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“So you’re gonna fuck Steven’s girl for the album?” Izzy frowned, glancing briefly at Duff before looking again at his red-haired best friend. “And Steve’s okay with this?”

Axl shrugged, green eyes flashing in the fluorescent glow of Izzy’s kitchen as he looked steadily from one Gunner to the next. His eyes settled finally on Slash, who was staring at his lap, face half-hidden behind his curls.

“I don’t see why it’d be a big deal,” he said coolly. “Adriana’s a stripper anyway…”

Izzy and Duff looked at each other again. “Fine, Ax,” Izzy mumbled. “Do whatever you want.”

“Thanks for your permission, Iz,” Axl snarled, before standing up. Again, he looked at Slash, who was still staring at his lap, picking mechanically at the calluses on his fingers. The shy guitarist didn’t look up, but Axl could sense the tension building in his shoulders.

“You’d better go at it tomorrow,” said Duff, “since Steve’s coming back from Ohio on Friday.”

“Yeah,” Axl said. “Tomorrow.”

Izzy sighed. “Well, it’ll be controversial,” he said. He headed for the door. “I’m goin’ to get Treader at the vet. Lock up when you leave, all right?”

“Wait, I’ll come too,” said Duff. “I’ll bring Chloe.”

Izzy nodded, and he and the bassist left the apartment.

Slash looked up from his lap. Axl was leaned against the doorway, his copper hair falling in a soft sweep over his forehead. He looked positively gorgeous, and Slash had to resist the urge to jump up and tackle him.

“So,” said Axl, keeping his voice void of emotion, “are you gonna be comin’ by the studio tomorrow?”

“What time?” Slash asked, his heart rate quickening.

“Around noon.” Axl looked at him, saw the almost hungry desperation in his eyes, and had to concentrate hard against walking over and taking him right then.

“I’ll be there,” Slash nodded. He stood up, and Axl noticed he was trembling. The singer sighed, reached for the doorknob, then paused.

“Top or bottom?”

Slash’s eyes widened. It was the first time in the three years of their secretive, more-sex-than-anything relationship that Axl had come right out and asked, instead of hinting at what he wanted.

“T-top, I guess,” he said, blushing a little. He was usually top anyway; Axl refused to, ever since he was thirteen and his stepfather had forced him to “either top me, boy, or your sister gets it up the ass!”

Axl nodded. “Yeah… all right, see ya tomorrow, then.” He turned and walked out, and Slash shut his eyes. His heart was still racing. The thought of getting to fuck Axl in a public place, and then immortalizing it on a record, was almost too much to handle. He slipped out, remembering to lock the door, and headed down the street, trying to control the grin that had blossomed onto his face.

~~~

The next day, Axl showed up to the studio early, hair freshly washed and smelling of coconuts, a small bottle of scented lube in the back pocket of his jeans. He set the lube on the floor of the recording room, shut the curtains, and sat at the piano, waiting for Slash. For three years now, ever since a vaguely-remembered drunken Christmas party which Axl always thought of when smelling peppermints, he and the dark-skinned guitarist had been fucking in secret. At first, Axl had promised himself that’s all it would ever be, but lately… they’d been getting closer. And Axl was finding it harder and harder to keep his feelings in check. The teasing, the secretiveness, the almost-cruelty turned him on, and he knew it did the same for Slash, but… he wished, sometimes, that there could be more.

Not that he’d ever tell him that.

Fifteen minutes after noon, the studio doors opened and Slash came in. For a moment, when he looked at Axl, his entire face lit up, and the redhead almost didn’t want to chastise him. Slash dropped his top hat on the piano bench and smiled shyly, and Axl stood up.

“You’re late,” he said.

Slash’s face fell. He swallowed. “Axl, I—”

“You know how I feel about lateness, Slash,” Axl said. His voice was cold, and a shiver ran up Slash’s spine. He loved Axl, but he didn’t want to say it—there was too much at risk, too much to lose. The sex was great—Axl was very experienced, to put it lightly—and they had their friendship—full of light flirting and a slow trust build—to fall back on. And if Slash had to take a bit of abuse, so be it.

“Yeah, I know,” Slash murmured.

“Y’know,” said Axl, walking around the younger man and pressing up slowly against him from behind, “I might do what I told Iz and Duff yesterday; I might really call Adriana Smith.” His voice was a husky whisper in Slash’s ear, and he felt his cock twitch slightly. He swallowed, shut his eyes.

“Axl, I really do want this…”

Axl slid his hand around to Slash’s front, then down to his crotch. He squeezed lightly, smirking against the guitarist’s neck.

“Already getting it up for me, Hudson?”

Swallow. Nod. This for Slash, who was shaking, trying to control himself until Axl was ready.

Laugh quietly. Come around to the front. This for Axl, who walked slowly around Slash, trailing his fingers gently along his hipbones.

“Good,” he said quietly, when they were facing each other. “Because you’re still topping, and I don’t want this to just be pleasurable for me.” And then he kissed him, roughly, except it wasn’t rough, not really; it never was with Axl. He kissed like he sang, trying to be rough, but with an underlying bluesy softness which made you realize that he was gentler, less sadistic, than he usually let on. He slipped his tongue between Slash’s lips, and the guitarist moaned softly.

“Recording room,” Axl murmured, gesturing at the glass-plated area, where he had left the lube. They went in together, and Axl flipped the recording switch while Slash shut the door. For a few seconds, they just stood there, staring at each other, then Slash moved forward and kissed Axl, reaching up and trailing his fingers down the singer’s neck. Axl reached down and splayed his hand over Slash’s hipbone, and Slash nudged him backwards with his knee. He ended up against the wall, sliding one pale, long-fingered hand between them as Slash pulled his fingers through the singer’s red-gold hair. Their tongues danced, and Axl bit down lightly on Slash’s lower lip.

“Mmph,” Slash mumbled, feeling Axl’s fingers working on his belt loops. He tugged lightly on the hemline of his shirt, trying to pull it over his head, and Axl pulled back from the kiss long enough to help him out. And then his pale, perfect chest was exposed, and Slash moved his mouth down, going from Axl’s lips to his neck to the hollow space between his collarbones. The redhead gasped, shivering a little. Jesus, Slash feels good. He reached up and clutched at the guitarist’s curls, then slid his hands down Slash’s chest and stomach, pausing to remove his shirt before returning to his jeans. As he worked on the belt and zipper, Slash ran his tongue over Axl’s skin, lightly biting his sternum, marking him. He tugged Slash’s jeans down, and Slash made a soft whimpering sound at the cold air contacting his skin before continuing his descent of hot, slightly sweaty kisses down to Axl’s stomach.

“Sl-Slash…” Axl moaned softly, trying to keep his voice down. He braced his fingers against the guitarist’s dark shoulders as Slash pulled his leathers off, burying his nose in the soft, auburn pubes springing out, inhaling his scent. Axl smelled like strawberries, nicotine, soap, coconut, and some strange, erotic aroma which Slash could not define. After a bit, he slowly kissed his way back up, lightly grinding their crotches together. Axl cupped his hands around Slash’s ass, sliding his thumbs over the soft skin on his lower back. He hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of the guitarist’s boxer shorts, pulling them down. Slash reciprocated the action, and they kicked off their underwear, sliding their hands up each other’s sides, fighting for dominance in each other’s mouths.

And then they were naked, and for a moment Slash stood there, staring at Axl, his eyes roving over the lean, hard planes of the singer’s body. Axl swallowed, his sharp emerald eyes darkening and sliding down Slash’s chest and stomach, to his hot, throbbing hard-on. He reached out and took the younger man in his hand, and the guitarist made a hoarse, strangled cry at the back of his throat. Axl slowly stroked, teasing his fingertips in Slash’s pubes, sucking on the side of his neck. Slash felt the white-hot lust shooting through his veins; he slipped his own hand around Axl, running his fingers along the shaft, swiping his thumb across the slit, wet with pre-come. Axl moved his lips back up to cover Slash’s, and they moaned into each other’s mouths, tasting peppermint and nicotine and a faint hint of liquor.

“Slash,” Axl mumbled after a while, “get the…” He pointed, and Slash saw the lube, and he nodded, moving away and grabbing at it, his hot fingers sliding over the hard plastic. He unscrewed the top and the studio was filled with the scent of strawberries. Axl blushed, and Slash smiled. He dipped his fingers in, coated his cock, then moved again, dipping more and warming it up before getting close to Axl. The singer hooked his legs around Slash’s waist, pushing their hips together, and Slash felt under him, carefully stretching him open. Axl bit down on his caramel shoulder to muffle his sharp cries; it hurt so fuckin’ bad, always did, and that was the only part of it he hated.

And then Slash was pulling out and lining himself up with Axl’s entrance. He locked his chocolate brown eyes onto Axl’s and murmured, “Y’ready?”

“Yeah…” Axl licked his lips, which were reddened and slightly bruised. As Slash pushed slowly into him, he shut his eyes and tilted his head back, letting out a low hiss. Callused fingers gripped his pale, muscular thigh, balancing him; a moment later, heart pounding, he nodded, and Slash started to move. His other hand wrapped again around Axl, and his thrusts matched tempo with his strokes. Axl gripped Slash’s shoulders and kissed him again and again, frantically, trying to drown out his erratic breathing and animalistic moans. Slash picked up the pace, grunting softly into Axl’s mouth, gasping at the friction of their hips rocking together.

Eventually, Axl felt a heat building up from deep within him, a familiar tingling in his balls that meant he was getting close. He tightened his muscles around Slash and moaned, “Shit… f-fuck… I’m… gonna come…” He tried meeting the guitarist’s eyes, but his vision had gone white; there was a loud buzzing in his ears. He came, hard, hot white seed spilling over Slash’s hand and onto their torsos, and the younger man, feeling all of Axl’s muscles tensing up against him, immediately joined him, with one final, hard thrust that sent him spiraling down, straight off the edge. His muscles went weak and he collapsed to the floor, still supporting Axl, who was shaking, his body slick with sweat. Slash pulled out slowly, reaching over and flipping the recording switch and letting out a tired sigh.

“Axl…” he breathed, resting his head on the redhead’s shoulder.

“Fuck, Slash…” Axl whispered hoarsely, shutting his eyes and tilting his head back against the wall. “You’re fuckin’ amazing…”

He felt Slash’s lips curve up against the side of his neck and knew he’d said the right thing.

“So are you,” the younger man said after a bit, twining his fingers with Axl’s. “An’ you still taste like strawberries.”

The older man chuckled. “You still taste like chocolate,” he murmured. For a second, Slash thought he was going to say something else, but he just let out a sigh and looked at the far wall of the studio. The guitarist wanted to tell him, needed to say I love you just to see if it would be a mutual feeling, but Axl was already shifting beneath him, and he knew that if he said something now, he’d piss the man off, ruin the moment.

Baby, maybe, someday… Slash thought, looking at the soft slope of Axl’s neck, and he smiled sadly to himself.