Hel

A = aftercare

he's not soft in the traditional sense but Slash takes care of you because he needs to altough he is kinda bad at it

after he’s finished with you — especially if it got rough — he stays close

wipes your body with a crumpled t-shirt...

lays beside you, silent but present, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your thigh

his way of saying “I got you” is physical — an arm slung over your waist, his mouth buried in your hair. if he really pushed you? he’ll look at you and ask “You good?”

and when you nod, breathless, he presses a slow kiss to your shoulder and pulls you close

he may not always say "I love you" but his actions scream it

B = body part

on you: your thighs

he can’t stay away. grips them when he’s between your legs, bites them hard enough to leave marks. pulls them over his shoulders, spreads them wide like he’s got a right to

“Fuckin’ perfect…” he’ll mutter against your skin, watching his fingers sink into you like he’s in a trance

on him: his hands

Slash knows he has the kind of fingers that make people melt.

long, thick-knuckled, rough from strings and smoke and years of use

when he slides them down your spine, wraps them around your throat or curls them deep inside you? it’s game over

C = cum

sticky, messy, unashamed

he likes watching it drip down your thighs or pool in your bellybutton — gets off on how ruined you look. he doesn’t pull out unless you ask

he wants to fill you, to watch you fall apart with his name on your lips. sometimes he finishes on your chest and smears it with his thumb, half-dazed, whispering “You look so fuckin’ good like this”

he always watches the aftermath like it’s a painting he made. and if you moan when you feel it leak out? he’ll be hard again in seconds

D = dirty secret

Slash secretly keeps little souvenirs from your nights together — nothing creepy, just things that keep him grounded when you’re apart

a necklace clasp you broke in the heat of it, a pair of panties you “forgot” even a crumpled bar napkin with your lipstick stain

sometimes, on tour, he’ll pull one out, run his fingers over it, and get hard just remembering what you were wearing, what you sounded like

he won’t tell you this outright — but you might catch him smirking when you spot something familiar in his guitar case

E = experience

more than you’ll ever know

groupies, models, dancers — he’s seen it all

but with you, he slows down. he pays attention. doesn’t just fuck you — he reads you like a setlist. the man knows how to make you feel like the only person in the world and he doesn’t repeat himself. every night feels new

he’s refined chaos — learned how to bring you to the edge and hold you there

F = favorite position

he’s obsessed with lazy doggy — you flat on your stomach, legs parted, hips tilted up just enough

loves how deep he gets, how your back arches, how you sound with his hand on your spine

also adores you on top, especially when he’s buzzed and watching you bounce in the low light, curls falling into his face. that smug half-smile, hands behind his head, then grabbing your hips when he loses control

“Fuck… don’t stop. Ride me just like that”

G = goofy

not often — but if you laugh during sex? he’ll smirk and roll with it

he’s got a wicked sense of humor but he doesn’t let it interrupt the vibe. if you bump teeth or trip over your jeans mid-striptease, he’ll chuckle and pull you onto his lap anyway, mumbling

“C’mere, clumsy”

sex with Slash isn’t sterile. it’s alive. you can giggle one second and be screaming the next

H = hair

that mane is iconic for a reason. thick, wild, sometimes damp with sweat as it falls into your face when he’s fucking you. he doesn’t mind when you tug it — actually, it turns him on

“Careful, baby…” he’ll grit out but he doesn’t stop you

downstairs? natural, unbothered. it’s Slash

on you? he doesn't give a damn

I = intimacy

he’s not the romantic candlelight-and-roses type but what he gives you is deeper

he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real

after slow sex, he gets quiet — touches your cheek, presses his forehead to yours. He memorizes the sound of your breath

one time whispered “You feel like home” in the dark, didn't say anything else just kissed you. he won’t say that again tho

J = jack off

he does, but rarely

Slash is the type who’d rather wait for you — even if it means days of being painfully hard but if he’s on the road and aching for you?

he’ll jerk off to your voice on a voicemail or a photo at 2am

fist tight, back arched, muttering your name under his breath like a secret

K = kinks

choking — gentle pressure, his thumb under your jaw

voyeurism — wants to watch you touch yourself, spread for him

degradation mixed with praise — calls you filthy, then tells you how good you take him

possession — gets off on hearing “yours” when he’s buried deep

public risk — not full-on exhibitionism but almost-getting-caught sex? that’s his favorite drug

submission — every so often, he lets you take control. stripped of his hat and shades, wrists pinned or tied, you calling the shots. he pretends it’s no big deal but the truth is it wrecks him — the loss of control makes him harder than he’d admit and when you ride him until you’re done, he’ll remember it for weeks

L = location

where hasn’t he done it?

tour bus bunks, recording booths, backstage lounges — he thrives in chaos. but his favorite?

hotel balcony at night

you, bent over the railing, stars above, the sound of your moans muffled by the air. he likes the danger — likes to know you trust him enough to lose control out in the open

M = motivation

it doesn’t take much

a glance. the way you lick your lips. your thighs in those damn shorts. but his biggest weakness? attitude

if you sass him, talk back, roll your eyes — he’ll have you pinned in seconds

“Think you’re tough, huh?”

he’ll ruin you just to wipe that look off your face — or make you beg for more of it

N = no

he’ll never cross a boundary

no means no

doesn’t do pain for pain’s sake and if he ever senses you’re not into something, he stops

full control — but never abusive

the moment you say “Stop” it’s over and he’s holding you like a man possessed

O = oral

giving: he’s a goddamn menace but he is lazy with it. one hand around your thigh, the other buried under your ass, holding you still while his mouth works slowwwww, deep licks that make your eyes roll back

loves making you cry from overstimulation

receiving: he LOVES receiving. he’ll sit back, watch you, half-lidded eyes dark with hunger. growls low when you suck him deep. fists your hair but never forces — unless you ask

P = pace

he either fucks you slow and deep like he’s trying to ruin you gently…

or hard, wild, hips slamming against you until the whole room shakes

no in-between. he’s either savoring you or taking you. either way? you’re left shaking

Q = quickie

obsessed

he’ll grab your wrist and drag you into a coat closet mid-party

backstage before a set

bathroom of a seedy club

pulls your panties to the side, grits “Keep quiet” into your neck — and doesn’t give a damn if you don’t

R = risk

Slash doesn't care about the risk

if he wants to have a blowjob in public nothing is stopping him

maybe only if you're not comfortable with it

S = stamina

legendary

he can go for hours — fueled by cigarettes, whiskey and lust

one round isn’t enough

two isn’t either

he’ll pull you into bed for a third, then fall asleep inside you

and in the morning? he’s still hard

T = toys

he’s more into hands-on but if you bring toys into the bedroom?

he’ll get curious real fast

loves using a vibrator on you while he’s inside you — the overstimulation gets him off like nothing else

may or may not handcuff you to the bed once and forget where he put the key

U = unfair

he knows exactly how to wind you up when he’s not ready to give in

will touch you everywhere but where you need it — thumb brushing your hipbone, palm sliding under your shirt but stopping short, mouth hovering over your throat without kissing

in bed, he’ll bring you right to the edge, pull back, and smirk while you squirm

if you try to beg, he’ll tilt his head and murmur “What’s the magic word?” — and keep you there until you’re half-crazed

V = volume

not loud — but intense

deep groans, broken breaths, curses muffled against your neck. the moment he starts growling your name, biting your shoulder to hold back a moan? you know he’s close

his voice alone could make you come

W = wild card

secretly loves when you take control

ride him, pin him, tease him

he acts annoyed, but he’s dying inside

the hotter you get, the quieter he gets — and then suddenly he’s flipping you over and reminding you who’s in charge

X = x-ray

thick

uncut

curved just enough to hit the right spots

6.5–7 inches, veiny, heavy in your hand

he’s not a bragger — but he knows what he’s working with, and he knows how to use it

looks so good when it disappears between your thighs

Y = yearning

when you’re apart? he’s a mess

can’t sleep

can’t focus

sends you dirty voicemails, half-asleep and whispering:

“Need you so bad, baby. Wish you were here…”

when he sees you again? clothes come off before you even say hello

Z = Zzz

after sex, he crashes like a rockstar in the wreckage — tangled in sheets, wrapped around you, dead weight

smells like sweat, sex, and cigarettes

he’s a cuddler, whether he admits it or not

you move? he groans and pulls you back

he sleeps better with you there. always

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