The Pint of No Return

Title: The Pint of No Return
Author/Pseudonym: ScrewTheDaisies
Rating: NC-17
Archive: The Art of Slash (www.theartofslash.com)
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction, which means that, while the characters may be based on real people, the story itself is completely untrue. The story was written for the entertainment of the author; no impeachment of or malice toward the people mentioned herein was intended.
Fandom: Guns N' Roses
Pairing: Slash/Duff
Summary: Slash gets in his own way.


*******

I lifted the bottle and threw back another swallow of resolve. My gaze held fast to the object of my desire. I had to do this tonight. I'd been living with the torment too damn long.

I slammed the pint of Jack on the coffee table in the middle of the hotel suite, causing Duff to look up from the latest issue of The National Enquire he had folded in one hand. One fine eyebrow arched in question at my sudden noise-making.

"Gotta take a leak," I said, punctuating it with a grunt as I pulled myself up from the couch.

That fine eyebrow lifted a quarter of an inch higher and the brown eyes below it followed me until I tore my eyes off him in order that I could see where I was going.

In the bathroom, I held my dick and pissed in the toilet and called myself an asshole because "Gotta take a leak" was _not_ the line I'd planned on.

I lit a cigarette while I was still in the john. Sucked in smoke, blew it out, worked myself up to the task again. I had less than a third of that bottle of courage left on the coffee table. Damn it, I had to fucking do it that night, whether the bottle lasted or not. I leaned back against the bathroom door, closed my eyes, and inhaled another lungful of smoke. In my mind, I could see him, sitting in that chair, his attention back on the paper, one leg thrown over the chair's arm, that one finger still toying with that lock of hair. Or maybe he'd taken the interruption from his reading to light a cigarette and he was playing with the filter of that with his free hand instead.

I had to do it that night, or live forever with the fact of my fear.

I held the cigarette under the sink's tap to extinguish it, then left the soggy butt lying beside the drain.

I let myself out of the bathroom.

I stopped. He was sitting there just as I'd imagined. No cigarette. Blonde hair coiled around a finger. Leg hooked over an arm.

Why couldn't he be on the couch? I could sit next to him, maybe make a sly move here, a sly move there, until my destination became inevitable.


Fuck it. I strode to the coffee table, picked up my bottle, dumped the last of the liquor down my throat.

Duff again lifted his chin and an eyebrow.

"You done with that?" I asked as I chucked the empty bottle toward the couch. Without giving him time to answer, I plucked the paper from his hand.

"Not really...."

I tossed the paper over my shoulder.

Duff sighed. "Hand me my cigarettes." He waved a hand toward the table behind me.

"You can get 'em yourself in a minute." I grabbed that hand that was still held toward the table and, as I climbed onto the chair with him--climbed onto him--I pinned that hand to the back of the chair.

"What are you doing?"

I reached for the other hand. He didn't resist. He let me pin it by his head, too.

Now I was getting excited. All night, I hadn't been. I knew that he _made_ me excited, but my determination--and fear--that evening had overpowered my sexual drive. Truth be told, I was afraid all the Jack was going to keep it suppressed. But no, with him under me, looking at me, waiting...expecting.... No, I was just fine. Shit was waking up in my pants.

I had one knee between his thigh and the arm of the chair and the other knee shoved under his other leg. With another lift of his eyebrows, he slid that leg down, hooked it over my hip. It was all the permission I needed.

I kissed him, then, which I hadn't planned to do, and he kissed back, lifting his head from the seatback as I started to pull away, keeping up with me until I pulled out of reach. He dropped back. I pulled his arms around me, behind me, and then let go so I could grab his head and kiss him some more. His hands pushed under the bottom of my leather jacket. His mouth opened for me. He wanted me and I wondered why I had gone so long worrying that he wouldn't. If I'd have known...if I'd just have known.

I pulled away again, panting.

His mouth curved into a smile.

Jesus, maybe Duff was just easy.

Had everyone else in the band been fucking him all along?

The crew? The other bands? The press?

Everyone?

In a state of drunken confusion, I began to back off of him. He sat up, his leg tightening against me, his hands grabbing my arms.

"Where you going?" he asked.

"I need more Jack." I patted my shirt under my jacket. "And cigarettes. You want your paper back?"

His fingers pulled at me so that even though my feet were on the floor, I wasn't getting away.

"That's it? You get all hot and heavy on me and then that's it?"

"I'm sure you'll find someone else to finish the job off." I yanked free of his grasp. I'd found my butts. I just needed to find my lighter.

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What the fuck's it sound like?" I said around my unlit cigarette. I'd just had my lighter in the bathroom, hadn't I? I patted the front and back of my pants again. It hadn't occurred to me to go to the bathroom to look for it.

The bottom of that bottle of Jack was having its affects. My dick was losing interest. My chest tightened at the idea that Duff would even try to act so fucking innocent. He'd practically jumped me, he was so eager to fuck someone. Anyone.

I was still trying to put my finger on the whereabouts of my lighter when he stood, crossed the space between us, and then cracked the flat of his hand across the side of my face.

"The fuck was that for?" I asked, catching the cigarette that fell from my lips.

"Don't think I don't know what you were trying to fucking imply."

"I don't know what you're so fucking mad about. It's true, isn't it?"

"You're an asshole."

"You're a cocksucker."

"You need professional help."

"I need my fucking lighter."

He whipped his out of his pocket. The cover chinked open. The metal wheels grated against flint. A blue-tipped flame shot up. He thrust it toward my face.

"Fuck," I said, backing off.

He sighed and continued to hold the lighter out.

I leaned forward and sucked my cigarette to life in its fire.

He turned the lighter and snapped it closed against his thigh, extinguishing the flame.

"I've been waiting I don't know how fucking long for you to stop looking and make a move, and then you turn into a total shit," he said, pushing the lighter back into his pocket.

"That's me," I said around a lungful of smoke. "A total shit."

Duff looked around the room. Then: "You wanna get out of here?"

My Jack was gone so...yeah.

"Let me get my wallet," he said.

"'Kay." I waited and smoked. Waited and put my butt out in the ashtray. Waited some more.

"Where the fuck did it go? Didn't I just fucking have it in my hand?"

I watched his back--his shoulders, mostly, and his narrow hips--as he rooted through a duffle bag he'd hoisted onto the suite's bar.

"Fuck." He turned the bag upside-down and shook it. A few things fell onto the bar, but the bulk of the bag's contents caught in the opening and stuck there. "I _just_ fucking had it."

I'd kind of forgotten what he was looking for. Realizing there was a couch immediately behind me, I sat without bothering to glance back to gauge the drop. I was too busy committing Duff once again to memory. He was so fucking-- "You're too pretty for metal."

With a flash of a perplexed look, intensified by the thin arch of his eyebrows, he gave me a distracted "Huh?"

"You're too fucking pretty to play in a fucking metal band...you know, a real one. Not that Poison crap," forgetting for the moment my fleeting crush six or so months back on Bret Michaels. I call that My Stupid Period. It lasted two days. I'd just wanted to suck his dick...but then I found out he _was_ a dick. I buried my disappointment in a string of chicks, and believe me I was happier that way because fucking chicks...that's what I'm supposed to do.

I'm _not_ supposed to keep getting crushes on guys.

And I was so not supposed to reach a point where I was acting on one. But Duff...fuck, he was worse than a passing crush. He was a recurring crush. It always came back to Duff. Duff-chicks-crush on other guy-chicks-Duff-chicks.... It always came back to Duff.

Digging into the bag once more, Duff said--and his voice had a smile in it at least--"Are you coming on to me...again?"

I let my gaze come to rest on his hips, and the small of his back, and the way his spine moved under t-shirt as he yanked shit out of his bag. What I didn't do was answer him.

His movements slowed until they stopped completely. His hands settled on top of his bag. He didn't look back, but he said, "Hey?"

Again, I chose not to answer. Instead I watched the back of his head, which told me nothing. I realized I was holding my breath. I had no idea where I was going with this; hence the decision not to answer. Let Duff take it from there. Let what happens happen. I slipped down on the couch until my shins banged into the coffee table.

"Did you see where the fuck I put it?"

"Put what?" I patted my jacket for a pack of cigarettes and felt none. Now I'd lost both my cigarettes and my lighter.

"My fucking wallet."

Oh yeah. Because we were on our way out. A moment of wonder that we ever managed to get anywhere in the inebriated state we were often in flickered through my brain. Then I banged my shins on the coffee table a second time as I climbed up from the couch.

I crossed to the bar in three strides.

I grabbed Duff's right asscheek in the palm of my hand.

I said, "This wallet?" and squeezed.

"Fuck," Duff said, reaching back to feel the wallet that had been in his pocket all along. "I guess we're ready to go then."

Grabbing Duff's jacket off the end of the bar and then sticking close behind him, I followed him toward the suite's exit.

It took more than you would expect for him to get the door open. First, it was locked from the inside with the safety bolt. Then there were door knob coordination issues. Then the edge of it banged against Duff's boot. Twice. I was cognizant that my own brain was a bit sluggish and fleeting at the moment, but I wondered if he weren't even worse off. I'd been so busy brooding about my need to make a move that I hadn't really paid attention to what sort of substances he himself had been imbibing.

Deciding that that just may be the case--that Duff might be as fucked up as I was--I reached over his shoulder and flattened my palm against the door near the edge that was trying to come open once again. Leaning just a little weight forward slammed the door shut. And it put me against Duff's backside. The Jack's hold on me was beginning to ease up...that, or my cock was just more powerful than the liquor. Leaning against Duff's backside felt good. I could smell the hairspray in his hair.

"What'd you do that for?" Duff twisted the door handle again.

"I was thinking maybe we should stay in."

He let go of the handle. Then, with a sigh, he turned, bumping against me before coming to lean in the corner with a wall against one shoulder and the door against the other. "And do what?"

I realized I was still holding his coat. Giving it to him didn't make sense if I was talking him into staying here. Dropping it on the floor would be rude. Half-turning, I tossed it back toward the bar where it smacked against the edge of the counter and fell. At least I'd made an effort not to drop it on the floor before dropping it on the floor.

I turned my attention back to him. I was so fucked up on him, and just tonight starting to get a glimpse of the true scope and depth of it.

Jesus, I thought as I pushed closer to him. Jesus, what am I thinking? My thigh, clad in denim, touched his thigh, clad in leather, which sent prickles of electricity into my groin.

"What's up?" Duff asked.

Making a fist around thain ain and padlock hanging around his neck, I used the opening he'd already given me while he'd been searching for his wallet. "I'm coming onto you. Again."

And then he surprised me.

"Do it with your gloves on."

"What?" My grip on the chain loosened. "What the fuck?"

Duff shrugged.

"Fuck." I let go of the chain to pat the pockets of my jacket. I'd forgotten to put my butts in my pocket; I'd be lucky if there was a pair of gloves. I shoved my hands into the pockets--one on each side--and, surprising myself, pulled out my black driving gloves--one from each side. As I slipped my left hand into one of the skin-tight gloves, I glanced up toward Duff.

His eyelids had taken on even more of a drugged look than the actual influence of drugs usually gave him. He appeared mesmerized by the flexing of my hand.

By feel--without taking my eyes from him--I snapped the strap closed across the top of my hand. The other glove was tucked into the crook of the thumb and index finger of the hand it was supposed to go on. I left it there, watching instead as Duff's gaze followed my gloved hand up toward his face until it moved so close that his eyes couldn't follow it any more. His eyelids slipped closed. When my leather fingers touched his cheek, his lips parted. His hand came up and held my hand against his cheek. He nuzzled into it, turned his face until my leather-covered thumb pressed against his bottom lip. I gave a little nudge and his mouth opened, then closed quickly around it. His tongue, of which I could only feel the pressure, rather than the heat and wetness and texture, slipped around my thumb and back before pushing under it and sucking it deeper in.

And then he opened his mouth and tipped his head back, both freeing my thumb and exposing his throat. I drew a leather-clad index finger down his throat before opening the second glove so that I could push my hand inside. He didn't watch this time. He stood against the wall and the door, his chin lifted, his eyes closed, his hand wandering across his own chest, stopping to grab a handful of his t-shirt at one side of his chest, then letting go to roam again.

I snapped the second glove on.

Duff's throat was still exposed.

It was crazy--crazy thoughts...but it was the gloves, the whole idea of it.... I felt like a burglar. A hit man. I don't know. With my hands trembling slightly, I touched him with my fingertips, just below his ears. And then I crossed my thumbs in front of his throat. He pushed into my hands, allowing them to enclose his throat.

"This is crazy," I said, pulling my hands away.

Duff, opening his eyes, caught my wrists. And then, just as quickly, let go of one to grab the back of my head. My heart sped up in the instant I realized what was coming, and in the next instant, it came: Duff's mouth on mine, a slight taste of leather still on his lips and tongue. Duff, hungry for whatever he thought I could give him.

Jesus fuck I'd never realized he was so easy.

He pulled back and, still holding one of my wrists, said, "Relax. I don't want you to kill me. Just touch me."

But that was just it. We couldn't remember where Duff put his wallet, or that he was even looking for a wallet, or...fuck...what town were in we in? What day was it? What time was it, even approximately? The windows were dark, but it could be seven in the evening or three in the morning. If we were so fucked up about the simplest things, how the fuck was I supposed to be confident that I could remember what the fuck I was and _wasn't_ supposed to be doing? Images of a new Sid & Nancy sensation flashed into my mind: "Guns N' Roses Guitarist Strangles Bassist--Has No Recollection. Coroner finds evidence of sex play."

The fear of strangling him must have shown on my face.

"Whoa," he said quietly, backing off at the same time. He had pushed me back a step or two during the kiss, which gave him the room now to be able to back off. "You okay?"

Maybe it was me. Maybe I was just...fucking it up on purpose. It had started with this primitive, "Hey, I'm gonna suck your cock and maybe you could do the same for me," idea because that's all I could think about lately, sucking Duff's cock, and for some fucked-up reason--fear? insecurity?--I was throwing road blocks in my own way. I wasn't going to fucking strangle Duff for christ's sake. I'd have to be a whole lot more fucking gone than I was then to do that.

"You just threw me, that's all," I said. "I didn't expect you to...." To respond? Something like that. I'd been prepared for failure. I had no idea what to do with success.

Duff, standing there, looked both hopeful and prepared for the worst.

And he looked beautiful under that cloud of teased blonde, brown-tipped hair.

Kohl-lined eyes watched me try to figure out what to do next, but not for long. I pushed a black leather hand under his hair so that I could pull him forward by the back of his neck, so that I could say, "Forget it." So that I could kiss him--Jesus, fuck, I had never planned on kissing him in the first place. Just...Jesus, just a blowjob, a little release, a quick cure for the thoughts that had been afflicting me. Thoughts about Duff.

No thoughts so refined as leather gloves and making out, though. He was so far ahead of me.

He clung to me, walking me back, stripping my jacket off me and dropping it to the floor, pushing me onto the couch.

"What if someone comes back?" I asked when he pulled his mouth away so that he could yank off my shirt.

"Come on," he said, leaving my shirt, taking my hand. He dragged me into one of the suite's two bedrooms. I shoved the door shut behind us as he let go of my hand. But he didn't go to the bed, and he didn't turn and wait for me to grab him by the waist and kiss him.

"What are you doing?" I asked as he scooped Steven's belongings up from one of the room's two beds.

"Moving him out." He headed for the door with an armful of Steven's shit.

"He's gonna be pissed," but I opened the door.

Duff dumped the stuff on the couch and came back for Steven's bags. After they were dumped on the floor beside the couch, Duff returned to the room, rubbing his palms together. He kicked the door shut behind him. He stopped to flip the lock. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the bed that hadn't had Steven's crap on it--my bed. Then he stopped, pulled his t-shirt free of his pants.... I had my hand on his stomach as soon as it was exposed, my black leather hand, and the other at the small of his back. I pushed my hand up as his shirt went up, sliding my leather palm to his sternum, then brushing his nipples with both of my thumbs.

"Yeah, that's it...touch me," he said. He moved my hair away from neck with his hand and kissed me softly while I rolled his nipples between my leather thumbs and index fingers. I found myself enjoying the tease of being able to feel, but at the same time not to feel, through the thin gloves. The way my gloved hands looked against his pale body was hot, too. I tried for half a second to imagine doing this to a chick, cupping her breasts with black driving gloves, it it lacked the appeal. Nothing really had the same appeal that Duff had. I wondered if I'd have the same appeal I had for him now later, when this was over.

Maybe he was just easy.

Maybe he fucked everyone.

I grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled. He reached between us and undid the button and then the fly, at which point the leather trousers slid easily off his hips, revealing a pair of small black briefs with a bulge across the front. In a matter of seconds, I had him out of those pants--and the underwear--and lying on the bed where the only leather touching him was the leather that encased my hands. I pushed my fingers into his mouth, wrapped my fist around his cock, and kissed him like I'd never imagined kissing him. Kissed him with my fingers in his mouth. Kissed him with my fingers on his throat. Pinching his nipples. Holding his balls. Pushing into his ass. He writhed against me, rubbing his cock against my jeans. I pulled away from his mouth to watch him. I had the privilege now of doing that, for a few moments, while I owned him, while my gloved fingers brought him to the edge of pleasure.

"Make me come," I said then, letting my fingers slip out of him. I rolled onto my back, my arms stretched to my sides. I watched the top of his head as he unzipped my jeans, pushed the flaps open, sucked my cock into his mouth.

It felt good. But did it feel too good? Like he'd done it so often he'd perfected it?

"Hold on," he said, letting my dick slap against my stomach. He yanked at my jeans. I lifted my hips. He got my pants down to my knees before coming back to my cock, on his knees and elbows, and running his tongue around the rim.

"You're like a pro," I said, baiting him. I was completely cognizant that that's what I was doing, but how the fuck was I going to enjoy it if I didn't know? I needed to fucking know.

His response was to suck my cock back into his mouth. One of his hands roamed over my stomach. The other squeezed my thigh.

"You do this a lot?" I asked.

His head started to come up--I started to take that for a nod...and then my dick slapped my stomach again.

"What?"

I shifted my hips, lifted my head. "You're good at it. I was just wondering."

The light in his eyes flattened. His mouth tightened into a red slash.

"Fuck it. It's not important," I said, dropping my head back to the pillow.

"I'm not dragging Steven's stuff back in here."

I raised my head. "What?"

"I'm not dragging his shit back in so get the fuck over whatever fucking problem you're having, all right?"

"I'm not having a problem," I lied. I touched his face with one of my gloved hands to try to convince both of us. He kissed my palm. Then he dropped his head onto my stomach. His hands held my hips.

Finally, he turned his face aside, resting his cheek on my abdomen, and he said, "I want to do this with you."

I played with his hair.

It was too nice, lying here with him. And the Jack, it was working to make my eyes close.

I was woken a minute or an hour later by a hammering at the door, by Steven yelling what the fuck is the deal, by Duff shifting against me. The lights in the room were off. Duff must have gotten them. His hair brushed my cheek as he settled his face on my shoulder.

"Fucking cocksucker!" Bang bang bang. "Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep? To hell with your fucking bitches, Slash. I want into my fucking bed." Bang. Bang bang bang.

"Get my stuff," Duff said, stretching his legs.

"Huh?"

"I'm gonna need it in the morning. Why not go get it now. We're up. And you can tell Steven the couch is all his while you're at it so we can get some fucking sleep."

It didn't occur to me to ask why I had to be the one to do it. I just grunted and climbed off the bed, slipping into boyfriend mode like a glove. It was good to get up anyway--I needed to find my cigarettes, needed to take a leak, needed to get out of the jeans that were around my ankles before I tripped and broke my face.

Accompanied by Steven's curses and pounding fists, I stripped off the driving gloves. My hands were slick with sweat. I dropped the gloves to the floor. Naked, I unlocked the bedroom door. Apparently, Steven heard the lock turn because the pounding ceased.

"What?" I groused as I yanked the door open.

"What? What do you mean what? What the fuck?"

As I stepped through the door, I yanked it shut just as quickly as I'd opened it, blocking Steven from the room.

"What the fuck's going on? Who's in there?"

"Duff. We, uh, rearranged the sleeping arrangements."

"What? What the fuck? Why?"

I shrugged. By then I was at the bar, shoving Duff's stuff back in his duffle bag. There was an open pack of cigarettes amongst that stuff. I popped a butt out the top and stuck it between my lips.

"So why isn't he out here getting his own stuff?"

"Leave him alone," I said. "He's had a rough night."

"Great. He has a rough night so I get the couch."

"Go steal Axl's bed. Or Izzy's. You got a light?"

"No." He grabbed my empty bottle of Jack off the couch, looked at it, then dropped it on the floor.

I still had to piss, and while I was in the bathroom doing that with the door wide open, I found my lighter lying on the back of the toilet.

"So what's up with Duff?" Steven asked when I came back into the living room, a lit cigarette dangling from my lips.

"Don't worry about it." I caught the handles of the duffle bag and slid it off the bar.

"Do I get my room back tomorrow?"

"We're taking off tomorrow."

"Yeah, and going to another hotel. Do we go back to the standard arrangement then or am I just fucked?"

"We'll get you a good couch." I opened the door to the bedroom.

"Fuck it. I'm taking Izzy's bed."

"Whatever, dude."

I shut the door behind me and locked it.

Duff, slouched against the headboard, held the sheets up for me. I slid in next to him. I offered him my cigarette, watched his face in the light that flared at the tip of the it as he took a drag. He slipped an arm behind me and I slid down so that I could lay my head on his chest. His fingers played in my hair.

"You wanna try again?" he asked, his question followed by a whispery exhalation of smoke.

I put my hand on his stomach, my real hand with nothing between his skin and mine. His stomach was warm. I could feel his pulse against my fingertips. The rhythm of his life. And the downy hairs. The details of his life.

"Yeah," I said. "Let's do that."


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