Combination [ST & JP]

#1: "Denial is the way people deal with what they cannot handle."

Warnings: Explicit content, probably kinks but I cba to name them. Just read at your own risk :)

Enjoy SurprisedJoe and anyone else who stumbles across this Xx

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A full day in the studio had become yet another day of tiresome work.

It was the usual routine as it had been for the last few hectic months: working with song collaborators outside the band to formulate the lyrics with the licks, and making progress on the video sets for the chosen five songs that would hopefully blow up on MTV.

The drug infused seventies band that rocked concerts all over the globe, was right on track to push for an April release with Geffen Records and continue to prove history wrong with their third decade of making great fucking music.

Aerosmith was well and truly back, and they were back better than ever.

Steven was particularly caught up on the day because he knew Joe was on top of his game and had been very influential lyric wise and...personal wise.

'Fever' was the song they were jamming, a Tyler/Perry creation that should have been polished and ready to record with the rest of the band, if Joe hadn't been so fucking distracting.

It was just one of those irritating days where everything about the lead guitarist made Steven's mind restless and body react in ways that were far too visible for his liking.

However, with all his shuffling and readjusting, Joe was somehow still oblivious to it and simply continued sliding skilled fingers down the frets, whilst picking and strumming through chords with a veiny hand.

He was doing it on purpose, ignoring him, talking to himself about repeats and tempo shit and god, if it wasn't for the perfect interruption of a couple of their co-writers, he would have shown him the consequences of winding him up there and then.

Steven made an excuse to delay recording for a while longer, masking the uncomfortable strain with the lyric sheets he forced onto his lap, and when they called it a day, he gave Joe the look that required his company after hours.

No words. No touch. Just the dominant eyes that only he would understand.

My house. You know what you did.

So Steven slumped in the centre of his king sized bed, head tipped back against the headboard, duvet creased underneath his relaxed legs and was more than ready to remind Joe who was boss.

His outrageously patterned shirt from earlier was fully open and loose around his shoulders and his right hand palmed the same unrelieved boner behind snug grey boxers that not even his wife could satisfy.

The bedroom door opened.

"You're always fuckin' late," Steven scolded, barely acknowledging his presence. A light, frustrated frown was pulled down over his closed eyes and his hand kept the same, slow pace rubbing the tight cotton.

It closed softly.

"I'm sorry."

And every time it was that same stupid fucking apology with no excuse to follow up with because there wasn't one.

Steven should punish him more for making him wait, for making his cock twitch constantly from the lack of pressure, but it would all be pushed aside, forgotten with lust, because Joe would get on his knees without being told.

Steven heard the shedding of clothes, the unbuckle of a belt, the sliding of jeans down legs. Joe was probably still wearing that same baggy navy tee shirt rolled above his elbows, although that was swept off too and hit the carpet somewhere, anywhere.