasingly, eyebrows raised. Duff and Slash haven’t been gone for long, but one of ‘em could come back early. Hell, even Steven might finally decide to show his face. “Kinky sonovabitch, knew you were a lil’ exhibitionist.” He smirks down at Axl, even though he’s losing it internally—his heart is racing a mile.

“Fuck you, okay. We’ll hear them coming.”

“And? Mid blowie, you think I wanna stop?” 

Axl pauses to serve him an exasperated look. “Dude, do you want one or not?”

Fuck, yeah, he does. The memory of Axl giving him head is one of his most long-standing and deep-rooted spank bank materials, one he thought he’d have to take to his grave; yet, here’s Axl offering to blow him again after all these years, and that too without any needling or cajoling, like something straight out of his fantasies. But of course, he has to be a smartass about it: “Now I ain’t saying no, but you do understand that I actually have to be aroused to get it up; it’s not a you-willed-it-so-it-shall-be kind of a situation.” 

“Oh, please,” Axl sasses, like Izzy is being ridiculous, and then declares, “I got it,” like it’s no problem. He mounts Izzy’s lap, flipping red hair over his shoulder as he makes himself comfortable, taking full advantage of the knowledge that Izzy wants to fuck him so bad. This alone gets Izzy’s cock to chub up. He subtly breathes in sweet cologne and lifts his gaze up to Axl’s face.

Axl steadies himself using Izzy’s wide shoulders and slowly starts to grind on him. Izzy automatically cups Axl’s waist in response. The leather couch faintly squeaks and squeals with the dig of Axl’s knees as he moves. Izzy lets out a soft, defeated groan and tips his head back, eyes half-lidded. Yup, Axl Rose bouncing on his lap will do it.

“It’s so easy~” Axl playfully sings the slowed chorus, rolling his body with it, just to tease him. He looks so pleased with himself, smiling ‘cause he thinks he’s real funny. 

Lucky for him, he’s cute.  

Izzy takes him by the jaw and jerks him down for a kiss. Axl makes a soft sound of surprise but kisses him back, slipping a hand down to Izzy's chest. Izzy fists his fingers through Axl’s silky hair and deepens the kiss, a little forcibly, trying to suck on Axl’s tongue, but ends up chasing Axl’s retreating mouth instead.

“What?” he demands, uncharacteristically snappy when Axl keeps evading him. He realizes he’s clinging onto Axl way too tightly to be casual and quickly loosens his hold.

“Take it easy, Iz,” Axl says, chuckling, and Izzy’s gaze immediately falls to his lips again. “I’m gonna blow you anyway, there’s no need to impress me with tongue.” 

And there it is. Axl just can’t let things be. 

He drops his hand from Axl’s hair and clenches his fingers surreptitiously out of view before palming Axl’s thigh instead. Sometimes Axl just frustrates him to the point of infuriation. For now, his attraction outweighs his aggravation. But, God, he can’t deal with this—with Axl—without smoking at the very least. He’s trying to quit all of his jones (maybe he should quit Axl too, ha); evidently, it’s not going very well.

Can't live with you, can't live without you, huh?

He reaches over the armrest to his left and ferrets around for the red Marlboro pack and lighter stacked on the end table.

“Did I somehow manage to piss you off?" Axl asks, watching him deftly pluck a cigarette into his mouth and light it. This too comes across as inciting to him, or maybe he's just in a mood for a fight. Axl does have a way of triggering his fight-or-flight mode in a way no one has ever done before.

He takes a deep drag and lets the smoke linger in his lungs before unleashing it with a steady exhale through his nose. He chucks the pack away when Axl, wanting one as well, reaches for it. “Whoops.” He grins—it’s not kind—when the pack skids across the floor and underneath the two-seater. 

Axl eyes it woefully and frowns; then he turns back to Izzy with a sharp glare. “Are you trying to piss me off?” he demands and roughly shoves his forearm against Izzy’s chest. “What’s the matter with you?”

Izzy simply shrugs.

“I really don’t get you sometimes, man,” Axl adds, deflating just as quickly.

Sure, Izzy wants to snort. I’m the enigma.

He decides he doesn’t like the scowl on Axl's pretty face right now. After another inhale, he carefully brings up the filter-end of the cigarette to Axl’s lips. Axl regards him with suspicion but then dutifully takes it in his mouth. He puffs on it, cheeks hollowing, while looking straight at him.

They’ve shared plenty of cigarettes and joints over the years—openly and in secrecy; many of those moments have felt intimate even, but this one in particular, with Axl on his lap, having fought and just as quickly made up, feels like the height of romance in their vulgar world. Although, he’d swap the cigarettes for pot or smack, but he has already surpassed his quota of self-indulgence.

Leaning back against the couch’s backrest, he extends his arm to flick the ashes into the crystal ashtray and takes another drag under watchful green eyes. He stares back, transfixed in turn by the way Axl subconsciously wets his lips, eagerly awaiting his own turn. Izzy blows smoke to the side from the corner of his mouth and offers, “Kiss me and you can have the rest of it.”

Axl stares like he can’t figure out what Izzy’s angle is, because maybe in his mind it’s a steal; he must feel like he’s ripping Izzy off, even though it’s just a paltry cigarette. But to an addict, is it really ever just a cigarette? And to Izzy, it’s not just a kiss; Lord knows, maybe this is the last time he’ll ever get to kiss Axl without getting socked in the face.

“Deal,” Axl agrees. He inclines forward and presses his mouth against Izzy’s firmly. It’s more of a smack than a proper kiss, lasting about five seconds before Axl pulls back, satisfied, and grabs at the cigarette. 

Izzy tuts and holds it up and behind, out of Axl’s reach. “That was cute, but no. Try again.”

Axl’s mouth works like he wants to protest, or straight up leave—they’ve got plenty of packs lying around—but then he thinks better of it and shifts closer, eyes closed, as he presses his lips to Izzy’s once again, softly this time, with virginal shyness Izzy would’ve expected from a novice Bill Bailey and not Axl Rose, now that more is required of him. 

Axl caresses Izzy’s jaw by the side and slowly pecks him again, priming himself to take it further. In any other circumstance, Izzy would appreciate exchanging sweet and chaste kisses like this, as if they’re in love or something—in fact, if he did have the luxury of ample time, he’d be wild for this foreplay. But right now, he doesn’t want to hold back; he’s got no patience for it, so he moans softly in encouragement and steps on the gas by landing harsher kisses, forcing Axl to match the pace. It gets the job done because Axl slots their mouths together properly and slips him tongue, tasting nicotine in turn.

Izzy cranes his neck, meeting Axl with even greater enthusiasm. He sucks and nips at Axl’s lower lip, using his free hand to pull him even closer by the nape, raking fingers through long hair. He gets lost in the kiss, until the heels of Axl’s palms dig into his chest, and Axl impatiently whines “Izzy” against his mouth.

He kisses Axl hard once more and then lets him go. “Here.” He holds the cigarette out to Axl, smiling inwardly as Axl gleefully takes it from him and sucks on it without wasting another second, his long, wispy eyelashes fluttering in satisfaction as calm washes away jittery nerves.

With one hand warm on Izzy’s shoulder, Axl smokes away, distracted from his task. Axl is always more amenable with a cigarette, so Izzy lets his hands roam with a casual pet here and an affectionate stroke there, just to test the limits. Axl doesn’t seem to care, too preoccupied with savoring the cig, as Izzy slips a hand under the back of his shirt and slides a palm across smooth skin. Axl doesn’t even question it when Izzy wraps both arms around him and tugs him closer until he’s flush against Izzy’s chest, forced to lift a little on his knees so it’s more comfortable. 

Axl stretches to the side to reach over the armrest for the end table, just like Izzy did before; as he does so, his hand first absentmindedly cups the side of Izzy’s head, caressing choppy dark hair, and then trails down Izzy’s neck to the junction that meets the shoulder. He clutches on tightly for leverage whilst tapping away the ashes into the ashtray.

Izzy finds those touches comforting and affirming that Axl is indeed in an affectionate mood today. He brazenly drags both his palms down the small of Axl’s back and trespasses underneath the waistband of Axl’s boxershorts to knead at his plump ass.

Axl startles a little, but then chuckles, blowing smoke. “Getting a little handsy there, Stradlin,” he remarks with a lopsided smile.   

“Do you want me hard or not?” Izzy responds, staring up at him, cheeky and unapologetic.

“Pretty sure you already are,” Axl quips, grinning in return. He brings the cigarette back to his mouth and sits down on Izzy’s growing bulge, grinding on it just to make a point. 

Izzy moans low in his throat and bucks up against him. An imagery of Axl riding him with a cigarette in hand, just like this but fully naked, flashes in his mind and he roughly digs his fingers into supple flesh, certain he’s leaving indents. Axl’s got a great fuckin’ ass; he can salute to that.

“I hope this ain’t botherin’ you?” he asks.

“Nah. Do what you want ‘til I finish this,” Axl gestures with the cigarette. “I’ll tell ya if I don’t like it.”

Izzy doesn’t need to be told twice. The cigarette will last four or five puffs at the very most, and if he can get Axl to start prattling, he can drag this on for a good fifteen minutes or more. He heaves Axl closer by the ass, coaxing him to lift up again until Axl’s pelvis is flush against his abdomen, pleased that Axl does so readily. He’s not about to squander another opportunity by playing it safe like he did last time, so he imprudently takes it further by spreading Axl’s soft cheeks, wishing he had a view of his tiny, pink taint. 

He keeps one cheek spread with his left hand and rubs the fingertips of his right hand over Axl’s puckered hole and then grazes them further down the perineum to the edge of Axl’s pussy, where he finds traces of wetness and gets a small taste of how soaked it is. He retraces his hands back up to Axl’s narrow hips and slides Axl’s shorts lower until they’re stretched around his thighs, uncovering his pussy.

Izzy gets a sense of déjà vu and glimpses Axl’s reaction before proceeding. Axl’s got sort of a natural triangular strip going on, with a more prominent patch of downy hair at his pubic region, which Izzy finds very appealing; he’s curious to see what it’d look like completely bare, too. 

He squeezes Axl’s labia between the pads of his index finger and thumb, and then with his palm up, he teasingly swipes his middle finger between Axl’s slit and over his hole, getting a proper gauge of how wet he is. It’s gratifying to know Axl is just as affected by their tryst as him. It tempts him to press his finger into Axl’s tight hole. Just an inch, though.

Axl shifts his weight but otherwise doesn’t comment on it. So, Izzy pushes further into the tight, wet heat, relishing the way it feels. Axl’s so wet with arousal; his finger sinks in unhindered. He thinks he can easily fit in another one, and since Axl is being very chill about it so far, he decides to test that theory and pushes in his index finger together with the middle. He hooks them inside Axl, making him gasp.

“Izzy,” Axl breathes out in a moan and slides his left hand up the back of Izzy’s head to fist the hair there. He spreads his thighs some more, ass jutting a little as Izzy’s fingers piston inside him. 

Izzy is amazed how easily Axl has taken to this. He expected Axl to be somewhat keyed up about it, but Axl has barely tensed, even when he inserted two fingers. Then, the thought as to why hits Izzy and makes him stall. “Is this what you and Slash did?” he asks, pacing the thrusts of his fingers inside Axl.

Axl is in the midst of puffing; instead of an answer, he pulls away the cigarette and blows a plume of smoke in Izzy’s face, making him scrunch his features. “You’re still stuck on that?” Axl says, not annoyed but amused, to Izzy’s surprise—he was sure he'd be told to give it a rest. “You know, you’re startin’ ta sound like a broken record.”

“Just answer the question.”

“Maybe you should come and watch next time; you’ll get all the answers you need.” Axl smirks and brings the cigarette back to his lips, taking another drag.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you exhibitionist fucker?” Izzy ribs. The way Axl craves attention and dresses provocatively (not that he hasn’t egged him on), it wouldn’t surprise him if something like a Histrionic Personality Disorder were at play—and funny enough, he learned the term from Axl himself, reading aloud a paragraph to Duff from one of his pretentious psychopathology books. Not that the irony ever struck Axl.

He smiles when Axl palms him in the face, saying, “You wish, Stradlin.” 

The cigarette is getting closer to a stub. He’s adamant to get Axl off so he continues to jerk his fingers in and out, and steadily regains a rhythm. Axl’s breathing grows jerky, and a jittery gasp leaves his throat as a faint tremble spreads through his body; his cigarette dangles precariously from tottering fingers.

Izzy mouths at Axl’s chest and bites at his nipple piercing over his tee. When he does, Axl whimpers and clenches around his fingers, hips see-sawing involuntarily. “Stop,” Axl mewls and tugs at Izzy’s hair violently to let him know he means it.

“Ah, Jesus Christ.” Izzy winces, feeling his scalp burn, and tilts his head in the direction of Axl’s vicious pulling. He makes sure to keep his hands to himself. “I would’ve stopped regardless. Jeez, peel my scalp right off, why don’t ya?” 

“Sorry,” Axl says, sounding genuinely remorseful as he hastily lets go and, in a rather childishly sweet gesture, pets the section he pulled at as if to mitigate the hurt. 

Izzy’s eyebrows knit together. “What was that for?” he questions, searching Axl’s face when he pulls away.

“I’m getting myself off,” Axl replies and switches hands with the cigarette. He braces the left against the backrest of the couch, next to Izzy’s head, with the cigarette carefully poled between two fingers. Then he brings his right hand down between his legs.

Why? Izzy wants to ask but gets tongue-tied watching Axl rub one out. He’s achingly hard now.

Axl bites his lip and sways a little, speeding up the motion, and huffs out tiny breaths. He’s quick to reach his peak, hips lurching, and presses his forehead to Izzy’s shoulder with a moan, shuddering in the throes of his orgasm. 

“Why didn’t you let me?” Izzy asks, caressing Axl’s head. Axl turns his face and nuzzles closer to Izzy’s neck but doesn’t answer.

“Hey,” Izzy calls softly, tapping Axl’s chin. “Look at me.”

Axl peels away reluctantly, just a little bit, and meets his gaze with questioning, drooping eyes.

Izzy pecks him on the lips and then orders, “Open your mouth.”

And Axl does. Izzy sticks two fingers of his right hand into Axl’s mouth, pressing deep down on his tongue; it makes him gag.

“Suck,” Izzy simply says. Axl complies and closes his lips around them. Izzy wonders if Axl remembers in the haze of his orgasm that it’s the same two fingers Izzy just fucked him with—if he did, Izzy doubts he’d be this amiable—and whether he can taste himself on them.

Izzy grips the front of Axl’s thigh with his left hand and strokes the inside with his thumb. He drags it up to thumb at Axl’s clit. Axl makes a wounded noise around Izzy’s fingers, hips jolting sharply when Izzy rubs the nub in circles. The shock of overstimulation startles Axl out of his stupor; he tugs at Izzy’s wrist, gagging a little, the wet gulp of it obscene when the two fingers in his mouth are wrenched free. Axl swallows thickly and shakes his head in disapproval. “See, man, this is exactly why I didn’t let ya. Can’t risk you makin’ me squirt; it’s too messy.”

“That ain’t fair. I like the mess,” Izzy says with a small frown.

“I’m about to blow you. Ain’t that enough?”

“...Fair. Lemme put this out before you burn yourself.” Izzy gently pries the cigarette away from Axl to snuff it in the ashtray. He grabs some tissues, too, from the box at the end table and gently wipes Axl clean, mindful of his post-orgasm sensitivity, before hitching his shorts back in place for him. He discards the wadded tissues to be dealt with later. 

He feels a sense of loss when Axl leaves his lap to kneel back down on the floor between his parted knees. “You don’t have to do this, you know?” he says, grappling against every urge as Axl strokes the top of his thighs. 

Axl sours. “Why are you protesting this so much? I’m gonna get offended.”

“You’re my singer; I don’t want to hurt your throat.”

“Let me worry about that. Since when d'you suddenly grow a conscience?” There’s a pregnant pause, followed by: “Wait, do you actually feel bad about yesterday?”

Izzy pleads the fifth, but that’s an answer enough.

“So, you are sorry.” Axl grins, pleased, like a cat that got the cream. 

“Shove it.”

“I love you, too, asshole.”

Izzy turns his face away and hides his smile behind the back of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, go suck my dick. Literally.”

Axl chuckles soundlessly, wearing Izzy’s favorite jovial expression of his: when his gleaming eyes turn crescent-shaped, crinkling gently at the corners, and you can see both rows of his teeth in a wide, comely smile, common after he’s cracked a mischievous joke. It makes him look like a real sweetheart.   

The moment kills all remnants of awkwardness between them. 

“Then, hurry up.” Axl pats Izzy’s thighs.

Izzy makes quick work of unzipping himself and shoves down his jeans and the front of underwear enough to tug free his erection. He gives it a few pumps, a little dry for his taste. He should have used spit.

There’s an instantaneous look of apprehension now that there’s a cock directly in Axl’s face as he fends off last-minute nerves. It’s a scene all too familiar: the way he builds himself up painstakingly before any massive performance and then falls apart at the eleventh hour. 

“Relax, will you, Ax.” Izzy chuckles. “It’s just you and me.”

Just you and me.

The words have an immediate calming effect: Axl blows out a soft breath and reminds himself to loosen up. “Don’t make fun of me, alright?” he says, glancing up at Izzy. His fingers mechanically play piano keys and scratch at the coarse material of Izzy’s dark jeans. “I’m gonna be very bad at this.” 

Izzy notices that Axl’s hands are slightly trembling. He wonders if Axl has been tossed back in time just like he did, to a past that is best forgotten yet has a dogged way of muscling itself into the present no matter how many years go by. Sometimes, it’s better not to let Axl ruminate because he can easily think himself into a frenzy and get stuck in his own head. So, before Axl can let the doubt creep in, Izzy tugs him in by the back of his head, gently saying, “Don’t think too deeply about it. You’re only going to psych yourself out otherwise.”

“Izzy,” Axl growls out a protest, body going rigid in resistance when the length of Izzy’s cock bobs against his turned cheek. His fingers lock on Izzy’s knees, instinctively trying to push away.

But Izzy keeps a firm grip. “At this rate, you’re gonna end up just starin’ at my dick the entire day.”

Axl’s gaze lifts up to Izzy’s, perturbed, but then in a show of trust, he allows himself to be brought forward. Izzy’s breath gets caught in his throat when Axl sticks his tongue out and gives the ruddy, mushroom crown of his cock a quick tentative lick, catching some pre-cum. 

They both pause, not sure how to proceed when Axl sits back. There’s a miniscule look of disgust on Axl’s face as he licks away the saltine taste. Izzy has to repress a smile. Axl looks like someone just rained on his parade. But something has gone right because his fingers have lost their tremor.

Then, boldly, like ripping off a band-aid, Axl dives back down and takes the entire head into his mouth and swirls his tongue. Izzy’s legs twitch and a pleased groan escapes him at the feeling of Axl’s warm, wet mouth sucking on the head. He fists Axl’s hair too tightly out of reflex, and Axl makes a hurt noise, which sends pleasurable vibrations through his dick.

“Take me deeper,” he urges, voice coming out strained.

Axl carefully bobs his head up and down and lays his tongue out flat as he inches more of Izzy’s cock into his mouth, pushing himself further with each descent. Izzy’s cock doesn’t even reach till his molars before he gags around the thick girth. Izzy quickly lets him pull off. Axl coughs, lips glistening with spit, and eyes glassy.

“Why do I do this to myself?” Axl says, dropping his head against Izzy’s knee with a short, feigned sob. Then, he stares up at Izzy mournfully. “Eating pussy is fun. I don’t think even girls like to suck dick.”  

“Your dirty talk is such a turn-on,” Izzy responds dryly, but he’s glad to see Axl back in a jocular mood. For someone so hot shit, having blossomed from a shy and gauche teenager, Axl is still a complete dork; it’s what endeared him to Izzy in the first place—besides the craziness, which caught his immediate attention—and made him take Axl under his wing. “Stop being so melodramatic and get on with it.”

Axl playfully glares at him but then drapes his upper body over Izzy’s lap, gathering long, coppery hair back over his shoulder and out of the way as Izzy’s cock is guided between his slackened lips. Izzy presses on the back of Axl’s head, feeding him more of his cock till the head barges past Axl’s Uvula, which immediately triggers Axl’s gag-reflex. Axl retches horribly, spit leaking from the corners of his stretched-out lips, when the tip hits the back of his throat. His mouth works helplessly around the length in an attempt to suppress the reflex, tearing a moan from Izzy’s chest. 

Izzy lifts his hips, and Axl’s fingers clamp tightly onto his thighs as his cock curves further down Axl’s esophagus. The tight, constricting heat of Axl’s mouth feels so good, he’s tempted to keep him like this. But he lowers back down, not wanting to scare Axl off, and eases his hold on Axl’s hair. “That’s it. Pull up and breathe,” he says, patting Axl on the cheek with his unoccupied hand. 

Axl is quick to pull off his cock for air. A thin string of saliva suspended between Axl’s lips and his spit-slickened cock breaks off in a stretch when Axl withdraws, panting sharply. He pries Axl’s fingers from his thigh and molds them around his cock, directing Axl to jerk him off in the meantime. 

Axl stares up at him with red splotchy cheeks, chest rising and falling heavily as he winds down, and slowly begins to stroke him, firm in his grip but stiff in his movements. It fuels Izzy’s ego that Axl is willing to bend to his every whim. Axl may be obstinate and a megalomaniac, but in bed, he’s easy to influence (and Izzy is afraid to unpack as to why that's so, but a part of him already knows). He hisses out a moan when Axl rubs a thumb over the head before swiping his fist down, adding an intermittent twist of his wrist to the strokes. 

“That’s good,” Izzy praises, all breathy; his cock twitches in Axl’s hand and a trickle of clear pre-cum pulses out from the slit, trailing down the length like melting candle wax. When Axl’s breathing evens out, he grabs him by the chin and directs, “Get your mouth back on me.”

Keeping a hand gripped around the base of Izzy’s cock, Axl leans forward and tentatively wraps his lips around the smooth tip again, whimpering at the taste of salty pre-cum as warm, veiny flesh glides over his tongue, tickling the roof of his mouth.

“Pinch me if it’s too much, okay?” Izzy says, removing Axl’s hand from around his cock. “Take a deep breath.” 

It’s as much a notification Axl gets before Izzy takes fistfuls of his hair and forces his head down lower. Axl gags when Izzy's cock invades his throat, blocking his airways. He squirms in low panic, aching throat convulsing, as Izzy keeps him in place. His fingers knead restlessly at Izzy’s thighs, wanting to shove.

“Pinch me,” Izzy reminds him hoarsely in case he wants to tap out. But Goddamn—it feels so fucking good. Axl’s mouth is so wet now, producing copious amounts of saliva, causing drivel to coat his chin. If Axl sticks it out longer, Izzy can maybe coax his entire cock in. The thought of it unleashes a spurt of pre-cum down Axl’s throat.

Axl doesn’t pinch him, but Izzy can see the way pale eyelashes flutter, blinking away tears from squinting eyes as the desperation grows; almost a minute later, Axl makes a short, muted strangled noise and briskly raps his hands on Izzy’s thighs. Yanked off Izzy’s cock, Axl takes a huge gasping breath, like he’s breaking the surface, and then sets off into a series of stuttering coughs. His face is a mess—a hot mess—red from exertion, lips swollen and wet with slobber and traces of pre-cum. He lays his head down against one of Izzy’s thighs and closes his eyes as he catches his breath.  

Izzy pets Axl’s hair, brushing his bangs away. “You okay?”

Axl gives a sluggish nod in response and leans into Izzy’s comforting touches when his scalp is lightly scratched. 

Axl, with his feline grace and demeanor, often reminds him of a surly cat stuck in a pack of rag-tag mutts. It’s difficult to believe he loves you even when he hisses and scratches, but he does; he’s just easily overstimulated and needs his own space sometimes. 

Izzy can relate to the desire for solitude. He's been told he’s a lone wolf, often in contempt, especially by neglected girlfriends. He’s a drifter at heart, a free soul, like Barry Newman’s character in Vanishing Point, a movie that struck a chord with Axl, too, but for diverging reasons. They always did have a different approach of looking at things. To Izzy, the movie at the core of it is about freedom, while Axl saw it more as a final big fuck you to the world—and maybe that’s freedom to him, the free will to pull off something so audacious: Death-or-glory.

“You can be a real heartless son of a bitch sometimes,” Axl once said to him matter-of-factly. Maybe he is. He has never found it insurmountable to cut ties and just walk away if it comes to it. And Axl hates this. Izzy believes it’s because it scares him.

“You alright to continue?” he asks. He’s trying not to be pushy about it but he’s really close. He hopes Axl is willing to finish him off; otherwise, he’ll have to make do with an anticlimactic handjob.

Axl nods again. With his head still leaned against Izzy’s thigh, he steers the slickened cock back into his mouth and suckles on the crowned tip. It makes Izzy shudder in a burst of pleasure and his fingers tighten briefly against Axl’s scalp, more pre-cum pools on Axl’s tongue.

“Yeah—mhm—keep doing that,” Izzy encourages and caresses the side of Axl’s face, stroking his thumb over the delicate arc of Axl’s brow. He can easily get off on this, but he also wants to see if Axl is capable of deep-throating him. So—

“That’s enough,” he says and gently coaxes Axl to lift his head up from his leg, mouth still wrapped around his cock. “Suck me off properly.”

Axl lets the throbbing cock get slowly pushed deeper into his mouth. He tenses when he leans forward slightly and chokes around the thick obstruction breaching his aching throat.

Izzy times it correctly and pinches Axl’s nose just as Axl makes a futile attempt to inhale; it loosens Axl’s throat muscles enough to accept the remaining few inches. Axl sputters desperately, nose buried in Izzy’s pubes and lips forced wide open around the length. His shoulders draw inwards and his hands, gripping Izzy by the hips, make aborted movements to push away. His flushed face is an even bigger mess now with a mix of tears, snot, and drool running down to where his chin is cushioned against Izzy’s scrotum.

Izzy cups his palms over Axl’s ears, fingers curling around the back of his head; having established a firm grip, he bobs Axl’s head and propels his own hips in an overwhelming combination to drive his cock in and out of Axl’s tight, convulsing throat. He face-fucks Axl with an increasing pace, dragging him up each time until only the broad head of his cock rests heavily against Axl’s tongue; it allows Axl the opportunity to breathe in hard through his nose before he’s shoved all the way down again.   

Each firm thrust is met with slickened pops and wet gulps of Axl’s slavering mouth and spasming throat. The bunched front of Izzy’s boxers is damp with dribbling drool and pre-cum coating his scrotum. Axl’s breaths come out in desperate, labored pants around Izzy’s cock whenever it draws out enough to clear his airways. 

With Axl’s hair pulled aside, Izzy gets a clear view of his taut, reddened neck, veins bulging faintly with strain. Axl’s flush has travelled all the way down to his chest, pale skin now a deep shade of pink, visible from the wide neckline of his baggy tee.

Izzy feels like a sadist getting off on the sight of him staying committed despite struggling. To think of it, he wouldn’t mind if Slash walks in right now just to get an eyeful of his honey letting himself be throat-fucked by another man—worse, another bandmate. He feels the familiar tightening of his balls and moans heavily. He tugs Axl up by the hair, pulling out of his throat until his cock sits on Axl’s tongue. His balls draw tightly as he comes, shuddering, with a deep, protracted groan. 

Axl whines, squirming, when a burst of cum instantly floods his mouth. But Izzy keeps him still with a tight grip on his hair; he wants Axl to taste every drop, it’s why he didn’t shoot straight down his throat. Axl coughs around the head and globs of slobber and cum escape from the corners of his taut lips.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” Izzy praises, ending with a guttural moan as he continues to release into Axl’s mouth. 

Chest heaving, Axl breathes hard and fast through his nose, throat working involuntarily as he’s forced to gulp every heavy spurt of cum if he wants to breathe. He claws at Izzy’s legs, whimpering and gurgling desperately when he’s pushed down till his nose smashes against Izzy’s crotch once more.

Izzy’s vision nearly whites out in intense pleasure as the spasming walls of Axl’s throat milk his cock. He finishes coming down Axl’s throat and then quickly unsheathes his softening cock from Axl’s mouth, leaving a trail of petering out cum in its wake. 

Axl reels back when he’s released, falling on his ass. He turns over onto his hands, mouth wide open with viscid strings of slobber and cum dangling from it as he heaves and retches. The sight conjures a fucked-up fantasy in Izzy’s mind of Axl swallowing enough load to throw up just cum. It makes him shiver.

Winded, Axl continues to breathe heavily after the dry heaving stops and gingerly pushes himself back into a sitting position, while Izzy tucks himself into his jeans, zipping up. Izzy watches him bring a hand up, using the back of it to gingerly swipe away at the wet mess glistening across the lower half of his face. He looks fragile and devastatingly beautiful, like a tragic painting.

“Come back here, man,” Izzy calls, feeling slight guilt, and plucks some more tissues from the end table. 

Axl slowly shuffles over to him on his knees. Izzy takes him by the chin and dabs away at his face, wiping it off the best he can. As he does so, Axl squirms, unable to stay still, and Izzy takes notice of the way he has his thighs pressed together awkwardly.

Izzy lets out a low, amused chuckle. “You got turned on, didn’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Axl tries to sound threatening but his voice cracks at the end, making them both pause and stare at each other.

“Oh, fuck! My throat,” Axl exclaims in horror, and this, too, comes out so raw and hoarse. “Izzy, you motherfucker,” he wheezes.

He sounds kind of fucking hilarious, and it makes Izzy’s chest rumble, unable to stifle a laugh. “Shit. I’ll bring you some milk and honey.”

“You fucker! You didn’t even warn me. Came in my fuckin’ mouth like I’m some cheap, dollar whore.”

“I think you should stop talking,” Izzy advises, still chuckling. “Hold out your hands.” 

Axl does, saying, “I’m gonna cuss the fuck outta you first until my voice gives out.”

“Well, your voice sounds like it’s gonna give out within the next five minutes,” Izzy replies as he wipes at Axl’s hands, too. “So curse at me however long you want after your throat heals.”

Axl turns quiet for a moment and stares down pensively at his hands held in Izzy’s. Then his lips curl in distaste. “Ugh, there aren’t enough tissues in the world,” he remarks; it’s followed by a mischievous look that lights up his face as he pulls free and wipes his hands on Izzy’s jeans. “There. Saved some fuckin’ trees.”

Izzy rolls his eyes and tosses the balled-up tissues in an augmenting pile. 

“This was messier than I expected,” Axl declares conversationally, standing up on stiff legs after having stayed crouched on his knees for so long. “I need to wash off.”

“Might as well take a shower together, too, to conserve water,” Izzy quips with a put-on sleazy smirk, languidly lacing his fingers behind his head, “since we’re savin’ the world.”

“Ew, get away from me, perv,” Axl chaffs, moving away in feigned disgust, and then flashes him a quick, playful grin over the shoulder.

“Love you, too,” Izzy calls out, twisting in place to watch him leave.

“Oh, my God, it must be the dopamine from the head talkin',” Axl mock-exclaims, teasing, as he disappears into the hallway.

Izzy turns back, smiling hard, and chuckles to himself.

Chapter Text

Axl is frustrated beyond words. It doesn’t make any sense. They have been fooling around for over three days now; Slash has insatiably eaten him out and fingered him in every room, christening the band’s shared space, multiple times (and they’ve been walked in on more than once), yet Slash won’t fuck him—dry humping is as far as they get. 

He really doesn’t get why not when he’s pretty sure Slash thinks with his dick more than his brain. Slash has two hands for a reason: one for his dick and the other to hold his guitar. Yet, Slash doesn’t even expect a blowjob in return. In fact, he discourages it; says he won’t be able to restrain himself and he doesn’t want to fuck up Axl’s throat, especially after Axl’s bout with “laryngitis.”

Who the fuck turns down a blowjob?

Slash said it himself: no guy is that selfless. And yet, here he is, acting like Mother Theresa. 

It’s driving Axl up the wall. He’s convinced Slash is making him crazy on purpose because he has done everything in his power to please him—he made out with the kid until his mouth went numb and even let him fingerfuck him in the ass—yet he still hasn’t gotten fucked. 

Well, there is one thing he can resort to: Slash has been wheedling him to put on the thong and skirt he got for him when they went shopping together. Slash dared him to wear it for a good while and promised to fuck him if he does.

He can hear rambunctious laughter and chatter through the door. From the sound of it, the guys are all in the living room. So, he decides to put on a show. And if this doesn’t work, he thinks, then Slash is truly a lost cause. 

He tugs on the thong. It’s a simple, lacey red thing Slash chose to stand out against his pale skin, to wear underneath the pleated, plaid skirt with a knee-length hemline, which is as far up he’s willing to tolerate in a skirt, already higher than his preference for a midi. He put his foot down on any suggestions even remotely close to being a mini. Although he’s worn shorts way shorter than that, he’s not willing to cross the line with skirts.

When he sees himself in the full-length mirror, he realizes he looks like a schoolgirl with his plaid skirt and button-up, albeit baby pink and not a starchy, uniform white. He quickly fastens the shirt at the waist and rolls up the sleeves. So now he looks like a rebellious schoolgirl… Fuck. To think of it, maybe Slash might be into that, so he decides to fully commit himself to it. 

He steps out into the living room and, as he hoped, Slash is there with the rest of the guys, seated next to Izzy on the couch. Duff has taken the two-seater, while Steven is on the floor, high as a kite, gawking at the TV—there’s a porno playing on it, some blonde chick getting face-fucked by a burly meathead. Seeing that makes his own throat itch with the reminder. Fuck you, Izzy.

It’s not a circle jerk, at least not yet. Nobody, not even Steven despite the enthusiasm he’s demonstrating, has their dick whipped out. Thank God for that; he has no desire to be here otherwise.

“Hey, Ax,” Duff says when he sees him come over. “Are you joining us, man?”

“Sure,” he replies.

Slash is too busy laughing on the phone, but Izzy twists his head and glances back at him from over the couch’s back. His expression remains solemn, but his eyes widen almost imperceptibly as he takes in Axl’s outfit. He doesn’t comment on it, though. Neither has Duff. They’ve been trained to keep their unwanted opinions on his outfits to themselves. 

Evidently, this doesn’t apply to Steven because he takes one look and laughs. “Hey, Christine Sixteen.”

Axl serves him a middle finger. 

“Won’t this be awkward for you, Axl?” Duff gestures with a nod toward the TV. “You can’t jerk off.”

“I haven’t become impotent, dude—I can still get myself off. I’ll rub one out if I wanna.”

Steven must have a strong desire to die today because he comments, grinning, “Can we watch that instead?”

Axl leans over the backrest of the couch Slash and Izzy are seated on, and picks up a cushion, hitting Steven smack in the face with it from across the room. “Don’t be a creep.”

The cushion flying in the air gets Slash’s attention; he finally glances back at Axl, still grinning from whatever is being said to him. He does a double take when he notices what Axl is wearing and the grip on the handset pressed to his ear loosens. 

“Fuck,” Slash exclaims, staring him up and down from underneath a curtain of wild curls falling over eyes already obscured by shades (shit, they really are a bunch of assholes). “Come here, baby.”

Axl grins. Pleasant nerves flutter inside the pit of his stomach. Slash only calls him pet names in front of the other guys when he’s turned on or absolutely wasted or both—and right now, from the looks of it, he’s sober, at least according to the scale of his outrageously high tolerance. 

Axl rounds the side of the couch and plops down in Slash’s lap, chuffed when he gets hugged tightly. Slash remembers he’s still on a call. “Uh, look, I gotta go,” he dismisses whoever’s on the other end, only to pause with a frown. “No, I was talkin’ to Ax.”

It’s some girlfriend of the week—a jealous girlfriend—who has no idea Slash is screwing his bandmate on the side. Really classy of him, though, to be talking to his girlfriend with porno playing in the background. But that’s Slash for you. And given his taste in women, it might even be her they’re currently watching.

“I promise you, it’s just me and the guys.”

Axl snickers lightly at this. 

Slash flashes him a roguish grin and then absentmindedly tousles his own hair, offering more platitudes to his upset girlfriend.

Axl feels eyes on him and finds Izzy staring with an unreadable expression, so he stretches out his legs and places white-socked feet in Izzy’s lap, “accidentally” prodding his crotch. He suppresses a ticklish giggle when Izzy palms his feet, bracing for them to be knocked off. But Izzy lets them be and gently massages the arches with his thumb.

Oh, that actually feels really nice. 

Axl starts to squirm a little in Slash’s lap as Izzy brazenly slides a very suggestive hand up to his bare knee, nudging the skirt’s hem. His breath hitches for a split second, thinking Izzy is going to push it up further, but Izzy stops there. In the background, tossed on the bed, the porn star moans loudly when the guy immediately goes down on her. 

Axl grows hot under the collar and glances almost desperately at Slash, hoping he’s done with the call, but Slash is still preoccupied, abstractedly scratching at Axl’s torso in lazy strokes while he sweet-talks on the phone with spurious charm: “Come on… Now don’t be like that. You know I care about you a lot.”

Axl filches Slash’s sunglasses right off and puts them on himself—receiving a short, playful squeeze to the chin from Slash—but Izzy’s eyes remain locked on him, so he turns away, pretending to give a fuck about what’s going on TV. That’s like shooting himself in the foot because he gets an eyeful of the burly guy bending the chick in half and ramming his cock inside her. 

Trying to avoid Izzy’s gaze, he keeps his face angled sideways, unable to look away in masochistic fascination as the girl gets absolutely pummeled. He finds himself watching porn with a completely new perspective and a rush of desire hits him so strongly he digs his clenched fists into his clamped thighs, imagining what if that were him, what would it feel like? Slash is already semi-hard, just like Izzy, and Axl can feel the press of it against his hip. And suddenly everything feels too much, like he could just jump out of his heated skin. 

He fidgets, unable to sit still any longer, and draws his knees back to manoeuver himself around. Slash snaps to and grabs at him thinking he’s getting up to leave, but he’s only changing position. He guides Slash’s hand to his hip, straddling him just to whisper in his ear: “I’m also wearing the thong.”

Slash groans and slides his spare hand up Axl’s thigh, beneath the skirt, hooking his fingers on the waistband of his thong. Axl stops him before he can act on the urge to yank it down, and presses a wet mouth to his ear again, sucking on his earlobe. Axl can faintly hear the girl’s voice going, “Slash? Babe, are you there? What the fuc—”

Slash slams the receiver, no longer interested, and pries his own shades off Axl’s nose just to toss them aside carelessly. 

“Ah-” Blinking, Axl makes a tiny, offended noise, but is quickly placated when he's pulled in for a slow and sensual kiss, which swiftly gets fervid, with rough palms sliding over the back of his thighs. Axl moans into it and blindly fumbles to tug his skirt back down when Slash’s groping hands keep bunching it up to leave his ass on display.

Breathless and exhilarated, he honestly forgets about the other guys until he hears someone—Steven, he thinks—not quite whisper “holy shit.”

He coyly breaks away from the kiss to grab Slash by the wrists again, redirecting his frisking hands from underneath his skirt to his waist. Brushing back untamed curls, he nips Slash’s earlobe and then quietly says, “You can touch all you want when you fuck me. But if you’re not up to it, well”—he shrugs, nonchalant—“I can just ask Izzy instead. He’s right there.”

The phone starts ringing again. Slash reaches over with a curse and yanks the cord from the wall.

Steven giggles, while Duff squawks in protest, “Dude, Axl breaks enough shit as it is.”

Slash ignores them and turns back to Axl. “Yeah, baby, I’ll fuck you right now,” he says, and Axl is grudgingly impressed when Slash is actually able to lift him, getting up. But he doesn’t trust Slash not to accidentally drop him, and as fucking if he’s being carried to their room, so he wriggles until Slash is forced to set him down to stand on his own. 

He espies the pointed look and thumbs up Duff gives Slash, and opens his mouth to comment on it, but Slash starts to tug on him, pulling him along. As he turns to follow, his eyes briefly catch Izzy’s. Izzy looks fine, bored even, and they’re square now, so he can't quite understand why walking away from Izzy leaves him feeling so melancholic.

But he can’t dwell on that right now. He wants to—no, he needs to allow himself to enjoy things in the moment. 

Chapter Text

He doesn’t realize his mind has wandered off again, guard down, until his anxiety spikes when one moment they’re walking and the next he’s being spun around and pinned to a hard surface. His startled gasp is swallowed by Slash’s mouth immediately descending on him, kissing him, passionate and rough.

After the split second of terror, the sudden rush of relief when his brain catches up to the situation makes his eyes prick inexorably with tears even though he’s not upset, he has no reason to be. He slackens his desperate, clawing grip on Slash’s biceps and mentally gives himself a moment to calm down before arching up into the kiss.

He moans in surprise when Slash grips him by the underside of his thighs and hikes him up against the wall, not letting up. Slash starts to rut against him, and Axl wraps his legs around Slash tighter, aching with arousal from the jabs of Slash’s bulge against his pussy. It feels almost primal the way Slash has him pressed against the wall right next to the door to their room, rocking against him roughly as if he plans to fuck him right here in the hallway, too impatient to take it to the bedroom.

“I’m ready for you,” Axl gasps out, trying to stifle his moans and whimpers as Slash moves to press biting kisses to the underside of his jaw, still rutting against him. They’re getting frenzied and louder. 

“I already prepared myself, all you need to do is stick it in,” he continues, hoping to urge things along to the bedroom, and when Slash’s fingers roughly dig into the meat of his ass, he realizes if he keeps saying shit like that, he’s actually gonna end up getting fucked out here in the hallway. 

Slash briefly nuzzles the side of Axl’s face, butting his cheek hard in affection, and states, “Wish all my girlfriends were easy like this.”

“I’m not your girlfriend, Slash,” Axl rebukes; maybe he should be mad about being called easy. “And would you just fucking take me inside already. What are we standing out here for?” 

Slash chuckles and caresses Axl’s jaw down to his neck. “Alright,” he agrees, pecking Axl on the lips again before he opens the door and ushers Axl inside, being gentlemanly about it. 

“Hey, look,” Axl says, smiling, and lifts one side of his skirt by the hem to show off the string of condom foils, two, which sit pressed against his right hip by the strap of his thong. 

With the door clicked shut behind him, Slash turns around and falters when he beholds them. “Ax, you’re gonna make my head explode.” 

“Really? I was hopin' your dick would. Inside me.” Axl sticks out his tongue in the way of joking. 

“You’re killing me,” Slash says, and makes Axl laugh when he adds, grinning, “Baby, do it again,” as he steps up to grip Axl by the waist, slowly walking him backward until Axl’s calves hit the side-rail of the bed's frame, compelling him to flump down on the mattress.

Reclining, Axl coyly spreads his legs a little wider and runs his palms over his thighs to accentuate their contour underneath the skirt, letting the hem of it ride higher. When he reaches for the hidden zipper and hook by his hip, he’s stopped by a soft “don’t” from Slash, whose brown eyes, dark and intense, slowly rake over his body as if trying to commit the sight to memory.

So Axl wordlessly pulls his hands away to settle back on his elbows instead, and mirroring, he drags his eyes down Slash’s firm chest, over the array of silver necklaces dangling from his neck, to the solid torso and the dark happy trail cut short by sweatpants, and finally lower to the sizeable, tented outline of his fully hard dick.

Following Axl’s line of sight, Slash cups himself using one hand in a crude, cocky gesture, which has Axl breathing a little heavier. Slash huffs an amused breath and moves to kneel between Axl’s dangling legs. He plants a kiss to one knee before heaving Axl closer by the calves so that his ass is at the edge. 

Axl inhales sharply as his head drops back against the sheets from the sudden tug dragging him. He stares up at the plain ceiling, feeling febrile when his skirt is flipped up over his hips and his legs are coaxed further apart, with Slash’s hands caressing his bared thighs, kneading possessively at soft flesh.

His legs spasm in a jolt at warm press of Slash’s mouth on him over the damp material of his thong. He bites his lip, eyes closed, back arching despite himself from the long drag of Slash’s tongue up his covered hole, making his pussy throb at the draw of the lacy material over his clit. 

“I want to fuck you like this,” Slash says, pushing the thong’s delicate front to one side, fully exposing Axl’s puffy outer lips, to thumb at his twitching hole. “With the skirt on.”

“Then, what are you waiting for?” Axl breathes out, impatient to have his way. “Go right ahead.”

Rather than doing as he says, Slash smiles, too impish for his liking, and stands up. Axl props himself onto his elbows, watching him walk a few steps away to the head of the bed. Slash takes one of the square pillows and wedges it between the wall and the headboard. A smile breaks out across Axl’s face; he bobs his head with a giggle. “Should have done that the first time, too. Duff kept buggin’ me about it. Put me in a fucking awkward position.”

“Does it matter? Shit”—Slash grins, smug, as he ambles back over—“they’ve seen me put you in all kinds of positions now.” 

“Fuck off.” Axl laughs again and then tapers off pensively. “…Guess it don’t matter now. But I was sort of tryin’ to keep it under wraps, you see, ‘cause of Izzy,” he admits, wanting to get it off his chest. “Maybe it wasn’t right of me to kiss you an’ all that straight afterward.”

Slash stills, towering over him. A shadow flashes across Slash’s face, followed by a frown. “He isn’t your boyfriend, Ax,” he replies. “It’s not on you to spare his feelings, so stop feeling guilty about it. ‘Sides, I wish you’d stop talking about him right now.”

“Jealous?” Axl is only joking.

“Yeah, I am,” Slash replies.

Axl can’t tell from Slash's impassive countenance if he’s being sarcastic or not. Nonetheless, it paralyzes him with a sensual thrill. He’s quick to school his stupefied expression and tilts his head with a coquettish smile. “In that case, maybe you should give me a reason not to—talk about Izzy, I mean.”

“I’m plannin’ to,” Slash states, stooping to run his hands over Axl’s thighs down to the underside of his knees. 

Axl raises his right foot as Slash palms his calves, and drags it along Slash’s bare abdomen, tracing the happy trail to Slash’s tented sweats. Before he can slide it down further to play footsie, Slash forces his leg back with a strong grip to the underside of his knee, keeping it bent and spread. Axl audibly gasps when two fingers are impetuously shoved inside him, but the friction feels good, like scratching an itch.

“You’re fucking soaked right through your panties,” Slash comments, pulling his fingers out, wet now, and wrests free the condom packets from where they’re tucked against Axl’s hip. He splits them, chucking one on the bed. Then, he tugs his necklaces over his head, careful not to entangle them in his hair, and discards them too, only leaving the short chain on.

Axl’s eyes remain riveted on Slash, watching him kick off his slides and pull down his sweatpants, as unbashful about his nudity as Axl—one of the few things they have in common when most times it feels like they’re each other’s foil in every manner, from their different upbringing to their almost cartoonishly contrasting physical appearance. They say opposites attract; it’s a head on collision in their case. Their love for one another can only be described as ferocious—it’s vicious, even.

“Back up,” Slash says, and Axl scoots up the bed.

Slash climbs on after him, shuffling forward on his knees. He shakes the foil wrapper before tearing it open with his teeth, and rolls the condom on, all deftly done in well-versed moves. He has a nice cock, with a wide head and prominent veins just like in his forearms, the base of it nestled in a jungle of dark curls. The velvety skin feels alive in a darkened, almost rudy shade of pinkish brown, a tad lighter than the rest of his sun-kissed body. 

He crawls on top of Axl and captures his lips in a searing kiss. Axl’s hands immediately entangle in Slash’s thick curls, and their kiss grows so hungry and desperate, leaving them both breathing hard, moaning in between as their mouths move together seamlessly, licking and sucking. Slash strays, angling his head to press kisses along Axl’s cheek, one on his jaw, then on his neck, trailing them down to the exposed skin of his pale chest and to his covered ribs, making Axl thrum in anticipation when fingers fist his skirt, bunching it up again around his hips.

Slash drapes himself back over Axl, kissing him once more. Axl feels Slash’s cock bob against his clit, gliding over pelvis, and the heat of arousal roils through him, rushing to pool between his legs. Chin tucked, his gaze follows when Slash reaches down between them to align his cock. Fucking finally, Axl thinks, swallowing thickly when the cockhead catches his hole. But then it slips, skates up and rubs over his clit, causing his hole to clench around nothing as Slash continues to gently rock back and forth, gliding his cock between the ridges of his labia. 

Axl waits in bated breath for the penetration to finally happen, but when Slash’s cock misses the mark again, he catches the half-suppressed smirk and realizes he’s being razzed.

“Jerk,” Axl says. “Just fuck me already, man. I won’t put up with this.”

“Yeah, or what? Hmm?” Slash smiles down at him. “You’ll go to Izzy?”

Axl’s lips twitch at the corners, trying to fight back a scowl as he stares defiantly at Slash. “Fuck you. I will.” Immediately after he says it, he knows he shouldn’t have, especially when Slash’s eyes narrow, but he couldn’t help himself even though he knows Slash was only teasing. He receives a stinging kiss for it, which makes him whimper.

“You got all dolled up for me, you ain’t goin’ to fuckin’ Izzy,” Slash says, brushing back Axl’s bangs and staring down at his astonished expression. “We both know it. Izzy knows it, too, which is why he’s been behavin’ like a prissy little bitch.”

Axl swallows, holding Slash’s gaze. He wants to make good on his threat and walk out, but they both know he’d be doing it to prove a futile point. Heat rises to his cheeks from having his bluff called and his ego smarted; worse, he’s a little turned on, too.

He wins majority of the verbal jousts in the band, from sheer tenacity alone most times, so he dislikes this turn of events where, lately, he’s been left tongue-tied by Slash more often than not. It’s like their roles have reversed and somehow Slash has become the one adept at talking about feelings and things like that.

Knowing him too well, Slash dips down again and presses their lips together, gently this time, as if telling him to let it go. “Okay?” Slash whispers, searching his eyes.

Axl swallows, nodding. “Just fucking get in me. I can take it.” His clit feels swollen, slick coating his pussy everywhere. It’s like he’s been on edge for too long, his body needy like never before, desperately craving for more than it’s been given.

“This is it, Ax,” Slash says. “Breathe, okay?” He finds Axl’s entrance again, and this time, instead of fooling around, he keeps his eyes trained on Axl’s face as he pushes against the pink slit and pops the head inside after some resistance from the tight ring of muscle. It’s a slow and easy slide in the beginning, until Axl feels a pinch that makes him clench out of reflex with a pained gasp. Slash pauses when he sees Axl wince. “It doesn’t hurt too bad, does it?” 

Axl fidgets, assessing, and then replies, “That stung a bit, but I think it’s alright.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Slash continues to move slowly, penetrating him deeper, while he cradles Axl’s face in one hand, peppering him with comforting kisses—to his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his cheek, and his eyelid—in apology.

Axl keeps his balled-up fists pressed against Slash’s chest, prepared to shove him back if it gets too much. He gasps and cries out intermittently from the thickness and pressure of Slash’s cock slowly working its way inside him, forcing his inner walls to accommodate. With ringlets of hair hanging over him, encompassing his vision, Slash, whose face is slack with lust, is the only thing he can focus on, along with the feeling of being filled by him. 

He slings one arm over Slash’s shoulder, threading fingers through unruly curls, while he desperately clutches at Slash’s upper arm with his other hand. He starts to breathe harder and breaks out in sweat, attempting to power through the intense feeling of fullness in his pussy that even being fingered didn't prepare him for.

Slash groans and hisses in pleasure; his biceps bunch and flex from the strain of holding himself steady, to keep from just shoving into the tight heat of Axl’s pussy and overwhelming them both. When Axl tips his head back, gritting his teeth, Slash kisses him on the throat, over his Adam’s apple. “C’mon, let me look at you,” he says and pulls out before slowly thrusting back in, making Axl mewl. 

Axl feels flushed, bangs plastered to his forehead. His legs squirm around Slash’s hips, socked ankles slipping along Slash’s thighs as Slash rocks into him, placing more weight into each thrust and forcing out little punched-out noises and high-pitched “Ah”s from his throat.

“Look at me,” Slash insists, firmer and gruffer this time.

Axl forces himself to meet Slash’s darkened gaze, when all he wants to do is cover his face with his arms as if it’ll protect him from the overwhelming sensation of Slash inside him. He cries out again, even louder, eyebrows furrowing, from a rough thrust, and Slash’s eyes are immediately drawn down to his lips, warring between the desire to kiss him or to take in every minuscule change in his expression as he’s fucked.

The fullness that initially felt unbearable, so intense and a little bit painful, slowly starts to blend in with arousal as Axl grows wetter still, leaking around Slash’s cock, until the two feelings conflate and he can no longer differentiate between the two.  

“Fuck,” Slash exclaims, irritated, taking Axl by surprise. He leans back and pulls out of Axl completely, leaving him bereft. Before Axl can ask what’s wrong, Slash starts to tug roughly at his thong, trying to take it off. “It’s getting in the way,” he fusses.

Axl lifts his hips, relieved to be rid of it because it was starting to dig uncomfortably into the crevice of his ass. Slash, in his impatience, only extricates the thong from one leg and leaves it to dangle from Axl’s other ankle. Axl is about to kick it off when Slash grabs that leg and forces it over his shoulder before lining himself and feeding his cock back into Axl’s cunt. He puts weight on Axl’s thigh, trapping it between their torsos. This allows him to shove in deeper, and Axl chokes on a strangled noise; there’s pressure everywhere, pushing against his insides. Fuck, it’s a lot.

“Slash,” Axl whines, digging his nails into him. “Oh, fuck! Ugh!” His pubic hair is wet and sticky from his own slick creaming around Slash’s cock, while his reddened hole squeezes harder, addicted to the throes of pain and pleasure. 

Slash stops holding back and rams into him relentlessly. Axl’s mouth hangs slack with a sharp cry, body quaking as his sore muscles continue to contract around Slash’s cock in masochistic pleasure. He screams, losing all sense of self when the broad head of Slash’s cock rubs against his g-spot with each merciless thrust, slamming him into the bed.

“God, the sounds you make,” Slash groans in appreciation, nosing along Axl’s throat, huffing quick breaths of warm air against Axl’s skin, his own abdomen muscles taut and quivering from exertion as he ruts into Axl harder and faster. Axl moans helplessly, the loudest yet, mind going blank, eyes glassy and unseeing behind fluttering eyelashes when his orgasm hits him suddenly; shaking and twitching, he squirts, spattering clear liquid on Slash and his own pelvis in short bursts, soaking his skirt, and spilling around Slash’s cock when the stream starts waning, feeling it dribble to his own inner thighs.

His stomach rises and falls rapidly with pants as he lies there, underneath Slash, shivering from the aftershocks as Slash slows down his thrusts to let him ride it out. He’s slow to focus; his entire world tapers to the warm, tingling pleasure radiating from the spasming muscles of his pussy, ebbing to the rest of the body. Sliding out of him, Slash sits back and carefully lets Axl’s leg slip down from his shoulder. “Was that good?” he croons and surges up to kiss Axl sweetly, first on the mouth, then on the cheek.

Axl nods drowsily. Feeling a rush of affection, he closes his eyes and nuzzles back against Slash’s face. It was great. Slash nudges their foreheads together, then noses along Axl’s cheek in a ghost of a kiss, tracing his lips down Axl’s jawline to kiss the spot just underneath. “I wanna finish inside you. Is that alright?” he asks, mouthing Axl’s heated skin.

Gaze flickering up to the ceiling, Axl nods again and answers softly, “Yeah, go ahead. I’m alright.”

“I want you to ride me,” Slash says.

Axl wants to groan, disinclined to put in the effort now that he already came. His expression says it all because Slash chuckles and punctuates murmurs of “please?” against his lips with a bombardment of sloppy kisses, being deliberately annoying. 

“Alright, fine,” Axl caves in, ruffled, and twists to escape the onslaught.

“Let me help you out a bit.” Slash grins, wolfish, and moves lower to nestle between Axl’s splayed legs. 

“Ow,” Axl hisses, feeling teeth sink into the sensitive junction where his thigh meets the swell of asscheek. “How the fuck is this helping?” he complains, irritated, while Slash bites and sucks on the soft flesh of his ass, followed by his inner thigh.

“That was for me,” Slash says. “This is for you.”

Axl yells out and jerks, getting struck by a bolt of pleasure when Slash’s mouth envelops his clit. Slash sucks hard, lips making smacking noises, and tugs on the clit using his mouth before releasing it with a lewd pop, watching its light jiggle as it snaps back. He does it once more before he strums at Axl’s throbbing hole in rapid succession. Back bowing and legs kicking out, Axl curls away onto his side with a sob, relieved when Slash stops. He twists and glares at him, feeling tousled with long strands of stray hair falling over his face, which he pushes back. “Fucker, were you trying to help me or torture me?” 

“Turned you on, didn’t it?” Slash says, smirking. He puts two fingers, slick from Axl’s arousal, into his mouth and twirls his tongue around them. Axl darts his gaze away, cheeks burning. That’s still not something he can get used to.

Slash moves to lie down on his back, beside Axl, with his shoulders supported by the pillows. He grabs Axl’s arm and manhandles him closer. Axl sidles on top of Slash on all fours and timidly throws a leg over Slash’s hips, mounting him; then, he uses Slash’s chest to push himself up.

Slash bites back a moan at the brush of Axl’s lithe figure against his own when Axl rears back on top of him. The sweep of the skirt and tantalizing graze of Axl’s soft inner thighs is torturous to his achingly hard cock. He quickly fumbles underneath Axl’s skirt to squeeze the base of his cock to prevent blowing a pre-mature load, and steers it downward against his pelvis as Axl settles on top of his thighs. “I want you to hike it up—the skirt,” he says.

Axl’s hands move to raise it up by the waist; it gives the illusion he’s wearing a mini the way this bares his thighs.

“Even higher.”

“Good enough?” Axl asks; his tinted eyebrow quirks at Slash when the skirt’s waistband reaches mid-waist, the hem now swaying around his hips. 

Slash gazes up at him through sultry, half-lidded eyes. “Yeah. Now sit your pretty pussy on my cock, baby.” 

Axl gawks a bit, taken aback.

Slash chuckles. “The rest of you is kinda alright, too.”

“Fuck you, ‘kinda alright.’” Axl socks him on the chest. “Jerk.”

“I’ll tell you just how pretty you are.” Slash smirks and reaches out to hoist Axl forward by the hips so his pussy is directly on top of the length of his cock. “In a minute, when you’re riding me.”

“Get ready to wax poetic.” Axl lifts up on his knees and sways his hips in Slash’s grip to align his hole to the head of Slash’s cock. “Those compliments better blow my mind.” 

“Easy, man, I got you,” Slash assures. With one hand still clutching Axl by the thigh, he guides his cock in place as Axl slowly descends.

Axl squirms when he feels the soft but firm tip push against his folds. He exclaims sharply, clutching at the fabric of his skirt’s hem like a lifeline, when the bulbous head finally penetrates. Slash breaks off into a deep, blissful groan. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

Axl sinks lower with a broken mewl, feeling the dig of Slash’s fingers into his thigh. He’s so fucking sensitive; his legs start to quiver, and he stops nearly halfway down until his stretched pussy lips meet the upside of Slash’s loose fist curled around his cock.

“Come on, keep going, Ax.” Slash lets go to hold onto him with both hands. “You’re doing great.”

Axl’s small cries and hitching breaths fill the room as he continues to gingerly impale himself on Slash’s cock, squirming in the bruising grip on his hips. “Ooh, fuck you for making me do this,” Axl groans, agitated, when he sinks lower than he intends to, and releases another stream of expletives. “And fuck me for agreeing… Fucking shit!” 

“Thought you said you could take it,” Slash teases, sounding winded himself.

Axl’s breath fails him and his chest lurches with a broken mewl the further Slash’s cock drives in. The unrelenting stretch is torment laced with ecstasy against his sensitive walls. He’s never experienced pleasure like this before, although he has tried, so simultaneously intertwined with agony. They both release similar strained groans when he finally bottoms out, Slash’s cock lodged deep inside him. 

He droops forward, hair spilling down to his front, with his hands on either side of Slash’s chest. He pants, stuck between a rock and a hard place: lacking the will to heft himself up, but too stuffed to stay still. He lifts his head, eyes wide, when Slash caresses his cheek and tucks his hair behind his ears in the most tender of gestures. He’s kissed on the edge of his lips. He decides, then, that maybe he doesn’t have to like it rough, maybe he likes it sweet.

He tentatively rotates his hips and then reclines back, hands catching on Slash’s thighs to steady himself as he attempts to find an angle that won’t make him feel so antsy and full. A whimper is punched out of him when Slash’s hips buck involuntarily, before Slash fights to keep himself still. He gains some delight knowing it’s driving Slash crazy too, all this fidgeting.

“Fuck, Ax,” Slash urges through gritted teeth when Axl doesn’t move. “I’m trying to be a decent guy here.”

“Don’t rush me. What happened to a little patience, Slash?”

“Can’t be patient with you lookin’ like that, honey.”

Axl breaks out into a smile that shows the vertical dimples in his cheeks. “Good answer,” he acknowledges, dark-tinted lashes lifting to gaze at Slash’s face before dipping down again as he summons the willpower to slowly lift just a quarter way up, only to fall back down with a whimper. He tries again until he sets a bungling rhythm, lightly bouncing on Slash’s lap. He does a decent enough job because Slash tosses his head back with a series of appreciative grunts and groans. He quickly feels overheated and worked up, like his blood is burning inside of him, and pauses to unfasten his shirt, shrugging it off. Sweat glistens at his collarbones; the cool air of the room feels pleasant against his flushed skin.

Slash’s alluring dark eyes, although half-lidded in a languid expression, are locked on his every movement with pupils blown wide; there to meet Axl’s own every time he glances up. The hungry, consuming look full of rhapsody makes him nervous yet at the same time compels him to pick himself up, pulling off Slash’s cock almost all the way until the mushroom tip crowns his entrance, just to elicit an even greater reaction. He trembles when he lowers himself, and the tip, straining against his quivering inner walls to push in deeper, rubs over his g-spot. 

“Keep going,” Slash grunts out and draws up the hem of Axl’s skirt at the front to watch Axl's pussy engulf his cock in each drop down. Axl rocks himself on Slash’s lap, taking long firm rides, with his hands back on Slash’s thighs to keep himself steady, but finds his rhythm crumbling too soon when his orgasm builds up faster than he anticipates.

He cries out, “Fuck! Oh, God, Slash!” White-hot pleasure explodes inside him and his vision blurs, eyes rolling back into his head from the blinding sensation. His thighs vigorously squeeze against Slash’s sides as he begins to squirt, spilling a puddle on Slash’s navel and jungle of a scrotum.

“Fuck, yeah,” Slash moans, voice hoarse, “make a mess on me, baby.” 

Axl is pulled closer by the back of his head when he sags forward, quivering, and braces his hands on Slash’s chest. Slash takes over: holding Axl by the sides, tracing the delicate protrusion of Axl's ribs, he pounds up into him in erratic, self-serving thrusts as he chases his own orgasm. 

Feeling bowled over, Axl can’t support himself up anymore. He crumbles and presses his mouth to Slash’s warm, muscled chest, drooling and babbling, “Oh fuck, oh fuck—Slash, shit!” His toes curl. God, it’s sinful how good it fucking feels. The quick, ruthless jabs inside him beating his pussy raw make him clench harder around Slash’s cock. 

“Fucking gorgeous,” Slash praises, moaning. “Can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

Axl’s wails are loud to his own ears, and he has to bite down on the fleshy heel of his palm to muffle them. He must sound like a Goddamn whore. He comes again, pushing out a stronger stream. His knees skid against the sheets as he writhes, wanting to arch off in shock and ecstasy, feeling like he might pass out from overstimulation if it draws out any longer.

The thrusts grow faster and then stutter to a stop when Slash’s hips stay bucked up against him, shoving in deep. He feels the swell of Slash’s cock inside him as Slash comes with a guttural groan. “Fuck, Ax. Love you, man,” Slash rasps, breathless, and hooks an arm around the back of Axl’s neck to tug him close, pressing their faces together as they both shudder through their orgasms.

Even with the condom, there’s something too intimate and subjugating about a man coming inside him, which mortifies Axl and leaves him muddled, unable to process anything else. It seems to go on forever, and he awkwardly waits it out.

“You okay?” Slash asks, planting a kiss to his cheekbone, and he answers with a shaky nod. He’s a trembling mess when Slash helps lift him off his softening cock. He gingerly dismounts Slash and rolls over onto his back beside him.

Slash smiles at him faintly and then pushes himself upright. He glances down at his own softened cock, and then turns around to pry Axl’s thighs apart.

“Hey,” Axl protests, wriggling to clamp them shut.

“Calm down, Ax, I’m only looking.”

Axl blushes and goes still. He can’t even imagine how debauched he looks down there; he felt the drool of thick fluids when Slash slipped out, his swollen labia left coated in his own grool, and the slight gape of his ravaged hole, mouthing at the air with each pulse.

“Good, you didn’t bleed,” Slash comments, gaze lingering between Axl’s legs. “I was worried you would.”

“Oh,” Axl says. He thought Slash just wanted to marvel over his handiwork. 

Slash’s eyes finally snap back up to his face with a glint in them that suggests he’s up to no good. “Knew you weren’t a fuckin’ virgin.” He grins in boyish humor that reminds Axl of how younger Slash is than him.

They’ve both taken enough virginities to know better by now that’s now how it works: not all virgins bleed. Not that that’s the case here, obviously, he’s not a fucking virgin. But then again—is he? It’s not like a manual came with his new junk. “What, are you gonna call the church elders on me for my ‘depraved behavior’?”

Slash chuckles. “Just sayin’, I’ll still marry you even if you can’t wear white at the wedding.” He flashes Axl a smile and then twists away to peel the condom off with a grimace. 

“Lucky me,” Axl deadpans. “What will granny think?” He can’t hide the humor in his eyes when Slash glances over.

“That…” Slash finishes tying off the condom and gets up to make his way to the trash can. “I’m marrying a little hussy like she always knew I would.” Swiping his sweats off the floor, he grins back at Axl.

“Hope that goes into the wedding vows,” Axl quips and raises an arm above his head, lazily playing with his own bangs as he tracks Slash across the room with his gaze, watching him pull his sweats back on. “How big is the ring?” 

“Big enough to make up for the shotgun wedding.”

Axl barks out a laugh. “I like that. It should be that gaudy, brick-ass motherfucker Richard Burton gave Liz Taylor. We’d have a torrid affair like theirs, no?”

Slash approaches the bed, legs pressing to the side-frame. “Would we?” he spurs, propping one knee on the mattress, and bends over to clasp hands with Axl by interlocking their fingers together.

“Yeah, totally.” Axl stares up at him, smiling. “I mean, we’ve got the addiction, the fightin’, and the destroyin’ hotel rooms down. I’ll chase out any chicks you bring home with a broken JD bottle”—this makes Slash laugh—“and then we’ll get divorced, remarry a year later, only to split up again, just to keep the press always guessin’, you know? I’ll even write you letters… But you can’t die on me, alright? If you do, I’ll hunt you down in the next life and kill you myself.”

“Alright, I promise. But the same goes for you: you can’t die on me, either. No more downing pill bottles. I don’t wanna see that shit ever again.” A serious frown touches Slash’s lips.

“Deal,” Axl agrees, although deep down they both know nothing’s really gonna change: tomorrow will come and Slash will be staring down another empty Jack, and he, down the barrel of a gun.

“Hey, so,” Axl starts after the lull in their conversation, wanting to change the topic to something less sombre, “this was kind of fucking great. Why haven’t we been doing this the entire time? Like, you’ve been holdin’ out on me, man. What’s up with that?” he laughs.

Except, now, Slash looks like he wishes he were anywhere but here; he even lets go of Axl’s hands. “Um, I’m gonna be completely fuckin’ honest with you, Ax,” he trails off, clearly psyching himself up for whatever he has to say, and sits down on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked under, while the other foot stays on the floor, body angled to bolt away any second.

“Alright,” Axl prompts, eyebrows pulled together, and sits up. Is he about to be let down easy like some fucking nobody one-night-stand? If so, he’s about to shatter all the glass in this place.

“I like what we’ve got going on,” Slash says, reaching out to caress Axl’s midriff comfortingly. “I really fucking do.”

Axl tenses underneath the touch and waits for the “but.” He’s sure he’s staring at Slash accusingly because Slash’s demeanor immediately turns placating.

“Look—fuck…” Slash ruffles his own hair, letting his curls bounce back over his eyes. “It’s kinda ridiculous, actually, but… I thought you’d go back to Izzy, you know—after you got what you wanted.”

Oh, Axl blinks, reeling. That’s…not what he was expecting to hear. They’ve gotten their wires crossed; in his mind, a moment ago, they were having an entirely different conversation.

“That’s why I kept putting it off; I was hoping this”—Slash gestures between the two of them—“wouldn’t stop.” 

Axl smiles, mood uplifted again. “You could’ve just said something, man. Like, this was fun and easy, I enjoyed it too. So…if you’re fucking up to it—like you said, Izzy ain’t my boyfriend—we don’t have to stop, we can just continue to mess around, no obligation. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

But Slash’s solemn expression suggests this isn’t entirely what he wants to hear. “What if I do want it to mean something?” Slash says.

Axl stares. “How do you mean?”

“What if we made it exclusive?” 

“Like, only sleeping with each other?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I don’t mind,” Axl says after a pause, a little doubtful though. Like, he is cool with the idea, since he’s not going to be fucking any women for the time being anyway, but what’s Slash getting out of it? “Be honest, man, is this just ‘cause you don’t want me going to Izzy?”

“Yeah, I fucking don’t.” 

Axl is taken aback by the heated answer from Slash, who’s usually so placid. “Why? It ain’t like you both haven’t gone after the same girl before; you’ve been in threesomes, had each other's sloppy seconds, so what’s the problem?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Axl’s gaze shifts, uncertain. “What is?”

“I like you, Ax, that’s the fucking problem. And I don’t want to share you. Especially not with Izzy, given your history with him.”

“My history with him?” Axl repeats, incredulous. “What fuckin’ history? Me and Izzy are just friends.”

Slash actually rolls his eyes at him. “Whatever you say, dude.” 

Ugh! Just, whatever! Axl internally sputters and shakes it off because there’s another argument to be had: “And you—this pussy’s got you whipped, man. You’re just confused. What happens when I wake up tomorrow and get my dick back? And I fuckin’ hope to, ‘cause I don’t plan on stayin’ like this forever!”

Slash has clearly already thought about it because he doesn’t hesitate: “You’ll still be Axl.” 

“You’re fucking serious?”

“Completely.” 

“Jesus Christ. Where did this even come from?”

“Not from fucking nowhere. Jeez, I really thought it was obvious. Look—Ax, there’s something between us, and I know you can feel it too.”

“Yeah, your dick, you fucking pervert.”

Slash’s resolute expression wavers, and then they both stare at each other, snorting half-suppressed giggles before bursting full out into laughter.

“Fuck off, dude,” Slash says, still chuckling. “I’m being serious.”

Axl keeps laughing, possessed by a fit.

“Stop,” Slash warns. And Axl finds himself tackled. His giggling wanes when he’s pinned against the sheets and kissed. He moans softly, eyelashes fluttering to a close as he goes slack in compliance.

“See, this is what I was talking about, you motherfucker,” Slash whispers against Axl’s mouth and punctuates it with another kiss. “You feel it, too.”

Heart pounding, Axl slowly blinks. He can’t fucking deny it because it’s true—his feelings are a jumbled mess, but they are real. And Slash can read it in his expression.

“I know we step on each other’s toes and fight a lot,” Slash continues, “but we’re still great together...you know, like Thunder and Lightning.”

The mention of Thin Lizzy pulls a smile out of Axl. The shit they bonded over. Back when they shared the loft, Thunder and Lightning came on, and Slash said it was his song for him, that every time he hears it, he thinks of him.

Sweeter than the heavens and like a frightening stumble.

“So stop pretending,” Slash implores softly, “and have something real with me.”

Axl will never admit it but his heart skips a beat. All he knows for sure is, whatever it is they’re doing, he doesn’t want it to stop.

Izzy is convinced Axl was sent to this world to torture him specifically. They can all hear Axl’s screams of pleasure and filthy moans, yowling like a cat in heat.

If there's a hell, he’s already in it.

“You think he’s rehearsing Welcome to the Jungle in there?” Duff deadpans. 

Izzy cracks a smile, and Steven, still seated cross-legged on the floor, slaps Duff on the knee, laughing.

“The set of lungs on him,” Steven whistles, impressed. “Think they can hear him all the way over on the East Coast.”

“He sounds good, though,” Duff comments offhandedly, apparently on the same wavelength as Izzy.

“Dude,” Steven exclaims with a huff of laughter, by the way of ‘Did you seriously just say that?’

“What?” Duff says when both Izzy and Steven stare at him like he’s grown two heads. “He sounds like a girl when he moans, it’s kinda hot.”

Fucking exactly, though. And the way Axl was dressed…

Izzy almost turned into that dumb cartoon wolf leering at Red Hot Riding Hood with its tongue lolling and eyes popping out, going bananas, smacking the table with its chair and shit, when Slash, that bastard, lifted the skirt, revealing Axl’s pale ass scantily covered by a lacey red thong, displaying to the rest of them what they're missing out on.

It took him back to their club days, when Axl wore a thong underneath assless, leather chaps. The male-stripper look didn’t really make his motor hum, but this definitely does, and the exclusivity of it, not meant for an audience, makes it all the more enticing. 

“I think you need to go see your girlfriend, man,” Steven remarks, eyes twinkling in amusement. 

“You know what?” Duff gets up with aplomb, taking initiative. “I say we all head over to Mandy’s; see if she’s willing to invite some of her friends over.”

Since Axl got cursed, they decided—well, Axl decided for them—that they aren’t allowed to bring anyone back here, to minimize the chances of someone accidentally discovering his secret, which is in constant danger of being exposed anyway because he and Slash have zero self-control. 

Still, the rule is fine by Izzy; it’s an excuse to go missing for long hours, and to be honest, he was sick of stepping around bodies of friends and strangers littering every damn surface, and finding randos messing with his shit and fucking in his room, or throwing up in their bathroom—even in their kitchen sink. 

“Sure, man, let’s go.” Steven stands up, dusting his jeans. “They’ll probably be at it for a while anyway.”

“Coming, Iz?” Duff motions.

“Nah, man.” Izzy shakes his head and rubs at the stubble on his chin. “I think I’ll stay.”

Duff’s inquisitive look softens to pity. “Dude,” he says with a tiny frown, “don’t do this to yourself.”

“I gotta make sure he’s okay.” 

They all know Axl’s past…and how he can go from hysterical crying to psychotic rage, or withdraw completely into an unresponsive, hollow shell of himself whenever something triggers him.

At least Izzy's honesty gets rid of the sympathetic stares from both Duff and Steven; now Duff is regarding him with a tinge of respect, as if he’s doing something noble—which he’s not. 

“If you’re sure, ‘cause I know they bicker an’ all, but Slash does take good care of him.”

Izzy hums, noncommittal, and replies, “I’m alright. Go be with your girlfriend.”

Duff pats him awkwardly on the shoulder, trying to be consoling and supportive, which he acknowledges with a nod. 

“See you later, Iz,” Steven says, raising a hand in farewell. “Try not to jerk off and cry.” He dodges with a squeal of laughter when Izzy pitches a stray tennis ball at him. 

“Fucker. Don’t come cryin’ to me when Axl steals your girl again.”

“Low blow, man. Guess we’ll both be crying then.”

Izzy turns to Duff with a blank stare and says, “Brother, get him the fuck outta my face.”

Duff laughs and heads over to a grinning Steven, escorting him to the front door. “Come on, Stevie, let’s go before Izzy bursts a blood vessel.”

Grateful to be alone, Izzy tries to pour himself into songwriting but gives up on it when Axl keeps popping up as the muse. They know each other too well; that fucker will probably be able to tell the verses are about him, and Izzy will never get to hear the end of it. So, he scraps everything and picks up his guitar instead. He strums out all his anger and frustration, trying to tune out Axl’s loud cries and moans, until his fingertips hurt and the craving for a fix subsides to a mild itch.

Chapter Text

Axl is way in over his head. If at first Slash was careful with him, almost courteous when initiating, now that he knows Axl isn’t averse to his feelings, he’s become rapacious: he just takes. Man’s got an appetite for pleasure; off the clock, if he ain’t drinking, he’s fucking. If this keeps up, Axl is gonna need him to go fuck other people. 

He hears the door open, followed by Duff going: “Hey—shit,” at the sight of him half-naked, sprawled perpendicular on the bed, legs over the edge, with Slash kneeling on the floor between them, eating him out. Axl is about to rebuke Slash for not locking the fucking door again, but ends up choking on a moan, back arching with a shock of heated pleasure when Slash’s tongue laves his overstimulated clit, which sticks out, engorged. 

“You two are still at it?” Duff says, incredulous. “Guys, it’s been hours.”

Axl tilts his head toward the doorway and finds that their bassist isn’t alone: Steven is trying to peek around his shoulder. Slash isn’t fazed at all by their company and doesn’t seem to possess the desire to unlatch from Axl’s clit for even a second to acknowledge them, preferably to tell them to fuck off, so Axl has to take over.

Fisting dark curls, he pushes down on Slash’s forehead to get him to at least leave his clit for his hole so he can concentrate. “What?” he demands gruffly once Slash moves lower, irritated by Duff and Steven’s lingering presence. “What the fuck do you guys want?”

Duff takes this as an invitation to enter. “We want to watch the game. Stevie and I have a bet going on—”

“Don’t care for the details. Just grab the TV and haul ass.”

“What? No way, man,” Steven protests, bounding in behind Duff. “The second intermission is almost over, it’ll be the last five minutes by the time we set up, and you’re gonna make us bring it back.”

“Not my problem.”

“It’s only fair since you broke the other one,” Duff negotiates, backing his abettor. 

Steven nods. “Exactly. We want to watch it here.”

“I said I’ll replace it!” Axl replies, defensive—in this bizarre situation where he’s being ganged up on.

“Well, until you do,” Duff says, “this room’s the only one with the TV.”

Axl starts to push himself upright, ready to argue that if it’s so urgent, they can go buy it themselves and send him the bill—but loses the thread, squirming; his eyelashes flutter and toes curl when Slash stops the sloppy licks between his folds to suck on his clit. He’s convinced Slash did it on purpose, to get him to stop arguing.

He drops back down against the sheets with a constricted groan, his abs tightening, and clenches his fists. There are going to be hand-shaped bruises on his thighs from how hard Slash’s fingers are digging into them to keep them pushed apart. He muffles a frustrated growl into his forearm when Slash’s mouth leaves him so near his peak.

He makes a futile attempt to sit up and force him back. Slash takes his outstretched hands into his own and briefly leans back in to kiss the top of them—instead of his fucking pussy, like he wants—as if he’s being precious, before turning to address Duff and Steven: “Man, you guys are killing the vibe. Who gives a shit, just watch the game and stop getting Ax all worked up.”

“I think you’re the one getting Ax all worked up,” Steven quips, his mouth running away with him again.

“Fucker, it's your fault!” Axl grits out as he hurls a pillow at him, wishing he could get his hands on the lamp on the nightstand instead. Slash caresses the top of his thighs, trying to calm him down.

“We won’t bother you anymore.” Steven simpers cheekily and rushes over to turn the TV on.

Meanwhile, Duff stoops to pick up the tossed pillow from the floor and makes a show of dusting it off. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he says, grinning with a nod as he holds it up. “Hey, Slash, give Axl a good one. On me.”

Slash snorts. While Axl responds, “You ain’t funny, stupid,” and then snaps at Slash: “Get me off already. Fuck, I think you gave me beard burn.” Slash hasn’t shaved: he has a five o’clock shadow, pronounced on his chin and upper lip, which makes him look rugged. When Axl does it, he still looks dainty as fuck, so he’s thinking of growing out a beard again. 

Duff dumps the pillow on the other bed and approaches them, chancing getting his head bitten off by Axl. He pauses next to Slash and bends over to take a look himself with the air of an expert. “Man,” he whistles, eyebrows raised. “Slash, you really did a number on him. Ax, you might have to apply something on it later.”

Axl glances up at him. “You think so?”

“Fuck off!” Slash shoves at Duff’s giraffe legs, pushing him away. “It’s not that bad. Stop freaking him out!”  

“You, keep squabbling. I’ll get myself off,” Axl says, sitting up. Leaning his weight on one arm, he shamelessly slides a hand between his legs, sticking two fingers inside himself. He can’t stop the moan when they sink in till the first set of knuckles.

Duff leers and then chuckles. “Alright, that’s my cue to walk away.” He goes to sit at the foot of Axl’s bed, while Steven stays standing, too engrossed to take a seat as he operates the remote.

Slash, enthralled, lets Axl finger-fuck himself a few times before he interrupts, forcing him to pull his fingers out by tugging on his hand. He keeps a vice grip on Axl’s wrist, preventing him from touching himself again, as he leans down and kisses Axl right there, on his pulsing hole.

Axl moans, uncaring of his audience. They’ve fucked plenty of women around each other, been in threesomes, orgies, you name it—they’ve been there, seen that, done that. So, Duff and Steven’s presence makes no difference to him as long as they lay low and don’t get in the way.

Drawing back up, Slash takes Axl’s fingers—the two Axl fucked himself with—into his mouth, sucking them clean. “If you wanted my fingers again, you could have asked, baby,” he purrs, tracing his own fingertips up and down Axl’s slit, teasing him by slowly circling his hole.

“Well, I’m asking now.”

Slash forms a V with his fingers, spreading Axl’s plump pussy, and tongues him again between his labia, lapping over his wet entrance in long stripes. And Axl’s hole, longing to be fucked against his own desire, contracts each time the tip of Slash’s flattened tongue slides over it. His pussy hurts from coming so hard before, but he’s still so fucking horny.

He reclines, sated, when Slash finally pushes in two fingers, fucking him with them while slurping on his clit. His inner thighs and ass-cheeks gleam with the evidence of his previous orgasms; his pussy is drenched from a coalescence of Slash’s saliva and his own spend obscenely trailing slick down to the towel spread underneath his hips to catch the mess. 

His long, pale legs stretch out on either side of Slash’s shoulders as his hole squeezes around the rapidly moving fingers fucking him harder and faster than he could’ve managed on his own. “Agh!” he grits out; his broken moans and the wet slicks of Slash’s fingers slamming in and out of his pussy mingle with the rapidly shifting sounds of the channels being skipped by Steven until finally Bob Miller’s distinct voice raving about Gretzky’s stellar season with the Kings comes on.

Having been edged for too long, his body locks with an orgasm, which is quick to build up and just as quick to fade after the most pathetic spurt. It isn’t very gratifying, but he’s so fucking beat, he doesn’t have it in him to really care. He’s been made to come so much already, and each time he’s convinced he’s been wrung out dry, unable to give any more, but his tired pussy still forces something out.

His hips jolt and limbs twitch weakly in an attempt to escape Slash’s continued torturous licks to his quivering nub. He doesn’t know how Slash’s jaw isn’t aching from the persistent onslaught on his pussy—it’s damn near worship. “Fuck, I’m done,” he protests, his breath coming to him in short gasps. “Enough.”

“One more,” Slash insists and doesn’t even wait for an answer before he pushes in another finger alongside the other two, making Axl hiss from sensitivity.

“What more do you want from me? My pussy’s fuckin’ gone numb.” It isn’t true; he wishes it were, because his entire body feels overheated, especially his cunt, which feels burning hot—so tender and aching. 

“Last one. Promise.”

Axl groans. Shit. Usually, he just kicks away when he’s had enough, but he’s trying to be good for Slash after he took out his mad on him yesterday. He shouted until his throat hurt and his face turned red, while Slash, instead of arguing back like he normally does, listened patiently until Axl wore himself out. 

At first he, Axl, felt satisfied, to have said everything he wanted to, but then the one-sidedness of it made him feel guilty. It was undeserved; he felt nasty afterward, and even worse when he returned, remorseful, and forced himself into Slash’s arms, nuzzling his chest in apology, and Slash embraced him readily, stroking his hair.

“Alright,” he relents. “But don’t you dare try to stick your dick in me after this. I hope y—”

“What the fuck?”

Axl veers his head, trailing off, derailed by the interruption. 

Izzy is standing by the now open door. His incredulous gaze takes in the spectacle before him: at Duff and Steven lolling in front of the TV, both of whom are watching Axl more than the game; and at Axl himself lounging on the bed, with Slash, shirtless, crouched between his splayed legs.

“Oh, ‘sup, man,” Steven greets, smiling. “Thought you were out.”

“Yeah, I was. I came back,” Izzy answers distractedly, brows crossed in an irritated expression; his steely hazel eyes cut away from Duff and Steven. To Axl’s surprise—to everyone’s, really—Izzy takes an aggressive step forward into the room, saying, “Stop fucking him in front of others. He’s not some groupie or one of your whore girlfriends.”

There’s silence as the words hang in the air. Slash straightens, taken aback by the hostility. For a long moment, it seems like even the TV has paused, stunned, but then the home crowd roars, cheering, and Bob Miller’s voice carries on. And Slash smiles derisively. “Axl doesn’t mind. Do you, Ax?”

“No,” Axl agrees in a slow, deliberating drawl, throwing a cautious glance at Izzy, whose very lithe but broad-shouldered frame maintains its aggressive stance. Izzy can throw a mean fucking punch when he wants to, and at the moment, it seems like he really fucking wants to.

“This is on us, Iz,” Duff immediately mediates, attempting to keep the peace. “Steve and I sort of barged in.”

But Izzy ignores him, keeping his gaze locked on Slash. So, Axl grabs one of the pillows (he’s running out of them to use as ammunition) and launches it at his oldest best friend, knowing it’ll either run him off the track or piss him off even more. “God, Izzy, get the fuck out! You’re embarrassing me! How am I supposed to get off with you standin’ there?”

It works because Izzy looks so baffled, with the pillow caught between his hands; then, he recovers and chucks it back on the bed, exclaiming, “The whole fucking band is here—we might as well invite Alan, too! Call it a meeting!—but I’m the only one who’s supposed to fuck off?”

Tip: If you can’t prevent a fight, just start a new one.

“Yeah,” Axl says cheerfully, happy to stir shit up, and uprights himself, leaning back on his palms. “And, you know what, take Steven with you.” Then, he jerks a nod at Duff, grinning. “Duff can stay.”

“Fuck yeah,” Duff cheers and stretches over the foot of the bed to fist-bump him, which he reciprocates.

“What?” Steven frowns, glancing around for support. “Why does Duff get to stay?” 

“Because I like Duff,” Axl replies, smiling.

“Well, I ain’t fuckin’ leaving,” Izzy declares, slamming the bedroom door shut. 

Axl feels Slash’s hands grip his legs tighter when Izzy strides over and parks his ass on the other bed—Axl’s bed—as if Izzy’s gonna run off with him or something. It’s kinda funny. 

Izzy props his feet up, shoes on and everything; honestly, Axl could kill him. “This whole band has issues with boundaries,” he complains, but accepts the circumstances. “Hey." He taps Slash, whose head is turned to the side to keep track of Izzy behind him. 

“Finish me off,” he says when Slash looks at him. He receives a jagged grin in response.

Pleased that Axl is asking for it himself, Slash immediately forgets about the threat of Izzy and dives back in to seal his mouth over Axl’s folds, parting them with his tongue. His hands clamp on Axl’s hips to make him stay put. 

Axl gasps, breathless, and claws at the sheets when Slash’s rolled tongue burrows into his hole. His overwhelmed gaze inadvertently meets Izzy’s in a few fleeting seconds before his head tips back and his eyes roll up in pleasure. His right hand immediately scrambles to grab at Slash’s curls, and his mind draws blank, feeling inebriated as Slash continues to suck and lick into him while heaving out satisfied groans in between as if his thirst is being quenched. 

Slash’s rough palms descend to caress Axl’s pensile legs before lifting them up by the ankles. Axl finds himself being forced to lie back down when his legs are folded up against his chest, opening him up to Slash, who rises up on his knees to tongue-fuck him deeper in stabbing motions. 

Small, stuttering breaths and moans leave him, and he wraps his hands around his bent knees, keeping them spread wide, just to have something to hold onto. Slash’s nose is nuzzling his clit; he fights the urge to gyrate his hips and rub his wet pussy against the lower half of Slash’s face. He’d do it if it were just the two of them, alone, but can’t bring himself to, not with Izzy watching despite pretending not to, knowing how desperate he’ll look if does. There’s one thing being pleasured, and another to beg for it.

He mutters a soft little “Oh, my God” when Slash’s two fingers replace his tongue, jamming into him. He bites his lip, trying to hold back the noises being coaxed out of him that he himself can’t recognize as his own, when those fingers start to move, driving in and out of his cunt. They twist and turn inside him, massaging his pulsating inner walls as if they’re trying to scoop something out, making him push out viscous strings of his arousal around them. He’s relieved his clit has gotten some reprieve, for now, because he’d come immediately otherwise.

Slash adds a third after a few hard thrusts, and Axl is content until a few minutes later, he feels the wriggle of another one being wedged inside. The sensation is so jarring, his moan cuts off in shock. It should hurt, but it doesn’t; they all actually fit, it’s tight, stuffing him so wide until his labia bulges around the width of Slash’s knuckles, coated by frothing spit and slick. 

“Un-fucking-real, Ax,” Duff comments, sounding mesmerized. And Axl’s eyes snap up to the right, not having paid attention to Duff, who’s back hovering near Slash. 

“Watch the game,” Izzy bids, and this attracts Steven’s attention, too, but Axl doesn’t care; blood is rushing to his ears. It embarrasses him, being treated like a groupie—like, this shit ain’t for girlfriends—so he lashes out: “What the fuck?” he pants, writhing, his overwhelmed cunt bearing down on Slash’s fingers. “Are you trying ta fucking fist me? Take them out!”

“Okay, okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Slash immediately apologizes, kissing the inside of Axl’s thigh as he withdraws his fingers, leaving Axl’s hole to gape briefly in their wake before clenching.

Behind Slash, Axl sees Izzy sit up from where he was slouched against the propped pillows on his bed, and he quickly calms himself down, realizing he’s overreacting. “It’s alright,” he makes himself say in a composed voice—it’s for Izzy, too. “I just need your mouth.”

Slash dithers, like he expects Axl to freak out on him again.

“Fuck, Slash!” he whines; he didn’t want him to stop. “I’m close. Could you…?”

This gets Slash going again, and he leans in, tentative at first, to swirl his tongue around Axl’s entrance, making the muscles in Axl’s vulva contract and then expand, pink walls of his hole pulsing outward. Slash spits on it, and Axl can’t stop the wailing cry—equally impassioned as Bob Miller’s roar, and Steven’s, at Robitaille’s game-tying goal—when Slash’s lips wrap around his throbbing clit, flicking it with his tongue. 

Trembling, his chest heaves with three sharp breaths before he goes taut with a strained groan, coming so fucking hard when Slash blows the filthiest sounding raspberry around his clit, forearms pushing down firmly on his legs to keep them locked in place.

I’m gonna die, Axl thinks dramatically. He’s gonna kill me. 

Slash doesn’t relent even as Axl’s hips buck; he briefly sputters around the pulsating jet of squirt that suddenly hits his tongue, filling his mouth, and lets it slowly dribble from the corners of his lips, down onto Axl’s labia, as he continues to suckle Axl’s engorged clit.

Axl collapses, limp against the sheets in a defeated sprawl, with his whole body trembling from those harsh, wet sucks. Slash’s mouth finally slides lower, slowly lapping at the pink, pulsating insides of his entrance, before pulling away, but not without laying one last parting kiss to the side of his clit, which twitches, sensitive to the lightest touch.

Axl blinks languidly, lashes fanning the tops of his cheeks as he stares up, bleary-eyed. It takes him a while to come down from the clouds and mentally check back in; he barely registers the soft press of lips against his own when Slash climbs on top of him and kisses him tenderly. Slowly reality creeps back into focus: the pandemonium of the game, of Duff and Steven trying to cajole Izzy to partake in their stupid little bet, arguing whose side he should be on—their wrangling likely falling on deaf ears. 

Axl returns Slash’s kiss lazily, barely moving his lips, too groggy to be passionate about it, and is quick to put an end to it with a soft mewl, letting Slash know he’s not in the mood, especially knowing exactly where that mouth’s been for the past hour and more.

When his legs shift, suspended calves pressed to the bed’s side-rail, he grimaces at the wet drag of the towel corrugated underneath his ass and thighs to protect the mattress, the center of it soaked by the embarrassing evidence of his many orgasms. Slash’s mouth, warm and wet, lands on his throat, kissing along the length of it, sucking and nipping at marble-white skin. Slash starts to slowly rut against him, rubbing his clothed cock along Axl’s abdomen; Axl can feel the heavy warmth of it even through Slash’s shorts. Slash is very boyish in that regard, whiny and pushy in his desire for sex, so Axl hopes this isn’t Slash changing his mind about doing him. 

Slash’s hand yanks up his shirt to squeeze at his chest; those touches feel like brands on his heated skin. He whimpers quietly when his nipple gets tweaked and rubbed at by fondling fingers. The tingling ache from those pinches goes directly to his pelvis, making his legs twitch against Slash’s sides. So far, though, Slash seems content just mouthing at him. After sucking two new bruises on his neck and one low on his pec, Slash props himself up on one arm and begins to slowly jerk himself off over his shorts, keeping his gaze on Axl’s face as he does so. He lets go after a few half-hearted pumps and takes Axl’s hand into his own, bringing it down between them to his cock in a silent demand. 

Axl wraps his fingers around the length, happy to jerk him off if it’ll save his exhausted cunt from a fuck. He sets a quick rhythm, working his wrist in short strokes, but Slash assumes control and slows him down by cupping a hand over his to guide him the way he wants it. Once Axl gets a hang of it, Slash braces his hands on either side of him, letting out low grunts and moans as he gently rolls his hips into the strokes. 

Slash has clearly been holding it in because it doesn’t take him long to come; he shudders, face scrunched in pleasure, and groans softly when Axl works the tip, massaging it with his palm and thumb. He gently sways, lazy and unhurried, lingering over Axl, as he rides out the high of his orgasm, his cock jerking in Axl’s fist.

Slash dips down and presses his lips to Axl’s cheek, inhaling sharply as he lays wet, greedy kisses there, charting down to the hinge of Axl’s jaw and one on his neck, below his earlobe. Axl wrinkles his nose with a faint giggle, tipping his head back to avoid the tickle of Slash’s curls on his face.

“I’m gonna go take a shower, okay?” Slash whispers against his ear, low and intimate, kissing the shell of it before he pushes off of Axl.

Axl hums in acknowledgement and stretches out his limbs sleepily, feeling contentment seep into his bones. Fuck, the sex is so good—the best—it’s almost transcendent. He wants his dick back, absolutely, there’s no question about it. But to never experience this ever again? He can’t. He and Slash have such a good thing going on. And although Slash says he wants him, pussy or not, it won’t be the same. 

“We’ll work it out,” Slash told him. But how?

What, they’ll just stick to kissing and handjobs? He doesn’t want to take a dick up his ass, and he’s averse to giving blowjobs, so he doubts Slash’ll put up with him for too long. Plus, he can’t imagine either of them giving up women. 

He wants to stay lying in bed until Slash returns, but he needs to at least wipe up, which he does using the towel and then dumps it in exchange for his shorts. Once he’s decent, he grabs the pillow he threw before, and steps over to his own bed inhabited by Izzy—with boots on his fucking clean sheets! “I know for a fact your mom taught you better manners than this,” he screeches and tries to smother Izzy with his pillow.

Izzy grapples him, and Axl yelps when his arms are yanked with so much force, he loses his balance and takes a spill across Izzy’s lap. Before he can right himself, Izzy contorts over him and hooks an arm around his neck in a headlock. He digs his blunt nails into Izzy’s forearm compressing his throat. That motherfucker is no longer such a skinny bastard since he weaned off hard drugs.

“Stop fightin’ dirty.” Izzy chuckles, keeping him down. 

“I ain’t bitin’, am I,” Axl rasps back wryly. They both remember that fight.

Izzy tightens his hold when Axl tries to thrash, and puts him in a chokehold, putting pressure on the back of his head with his other palm. “Are you done?” he asks Axl calmly. 

Now he’s just showing off.

“No,” Axl wheezes out, although he can hardly breathe; his face is turning pink.

Izzy shakes him like he’s a bad dog, what the fuck, like he’s Treader or something, and only eases up when Axl starts coughing, knowing that as stubborn as he is, he ain’t tapping out.

Axl thinks he feels the warm press of lips to the crown of his head before Izzy’s arms slowly unwind from around his neck, releasing him. “Man—” He coughs lightly once more, rubbing his tender throat, “you’re fucking hazardous to my pipes.”

Izzy’s amused laugh ends in a pained grunt when Axl makes sure to smash a vindictive palm against his crotch while manoeuvring off of him. Izzy bowls over, reaching for his lap.

Axl is quick to snatch his hand away, blush creeping on his face, as he flops onto his back beside Izzy and catches his breath. Izzy is hard, discreetly adjusted in his jeans to make it less blatant. 

“To think I was gonna take my shoes off for you,” Izzy says, slowly straightening his posture when the pain abates. There’s a smile twitching at one corner, but he keeps his gaze averted ahead.

Axl pretends not to have noticed and rolls onto his side toward Izzy. “You will if you want to keep sittin’ here next to me,” he comments, closing his eyes.

Izzy goes quiet for a moment, and Axl briefly cracks an eye open when he feels him move, thinking he’s leaving. But Izzy just bends over to untie his laces. 

Color me surprised.  

Now, Axl says this with love, but sometimes Izzy enjoys being a menace just for the sake of it. No amount of anger fazes him, and he’ll keep at it. Most he’ll go: aw-shucks, I’m sorry, if he’s contrite enough about it, but you know he’s still amused on the inside. But to be fair, that was mostly Izzy stoned out of his gourd. The anti-Izzy, he thinks, amusing himself.

“There. Happy?” Izzy says, settling back against the pillows. He ruffles Axl’s hair, sending some of the tresses spilling to the front.

Axl clicks his tongue, annoyed, but keeps his eyes shut, choosing to blindly swat Izzy’s hand away, followed by a perfunctory swipe to push his hair back from his face.

After a pause, Izzy’s fingers return, except this time, his touch is soft and mindful, to make up for before, as he directs the remaining loose strands behind Axl’s ear, securing them. Axl thinks that’s that, but he senses Izzy’s hand lingering just above his cheek before it descends again, combing through his hair to faintly massage at his scalp.

Axl curls a little closer to Izzy in quiet approval. There’s something about a gentle hand through his hair—something so nurturing, it makes goosebumps rise on his skin. Izzy caressing his hair like this was something that happened so naturally, so effortlessly back in Indiana, in the sanctum of Izzy’s childhood home, and by the train tracks…

Like, when he snuck in through the window once in the middle of the night and slipped into Izzy’s bed, startling him awake. It was after he got belted by his dad, buckle and all; he can’t even recall why anymore, it was just another one of the lessons he needed to learn—a very spare-the-rod, spoil-the-child approach.

Izzy thought it was one of his younger brothers at first, and he grumbled groggily, only to stop short, speechless when he realized it was Axl. It used to be a common occurrence for Axl to show up randomly, but he announced his arrival by knocking or throwing pebbles at Izzy’s bedroom window, which was often left unlatched for him. At the time, however, Axl didn’t. Part of him hoped Izzy would stay asleep, giving him a chance to regain his composure and slip out unnoticed. He only wanted to feel safe, even for just an hour. 

How often did he wish he was Izzy’s brother so he could live with him? He was always on his best behavior around Izzy’s mom and tried to be helpful, imagining wishfully that if he were good, maybe she’d be willing to take him in. She let him hang around so much, that was enough too.

He remembers Izzy looking alarmed and asking him what happened. And how his own voice cracked when he tried to make light of it. The tough kid façade had fissured after taking so many hits, and the tears trickled out. He didn’t mean to burst out crying in front of Jeff—Izzy, but he was pretty distraught, then. 

Izzy cupped him by the back of his head and brought him in so Axl could cry into his shoulder. He stroked Axl’s hair until his tears dried. Afterward, they talked about living together, about escaping Indiana to pursue dreams of stardom. Neither of them slept that night—Izzy, thrilled with guilty delight at having his best friend over; and Axl, gripped by the anxiety of needing to slip back home before dawn. He was scared of returning home to find his dad standing in their crappy living room with his belt wrapped around his wrist, waiting for round two.

Even now, he can hear the swift whistle of leather and the clunk of the metal coming down again and again and again.

He nudges his head against Izzy's hip and screws his eyes shut tighter, trying to forget. Fucking Indiana, a hellhole where the condemned live.

I’m out, he reminds himself. We’re both out.

Chapter Text

Slash twists the knob to West’s bedroom and glances inside, heaving a muted sigh of relief when he sees the figure smoking by the open window. He’d recognize Axl’s silhouette anywhere, framed against the fluorescent glow from the billboard directly across the street. He wonders how long Axl’s been in here; if he needed to fight off boozed-up couples looking to score, for some peace of mind.

It doesn't surprise him that Axl has sequestered himself from the rest of the carousing party. He's larger than life on stage, so people assume he’s extroverted off of it too, but that’s not the case. Instead, he seems to shrink, shedding confidence like clothes once he steps backstage. He’s very shy and sweet; Slash feels a surge of affection for him. 

He slips into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. It’s still loud—the closed door doesn’t do much to subdue the hubbub outside. Axl remains rooted to the spot, mostly turned away from Slash, unmoving except to gracefully lift the cigarette to his lips; it makes Slash think of that sappy Beatles’ song called Something, the way a simple action moves him.

Axl hasn’t acknowledged him, so either he’s trapped in his own thoughts or simply doesn’t care enough to. From the long, pensive drags he’s taking, it’s the former. Slash stalks forward, tired of waiting around for Axl to make the first move and not for the first time. He saw Axl throw back a few drinks, too, earlier; he reasons Axl will be more susceptible if they can pretend it’s a drunken mistake the next day. 

“Hey,” he greets, soft and sultry, when he’s close so Axl knows it’s him. A breeze blows in, fluttering Axl’s hair; he gets a whiff of honey-scented shampoo. He cants forward, crowding him from behind, and presses his mouth to Axl’s lean shoulder. His pulse races when Axl silently tips his own head against his, jetting smoke. 

Is this a go-ahead? He holds Axl by the waist and moves in to kiss the crook of his neck, but Axl shies away from him, shoulder raised as if he’s ticklish. It’s playful enough, so he swirls Axl around and pins him to the wall, keeping those dainty wrists gripped tightly against the chipped wallpaper on either side of Axl’s head. Axl’s visage contorts in confusion and nascent anger; his lips part, likely to lay into Slash.

Slash swiftly shuts him up with a kiss, eating Axl’s soft gasp. He’s willing to play the bad guy if it’ll make Axl feel better about the whole thing—anything as long as he gets to have Axl. Axl tastes like sweet soda and tobacco; fuck, he just wants to melt into him. Feeling those soft lips against his own again is worth any risk. 

Axl’s lower lip moves, faintly kissing him back. Is this finally fucking happening? He moans and leans into Axl, kissing him harder, so clumsy and needy, and brings their torsos together. A mistake. Axl tries to tilt free from the kiss, sounding a protesting whimper when Slash’s erection pokes him. Slash’s fingers squeeze around Axl’s wrists in a spasm; Axl squirming against him feels really good and it takes a herculean effort not to push his luck. He reluctantly lets go, stepping back. 

Axl runs the back of his hand across his mouth and snarls, “What the fuck, Slash?” He has a crazy glint in his shifting eyes, like a bristling cornered cat—a look that’s usually followed by him doing something completely batshit, like casually stepping out of a moving car. In the next minute, either he or Axl’s going out that window, so he attempts damage control: “My bad, Ax—it’s, uh, kinda dark in here. I thought you were… Um,” he racks his brain, grimacing. Fuck, he forgot the chick’s name. “Kathy?”

“Cassie,” Axl supplies, exasperated. He gives Slash such a bitchy little look; honestly, Slash wants to kiss it off him.

“Yeah, that’s right—Cassie. Sorry, right. She, uh, asked to meet me here.”

Axl’s angelic face is pinched in anger. His low, deep voice jumps an octave, sharpening in pitch when he exclaims, “Do I fuckin’ look like Cassie to you?!” 

Now, Slash would like to have him flushed, voice going high in an entirely different situation. The question feels like a trap; there’s no right answer to it. Luckily, he still has enough wit and inhibition about him not to blurt out, “Yeah, in those tiny denim cut-offs, you do.” Axl’s got some really girly-looking legs and… Don’t do it, don’t do it—fuck, Axl’s legs look great. He quickly picks his gaze back up and presses his lips together before he can shoot off at the mouth and say something even more completely insane like: “She’s got nothing on you.”

“Hey.” Axl snaps his fingers. “Are you noddin’ off on me, motherfucker? How wasted are you?” Apparently, Axl doesn’t need an answer, he goes off on him anyway: “Are you fuckin’ high too? Are you trippin’, Slash?” Then he starts listing all the ways Slash has fucked up recently—how irresponsible he is, how his addiction is out of control, how his playing’s shit—pausing only to stomp his dropped cigarette, which was burning a hole in the carpet, before picking up right where he left off about how Slash doesn’t care about this band, doesn’t care about anyone.

“I care about you,” Slash wants to step up and say; instead he just stands there and listens to Axl’s diatribe, although it makes his blood boil a little, especially when Axl says, more despondent than scathing, “If Izzy can clean up his act, why can’t you?” He feels like a husband getting reamed out by the missus, you just can’t say shit back. Experience has taught him to choose his battles wisely, even if it’s Axl’s fault. 

And this is all Axl’s fault.

Axl kissed him once, during those hellish days when they both resided in that tiny pill-box of a rehearsal space with Izzy. They were alone up in the loft Izzy and a bunch of guys constructed out of stolen lumber. Izzy was gone for days on end without notice—sometimes they received a postcard and that’s how they’d find out he wasn’t even in the city—so it was usually just the two of them, unless there was a party or one of them brought someone over, which they often did.

He was on his back, and Axl was nestled against his side, head on his bicep. Axl was rolling on MDMA or something; he could be mean on Ecstasy, but around Slash, he kept giggling, acting all cute. Slash liked him like that—so warm, loose, and affectionate, without the tenseness he usually carried, like the whole world was a threat. He gently scratched along Axl’s scalp, and Axl nuzzled his armpit and chest with his cheek as if it felt good—he was on a trip, so it must have. 

It kinda turned Slash on. At that moment, from his inebriated point of view, Axl seemed no different—prettier, even, than most, if not all, of the chicks he went out with, so he flirted with him a little, nothing too blatant. He stared, eyelids at half-mast, feeling the Jim Beam he downed, when Axl tipped sideways, draping his top half over him. Propped on his elbows on either side of Slash, Axl held back long, coppery strands framing his face and lowered his head. 

Next thing Slash knew, Axl’s mouth was on his. Sparks exploded in his mind, unlocking a new dimension and forever altering his brain-chemistry. He automatically laced his fingers through Axl’s hair, feeling how silky they were, as he kissed him back. The thought, Holy shit, I’m kissing Ax, continued to flash in his mind like a marquee. 

They made out for who knows how long, during which Axl shifted to mount his leg. He felt Axl’s arousal against the top of his thigh and his own cock rose in interest instead of wilting at the press of another dude’s erection. He found that he liked being the reason Axl was turned on. He elevated his knee, adding slight pressure to Axl’s cock. 

Axl whimpered faintly into the kiss and lowered his pelvis to rut his erection along Slash’s thigh, spasmodic at first and then in languid but pointed thrusts. With one hand still entangled in Axl’s hair, Slash ran the other along Axl’s side and tried to nudge Axl into straddling him properly, but Axl broke away all too quickly.

You’re so pretty, look at you, he thought when Axl pushed up, skin flushed a feverish pink, pupils blown wide and unfocused underneath reddish-gold lashes fluttering sluggishly; Axl’s wet lips were parted, letting out soft pants, breathless from their kissing. He looked so out of it, attention caught on the rain pelting the rusted aluminum roll-up door, that Slash now doubts he even understood the reality behind what he did—that he kissed a man; that he kissed Slash and got hard from it. Meanwhile, Slash was left reeling—and is still reeling from the kiss. 

He tugged Axl back down toward him by the chin, but Axl wasn’t interested anymore; with a bemoan, he resisted Slash’s attempt to kiss him again, and shrugged away like he couldn’t understand what Slash was trying to do when the warm skin of his neck was kissed instead. So, Slash let him go, buzzing with anticipation for the days ahead. 

After that night, they fought, joked around, rough-housed, and the thought of the kiss lingered in the back of his mind during every interaction they had, big or small, but Axl never made another move or showed any sign that he even remembered (or maybe he pretended not to). And then months just flew by—they got signed, their record blew up, and suddenly they were a ‘big’ band on the same bill as Aerosmith, while he continued to quietly want Axl.

“Get your act together,” Axl sneers and side-steps Slash to walk out. Slash reaches out to stop him but then thinks better of it, letting Axl slip into the throng of partygoers.

He’s been left chasing that high, trying to recreate that magical moment in the loft-bed ever since. So, yeah, it’s all Axl’s fault because he planted that seed of hope and now it’s a giant fucking tree. 

Spotting Duff, Slash shoulders his way over to the ratty couch and squeezes between him and some bored-looking blonde chick. The girl immediately perks up and smiles at him as she moves over to give him room. She’s cute—and clearly on the hunt. He smiles back. Duff is as monogamous as they come (and more importantly, her tits are too small) so he obviously hasn’t been giving her the attention she’s seeking. 

“Hey, I just saw Ax storm by,” Duff comments. “He looked pissed.”

Slash turns to face him, making the girl pout in disappointment. “Where’d he go?”

Duff’s eyes shine with amusement. “I think he went outside. By the way, Cassie left, too, in case you even care.” 

“Fuck, really?”

“Yeah, man. She got sick of waiting around. She’s super mad at you, too.”

Slash slouches forward and groans into his hands. 

Duff laughs. “You managed to piss off two redheads in one night, man; you’re one short of a hattrick.” Then he pats him on the back consolingly, asking, “How bad was it? With Ax, I mean.”

Slash lifts his head up from his hands, pressing them together, and regards the girl when she gets up, making sure to stick her ass out to give him a show. She adjusts her very, very short dress before she slinks away to find a new target. He sits back and waits until she’s out of earshot, then he leans in to tell Duff, “I kissed him.”

Duff’s eyes widen. “Oh, you did?”

Slash nods, rubbing two fingers over his lips in an absentminded swipe as he thinks back on it. “I was sure he kissed me back; now… I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking or not, but, like—he didn’t immediately oppose, you know? So, I might’ve pushed it, and…he flipped out.” 

“Oh, shit. Then what?”

“He looked at me like he wanted to chop my dick off, so I played it like I thought he was Cassie.” He cringes at himself. 

“Dude, you didn’t?” Duff barks out an incredulous laugh, slapping his knee. “And he believed you?”

“He was convinced I was off my rockers, no doubt.” His nervous stammering helped sell it. Definitely not his finest hour—he’s usually fluent and lucid when he’s sober enough. “Can’t blame the guy; if I were him, I’d believe it, too.”

Duff chortles again and ribs: “Cassie has box-dyed, like, red hair! No wonder Axl’s pissed. What’d he—you didn’t get smacked again, did you?”

The last time Slash tried to kiss Axl, he was genuinely piss-drunk, and Axl, apparently not wanting to punch him, slapped him into sobriety instead. It wasn’t even very hard, but immediately afterward, Axl stared at him, wide-eyed, hands flown up to his own lips in shock like he couldn’t believe what he just did. Axl’s horrified expression was cute enough for him to let it go. It wasn’t smart of him to have tried to kiss Axl in front of the others, anyway.

“No.” He glowers at Duff for bringing that up. “I was subjected to a Just Say No harangue instead.”

“So Axl gave you tongue, just not in the way you wanted.”

“Very funny.”

“I mean, it’s still progress if you think about it.” Duff shrugs, smiling. “Definitely a step up from getting cuffed, so maybe third time’s a charm and all that.”

“He can’t be that dense, can he? I’ve tried everything short of straight out confessing.”

He’s been parading around redheads, hoping Axl will take notice. He’s fucked two of them on separate occasions with Axl watching, hoping to sow a seed of his own—for Axl to imagine himself in their place, for that thought to cross him even if just in passing. And Axl did watch, engrossed, but he was likely envisioning himself fucking the girls instead. 

Axl invites him, too, whenever he’s messing around with a chick. Slash is often too inebriated to even participate, but for some reason Axl still likes having him there. They’ve been going back and forth like this; it’s become this unspoken game between them. 

“Hey,” Del interrupts, coming up to them.

Duff lifts his chin in greeting. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”

“I saw Ax smoking out in the hall,” Del states, gesturing with a flick of his hand, and grabs a bottle of Tequila off the coffee table. “I asked him what’s up, and he told me to fuck off. So if you guys happen to know anything about that…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Slash dismisses.   

“We’ll sort it out,” Duff adds. “Thanks, man.”

“If you guys say so.”

They both watch as Del makes his way over to the kitchen. From the sounds of it, they’re doing body shots in there. “It’s Ax, man,” Duff eventually says, referring to Slash’s question from before. “He’s never been the best judge of people’s intentions.”

Slash clicks his tongue. He might’ve been delusional thinking Axl just needs a little push. Maybe Axl didn’t mean to kiss him; afterall, he was high on the love drug. “Yeah, but what if I got it wrong? Maybe I’ve been beating a dead horse.” He really doesn’t fucking know. “Speaking of… Could you please go get him? Before he decides to leave on his own.”

Duff gets up, patting him on the thigh in passing. “I’ll go get sourpuss.”

“Look who I found sitting on the stairs,” Duff gleefully presents a pissed-off Axl. Slash titters at Axl’s withering look. Duff has his arm around Axl’s neck to keep him from running off. If it were anyone beside Duff, Axl would have elbowed them already.

“Fuck off, McKagan,” Axl snaps and tries to slip out from under, but Duff tightens his hold on him, stopping him short.

“No, we’re gonna have fun,” Duff declares, and Slash’s eyebrows go up when Duff manages to twirl Axl around to face him.

Axl glares at first and then rolls his eyes when Duff laughs and takes his hands into his own, waving his wiry arms up and down. 

“C’mon, dance with me,” Duff says, grinning playfully as he starts to sway, yanking on Axl’s hands to get him to move with him, drawing amused glances from others around them. Duff busts out some dumbass moves to Rhythm Nation, which makes Axl break out in a giggle, and he slowly starts to sway too. 

Axl is like a little kid sometimes, behaves just as spoiled, his mood contingent on whether his fanciful notions are fulfilled to his desire or not; it used to aggravate Slash, especially during the early days—that’s when they had some of their worst fights—but now that he knows Axl, like really knows him, he understands that most of the time Axl, unable to help his nature, means well. So now, no matter how much Axl frustrates him, he still wants to protect him, which is an instinct Axl seems to invoke in not just him but others as well when they get a chance to sit down and engage him in conversation.

Slash pours himself another drink, wanting to drown the burning desire he feels at the winsome, dimpled smile Axl throws his way while revelling with Duff. Axl has a face so beautiful that just looking at it gives you a reason to want to live, because there are beautiful things out there. 

He’ll look at Axl, just gaze at him and feel so much love that he honestly believes he’d die for him if it ever came to it—just like at this very moment—but there are also times when he could strangle him with his own bare hands, that’s how much Axl drives him crazy. Axl is unlike anyone he has ever met (and to quote Axl himself: in their profession, they’ve met a lot of characters), which unfortunately also means it can be hard to understand him sometimes.

Like, there’s just something about Axl that makes him feel both extreme tenderness and fury; it’s the strangest relationship he’s ever had with anyone for sure, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.  

When Axl gets cursed and drops his shorts in front of the band, Slash is briefly convinced he must have overdosed last night and this is heaven because he couldn’t have concocted this even in his wildest dreams.

If he knew Axl was actually telling the truth when he came up to him earlier talking about some voodoo shit, he’d have—well, he would’ve likely done something very stupid like kiss Axl senseless because that’s exactly what he wants to do right now as he stares, jaw hanging, at Axl with his Dolphin shorts around his bony knees, flashing a honest-to-God pussy instead of a pink-hued flaccid dick and testicles. 

He loses brain-to-mouth function, which is great since Axl’s shorts are secured back in place before he can be a real slimy bastard and ask to cop a feel, take it for a test drive just to know how real it is. And, shit, it really suits Axl somehow, as if he were actually born with a pussy and not a dick. 

Silence persists out of sheer bafflement until Duff manages to find the words to voice, albeit ineloquently, what they—minus Axl—are all thinking: “You should have led with that. Fuck, are you for real?! You have a-a—”

“A pussy, man, you can say it,” Axl says, pretty green eyes alight with mischief. Just hearing the words come out of Axl’s mouth makes Slash’s cock stir under his jeans. 

“How are you not freaking out right now?” Steven asks.

“At first, I was, but now I think it’s kind of cool. I mean, I always wondered what it'd be like; I read somewhere that clits are more sensitive than dicks.”

“You’re something else, man,” Izzy drawls, shaking his head incredulously.

“Yeah, dude,” Steven says. “Your manhood—it’s, like, gone.”

“Well, in that case, maybe they should’ve given me tits too.”

Slash needs Axl to stop talking. If Axl had tits, big ones, he would have the perfect body, with those dynamite legs, supple thighs and ass, and the narrowest of waists.

And as if this wasn’t enough, Axl goes on about wanting to experiment. Which doesn’t surprise him to be honest, because Axl has always been open-minded and willing to try anything at least once.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to experience what girls do, firsthand,” Axl elaborates. “But I can’t go and sleep with just anybody. That’s where you guys come in—”

Slash’s heartbeat quickens, blood pounding straight to his cock. Is Axl really saying what he thinks he’s saying? 

“Wait, hold on a minute,” Steven interrupts, pondering the same question. “You’re saying you want to voluntarily get fucked, by a dude—or dudes? Us, specifically?!”

“As if I’d choose any of you fuckers over a hot girl with a strap-on, but it has to be someone I trust, who also knows about this—obviously, we can't have this gettin’ out. And don’t worry, I don’t plan on fucking the entire band.” 

It’s no surprise to the rest of them when Axl picks Izzy on a pretense. “You were always coming to me, sweetheart,” Izzy calls him out on it, “don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Shut up.” Axl actually blushes, cheeks sweetly red.

Slash represses an eye-roll and leans back against the cushions. Duff inconspicuously jabs him with an elbow. He prods him back in a tacit argument. Steven sends them a confused glance.

“Who else?” Duff asks, abruptly turning to Axl.

Axl’s flustered expression sharpens, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. “Are you volunteering?” 

Duff recoils. “No…? I mean, I don’t know-if—”

Slash bites back a smirk. Serves him right. 

“Relax, man, you can’t handle me anyway, so you’re off the hook. I have someone else in mind, though…” Axl’s amused gaze slides over to: “Slash.”

Me? Slash can’t help but sit forward, widening his stance to give his chubbing cock straining against his jeans some breathing room. This is what it must feel like to win the lottery. He honestly thought Axl was gonna snub all of them except Izzy; so it’s like, whoa, Axl trusts him with this. 

Duff throws a sly look his way, knowing exactly how he feels, and comments, “Ooh, interesting choice.” Slash wants to pinch him on the side, but Axl’s eyes are still locked on him.

“You’ve all seen him play—” Slash’s fingers twitch against his jeans with want when Axl pointedly flicks his gaze down to them and then back up, faintly biting his lower lip before he says, grinning, “I want those fingers on my clit.” 

Slash wants to groan. The words go straight to his cock, the outline of which filled up against his thigh is now too conspicuous to stay concealed. Axl’s got a dirty mouth that makes him want to bend him over right there and then. His mind rushes back to when Axl was writhing against his thigh. Now, if he actually gets to have him bouncing on his— 

He’s quick to rise to his feet, muttering about ringing his grandma. He just starts walking, not thinking about where he’s going until he’s out feeling the cool breeze on his flushed skin. He sticks a Marlboro in his mouth and chases the hanging tip with his lighter. 

Did that really just happen?

He likes that Axl makes him a little nervous. Again, Axl isn’t far off from the girls he goes out with: they have to be tough with fire in them, possess a tongue as lethal as their looks, and not give too much of a fuck about him—he likes the chase, of them wanting him not because he’s some guy in a famous band but because he won them over.

The funny thing is, he realizes belatedly, what call he’s supposed to be making when the landline’s obviously inside; Duff is gonna give him so much shit for this, he’s never gonna hear the end of it.

When Axl flirts with him in the midst of their pillow talk later that day, his pipe dream becomes real. It’s impossible to concentrate with Axl in his bed like this; he wants to kiss him so badly.

“I did, but…” Axl starts off in a slow, almost pondering drawl, pretty eyelashes sweeping downward to avoid Slash’s keen eyes as he chooses his words: “There’s someone else I want more.” He lifts his gaze back up, and Slash can tell he’s nervous. “I thought Izzy would understand,” Axl adds and then switches to a jocular, affected voice, “but he kind of got mad at me.” He shrugs his shoulders, smiling.

Axl has a habit of delivering serious statements in an airy, kidding sort of way, as if he’s landing a punchline, especially when he’s trying to downplay something as not a big deal to him, even though it is.

“Yeah, who’s the lucky prick?” Slash preens as his hand continues to caress the small of Axl’s back, wanting to haul him closer. So, all this time, he hasn’t been reading the signals wrong; it was driving him out of his mind.

Axl grins, sweet and playful. “I’m in their bed.”

It goes straight to Slash’s head, and he groans. “You’re tryin’ to kill me.” 

“Am I?” Axl teases, blinking innocently. Slash stares, astounded, when Axl’s fingers wrap around his wrist, guiding his hand down between his thighs; Slash can feel the warmth of Axl’s pussy through the soft, cotton trunks. He wants a closer look, to see how tight it is; he wants to toy with Axl's pussy and watch it get wet—it's been on his mind for hours. “You’re welcome to play with me however you want. Anything goes.” When Axl smiles at him, all flirty like that, it warms him down to his toes; it no longer feels like a simple crush. 

“Jesus Christ, Ax,” he exclaims. Axl is really out to get him. He must have been a great man in his previous life—someone pious, like Buddha, as he keeps being told—to have Axl propositioning him like a figment of his imagination. 

He shoves Axl onto his back, and taking his face in both hands, he kisses him like there’s no tomorrow. Finally, despite being overwhelmed by the fervor, Axl kisses him back. He thought all his luck was used up when their band took off, and now it’s like the universe just handed him Axl on a platter; so in a way, it would be sacrilege not to avail it. He wants this, so badly—almost as badly as he needs his next fix. But he needs to drag this out somehow and do it right; he can’t risk just sticking his cock in Axl and blowing his load too soon out of sheer excitement, and have Axl running back to Izzy.

Chapter Text

Slash returns to the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. Upon opening the door, his eyes immediately seek out Axl. He falters at the sight of Duff and Steven sprawled across his bed instead. The game’s over, post-match analysis is on. ‘Where’s Ax?’ the words are on the tip of his tongue as he steps inside, dissolving quickly when his scanning eyes catch sight of ginger hair next to…none other than Izzy.

He sees a different kind of red, feeling his heart wilt a little at the way Axl is tucked to Izzy’s side, asleep by the looks of it, while Izzy strokes his hair, so immersed in Axl, he barely even glances up when Slash nears.

Slash clenches his jaw and goes over to Axl’s nightstand wedged between the two beds, where he left his cigarettes and lighter. He doesn’t think he could’ve held back a punch if there was a smug look on the other guitarist’s face, but there isn’t—only a blank stare. 

He’s not a belligerent guy, but he’s not passive either (although his overly indulgent approach when it comes to Axl may suggest otherwise); he believes in the importance of drawing a line with certain people, especially when they develop an unmerited attitude. But there’s also the band to think about.

He can fight with Axl constantly, knowing they’ll be alright at the end of the day, or week, but he can’t say the same about Izzy. They’re like brothers, in their reluctant bond—you don’t get to choose your family—but he doesn’t want to put their relationship to the test, especially given the precarious situation they’re in. There’s too much on the line, and taking on Izzy will only turn Axl against him.

It’s definitely not fair that Axl looks angelic sleeping next to Izzy; his sinful legs taunting Slash. He quickly lights a cigarette and puffs on it to distract himself from the urge to stomp over and drag Axl into his own bed, or the more pathetic urge to slip in next to him, on top of him even, regardless of Izzy. 

That’d be fucking stupid with ten different repercussions his mind cannot even begin to fathom, from how much Axl loathes being roused unexpectedly—he freaks out and starts behaving irrationally; probably something unresolved from his past, as it usually is. Izzy must know why. Izzy has the advantage of knowing all versions of Axl. There’s a part of Axl that only Izzy can get through to, especially when Axl gets into one of his “moods”; it’s like, only a specific frequency processes in Axl’s ears, and that’s the pitch of Izzy’s voice

He picks up his bottle of Jack from the floor and chugs to wash away the bitterness. Drinking is his ideal way of not dealing with problems. It staves off the desire to roust Axl and set off a fight, just for his attention. He wonders how long he’ll have to compete with Izzy for Axl; if there’ll ever come a time when he’ll know more versions of Axl than him (he doubts it: Izzy will have to die first for that to happen), or if they’ll ever be a version of Axl that’s just his—he gets a taste of it onstage, when it’s the high point of a song, and Axl’s screaming his heart out, and he’s shredding his guitar, both leaning into each other, feeding off each other’s energy.

Something clicked the first time he heard Axl’s killer voice on tape, making his pulse race. The funny thing about it is that Izzy was the one who brought the cassette tape to his house. Axl’s high-pitched squeal, muddled by static-noise, was so other-worldly, it sounded like a glitch in the tape—something eerie but beautiful, almost haunting; it invoked the same thrill he gets from watching a well-done horror film, and maybe that’s why he couldn’t get over it. The soulful, bluesy-edge to it was rare, and seized his attention, even more so after he saw Axl perform live for the first time. 

No one else on the strip made him feel that way when they sang—hell, no one in this industry makes him feel what he feels when Axl sings. So, initially, he tried to poach Axl from under Izzy. He desperately wanted Axl in his band, but he didn’t need a second guitarist, he wanted to do without, but it was impossible: no matter how much he sweet-talked Axl, Axl wasn’t budging without Izzy (you can put loyal, almost to a fault, right next to stubborn to describe Axl’s character).

And now, the circumstances might have changed, but here he is again, doomed to repeat the same mistakes when he should know better. He turns to Duff. “Hey, want me to drink you under the table?”

Duff immediately sits up. “Yeah, man. Get dressed, and we’ll go.”

“I’m coming, too,” Steven says, rolling himself out of bed. “Drinks are on you, Duff. Told you the Kings were gonna take it.”

Duff groans. “Gretzky got shut out, though.”

“Iz, how about you?” Steven asks, and Slash wants to thump him. As if he needs Izzy to encroach on this, too.

“Nope,” Izzy replies, tight-lipped as always.

Great, leave him alone with Axl, that’s another stellar option.

Axl is plucked out of his dream with a jolt. He blinks, clearing his blurry vision. He rubs his face dopily. Fuck, he fell asleep with his contacts in. He groans, stirring to the side, and bumps against a warm body. “Slash,” he mumbles. It’s quiet.

“Guess again.”

“Oh.” He pauses and tilts his head back for a better look. “It’s you.”

“Could you sound less enthusiastic,” Izzy comments wryly, gazing down at him. There’s a lit cigarette in his hand.

Tickled, Axl’s eyes crease at the corners and a chuckle bubbles inside his chest. “You know I don’t mean it like that,” he replies with a sleepy smile.

“Slash ain’t here,” Izzy tells him. “They all went out drinking.”

Axl pushes himself upright, twisting over to smack Izzy on the stomach. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

“And disturb your beauty sleep?” Izzy gasps, chaffing him.

“Fuck you,” Axl says, without any malice. He watches Izzy squash his cigarette, reduced to a butt, into the ashtray. “You didn’t join them?”

“No.” Izzy turns his head back to him. “We picked straws, and I drew the short end and got stuck with your ass.”

“…You’re such a liar.”

Izzy grins. “Well, being on the wagon, I’d be signing up to be their chaperone,” he replies, scoffing. “As if I’m gonna fucking do that.”

“So you decided to watch me instead?”

“No… We’re hanging out,” Izzy allows generously.

“Hanging out, my ass,” Axl says, amused. “I’ve been asleep the whole time.”

“What? You’re tellin’ me you haven’t paid attention to a single word I’ve said.” Izzy shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Here I’ve been talking for over an hour.”

Axl chuckles.

“I was wonderin’, though,” Izzy continues musingly, “how I was able to get a word in edgewise. You talk so much, I think I prefer your ass asleep.” 

“You’re so full of shit,” Axl replies. “You love to hear me talk—I’ve got so many smart things to say.”

“Yeah, now who’s full of shit? When you start ranting on stage, I swear to God I want to walk off; I have to listen to all that nonsense off the clock, and then onstage, too.”

“You’re horrible,” Axl says, swiping at him. “I’m gonna dedicate the next one to you.”

“Let me know beforehand, so I can skip the show.”

“No problem, homes. You can read about it in the paper instead.”

“I will. In the cartoon section,” Izzy deadpans.

Axl doubles over against him, bawling with laughter, and knocks their forearms together. Izzy has his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek to stop himself from chortling, too, but there’s a trace of a self-satisfied smirk.

Axl glances around, hand lingering on Izzy’s folded arms as his laughter eases off. “Hey, what time is it?”

“Uh—it’s almost one.”

“Really? Man, I’m so hungry… What’d you have?” He looks inquisitively at Izzy.

“Nothin’.”

Axl gasps softly, eyebrows drawing close. “You ain’t ate yet? Why not?”

“Wasn’t in the mood.” Izzy shrugs. 

“Well, I’m starving,” Axl states, “but I’m not eating by myself, so go work up that appetite by making me something.”

This makes Izzy snort. “That’s the most selfish way of getting someone to eat, I’m almost impressed. What the fuck am I even supposed to make? You’re a better cook than I am.”

“You know I’d cook for ya, but I gotta wash up. Just make some Sloppy Joes.”

Izzy stares at him, skeptical. “Do we have ground beef? ‘Cause I‘m sure as fuck not going out to get some.”

“It’s in the fridge. Why the fuck would I tell you to make Sloppy Joes if we didn’t have none?”

Izzy looks askance at him, like: are you fucking kidding me? 

“Fuck, alright. Don’t say it.”

“No, I fucking will. Do you remember that cheese omelette? The one you threw a fit over?"

“Izzy,” Axl whines, hiding his face in his palms.

“Because I fucking do. And I’m gonna end up eating on my own again; you take forever in the shower—you’re worse than the ladies.”

Axl lifts his head, saying, “No, I’ll be quick. You can time me. Twenty minutes max… No, twenty-five.”

“And if you’re late?”

“You can spank me with the wooden spatula,” Axl tacks on, a playful gleam in his eyes. 

“Fuck.” Izzy brings his hands up to his mouth, fingertips pressed together. Then, he lowers them, looking straight at Axl, and says, “I swear to God, Axl, if you’re on time for the first time in your life, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Axl throws his head back with a laugh.

Axl enters the kitchen and amusedly eyes Izzy by the stove, smoking while he cooks. “You certainly paint a picture—of a stressed out housewife.”

Izzy glimpses back, surveying him, and then shakes his head, lips quirked up, as he returns to toasting buns on the skillet. “We should threaten to spank you more often if it’ll get you on stage on time.”

Axl strolls over and props himself up on the counter, near enough to Izzy, flicking his damp hair back over the shoulder. Once he’s settled, he tilts sideways, leaning on one hand. “You know the best thing about having a pussy,” he states conversationally while he observes Izzy stir the beef mix, “besides the zero refractory period, is not havin’ to worry about my balls every time I sit down.”

Izzy chuckles and comes up to Axl, patting him on the hip. “Here, take this.”

Axl accepts the extended cigarette and draws on it leisurely. “Look at you,” he comments, smirking, a cloud of smoke furling around him, as he watches Izzy take out the plates from the rack to set on the counter, between him and the stove. “All house-broken.”

“Tell me, what else is different?” Izzy asks distractedly, going back to the stove. He turns off the nobs and picks up the skillet.

Axl perks up. “You really want to know?”

“Fuck yeah,” Izzy replies, like he would be crazy not to, as he returns, transferring the buns to the plates. 

“Okay, so, before—you know how, while fucking, the build-up is kinda short but the orgasms are super intense, almost like getting hit by a bus?”

“Hmm.” 

“But with a pussy, it’s kind of the same but different, like a deeper feeling, not just in my pelvis”—Axl gestures around his crotch—“if that makes sense? Also, it takes me longer to get there, and, sometimes, when I lose my concentration, or if I’m not in the right mood, and don’t clench or relax my muscles just right, it halts, which is fucking frustrating. 

“But when everything goes right and it peaks, it gets really intense, like I forget how to breathe. My orgasms with a dick were consistent, great, but more of a steady pace, with this sudden intense spike, and then you basically drop off the cliff, right? It’s gone.” He waves his hands apart in emphasis.

Izzy glances at him to show him he’s listening while he spoons the beef onto buns.

Axl pauses to puff on the cigarette and then carries on: “With a pussy, it’s like being in a state of bliss—I don’t know, I think since the build-up takes longer, the satisfaction lingers, and it’s more profound. You know, the closest I came to it before was from gettin’ edged, or—like, from my…having my prostate stimulated,” he stumbles, cheeks ruddy, gaze cutting away and back, hoping Izzy won’t tease him for it.

But Izzy looks so serious, a studious expression on his face, as if he genuinely finds it all very interesting. “The instant gratification of fast food versus haute cuisine,” he comments in his soft voice.

Axl beams. “Yeah, exactly.”

Izzy passes Axl the plate. “Dig in.”

Axl accepts it and snuffs his cigarette on the edge. He releases a satisfied hum once he takes a bite of the burger. “Oh, this is good—I didn’t realize how fucking starved I was… You know, there’s just something about food that hits better after midnight.”

Izzy nods in agreement. They munch quietly, until curiosity gets the better of Axl. “Where’d they all go?” he asks, going off on a tangent.

“Fuck if I know,” Izzy says, shrugging, once he swallows. “Didn’t care to ask—like, what’s it to me?”

“God, you’re useless. I don’t know if it’s narcissism or what,” Axl says, and it cracks Izzy up.

“Sayin’ that after I made you a home-cooked meal ain’t right.”

“Sorry. Bad of me.”

Axl likes that Izzy stays close to him, hip bumping amicably into his knee while they eat. He catches Izzy’s eyes roaming over him once or twice, as if there’s something on his mind, but nothing gets said. They wolf down their meal very quickly; it feels like it’s over before it’s even started. Axl sets his plate aside on the counter and brushes the crumbs from his fingers. 

“Tell me about Slash,” Izzy finally says, gesturing at him with his plate, which he then stacks on top of Axl’s, finished too. “I wanna know how he’s treating you.” He wipes his hands on the dish towel hanging off the handle of the oven under the stovetop.

Axl realizes that Izzy has been eyeing the hickies and bruises dappling the uncovered skin of his thighs and abdomen. “Yeah, we should talk about that,” he agrees, and then comments: “What was that earlier, with Slash? You went all mama bear on me—I liked that.” He chuckles, swaying in amusement. “You looked ready to sort him out.”

“Fuck you, I’m papa bear. And no, I ain’t itching to fight him, not unless he gives me a reason to… So tell me, do I?”

Axl shakes his head, staring down at his own knees shyly. “Nah, he’s good to me.” He’s happy that Izzy is willing to talk about this, because Izzy is his person; for a while, he felt like he didn’t have anyone to open up to, not in the way he can with Izzy.

“You really like him, don’t you?” 

He hesitates, and then nods. He and Slash have avoided giving themselves a label, because even though they have these feelings for each other, they don’t really know what to do with them given the reality of their situation. He tries to deflect those conversations with sex, so Slash won’t come to the same conclusion he has, that they’re doomed in the long run. 

His gaze flicks up when Izzy comes closer, standing between his dangling legs. Izzy’s hand lands on his knee, and his throat dries up a little. 

“You’re too good for him,” Izzy says softly, eyes cast down, lost in thought, as he follows the movement of his own hand caressing the top of Axl’s thigh, over a bruise. “I want him to treat you right.”

Axl suppresses the hankering to press his knees together, feeling the sensation all the way down in his pussy, making it throb. The air of the kitchen feels too warm, stifling almost, from the heat rising from the stove. “This is the first time I'm hearin’ that I’m too good for anybody,” he replies with a nervous giggle. “It’s always the other way around.” 

He’s afraid Slash is going to realize he’s not worth the trouble, like they all do—like his parents did, and Erin. Especially when the curse reverses, and there won’t be a pussy to distract Slash from the fact that he’s too much. He’d like to live in this fantasy for as long as he can, where everything works out. At least until their tour starts.

Izzy shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Comes with the territory.” His hand slides up Axl’s hip, and Axl pushes it down, frowning with playful irritation. His breath hitches, startled, when Izzy presses up against him, hands on his hips, and sticks his face in the crook of his neck.

“See, now you’re tryin’ to get me in trouble,” Axl whispers, but moans softly at the press of lips moving up the side of his neck, despite himself, incongruous to the way his head is craned back against the cabinet, fingers tightly gripped on the counter-edge, like he’s straining to get away as hands slink under his cropped shirt to palm at the taut skin over his ribs. 

He almost gives in, fingers grasping at Izzy’s shirt by the shoulder, when Izzy’s lips ascend to his cheek, trekking close to his mouth. “Stop,” he whines, tilting away to his right, a forearm propelled weakly against Izzy’s collarbone. “You know I can’t.” 

Izzy drops his own hands on the countertop on either side of Axl and bows his head, angling it away to hide his grin, satisfied by the obvious impact he has on him. “Look, Slash really cares about you,” he starts, meeting Axl’s gaze, straightening to put some space between them, as if he didn't just attempt to kiss him. “You’re his weak spot, that I don’t doubt. He’s willing to tolerate a lot of bullshit for you. But he’s also a lothario with a rap for cheating. And he’s cunning—a fucking good businessman, I respect that. So, do whatever the fuck you want, but don’t let your feelings blindside you, otherwise he’s gonna work you like a chess piece.”

“Jeez, Iz.” Axl frowns. “We’re all on the same team.”

“What? I’m giving you my blessing,” Izzy says, lips lifting at one corner. “But it comes with some hard-bitten advice: you invite a wolf into your home, you gotta make sure he don’t bite. Oh, and whatever the fuck happens between you two, put the band first.”

“I know that. I ain’t jeopardizing nothin’.”

“Good.”

There’s silence. 

Axl motions toward their plates. “I should wash these, since you cooked.”

“By the way,” Izzy says, trailing after Axl when he hops off the counter and goes to the sink with their plates. “I’ve got some lyrics. Chords, too. Help me with the melody?”

“Sure, man. Right after.”

Slash stumbles back to their place the following afternoon with his head splitting. He’s not sure where Duff and Steven are; he lost track of them around five a.m. Gripping the door handle, he hesitates. He has half a mind to turn around, cross the living room, and shuffle right back out the front door, maybe continue to crash at a friend’s place until his head cools.

Be a man, he tells himself and enters the bedroom he shares with Axl. Except, it’s vacant—no flighty redhead in sight. Axl left the TV on; some re-run about wolves. He walks back out, because all of Axl’s shit is here, the TV is on, so he couldn’t have gone out. Sure enough, as the sun rises from the east, he hears Axl's distinctive laugh coming from Izzy’s room, at the end of the hall.

The door is slightly ajar, and he wants to barge in there.

Should he?

No.

For the longest time, the most attention he got from Axl was while they performed, because offstage, Axl and Izzy joined at the hip. Even now, Axl spends a great deal of the day with Izzy, and then looks for him when he wants to fuck—it’s like clockwork. 

Whatever. He’s not a jealous guy. He’s not. 

He doesn’t care who Axl fucks as long as he comes back to him, but it’s Axl’s bond with Izzy that eats away at him; if Axl has got Izzy then what does he need him for? 

He trudges back into his room, and tosses his shades on the nightstand before shrugging off his shirt, which smells like stale beer spilled on from last night, and shimmies out of his leather pants for shorts. He flops down on his bed, upright against the headboard, and glances at the bottle of Jack he left on Axl’s nightstand. There’s still a good amount left in it. Fuck it, he thinks; seizing it by the neck, he unscrews the cap and takes a big swig. 

He finds himself watching the segment about the northern timber wolves while he drinks, trying not to think of Axl with Izzy. The narrator talks about how wolves prefer monogamy, but there are always exceptions—men really are consistent in their philandering even across species. Although Charlie, the pack leader, is evidently possessive of his mate. 

“His mate is none too delicate about soliciting his attention,” the narrator continues in his relaxed, laidback inflection. “But when Charlie shows an interest, she’s apprehensive and feels so inferior, she sits on her tail. Mating between her and Charlie is impossible because of her inferiority complex.”

Slash huffs and takes another sip. He’s now sort of invested in Charlie and his mate; he can relate, getting mixed signals from Axl after that night in the rehearsal space. 

The door opens. Slash pauses, the mouth of the bottle pressed to his lips. Speak of the devil—it’s Axl.

A look of surprise flashes across Axl’s face, and Slash’s resolve almost crumbles, heart soaring when Axl beams, reaching behind to shove the door closed. “Hey,” Axl greets. “Where were you?”

Slash knocks back the whiskey but only a nip hits his tongue. With a sigh, he sets the empty bottle back on the nightstand.

Axl immediately slinks next to him in bed, bumping his head along Slash’s shoulder cap and chest like a cat seeking attention. “I missed you,” Axl says. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

Even though his chest burns with the desire to pick a fight, he can’t bring himself to take a potshot. “You were asleep,” he replies, staring ahead at the TV, but his voice lacks its usual warmth. “Didn’t wanna disturb you.” 

He glances down when Axl eagerly nudges a spiral notebook into his hands. “Me and Izzy worked on some stuff—”

“Not now, Ax.” Slash pushes the notebook away from his lap, mood sour again at the mention of Izzy.

Axl stares at him, baffled; unable to fathom Slash, of all people, putting off working on their material, especially being a workaholic. “Alright,” he slowly agrees, thankfully without arguing, and lays aside his notebook on the nightstand. The peace and quiet doesn’t last long: after a few minutes, he starts to fidget, and Slash can tell he’s just fixing to talk.

“Did you have fun?” Axl asks.

“Hmm.” 

Slash keeps his eyes on the screen, watching Charlie and his mate dance around each other. Another wolf prowls in the distance, hidden amongst the trees. “The big, black male is interested in Charlie’s mate,” the narrator elaborates, “but he knows Charlie will beat the can off him if he catches him.”

Slash snorts in scornful amusement, lips curling up at the corner. Even this documentary is mocking him.

“What’s funny?” Axl asks, genuinely curious, and glances at the TV for an explanation; all he sees are two wolves growling at each other—that’s as far as the confrontation goes: Charlie doesn’t need to use force to subdue his rival packmate, who isn’t interested in putting up a fight. 

“It’s nothing,” Slash replies. 

Axl finally catches on that Slash’s mood is off, and unable to stand not being paid attention to, he starts soliciting him—like clockwork. Axl twists over onto his knees and leans in with a hand placed on Slash’s thigh to peck him on the jaw. 

Slash tries to ignore him, but when Axl clambers onto his lap, lips seeking his own, he succumbs and automatically clashes his mouth against Axl’s, returning the kiss harshly with a tiny, gruff sound. His arm is poised at Axl’s back, grazing the fall of strawberry blond hair, wanting to embrace Axl but holding back.

Axl’s hand strokes his thigh, and his cock immediately reacts—it doesn’t take a lot; lately he gets hard just being around Axl. It’s impossible not to get excited when Axl is wearing a boxy, cropped t-shirt, exposing his pale, slender midriff. Heat pools in Slash’s stomach when Axl’s hand moves from his thigh to his crotch, rubbing his bulge over his shorts. 

Axl breaks their kiss. “I’ll blow you,” he offers in a breathy whisper with an earnest, eager-to-please look in his eyes, and starts to get into position, lowering himself between Slash’s legs.

Slash’s eyebrows rise. He should heed Axl less more often if it’ll get him a blowjob. Maybe he can get Axl to be a good boy and serve him some whiskey, too. In the way of a response, he frees his erection from his shorts and cups Axl by the back of the head to nudge him downward. Axl hesitates and glances up at Slash from underneath his eyelashes. 

He already knows what Axl is gonna say: he’s thinking of a way to word his request that Slash take a shower before his cock can be granted access to his highness’ mouth. “Ax, you offered, so don’t be fussy,” he says, “I’m not in the mood for any of that.” He caters enough to Axl’s uptight, cosseted ass, but not today.  

Axl falters, taken aback that Slash knows what his pretty little head was thinking. “Can I at least grab the condom?”

“No, it doesn’t feel as good with rubber.”

Axl sways a little, his hands weighing down on Slash’s thighs; there’s a faraway look in his ruminative eyes. “Fine,” he gives in. “You better not have had someone else’s mouth on ya, or worse.” His tone is a mix of threat and possessiveness.

“Why would I when I got my baby here?” Slash returns teasingly, a trifle bitter, palming Axl’s jaw and squeezing his cheeks. He chuckles softly when Axl wrinkles his nose at him, annoyed.

He wants to watch Axl take him in his mouth, not just stare at the top of his head, so he shuffles downward from his upright position as he rids himself of his shorts, until he’s reclined with his upper back bolstered by the pillows. Axl backs up too and lowers himself onto his stomach between Slash’s splayed legs, and Slash’s chest rumbles with a groan, cock immediately swelling to its full girth when Axl grips him and sucks on the head, mouth so hot and inviting, licking away at the salty pre-cum that wells up from the slit. 

He lets his cock slip out from Axl’s mouth with a faint pop and rubs the head along Axl’s lips, smearing them with Axl’s own spit and his pre-cum, making them shine; then slaps it heavily on the flattened tip of Axl’s tongue when Axl parts his lips, sticking his tongue out just enough to cover his lower teeth. 

Axl seals his mouth around Slash’s cock again, rolling his tongue around the flared crown. Slash moans appreciatively, hips lifting, and tightens his hold on Axl’s hair as he feeds Axl more of his cock. His cock throbs in Axl’s mouth when Axl immediately gags, throat pulsating reflexively. He sends Slash an indignant glare when Slash lowers himself.

Slash rubs his knuckles along Axl’s cheek in affection. “Look at you, doll,”  he says softly, momentarily forgetting the grievance he’s been nursing.

Axl’s glare eases. He begins to bob his head up and down, working Slash’s cock with both his hand and mouth. He’s good at it, paying extra attention to the head as he sucks sloppily, hollowing his cheeks, and even thrums out small, eager moans, cascading vibrations straight through to Slash’s cock. 

Slash knows where he’s been getting his practice from. He periodically tightens his grip on Axl’s hair just to hear Axl faintly warble out whimpers and winces. Axl’s lips flutter around the length as he tries to take Slash deeper; he only manages to fit another inch, saliva and pre-cum dribbling when he gags and quickly jerks up, eyes watering. He catches his breath, lips still pressed lightly to the crown of Slash’s cock in a faint kiss. 

“It’s alright. Don’t hurt yourself,” Slash says, brushing back Axl’s hair. He sighs out a moan when Axl takes him into his mouth again.

Axl sticks to shallow dips, letting out his own nasally moans while he licks and sucks on the glans like he’s making out, running his tongue along a vein on the underside of his cock. And when he looks right at Slash, eyes so green… 

Oh, my God.

“I want you,” he says, tugging on Axl’s upper arm. “Want your pussy.” His cock twitches, trickling pre-cum just as Axl draws off, lips wet and puffy. Axl crawls forward at Slash’s behest, and Slash pulls him in for a kiss. 

Slash runs his hands under Axl’s cropped shirt, touching soft, warm skin, and then moves them lower, tracing the bare sides of Axl’s exposed midriff, to wrest Axl’s boxershorts down over the curve of his ass; Axl pulls away from their kiss and turns to lie down on his side beside Slash, to slide them off. 

“Hey, wait.” Slash says when Axl sits up, ready to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Axl twists to look back at him.

“Come here.” He pulls at Axl’s arm.

“What?” Axl asks, smiling, with a hint of laughter in his voice, but allows himself to be maneuvered back on top of Slash. Slash captures his mouth in another kiss.

“Wait—let me lock the door,” Axl says between kisses, giggling softly against Slash’s mouth. 

“Leave it,” Slash says, ending it with a kiss, and positions the head of his cock against the plump lips of Axl’s pussy, rubbing it over Axl’s drenched hole. “No one else is here.” He pushes inside. It’s tight. 

Axl’s breath jumps and his eyelids flicker. He widens his stance, knees digging into the mattress, and lets himself carefully sink, thick cock plowing into him, until he bottoms out. For Slash, it’s like a slice of heaven, feeling the molten-hot, wet grip of pulsing muscles around his cock. 

“Izzy’s still here,” Axl says, sitting back gingerly. He takes his shirt by the hem and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside. He’s beautiful, with small, perky nipples and lithe muscles. His dangling, silver nipple-piercing makes everything more obscene.

“Is he? Don’t think you’d mind if he accidentally walks in—if he decides to invite himself and stay,” Slash says, goading Axl, who clenches around him. “What do you say, baby? You want him to watch?”

“Yeah, he can watch,” Axl sighs out, leaning over, hands braced on Slash’s clavicles, and rolls his hips on his own without Slash coaxing him; it heats Slash up, both in arousal and jealous anger.

“Want him to fuck you, too?” he rasps, feeling scornful. He holds onto Axl by the hips and thrusts his own pelvis up, meeting Axl’s short bounces on his lap. 

Axl nods jerkingly, chest heaving, too cock-drunk to deny. He grinds his hips back and forth, rocking on Slash’s lap, attempting to stimulate his clit against Slash’s pelvis, along his happy-trail. There’s a slight jiggle in his pectorals every time he slams down, moaning out Slash’s name when his cock hits his g-spot just right. 

“Yeah? You like getting fucked?” Slash grunts out, tracking up to pinch Axl’s tiny areola, twisting and tugging, making Axl mewl pitifully. “So much you’d let Izzy have a turn, too. One cock isn’t enough for you?”

“Slash.” Axl loses his rhythm, breathing growing needier, and then hangs his head with a groan, hair falling over his eyes, as he comes unexpectedly. Who knew Axl Rose would be such a slut for dick, that he would love taking it. It’s almost addictive seeing him like this. Slash bites his own lip at the tight grip around his cock, like a Boa constrictor, the fingers of his other hand press harshly into the meat of Axl’s ass, needing him closer.

He rubs Axl’s chest soothingly, prodding at the nub with his thumb, while Axl trembles, hips twitching in aborted jerks as he slowly lifts up on his knees, pussy too sensitive to take Slash’s cock fully. Now, this vulnerable version of Axl is solely for him. 

The sound of a discordant guitar strum interrupts them. Shortly after, there’s a rap on the door. “Hey, Ax?”

Axl goes still, his gaze meeting Slash’s in panic. Slash smirks, and Axl quickly clamps a quivering hand over Slash’s mouth, trying to shut him up before he can call out to Izzy.

“I’m headin’ out,” Izzy adds loud enough so Axl can hear him through the door and over the TV playing. “You there?”

“Y-yeah,” Axl responds, squeaking at the end when Slash draws his own knees up, feet braced, and rams up into his swollen pussy. Axl’s chest rises in rapid, uneven breaths, and his pale green eyes go out of focus, squinted in pleasure, and his abs tense as he clamps down on Slash’s cock and squirts harshly from the thrust, warm and messy, splattering Slash’s groin and the inners of his own trembling thighs. He droops against Slash before clumsily picking himself up again, body wracked by tremors.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow, alright?” Izzy’s voice is already drifting away.

“Aah—fuck,” Axl huffs and groans, legs tense as he tries to push up on his hands, no longer focused on Izzy, as Slash jackhammers inside him, punching erratically against his spasming, wet walls while holding onto his waist in a vice grip. Slash is close too; he bucks up into Axl with hard strokes and slick noises, his bent legs jerking against the back of Axl’s thighs and his ass, as if wanting to contort around him to consume him whole. 

It feels a hundred times better fucking Axl bareback. He hates the feel of rubber, but this is the first time he hasn’t used protection with Axl; it’d be a shitshow if he knocks him up, if it’s even possible, although an intrusive part of him wants to find out if it is. 

“Fuck, Ax, get up,” he groans out, and heaves Axl off his cock by the hips, too close to shooting off inside him (although he wants to, to have Axl in every way). It’s one thing accidentally getting a girlfriend pregnant, or a random chick, and a whole other ordeal knocking up your lead singer, who shouldn’t even be able to conceive in the first place. He can imagine the headlines; there’d be a media circus, and although Guns’ fame has been built on controversy, this one could be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Nuh-uh,” he chastises when Axl starts moving away, and yanks him down. “Finish me off.”

Axl winces, following easily when strong fingers glide up to fist the hair at the back of his head. His nails dig into Slash’s thigh in payback as he stoops over Slash’s lap. He looks so pretty and fucked out; strands of hair sticking to his flushed face, lightly sheening with sweat at the temples.   

Slash presses down on Axl’s head while gripping his cock with his right hand just underneath the tip, directing it to Axl’s mouth, and smushes the slickened crown against Axl’s lips until Axl opens them, taking his cock into his mouth.

Axl squeezes his eyes shut, thick eyelashes resting above high-boned cheeks, as warm, musky skin slides over his tongue, hitting his tastebuds with a burst of saltiness of pre-cum and his own arousal, which makes saliva build up in his mouth. He makes a choking sound, throat expanding, when Slash’s cock stuffs him. 

There are slick glugs each time his cock drags in and out, wet with spit bubbling past Axl’s quivering lips stretched around the girth. Axl sways his head, swiftly bobbing up and down Slash’s cock, only taking him in a third of the way into his mouth. Slash moans, enjoying the way the head glides along and pokes at the velvety insides of Axl’s sucked-in cheeks. 

He pumps himself from the base, while Axl continues to lick and suck frantically, aiming to quickly get him off. He’s been teetering on the edge from fucking Axl, so his orgasm quickly hurtles through. A deep groan rattles his chest as he releases into Axl’s mouth. Axl whimpers, fidgeting, when cum hits his tongue. Slash keeps a firm grip on Axl’s hair, pushing down to keep him from retreating.

With a shuddering groan, he gently squeezes his cock using his right forefinger and thumb, slowly dragging them up from the base, to milk out the last dredges of cum into Axl’s suckling mouth. Axl is trying not to swallow, because he lets milky-white fluid escape from his mouth after each dip, letting it trickle down the length of Slash’s cock. Slash doesn’t care; in fact, seeing his cum coating Axl’s pink lips more than makes up for it. 

When Axl pulls off, Slash cups his overstimulated cockhead and lightly grinds into his fist once and then twice to ride out the aftershocks. He’s still holding onto the back of Axl’s head; he takes his wet palm off his spent cock and rubs at Axl’s lips, messy with his cum, and forces his thumb into Axl’s mouth. He moans, caressing Axl’s tongue when Axl lightly sucks on it. There’s a trace of spit mixed with cum trailing from the corner of Axl’s lips down to his already gleaming chin.

Axl pulls back once Slash lets him go, and scurries to the side of the bed, leaning over the edge to spit. “Shit, I think I swallowed some,” he says, humor laced in his voice, as he moves back, swiping away at his mouth and chin—not that it makes much of a difference. He immediately ensconces himself against Slash, with an arm thrown around Slash’s waist. Slash gives him a perfunctory pat in acknowledgment, which makes Axl frown, especially when Slash pulls away instead of doting on him like he usually does after a fuck.

“Where are you going?” Axl claws at Slash’s forearm to stop him from stirring.

“I’m gettin’ something to drink,” Slash replies, settling back down only to pry Axl’s fingers from his arm. He pushes away again once Axl lets go, and snatches his shorts from the foot of the bed, hitching them back on as he gets up. 

“What’s wrong?” Axl sits up, observing him. 

“Nothing.” He can’t have this conversation with Axl naked in his bed, the lower half of Axl’s face still glistening with traces of his cum; it’s too distracting. “You want your clothes?” He tosses them at Axl anyway.

Axl catches them but doesn’t bother with putting them on. “Why are you actin’ weird?”

Slash makes a face. “I’m getting a beer, how does that constitute as weird?”

“No.” Axl shakes his head. “You’re ignoring me.” 

“I’m not ignoring you,” he insists. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are!” Axl disputes, in that particular strident voice, which Slash is all too familiar with, the one where he’s teetering on the brink of throwing a tantrum. He forgot how persistent Axl is—like, he isn’t gonna back off from this. “Just tell me what’s wrong!”

“Jesus Christ,” Slash mutters under his breath, becoming equally testy while his head pounds. He just wants a fucking drink to blow off some steam. He says louder, for Axl to hear: “How many times do I have to say it? Nothing. Now get off my back.” 

“No, seriously, what the fuck is your problem? Tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll—” 

“Or you’ll what?” he snaps, no longer willing to be a patient listener. “Grow up, Ax. Not everything needs to be a confrontation. If you need attention so badly, why don’t you save me the theatrics and go find Izzy, like you always do. He’ll be more than happy to babysit.”

Axl blinks, doe-eyed, as if he’s been smacked. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He sounds hurt, his retort lacking its previous bite. 

“You know what it means.”

“I don’t! What the fuck?” Axl exclaims, flabbergasted, as if Slash is being unfair. “Why are you actin’ like this? I don’t get it.”

Shit, they’re getting into this, aren’t they? Slash takes a deep breath, making an effort to control his emotions. “Because I don’t think you realize how serious this is for me. I opened up to you, Ax. You know you’re not just some lay to me. But it feels like I am to you: we fuck, and then you run off to Izzy. Like, I’m tired of tryin’ to figure out where I stand with you; you won’t even talk to me about it.” 

Axl’s face twists, sick of hearing the same old rap. “Oh, not this again! Why do we keep havin’ the same damn conversation?”

“Jee, Ax,” Slash replies sardonically, “I wonder why?” 

“What, I ain’t done nothin’. You’re one to talk, though! You’re mad at me, and you still chose to fuck me. How do you think that makes me feel? And, am I not allowed to hang out with my best friend? When you're drunk off your ass, tell me what else am I supposed to do?”

A bitter laugh jars out of Slash, and he shakes his head. “See, that’s just it—you say that, that Izzy’s just your friend, but it didn’t stop you from giving him head.” Seeing the look on Axl’s face is satisfying. Axl can’t deny it; he won’t. He’s unduly honest, so Izzy covered for him. And they’ve all been politely pretending it’s not bullshit. “Why can’t you be straight with me?”

Axl’s Adam's apple bobs in vain. “I—who told you that?”

“Who’d you think you were fooling? Izzy was smug as fuck, he might as well have winked when he said your voice was shot from laryngitis; it wasn’t hard to piece together.” Izzy looked too pleased the whole time Axl was convalescing and struggled to talk with a hoarse voice, not to mention how he teased Axl with sly innuendos, which made Axl fluster and blush. 

“Okay, so it happened,” Axl admits, subdued, like a pocked balloon deflating. “But that was before—it’s not what you think, alright? I just returned a favor.”

“Oh, so it was a one-time thing, and not like you just got off at the thought of him watching, right?” Slash remarks caustically. “Now, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but Izzy isn’t just trying to get laid, he likes you; he’s too stubborn to admit it. So, either you’re stringing me along or him, which one of us is it?”

Axl huffs incredulously, chest heaving in anger. “So, when you were eggin’ me on with that dirty-talk, about Izzy watchin’, you were just usin’ it against me? Honestly, fuck you!” He grabs the Jack Daniel’s bottle from the nightstand and flings it, sending it shattering across the floor.

“What the fuck?” Slash lurches back when glass fragments scatter near him like marbles. “Axl?” he exclaims, alarmed, seeing him get up, barefoot, stepping where there are shards everywhere. “Wha—fucking stop, are you insane?! Don’t move. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He rushes over, grabbing his towel hung over the back of a chair, and tosses it across the floor, over the pieces of broken glass. A wave of sickness passes over him, the dizzy grip of nausea, when he hunkers down beside Axl, between the two beds, trying his best to sweep them to one side.

The tile is smeared with some blood. “Fuck, Ax, your foot.” He reaches out for Axl’s ankle in dismay. “You’re bleeding.”

“Don’t touch me, you fucking bastard,” Axl hisses and jumps back heedlessly, freeing himself from Slash’s grip. 

“Fine, I’m a bastard, but watch out,” Slash replies, rising. “Don’t cut yourself.” He tries to carefully guide Axl around it, but Axl thrashes away when his fingers touch his bicep.

“I told you not to touch me,” Axl says shrilly. His eyes are a gleaming blue-gray ring, overtaken by blown out pupils. There’s woe in them instead of his signature scathing look that both thrills and terrifies Slash.

“Calm down, I barely grazed you,” Slash says, trying not to let the frustration show in his voice, as he holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “At least let me take a look at your foot.”

“You’re not touching me!” Axl backs away, legs nearly pressed to the side-frame of Slash’s bed as he wheels around Slash, away from him and the beds and the heap of broken glass. “And don’t tell me to fucking calm down! You don’t trust me to not sleep around, is that it?”

“No, Ax…” I just want you to fucking open up to me, he wants to say. You make me paranoid and overthink everything, like I’m losing it, but only because I really, really like you, so much more than I ever anticipated.

But it doesn’t matter because Axl’s distress feeds on itself, making him more upset: “I’m not a fucking whore, alright—I’m not. And I’m not fucking crazy!”

Shit, Slash has clearly touched a nerve, because Axl’s not even hearing him out. “Ax—” he tries again, speaking softly, but Axl retreats toward the door. 

“No, you both wanna fuck me, but somehow that’s my fault! You both can go fuck each other, how about that?!”

Chapter Text

Izzy bounds inside, feeling buoyant after the night he had. He went scouting and found a beautiful girl, who reminded him of Angela, with dyed jet-black hair just like his own. She took him back to her apartment, and they listened to Cinderella’s Long Cold Winter, and he fucked her on the kitchen counter, which was maybe on purpose.

“Axl’s in your room.” 

Huh? Izzy stops short just as he’s about to swerve into the hallway. He almost missed Slash recumbent on the couch. “Hey, man,” he greets, drawing near, and clasps hands with Slash once he sits up.

“Axl locked himself in your room,” Slash repeats, tousling his curls into place. He looks tired and rumpled, as if he’s been camped out here the entire time. 

Izzy sighs, scratching at the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get the key.” It wouldn’t be the first time, which is why he keeps a spare with Duff.

He goes into Duff and Steven’s room, and makes a beeline for Duff’s nightstand, sliding the drawer open and fishing out the key from under a rumpled Juggs magazine. He walks out and heads to his room. 

W.A.S.P. is playing from his speakers. 

He sticks the key in and turns the lock, twisting the handle once it clicks, but it won’t open. He puts his weight on the door, feeling it budge only an inch. Axl has the dresser shoved against it, he realizes and curses under his breath.

“Axl, it’s me,” he says, and waits; there’s no response, only Blackie Lawless’ gritty singing calling himself a Wild Child and begging to be loved.

He returns to the living room. Slash watches him pick up the phone, pressing it to his ear as he punches in the number to his personal line. They hear it ring. 

There’s a loud smash and then the ringing stops.

Izzy chuckles, hanging up. “He’s really flipped his lid. What the fuck happened?”

Slash groans and runs a palm down his face. “We had an argument. He broke some shit and now he’s bleeding…but he refuses to let me take a look at him. He hasn’t eaten anything all day, either.”

Izzy hums thoughtfully. “I’ll see if I can get the door to budge. If not, there’s always the firescape.” 

“There’s a sandwich in the microwave. Maybe he’ll eat it, if it’s from you.”

“I’ll take it to him.”

Izzy slams his shoulder against the door, making it rattle in its frame with a thud, and puts his back into it, hearing the screech of the dresser as it shifts just enough for him to slip inside. He anticipates something, like his alarm clock or ashtray, to come hurtling at his face, but luckily, Axl is a motionless lump, lying face down on his bed. 

“Hey, eat something, you dick,” Izzy says, tossing the saran-wrapped sandwich at Axl, watching it bounce off his side. 

“Not hungry,” Axl bemoans sulkingily, voice muffled by the pillow.

Izzy’s room would be veiled in darkness, if it weren’t for the sunlight falling through the split in the listlessly closed curtains, zoned in on the end of the bed like a feeble spotlight. When he approaches, he espies the bottle of Vodka, which Axl likely pilfered from Duff, and a pair of bloody tweezers littering the floor, along with the spilled entrails of his landline. 

His gaze pursues the trail up the base of the bed, to Axl’s feet, one of which is shoddily swathed in a Gauze bandage. Better than nothing, he supposes. It’s nothing new: Axl’s feet are usually bruised, either from kicking things in or running around so much as if he were on uppers.

He realizes that Axl is wearing his clothes—a Chambray and some dark pants, swiped from the very same dresser that’s currently blocking the door. 

“’M not supposed to talk to you,” Axl says, voice hoarse and stuffy like he’s been crying, when Izzy lifts a knee onto the bed, climbing in. 

If only the fans could see their tough rockstar right now.

Izzy can’t help but snicker. “You aren’t?” he croons, ribbing him. “Are we in first grade?” He drapes himself over Axl and leans down to kiss the shell of Axl’s ear peeking out from between strands of hair. Axl smells faintly of sweat, sex, and lingering cologne—in other words, he smells tempting.

Axl, refusing to look at Izzy, tries to shrug him off. “This is all your fault,” he complains, lunging his elbow at Izzy. “I’m not talking to you.”

Izzy looms over him. “And yet you’re here in my room, in my bed, wearin’ my fucking clothes, listening to Wild Child,” he retorts, and presses his lips to Axl’s hair, just above his ear. “That’s tellin’ me something else.”

“Leave me alone,” Axl whines underneath him; it’s weak and pathetic.

“If you want me to leave ya alone, maybe don’t hide out in my room next time.” 

“Switch with me.”

Izzy rolls his eyes, and pushes himself off Axl, settling down on his back beside him. “You’re such a spoiled little brat, you know that?” he states, lolling his head to the side to stare at Axl. “Now, why would I give up my solitude to go bunk up with Slash?”

Axl finally turns over to face him. “Just for a few days, okay?” he says with a pleading look. The corners of his eyes are marked with dried tears streaked down to his cheeks.

“And in those few days, when he snorts a line right in front of me, this band’s gonna be missing a guitarist.”

“He won’t.” Axl doesn’t sound too sure himself.

“Why do we have to switch? Just sleep here with me,” Izzy says softly, shifting onto his side, too. “There’s plenty of room.” 

This past week, he has laid awake each night, mind running restlessly, a part of him wishing Axl would slip into bed with him when everyone else was asleep, like he used to back in their hometown. 

Nobody had to know, only them.

Axl’s expression twists in a disproportionate reaction, as if he’s offended that Izzy would even think to suggest such a thing. “I’m not giving him the satisfaction.” 

Ah.

“What exactly are you two fightin’ about, again?” Izzy asks, unsure what the deal is. Apparently, he’s not supposed to ask because it sets off Axl’s hair-trigger temper—

“Just leave me the fuck alone!” Axl snaps, quick like a rubberband, shoving at him. He even kicks at Izzy’s shins. “I will slice myself up, if you fucking don’t. Will that make you happy?!”

What the fuck?

Izzy flings himself on top of Axl, flipping them over so Axl is pinned under him. “Say that to me again?” he yells, shaking Axl by the upper arms. “Say it, you motherfucker! I will have Alan place you in a psych ward.”

Tears start rolling down the corners of Axl’s stricken eyes again as he stares up at Izzy like a deer caught in headlights, shoulders hunched in his grip.

“Not one fucking cut, do you hear me?! Don’t think I won’t check. We let you break all the shit you want, so don’t you fucking start with that!”

“I won’t, alright,” Axl cries out. “I didn’t mean it.”

Izzy stops, then, and glares, breathing hard. 

“I’m sorry, Izzy,” Axl says weakly, voice cracking.

Izzy’s clenched jaw shifts. “Fuck. I’m mad at you,” he replies, cradling Axl’s face in both hands. He loathes the power Axl has over him, the turbulent emotions he makes him feel, how one moment he’ll want to rip Axl’s head off after choking on frustration, and the next, his fury will melt away from a single teary-eyed look. 

He dips down to kiss Axl on the cheek, feeling the wetness of salty tears on his lips. “Stay here, if that’s what you want. But you better eat that fucking sandwich.”

Slash stares at Izzy expectantly when he comes back out into the living room. Izzy appears somewhat disturbed; the space between his eyebrows is marred by a line. It’s a look he used to wear often, not too long ago, as a paranoid junkie.

Izzy thoughtfully lowers himself into the two-seater, and then asks, gazing across at him, “What’s your fight about?”

“You,” Slash grouses bluntly, not pussyfooting around. If Axl’s not gonna give him an answer, he’s going to get one from Izzy.

“Me?” Izzy says, eyebrows raised, dubious but amused. “Why? I ain’t done nothin’.”

Slash narrows his eyes at him. Funny, Axl said the same thing. He tries not to be accusing when he asks, “See, that’s exactly what I can’t wrap my head around. You clearly like him, so why haven’t you told him how you feel? Be fuckin’ candid, man.”

Izzy huffs out a surprised breath, lips curling up as if he finds it interesting that Slash wants to have this conversation, and then nods, like alright, I’ll participate. “I was waitin’ for you to fuck up—didn’t think it’d happen so quickly.” He laughs, facetious, when he gets shot a baleful glare, clearly trying to wind Slash up, and then says, “He ain’t exactly rushin’ to tell me how he feels either. I’m not gonna push him. He can come to me, if he wants to.” 

Wow, Slash thinks incredulously, these two stiff-necked, wilful fuckers are stuck fantasizing about each other, waiting on the other to make the move. “You both are fucked up,” he remarks. “Just tell me, man, if I’m wasting my time here.”

Izzy’s humoring expression fades and his gaze sharpens. “I know you’re frustrated and taking it out on him because you can’t take it out on me, but he really is trying, so go easy on him.” 

Slash presses his lips together, the muscles of his face tightening as his own expression hardens. 

“He may want ya, but he’s always gonna love me more,” Izzy states, so matter-of-factly, Slash’s heart pounds like a hammer to his chest, hackles raised. “He’ll always come back to me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Slash snaps. 

“Yeah? You wanna go ahead and test that?” Izzy’s lips curl into a sneer of his own before he can get ahold of himself. “I ain’t sayin’ it to be malicious—it’s just the hard truth. So you can either give him up or learn to accept me being in his life, like I do with you.”

Slash just stares, jaw tensed, bewildered by Izzy’s temerity, questioning why he’s even sitting here listening to this. It doesn’t register with him that he’s moved to the brink of his seat, until Izzy has too, both on a knife’s edge, prepared to get in each other’s faces. 

But then he grudgingly decides to hear Izzy out, even if it feels like eating dirt, because, whether he may like it or not, it’s undeniable. They could make Axl choose right now, “me or him?” But he doesn’t like the odds in his favor; Axl can’t survive without Izzy. 

Jeez, I’m stuck with this fucker, he thinks, frowning. He has no choice but to shape up, given the alternative means losing Axl either way because Izzy will always be there to pick up the pieces.

“Don’t hurt him again,” Izzy intones, voice losing its sharper note, reverting to its gentle pitch. “He’s fucked up enough as it is.”

“Because that’s your prerogative, right?” It wasn’t too long ago Axl was crying because of Izzy.

Izzy chuckles, and it rubs Slash the wrong way how unfazed he is, as if he has the moral high ground. 

“If I’m the bad cop, you’re supposed to be the good one,” Izzy replies. “You're willing to go to any lengths to keep him happy, even if it means swallowing your pride. Which is laudable—Axl doesn’t make it easy, does he? He’s a lot for anyone to handle. Not exactly someone you can argue much with—but he can’t have his way all the time; he needs someone who can stand up to him, knock him down a peg or two. He needs to be told when he’s wrong, even if he ends up hatin’ you for it. 

“But you don’t have it in you to do that to him, and that’s where you and I differ. Be my guest, if you wanna take my role”—Izzy shrugs—“I’m more than happy to trade places with ya, but you ain’t know him like I do; you don’t know how to reason with him, and it’ll likely backfire on your ass. Even now, remember, you came to me. And I’m helping you out, aren’t I? When I could just as easily fuck you over.”

Slash falls silent once more, fingers slowly curling against his thighs. 

Izzy takes no satisfaction from it. “Look, I love you, man, and I’m not knockin’ to pick a fight with you. At the end of the day, you and I both want the same thing, for him—I don’t think it needs to be said. You know, it wasn’t easy for me either, to come to terms with it, but he really likes you; he talks about you constantly… I hear him out,” he says with a wan, grimace of a smile. “So, like I said, don’t be too hard on him, because he really is trying… And let’s face it, man, all this animosity might be for shit because, realistically speaking, there’s no future, be it you or me; we can’t be reckless with the band, so what say we meet in the middle?”

Heavy, contemplative silence falls between them. This might be the most he’s heard Izzy talk in a while, a conversation that has nothing to do with girls, drugs, or their music. Somehow, it always comes back to Axl, their favorite subject matter. For a moment, Slash sees himself in him. For all that talk about being the bad guy and not giving in to what Axl wants, it can’t be any more obvious that Izzy is painfully in love with Axl—but unlike Slash himself, he’s trying to resist it, in vain.

“Fuck, dude,” Slash exclaims, feeling drained. He wouldn’t mind a truce, for now. He needs to win over Axl first, that’s the priority. “D’you want a drink?” he asks, getting up.

“Yeah.” Izzy smiles. “Get me a Sprite.”

Slash hangs his head, chuckling. “Man…” He goes to the kitchen and grabs a beer for himself and a Sprite for Izzy from the fridge.

Izzy takes the can when Slash hands it to him. “Thanks. We’re gonna be rooming together, might as well get along,” Izzy comments wryly, peeling off the ring tab, and holds his can up, clicking it with Slash’s before taking a sip. 

“So we’re both in the doghouse? You know, it’s funny ‘cause the last thing Axl told me was to shove it, that you and me,” Slash says, gesticulating with his beer, “can both go fuck ourselves. No, wait—he said, we can go fuck each other. Yeah.”

“Well, fuck him, too,” Izzy comments, grinning up at Slash.

“You fucking wish,” Slash replies, and Izzy laughs, clapping their hands together.

After gulping down a glass of water, what he came to the kitchen for, Axl finds himself drifting back into the living room. 

“Hey, come sit with me, Ax.” Duff pats the spot beside him, on the couch, as if sensing Axl’s restlessness. 

Axl attempts to appear nonchalant as he casts a furtive glance down the hall, toward their rooms, willing Izzy and Slash to turn up, before he circles around to chill with Duff. When he came out into the living room, he was somewhat disappointed yet relieved not to see them here, only Duff, who’s preoccupied with studying the manual for their new TV—courtesy of Axl himself—which awaits in its box on the floor. 

He’s spent these last three days cooped up in Izzy’s room out of rebellion, and to be honest, he’s a little embarrassed too. He was expecting to be booted out sooner or later, but surprisingly, Izzy has left him alone and only comes in if he needs something. To think of it, Slash and Izzy have been getting along, maybe too well. The last time those two were this close was when they were both sticking needles in their veins. 

Axl fidgets, nibbling on his thumbnail—it needs to be filed, he notes abstractedly. He hasn’t stepped inside his own room once, avoiding it like the plague. Instead, he’s been living off Izzy’s stuff, which is kind of a drag, but okay too. He crosses his arms and bounces his leg, sitting on pins and needles. 

He glances at Duff, but Duff is busy flipping through the fucking booklet. 

Shit, what if Izzy got hooked again? he frets, wringing his tingling fingers. What if they’re in there right now, shooting up together? No, don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself. But what if they are? Did he just fuck his best friend over? 

“Ax, wha—where are you going?” Duff asks when he jumps to his feet and heads toward the hallway. He forces himself not to rush, keeping a brisk pace instead. Is he gonna just burst in there? Try to catch them in the act? He doesn’t have an excuse if they’re not really doing anything. No, he can pretend to rifle through his shit. 

He quickly turns the handle and leans in, only the door doesn’t open. He rattles the handle, growing frantic with each jerk, as if he does it enough times, the door will magically unlock for him.

“Izzy, open the fucking door,” he hisses, slapping the wood with his palm. 

He hears laughter. Blood surges to his cheeks. He yanks the handle once more, and then kicks the door, walking away. Fuck them. They can OD for all he cares. Tears spring to his eyes and his breath shortens.

When he totters back into the living room, Duff glimpses over at him in concern. He nears the couch and bends over the back of it, dropping his head against Duff’s shoulder. Duff immediately lifts an arm to pet the side of his face, ruffling his hair comfortingly when he turns his face into Duff’s neck.

“Are you alright, Axl?” Duff asks, and Axl shakes his head. His heart is galloping inside his chest and his face is so warm, skin clammy, he honestly feels like he’s gonna fucking collapse and die. He wheezes, trying to suck air into his pinhole of a throat.

“Ax—hey,” Duff says. “It’s alright, man.”

Axl shakes his head again and pushes away, but his legs are quivering, and he feels weak, like he has an exceptionally bad fever, so he lets himself slowly slide down onto the floor with his back pressed to the couch. He plants a hand on the ground, trying to feel the hardness of the cold floor underneath him, because otherwise he might just sink into the ground.

Duff rushes over, dropping to a crouch near him. His outstretched hands pause midway, hovering awkwardly in the air, unsure how to act. “Ax, I think you’re having a panic attack. Um—” He glimpses to his side, uncertain, and then back at Axl. “Want me to get Izzy or Slash?” he asks. “Slash is great, you know, with helping me out.”

Axl shakes his head, hyperventilating harder. Hasn’t he humiliated himself enough already? He clutches at his chest, sucking in air like he’s hiccuping, his breath hitched and shaky. Get a grip, get a fucking grip… Even Duff’s presence feels too much; he doesn’t want to be seen, but he’s also scared of being left alone.

“Sorry. Bad idea,” Duff reprimands himself, and Axl would smile if he didn’t feel like he’s drowning. “Um, you’re breathing too fast, Ax. Please try to slow down. And I’ll… I’m gonna bring you a Xanax, alright?”

Duff trots, first making a stop at his own room and then back to the kitchen, fetching the pill and bottled water for Axl. “Here.” He unscrews the cap and holds them out, waiting for Axl to take the pill first before handing him the bottle to wash it down.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Duff says, and plops down in front of Axl, beside his splayed legs. “I’m gonna sit right here with you, y’know, until it passes.” He smiles, patting Axl briefly on the shin, hesitating to touch him any further lest he makes it worse. “It should go away soon.”

Axl nods, feeling lightheaded, as he sets aside the bottle. His head is throbbing, but he thinks he can breathe a little easier, in relief.

“This is a good spot,” Duff comments conversationally, after a period of silence. “You know, when I first started having panic attacks, I thought maybe, like, breathing into a paper bag might help in a pinch, so I would carry one around, just in case. But I ended up looking like a total dunce in front of my friends when I made everything worse after breathing into it.” He snorts at the memory. “Nearly landed myself in the ER.”

Axl’s lips quirk up. He appreciates Duff just talking to him. He doesn’t know whether it’s from the Xanax kicking in, or a placebo effect from taking it, but he feels a lot more stable now, even if he is emotionally tapped out. 

They hear the jangle of keys, and the front door opens. Axl’s anxiety spikes.

“Oh, this is perfect. It’s Stevie,” Duff whispers, smiling, and crawls forward to take refuge beside Axl, trying to stay hidden.

The footsteps draw near, along with Steven’s low whistling. Steven is about to take the bend around the back of the couch to head for the hallway, when Duff jumps up, yelling, “Boo!” 

Steven screams shrilly, and Axl’s airways clear with an unexpected boisterous laugh when Steven throws the 7-Eleven Slurpee he was drinking at Duff, striking him on the chest. Duff gets doused in an icy explosion of sticky flavored-water. Axl gets splattered, too, in the aftermath, but he’s bent over in stitches to really care. 

Steven holds a hand to his chest. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?!”

Duff launches himself at Steven, grappling with him. “Clean that up,” he orders, one arm hooked around Steven’s neck and the other pointing at the cup segregated from its straw and lid, rolling to a stop on the splashed floor.

“No way! What the fuck? You clean it up,” Steven throws back, struggling to shove free. “It’s your fault! Why’d you have to scare me like that?”

Axl’s staccato laughter gets stuck in his throat at the sight of Izzy standing at the entryway of the hall. Izzy takes one look at Axl, the mess on the floor, and Duff and Steven interlocked in a tussle, and shakes his head, moving ahead. Axl’s lips part in surprise, not expecting Slash when he follows out behind Izzy. 

Axl looks away sharply, but he doesn't need to because Slash ignores him, too, easily catching up to Izzy, and the two of them leave together. 

The light-hearted amusement in Axl’s chest dies out; pique and hurt replaces it instead. 

Slash is about to go out, but passing the kitchen, a glimpse of long hair, and even longer legs under skimpy denim shorts with a G-string peeking out by the hips, makes him pause to gawk. The chick’s bent over, elbows on the counter. He appreciates the cute butt in the shorts stuck out. Her hand pushes aside a sheet of paper, and he spots the forearm tattoo.

Ah, he could laugh. It did cross his mind, but the G-string threw him off. 

He wants to tell Axl, for a moment he thought someone’s girl was in their kitchen, but he doubts Axl would find it amusing even if he weren’t pissed off; he takes exception to being mistaken for one. He opened up about the cops harassing him back in Lafayette, how they would leer and heckle him lecherously only to come down on him harder once they realized their error. 

It’s a sore spot.

Axl has his shorts riding low and the G-string’s waistband pulled high—raised like a white flag, Slash surmises. Axl has only ever worn the lacey thong, that too just once, to allure him; so he takes this as a peace offering, because why else would Axl be walking around in a tight, skimpy T-shirt and shorts, flaunting the G-string he got for him?

Grabbing Axl by the waist, he sways closer. Axl jolts, shrinking away as if he’s been scalded, and whirls around in his arms. Axl’s squared shoulders drop when he sees it’s him, lips pursing in mild irritation. He slouches back against the island, with Slash still holding him by the hips. He gives Slash a churlish, nonchalant look that’s meant to say, What do you want? 

But Slash sees the satisfied glint in his eyes, as if he’s pleased that his little seduction trap has worked.

You.

Slash moves in to kiss him. But Slash’s attention must’ve been all what Axl sought because the smug spark in his demeanor dissipates, replaced by glacier. He shoves at Slash, trying to muscle him away. When Slash pushes back, he smacks his palm roughly against Slash’s chin.

Axl is plenty scrappy, and if he wanted to, he could make Slash budge. But Slash gets the impression that Axl is more interested in hitting him than breaking free. Axl keeps trying to slap and claw him in the face, so he grabs Axl’s wrists, annoyed, and forces him back, until Axl is reclined against the island. 

Axl reaches back, trying to find purchase, and when he does, he glares up at Slash with a defiant tilt to his chin and a shadow of a snarl, his chest rising and falling heavily. He’s so beautiful, even when he’s angry. It’s a risky bet but he cups Axl’s cheek, enjoying the warmth of it under his palm, and bears down, tilting his own head to slot their lips together.

Axl whimpers into the kiss and stops trying to hold Slash at bay; instead, he lets Slash take whatever he wants, as if he’s weak against him. It’s exhilarating, like winning the trust of a feral animal. They make out like that, deliberately slow, eating up each other’s breathy moans. 

“Is this for me?” he whispers, brushing his mouth against Axl’s as he traces his fingers over the stringy strap along Axl’s hipbone. He takes Axl by the nape, over silky hair, without waiting for an answer, and peppers Axl’s lips with small kisses.

Axl turns his own chin up, kissing Slash back harder. He nips and sucks on Slash’s lower lip, mewling softly. Slash tangles his fingers through Axl’s hair, yanking on them, making Axl squinch with a small hiss. Axl instinctively reaches up to touch where Slash’s grip is tight on his hair. Slash deepens the kiss, teasing his tongue in, when Axl’s lips part.

He wants Axl more than anything right now. He wants to prop him up and take him right here on the island’s slab. He presses his mouth to Axl’s throat, puffing hotly, and roughly gropes at Axl’s denim shorts, unbuttoning them.

“Don’t mind me, guys,” he hears Steven say. 

Steven walking into the kitchen and flicking all the lights on snaps Axl out of it, reminding him that he’s still mad, because he socks Slash right in the side of his face, making pain bloom along his jaw. 

Slash grunts, cringing away from Axl while nursing his throbbing face. It’s been a minute since he last got slugged. It sucks every time. He shifts his jaw, trying to shake off the ache.

“What the hell?” Steven says, getting out of the way when Axl turns on his heels and disappears out of the kitchen. “He can be a dick.”

“Steven.” Slash gives him a stern look. “Don’t.”

“What?” Steven startles, shifting on his feet. “Why are you mad at me? I’m not the one who punched you in the face…” A smile creeps up. “Or did I just interrupt some kind of kinky role play?”

Slash rolls his eyes. 

“Were you being a bad boy?” Steven purrs, teasing him with a put-on voice, trying to sound like a dominatrix.

“Shut the fuck up.” Slash grasps Steven by the shoulders from behind and shakes him.

Steven snickers, curling away.

Now he can’t stop thinking about Axl in a skin-tight latex outfit, equipped with a whip, or dressed like a slutty teacher even, ready to give him detention… You know, old school boy fantasies. He needs a minute.