Disclaimer:

Notes: What should I say? OMG I'm so fucking SORRY! I'd like to make amends to Axl and well... everyone who may take offence! Actually I just wanted to write some slash cause I couldn't finde much new stuff to read and I was just staring at a pic of Axl bending over. So I was thinking about a way to make Mr. Axl Fuckin' Rose bend over for some guy... and well, I came up with two possibilities: 1st "Axl is shitfaced (n drugged out of his mind)" and 2nd "Axl's a headcase". T-T So 2nd one it was... And since it's the only thing I ever finished, I thought I'd share it (even though it came out quite sick... scratch that... entirely sick!). Btw. the story is writen from another person's POV. In 2nd person. Did I mention that I am sorry? *dodges flying tomatos* Disclaimer: No, I don't own Axl. Sadly. For the poor editor, who HAS to read it: Sorry, I would have posted a NICER story first... if I had known about the validation system and ugh... if I HAD another story... ___________________________________________

It’s been one of those bloody dreams again.

You see him standing there in the darkness, his back against the door frame, his breathing slightly uneven and you wonder how long he’s been standing there, how long he’s kept watching you in utter silence…

Or does he even look at you? His head is lowered, his long hair falling into his face, a very delicate shield trying to create his own, personal little safeguard. Or struggling not to give too much away… of what is still left.

You realize he might as well‘ve been starring at his god damn toes and the thought feels like a sharp stab in your guts.

His body is so tense, his shoulders are almost up at his frickin’ ears. And the imagination he might fear your touch as much as the fucking dreams creeps on you and drills under your skin. Just like rotten flesh slowly coming alive with maggots.

You suddenly appreciate he’s all engrossed in scanning that stupid piece of floor. The thought that if he looked at you, it would be with sheer disgust, his face all contorted and snarling in his repulsion and anxiety…

Then he’s moving under your observant eyes, clearly aware that you’re no longer floating in the gentle confines of sleep, so you reach out to the small lamp on the bedside table and let soothing orange light flood the cool silence of the all at once not so cozy master bedroom. And suddenly his head snaps up and his eyes meet yours accompanied with a small hiss that is even scarier that one of his raging tantrums (including the kicking, biting, scratching, bottle throwing, television-screen bursting, etc.). Not that much of his temperament is directed on you right now, he still needs you. But fuck the motherfuckin’ bitch of a lamp that dares to illuminate him in his biggest shame, at his most vulnerable. And you can’t fight of that sick little grin that crawls on your face oh so damn slowly.
Yes, not even here he can escape his bloody spotlight he relishes and yet despises so much. Only that these times the audience is much smaller and you’re not likely to spill the milk. Well at least not to the paparazzi.

And yes, you are a sick asshole for doing it, still your index finger moves eagerly to coax him closer the disgusting tiny smile still plastered to your lips almost unnoticeably but nevertheless existent.

It’s only when he’s close enough for you to see the blank look in his bloodshot grey washed- green eyes surrounded by almost bruise-like dark circles that you feel all excitement drain away. He’s not here for his own amusement. He seems unfocused. His expression- while wary- gives away deep exhaustion. Then he notices your stare and gives you one of his seductive boyish smiles, but still his whole body quivers as he slowly sits on your bed. His skin feels way too cold for the mild summer night as you grab his wrist meekly… even if he’s only wearing a half open shirt and one of those ungodly short pairs of white shorts. Right now there’s nothing in this world you want more than to pull him under the covers and cradle him like a scared little puppy ‘till he’s thoroughly warmed up and sound asleep. Not that he would’ve any of that of course; he’s just waiting for you to make the first move.

“Get those clothes off!” you command, your voice cracking in your dry throat.
He knows what gets you going. That’s how you became involved in this sick little act initially… and you’d thought you just dug your own grave as he caught you staring at his well defined backside for like the fifth time that cursed day months ago. Instead it’s brought you here. And the distracting shorts just get peeled from the ass that haunts your nightmares in a teasingly slow motion. The shirt is quickly shed and thrown to the side.

He remains there, his full body exposed in the warm light just for you to see. You cannot deny he gives a very appealing image in the shine of the small lamp, his usually blunt sienna colored hair coming alive within the bright orange changing among various shades of polished copper and blazing tangerine.

You sit at the edge of the bed and he allows you to pull him closer and plant a few very delicate kisses to his sternum while your hand wanders gently down his belly to the light colored hair surrounding his navel, playing ever so softly. It would be nice to close your lips around one of his pale rose nipples- maybe the one with the silver gleaming piercing, or to taste his plush lips for once since his face is shaven again with the skin looking pleasantly smooth.

But then he gives an impatient sigh and sinks on his knees right between your thighs. And one glare (which means as much as “move and I rip your balls off”) later his face is buried in your crotch working as precisely and practiced as a professional quickly urging you to full hardness. You seriously don’t want to know where he’s learned it.

As usual that’s the point at where you get pissed and rather want to strangle him, than to play at his rules. But that’s fine as well. He gives an appreciative smile, one that to your anxiety always reaches his eyes, as you grab his hair and yank him up roughly only to drag him onto the mattress beside you. You don’t even have to tell him to get on all fours; you barely have time to get a rubber and some lube from the bedside table.

He spreads his legs as soon as he notices you are scrambling back on the bed behind him. And the sight that meets you is one to behold. His privates have the same rose color as his nipples, for god’s sake, even the tender skin around his asshole has that pale shade of pink. You can’t help as to let your lubed fingers run down the length of his crack teasingly, knowing that he has no whatsoever intention to draw this out for much longer. Knowing it’s very likely that you are torturing him with your actions. So you unceremoniously push into him, marveling at the velvet heat that seems to pull your cock in. His face is halfway buried in the blankets, all you see are his locked jaw and narrowed eyes. You don’t even try to let your hands wander so that the pleasure would overcome his discomfort. Last time you tried, you had to explain a black eye to your wife the next day. Therefore you only settle for a rhythm that suits both, you and his protesting muscles.

It doesn’t take you long. As you come and pull out of his body all the tension is broken. Once he realizes, he will not get any more, he just slumps to the side and gives you a lazy lopsided smile and a heartfelt, relieved yawn, completely ignoring his dick flopping against his thigh, half hard from the rectal stimulation.

“How long you’ve been up?” you ask bluntly.

“Hmm, ’bout two or three days…”

“Dreams?”

“Motherfucker won’t leave me alone…’s like he still fuckin’ owns me!”

…

You sigh and watch him falling asleep within seconds, knowing that tomorrow Axl will be in one of his fucking rare fantastic moods. He will ignore you, joke with the staff, laugh over the rest of the band’s antics, maybe see his therapist, spill down new ideas for songs, probably propose to his girlfriend, write some mushy lyrics, go swimming with dolphins or whatever the hell he does when he’s had a good night of sleep.
You on the other hand are gonna spend the next days pondering about your family, sexuality, priorities, eventually a new job, what the fuck and if Axl Rose’s ass and peace of mind was fucking worth the entire shambles that used to be your ordered, ordinary life. But as you glance at his curled up frame snuggling silently snoring in your messed up sheets, you somehow know you’re gonna stay. For you know he will be back.

In fact the whole shit he puts the both of you through is fucking in vain. You’re just his tourniquet to keep the memories from flooding his tormented mind for a few precious hours. To give him the feeling there is actually something he can fight and defeat, he can rebel against. But this poison has spread far too deep for him to kick its ass.

Fuck the stupid asshole who said that time heals all wounds and forgot to mention the ugly scars you’ll have to deal with the rest of your life.

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Comment by niceboys - 03/16/13 - 02:13PM

...disturbing and alluring in one breath. Definitly worth the effort. Both, finishing it and reading it.

Comment by ShadesofBlue - 05/05/12 - 09:10PM

This was just beautifully done. Brava!

OnceAgainICantSleep's response: Thank you! *hugs* I'm glad some people liked it... but I will try not to hurt Axl in my next fic, makes me feel bad... T.T

Comment by mrpurple - 05/01/12 - 09:26PM

all fics that include Axl´s white skin-tight shorts worth the time to be readed.

OnceAgainICantSleep's response: Uh, thanks I guess... And of course you're right... damn his ass! X)