Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, Acton Bell on star-collectors. I got this from Tumblr.

Rating: NC-17

This fic has three parts

Takes place after Monkees in a Ghost Town

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{part 1}

The trip was Micky's idea.

Davy had fallen for a girl who happened to have both a beach house and a cute friend who thought Peter was just the sweetest thing. So the two of them had taken off for the weekend, leaving Mike and Micky at home to recuperate from their latest brush with death.

"C'mon Mike, there's this great campground about a hundred miles up the coast. We can go up there and just relax. It'll be great, I promise. Plus Peter won't be coming so we can't have a repeat of the Marshmallow Incident."

Mike didn't need much convincing. He'd felt wound tighter than he usually was after almost getting bumped off by gangsters. The only bright spot of that incident was when Micky turned up doing his best gangster impression to try and rescue Mike and Davy. Micky played at gangster all the time to cheer the guys up at home. But something about the full outfit (why had Micky packed a suit to go to a gig?), the confidence and command when he'd walked in left Mike feeling...well, Mike wasn't sure what he was feeling. He'd had flashes of this feeling before and dismissed them as best he could. This one was proving more stubborn.

Yep, a nice long weekend in the woods would give him space to clear his head.

Things went wrong an hour into the drive, as came down in torrents. By the time they arrived the campsites were mud puddles. The radio said heavy rains were expected for the next three days. Disappointed and damp, they drove to the nearest town and found a motel with little cabins they could rent for cheap. Trouble was, there were only ones with single beds left.

Mike was not looking forward to sharing a bed with Micky. He told himself it was because Micky tossed and turned so much. It had nothing to do with the fact that his mind kept wandering towards the idea of pulling his friend close under the covers and making him moan and scream. No sir, definitely had nothing to do with that.

After they unpacked, Mike spent some time working on new songs for the band. He'd brought his guitar and plucked out chords while Micky read a magazine someone had left behind. Micky got bored with the magazine and began drumming and fidgeting with everything in the room,. Mike realized he had to find some way to occupy the drummer. It was that or lock him outside in the rain.

"Hey Mick?"

"Yeah?"

"I got some cards in my bag. You wanna play poker?"

"Sure!" Micky stopped banging on the bedside table and began bouncing up and down on the edge of the bed

"There's just one thing though" He said.

"What?"

"It's gotta be strip poker."

Mike hid the shiver that ran through him and shrugged in the way that meant okay, sure. He was a good poker player, and Micky was too expressive to ever do well in the game. He'd be fine.

———————————————————————————————-

Mike Nesmith was having the worst poker game of his life. He'd drawn nothing but bad hands and only succeeded in bluffing Micky a few times. He was down to his boxers, while Micky was down to his boxers and socks. Mike was hoping his pair of Jacks would be enough to preserve his modesty.

Micky showed his cards. A full house. He was smiling eagerly, the way he did when he was proud of something, with something wolfish lurking just underneath.

Mike pulled off his boxers. He could feel Micky looking at him and he blushed. He didn't know why this felt so different than the times they'd had to change around each other in cramped quarters. He looked up and saw Micky was staring at him the way most people stared at art, a gaze at once appreciative and appraising. The blush was working it's way from his face to his chest, and he needed to do something before he turned completely red.

"You win Mick, I got nothin else to take off. Let's get dressed and see if we can scare up some food." He started to pull his clothes back on, pretending not to notice how disappointed Micky looked.

Micky watched his friend dress and smiled to himself. He'd only ever seen the Texan turn that color a few times, always when a pretty girl tried to flirt with him. He'd liked seeing Mike, usually so cool and easily in charge, get all flustered and shy. It made him feel protective and more than a little turned on.

There was only one place open for dinner and it was a dive bar. The two men hurried towards it, Mike holding his guitar case close to protect it from the rain. Micky assured him that if he brought his guitar they wouldn't have to worry about paying for their meal. Micky, as always, had a plan.

The bar contained more people in cowboy hats than either of them were expecting, but Micky swaggered up to the bar and addressed the woman behind it. It took about ten seconds for Mike to see that the woman was unimpressed with Micky's proposition. The drummer was starting to stammer, as he always did when a plan didn't work the way it had in his head. He also caught enough of the woman's voice to detect a Texas twang.

Mike stepped up to the bar. He nudged Micky aside and took off his hat. He explained the situation to the woman, peppering his story with just the right amount of "yes ma'am." The woman smiled.

"Alright, you boys can play. If they like ya, foods on the house. If not, I aint responsible for any beer that gets poured on y'all."

Mike took a seat on the little stage in the corner. Micky pulled a stool up next to him, his legs splayed out so that his knee rubbed up against Mike's.  Mike began playing a song he'd been working on, something more country than the band usually sang.

"There's a certain something in the way you looked at me and said you'd stay that let me know that I was out of line."

He got through the first verse and chorus without any bottles thrown at his head, so he figured they were safe. He hit the second chorus

"And now I feel like such a fool.."

He wasn't singing alone. Micky had joined in, finding just the right harmony. Mike smiled a little as he sang. He loved how his friend picked up on things so quick. It made them a good team.

They worked their way through more songs, Micky eventually turning, among other things, two trashcans, a bar stool, and bottle into drums. The audience cheered and clapped and stomped along. By the end of the night the drummer was sitting at one of the tables using three beer bottles and two forks to tap out a rhythm.

Mike began the final song of the evening. As he sang the chorus he looked into the crowd for a girl or two to make eye contact with.

"I know I've been blind. To not have a loved you all this time"

His eyes landed  on Micky instead, whose own eyes were half closed, a dreamy smile on his face. He opened them and saw Mike was looking at him.

"But the image of you wasn't clear, I guess I'd been standing too near"

The smile widened.

After they finished, the owner brought them dinner and a few of the patrons bought them beer. Mike didn't feel much effect from it, but Micky was a lightweight. By the time they left, with a promise to come back tomorrow, Mike was half carrying his friend back to the room.

Micky was somehow more talkative when he was drunk, which Mike hadn't thought possible. They got ready for bed to the sound of rain on the roof and the sound of Micky chatting away about something called a Moog. He eventually flopped into bed (still talking), and Mike crawled in a few minutes after. He lay on his back, trying not to think about how cute Micky looked with his face flushed and a dopey, drunk smile on his lips, when he noticed his friend had gone quiet. Mike rolled onto his side to see if Micky was asleep. Quite the opposite. Micky was turned to face him.


Micky grinned at Mike and leaned forward, motioning for Mike to do the same.

"C'mere, I wanna tell you something."

Then he planted his lips on Mikes. The kiss only lasted a few seconds. Micky pulled back, still smiling, then flipped onto his back, shut his eyes and fell asleep. Mike spent the next hour trying not to wake him up and ask for another.

{part 2}

Mike woke up the following morning to the sound of Micky singing in the shower. He'd only kicked Mike twice in the night, which was nice. Although Mike was sure he'd heard Micky wham a hand into the headboard a few times. Sleep drumming, he assumed.

When Micky stepped out  of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, Mike suddenly became very interested in the wallpaper.

The rain wasn't as bad as it had been, so they tried a short hike to keep cabin fever at bay. As they walked, they discussed their most recent escapade to distract from the weather.

"I'm serious man, if it had been you instead of Peter with me we would've been out of there in a minute."

Mike smiled. "Yeah, the first gangster in a wool hat. That's me."

"You would've been the muscle. Y'know, the strong, silent type. You'dve liked it. I liked pretending to be the Big Man. It was kind of fun to have those two mugs all scared of me."

"You seemed to get a kick out of it. Man, I didn't know you had it in you to be that aggressive."

Micky paused and turned to look at Mike. He cocked his head.

"Hey, I'm not always charming, easy-going, baby-faced Micky Dolenz. I can be rough, tough, baby-faced Micky Dolenz." He put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. He was joking, but Mike wasn't laughing.

"I don't believe that." Mike sounded odd. Micky took a step towards him.

"Oh?"

"I don't think you're that tough, only when you're pretending to be a boxer or a gangster or somethin else."

"I can be tough when I'm just me."

"Prove it." Mike's voice was so quiet Micky had to go toe to toe to hear him. He looked up, met Mike's eyes, and saw a challenge in them. Either Mike wanted Micky to fight him or...

Micky grab Mike's shirt and pushed him backwards until he was pressed up against a tree. Mike gasped at the impact, the sound  muffled  by Micky kissing him.

Mike's head was spinning so much he nearly pulled it back in surprise, but Micky laced his fingers into his hair to pull him deeper into the kiss. It was a hard kiss, Micky nipping and biting Mike's lips, only pausing to pull Mike's head back so that the drummer could use his teeth to make a trail of red marks up his neck.

Mike flailed his hands, unsure of where to put them. He knew if he wrapped his arms around Micky he would never let go. Instead he pressed his palms against the tree trunk. Micky took this as an invitation to move even closer, grinding his hips against Mike, who whimpered in spite of himself. Micky growled in response and ground harder. Mike's cock started to stiffen and he felt Micky's lips curl into a smile. The fingers of the drummer's free hand ran down Mike's shirt, then fumbled with the zipper of his pants.Two swift, firm strokes was all it took for Mike to go weak in the knees.  A moan bubbled up in his throat and he clamped his mouth shut to keep it from escaping. Micky, finding Mike's lips no longer responsive, gave the lower one  a final love bite and pulled away.

"See, tough." Micky smiled triumphantly. Mike blinked at him, stunned.

"Well, was that what you wanted?" Micky's voice softened.  

Mike wanted to say yes. To beg Micky to do it again, to do more.

"We should head back and get ready for the show."

Micky's face fell. Then he recovered, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes.

"Yeah, okay. Good idea man."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Micky was talkative as always, but Mike could feel how forced it was. His friend was trying to pretend everything was fine. Now and then Mike touched his lips with his fingers, feeling the spots where Micky had bitten.  

At one point, as Mike was working on a song, Micky fell asleep in such a sprawl that Mike could barely perch on the edge of the bed. He scribbled out some verses onto a sheet of paper. He didn't realize he'd been stroking Micky's dark mop of hair until the drummer sighed. Mike paused, waiting to see if Micky would wake up. When he continued snoring, Mike let his hands continue their journey, occasionally letting them roam across Micky's back and shoulders.

He thought about the number of times he'd wanted to do exactly this, to touch Micky in ways he'd been taught men weren't supposed to touch each other. He lost count of both the times he'd wanted to and the times he almost did. The longer he thought, the more he understood there hadn't ever been a time where he didn't want Micky.

But he made sure to be sitting on the floor, head bowed in concentration, when Micky woke up.

When they played at the bar Micky sang and drummed happily, but his eyes never landed on Mike for more than a second.  They'd put out a tip jar, and by the end of the night it was bursting. That was good, at least.

Back in the room, Micky lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He heard Mike moving around the room and mentally kicked himself for showing his hand. His desire for Mike started months earlier and he wasn't bothered by it. He'd fooled around with guys before and enjoyed it, though those dalliances never morphed into anything more than one night stands. There had been rejections too, but none stung quite the way Mike's avoidance of him today had.

Mike was different. They were pals, band mates, partners in crime. Over the past weeks Micky tried various ways to signal his true feelings, but as far as he could tell nothing worked. Hadn't Mike noticed the way Micky always grabbed at Mike or looked for him when their daily lives inevitably lead to some ridiculous, dangerous adventure?  Micky never wanted anything bad to happen to Peter or Davy of course, but the idea of losing Mike was too much to handle. This past week he thought Mike finally understood Micky's hints. The song the night before, the stammering, the way he found little ways of touching Micky over the last few days made the drummer bold, convinced the Texan could override any odd feelings he had about his desire for Micky. Apparently he was wrong.

He felt Mike get in on the other side of the bed. If he'd ruined his friendship with the Texan he'd never forgive himself.

He may as well get this over with.

He turned towards Mike and found Mike already on his side, looking at him. The motel's neon sign sent a dim glow through the window, bathing the two men electric blue. Micky tried to make sense of his friend's face, to read him the way he would a piece of music. But the notes on the page weren't clear enough for him to understand.


"Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to weird you out or nothin"

"You didn't. Just took me by surprise is all."

Micky's pulse quickened.

"I'd be alright if you do it again." Mike was mumbling and flustered, his hands twisting the sheets. Micky wanted  to sooth him, to curl up with him and show him everything would be okay. He also wanted to pounce on him and give something to really be flustered about.

Micky propped up on his elbow and looked down at his friend.

"Really?"

Mike nodded eagerly, and Micky reached down to pull off the Texan's t-shirt. Mike sat up to help with the process. When the shirt was gone, Micky shoved him backwards on the bed and straddled him, bending down to deliver a kiss. He broke the kiss, nuzzling Mike's nose as he did so. He sat up and Mike moved to follow him. He pressed the taller man's shoulders back onto the bed.

"Stay."

The command came out gruffer than intended, but he felt Mike squirm happily when he said it. Huh, so his band mate liked being bossed around. Good to know. He moved his attention down to Mike's stomach. He tried to be calm and methodical, to kiss each inch in turn. But he couldn't. He was Micky after all, and he found his mouth moving erratically across Mike's chest. He bit down near the ribs and Mike's hips shot up. He did it again, sucking as well as biting. Mike made a noise that sounded like "Jesus" and dug a hand into Micky's hair. Micky was rather pleased with himself.

He kissed along the top edge of Mike's pajamas, letting his tongue dip under the elastic. He could feel how hard Mike was through the fabric and he ran his hands across the bulge as he continued dragging his mouth along Mike's hips. Once or twice  his mouth ran across the fabric covering Mike's cock.

"Please."

He'd only ever heard Mike's voice that high when he was singing. He looked up.

"Well, since you asked nicely"

He yanked the elastic down and took the head of Mike's cock in his mouth. He'd only done this one other time, so it took a minute for him to find his rhythm. He ran his tongue along the tip, moving his hand up and down on the rest of the shaft. Mike was making the noise he'd made in the woods, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. The more Micky took him in his mouth, the louder the cries got. Micky could feel his cock throbbing in response, but he focused only on Mike, on taking in all the sounds and feelings and sights of his body. He thought about all the things he was doing and all the things he was going to do tonight. His focus was so intense that he almost didn't hear Mike talking to him.

"I'm, Micky, I'm oh fuck.."

Micky pulled his mouth away just in time. He felt Mike come in his hand as he watched his face flood with satisfaction.  He moved forward and kissed the Texan just as a last happy sigh escaped his mouth. When he moved his head away, he saw that Mike was looking down at the front of Micky's boxers.

"Mick?"

He was glad Mike noticed his hard-on. It would help Mike understand just  how much he wanted him. Mike was still staring, not saying anything. Micky expected as much from his laconic companion.

What he wasn't expecting was for Mike to start tugging at his boxers, leaving Micky unbalanced and wobbly.

"Whoah, slow down man! You're gonna knock me off the bed."

Mike didn't seem to hear him and continued awkwardly pulling the drummer in several directions in an attempt to undress him. Micky grabbed Mike's hands, pinning them above Mike's head on the pillow. The Texan looked up, eyes wide and excited. That look, combined with the sheer ridiculousness of him acting as though Micky could overpower him sent the drummer into a fit of giggles.

"What's so funny?"

"You, man. One minute you won't even look at me, the next you're tearing my clothes off like a wild animal. C'mon Tarzan, just tell me what you want instead of ruining my good underwear" he inclined his head towards his faded boxers.

"I want to suck you off."

"Tsk tsk, where are your manners? I thought you southern boys were refined" Micky teased in a terrible Texas accent.

Mike tried to  glare at him, which only made the drummer laugh harder. Even Mike couldn't manage to look annoyed and aroused at the same time. He was about to give another hint when he saw a flash of understanding cross Mike's face.

"Please may I suck you off?"

"That's better"

Micky let Mike up, removed his boxers as gracefully as he could, and sat with his back against the headboard.  

"I'll get a good view this way."

Mike adjusted so that his head was between Micky's legs, his sideburns tickling the  edges of the drummer's thighs. He ran his mouth along the shaft of Micky's cock, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth. Micky moaned, unconcerned with volume. He could feel that Mike was experimenting, tongue moving in different, delicious patterns.

"Good boy" he found  Mike's hands and ran his own hands across them and up Mike's arms. He dragged his nails back down the pale skin and Mike moaned and moved his head faster.

Micky scratched again, harder this time, and Mike gave a muffled yelp. Micky nearly came from that alone. He cupped Mike's chin in his hands, pulling him up for air. The Texan panted, his body shuddering with anticipation. It was intoxicating, controlling him like this.

"Does it feel alright? If it don't I can..."

"It does, my gallant cowboy. I shall give you a token of my gratitude" He guided Mike's face up to meet his own and kissed  him, gentle for the first time that night. But he kept his hands firmly on Mike's head. When the kiss ran it's course, he pulled the other man's head away from his own and locked eyes with him.

"Now," he said as gruffly as he could without laughing, "get back to work."

He meant to push Mike's head down into his lap, but the Mike beat him to it, urged on by Micky's praise. It felt better and better as he gained confidence, and Micky began moving his hips, pushing his cock more and more into Mike's warm, inviting mouth. He could feel he was about to come, and told Mike as much (somewhat louder than was necessary). But the dark-haired head didn't budge and Micky came with a yell.

Mike coughed and sputtered a little, but Micky felt him swallow before he pulled away.  Mike rested his head against Micky's thigh, looking up at him.  Gradually he moved up so that the two of them were curled up side by side. He pulled Micky into his arms, kissed him one last time, and the two men fell into a deep sleep.

{part 3}

Mike woke up the same way he had the day before: to the sounds of rain and Micky singing in the shower. The song was "Last Train to Clarksville," and he hummed along as he lay in bed. His thoughts wandered happily from the sound of Micky's voice to the memories of how Micky sounded last night.

Last night

Oh merciful heavens.

He bolted upright, mind in a jumble. What had he been thinking? How could he let himself get carried away like that, and with Micky of all people? He took pride in being able to stay in control, to do the responsible and sensible thing. The only fool-headed choice he'd ever made was moving to California to make it as a singer, to form a band with three other misfits including..

Micky. What was Micky going to say when he saw Mike awake? What if he was angry with him, or felt the kind of shame that made you lash out at the closest target? Worse, what if he acted like nothing had happened, like he hadn't seen Mike vulnerable in a way that no one else ever had? What if it hadn't mattered to him at all?

Mike's thoughts broke apart when a distinctly Micky-shaped object threw itself on the bed, shouting "good morning sunshine" as it did so. Mike yanked his legs up to his chest in time to avoid a collision between Micky's head and his kneecaps.

Having landed face-down, Micky required several more roles and flops before he managed to rest his head in Mike's lap. He was dressed for the day, hair damp and mussed from the shower, batting his eyelids as he stared up at Mike.

"I tried to go to the store so I could bring you breakfast in bed, but alas they had no meals fit for such a fine man as you." His accent aimed for British noble or Southern Belle and missed both spectacularly.

Mike snorted.

"Well, more like when I stepped outside it was hailing so bad I squealed like a little girl and ran back in."

"Now aint you just the most dignified creature I ever saw." Mike was smiling now. Relief ran through him as he realized how unchanged Micky. He reached down and stroked Micky's head and neck. Micky closed his eyes and leaned into Mike's hand.

"Did you like last night?" Micky was trying to sound casual, but Mike heard the worry in his voice.


"I liked it plenty. In fact I liked it a whole lot more'n that."

Micky sat up,  looking like he'd just won the lottery. No one ever looked at Mike that way. Well, that wasn't quite true. Micky looked at him that way quite often. He really had been a fool.

"Want to do it again?" Micky waggled his eyebrows.  Mike gave a little smile and kissed his forehead.

"Later."

By mid-afternoon, Mike wished he'd been more specific. Every time he got up, sat down, or turned his head Micky looked up expectantly. It was flattering. Mike was not used to being flattered. The attention overwhelmed him. Whenever he looked at Micky he blushed, feeling like a dang schoolgirl for doing so. He decided to take a walk, weather be damned, so that his face could return to its normal color.  

There were only a few other buildings in town besides the bar they played at. He bought a cheap umbrella at the bait shop, then wandered over to the lone grocery store. While trying to determine what, exactly, was in a can marked "meat" something caught his eye. There was a bucket stuffed with bouquets of roses. Most were dry around the edges of the petals, but he found one that was fresh enough. An impulse lead him to pick it up. That same impulse guided him to cashier, who mercifully made no small talk, and out the door.

"Mick? I got you a surprise." In the time it took him to close and lock the motel door Micky bounded off the bed, tripped over his own bag, and sprinted to Mike's side. The look on his face was more appropriate to welcoming someone home from a tour of duty than from the store.

"Groovy man, we needed an umbrella." Micky's excitement always had a way of obliterating his observation skills. Mike held out the flowers, the crinkle of the cellophane wrapper filling the silence as Micky stared at them.

He plucked them carefully out of Mike's, then scanned the room for somewhere to put them. He settled on propping them up in the ice bucket, doing his best not to crush them. He still hadn't spoken. Mike was beginning to worry he'd accidentally broken his drummer.

"Thank you." Micky gave a bashful smile. He was beautiful. Not handsome, not cute. Beautiful. Mike understood in an instant why it was so damn hard to describe beauty without being corny. How could he explain what Micky was? He was a perfectly tuned guitar  bright and shiny as the day it was bought, the sun when it rose over the desert. He was every melody Mike ever loved molded together

"I have a surprise for you too."

"What?"

"Go sit on the bed and close your eyes."

Mike obeyed, sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed. He heard a rustle of clothing and of Micky rummaging in one of their bags. Excitement sparked it's way through his system, his fingers prickling with adrenaline.

"Alright, you can open them." He did, and his eyes widened instantly.

Micky was wearing the suit, the same one he'd had on in the ghost town.

"It was still in my bag, I found it after you went out. I figured since you like it when I play tough, you'd like it even better if I looked the part."

Mike nodded, slowly, his eyes traversing Micky's body from top to toe.

Micky sauntered closer, taking his time.

"In that case, take off your hat. As a matter of fact, take off everything. And make it snappy, or I'll do it for you." 


The Texan undressed as fast as his shaking fingers allowed, and was soon down to his boxers and shirt. He was fumbling with the buttons when Micky ran out of patience.

"Time's up!" The bark came from the end of the bed, where Micky stood looking remarkably menacing. .

Mike froze.

"You ain't gonna let me finish?"

"I told you, if you were too slow I'd take matters into my own hands." Micky was on the bed now, kneeling  face to face with Mike. He started undoing the buttons of Mike's shirt, but they were so stubborn he had to look down to loosen them. As he worked he said, "and the next time you address me, you call me sir. You dig?"

"Yes."

Micky's head snapped up and his hand wove into Mike's hair, yanking it back.

"What did I just say?"

"Yes sir, sorry sir."

Micky released his grip, allowing Mike to bring his head forward. When their eyes met Mike saw that the drummer was worried he'd overstepped. Mike leaned in, kissed him, and as he pulled back whispered, "keep goin'."

Micky defeated the last button and pulled Mike 's shirt back. Instead of removing it, he left Mike's arms half covered, tying the loose ends of the sleeves together, trapping his arms behind him. Micky gave a shove, toppling Mike on to his back and climbing on top of him. Between his weight and the shirt, Mike was well and truly pinned.  Micky's mouth was level with Mike's ear, his voice a growl.

"There's two more things you gotta know. I'm gonna rough you up some, and if you get too loud I'm going to get even rougher. And the only way you're going to get fucked is if you beg. And I don't mean just saying please. Got that?"

"Yes, sir." Mike had never been this turned on in his life. It was incredible being trapped like this, knowing he was at Micky's mercy. The bulge he saw in Miky's slacks confirmed he was equally enjoying Mike's helplessness. He decided then and there that he had no intention of giving Micky the satisfaction of begging, or of being loud. It would be more fun to make his friend break first. Micky may be determined, but Mike was stubborn.

Micky sat up, running his hands over Mike's exposed chest. He traced a finger along the Texan's collarbone, pressing a nail down as he did so. He didn't stop until he'd reached Mike's hip. Mike smiled. If this was as intense as Micky got, he'd have no trouble outlasting him.

The next attack was along his sides, Micky's hands moving up and down, coating Mike's ribs in scratches and making his back arch. Mike gasped, but nothing more. He felt Micky kiss his inner thigh and, without warning, bring his teeth down hard where his lips had been. Mike cried out more from shock than pain, but that didn't matter. Micky sat up, grinning.

"That was quite a noise. You know what happens next?"

There was no chance for Mike to answer. Micky was suddenly everywhere. His mouth made hickeys on Mikes thighs, then his chest, then his neck, while his fingers scrawled red marks across every inch of skin they touched. Mike, determined to not make another sound, bit down on his lip.  The pain was exquisite, electric, making every part of him light up with pleasure. There were no pauses between sensations, no place to catch his breath. He allowed himself a gasp and tasted blood from his bitten lip. He was hard, but noticed Micky took care not to touch his cock. He really did mean to make Mike beg.

Micky's mouth found an unmarred patch of Mike's neck and bit down. The sensation was too much, overloading Mike's system. The adrenaline, the pent up desire, the pleasure all needed release or Mike was going to pass out. He yelled ecstatically, wordlessly, and Micky stopped moving. He stared down at Mike, panting, and the Texan was positive that his own heartbeat could be heard several counties away.

Micky considered his next move. He'd anticipated Mike being stubborn, but was impressed by how long he'd managed to keep quiet. He'd withstood quite a lot and deserved a reward. Micky could easily reach down and give it to him. Stop teasing him.

But where was the fun in that?

"I'm wanna see what other parts of you I can rough up. Roll over." Mike did, shakily, and Micky unbound his arms.

"Put your hands on either side of your head, and don't you dare move them. Since I'm feeling generous, you can make as much noise as you want."

Mike brought his hands up next to his head. Micky mirrored the movement, bringing his own hands to rest on Mike's shoulders. He rubbed them, savoring the tension and strength underneath the skin.

"You ready?"

"Uh huh."

The clawing and biting began on the fresh canvas of Mike's back, but was not the rapid flurry of before. Instead it was drawn out, the intensity of each movement heightened because there was nothing to distract from it. In spite of Micky saying he could be loud, Mike still fought to stay quiet. He was afraid that if he made too much noise they'd be found out. And refusing to beg was rapidly becoming a point of pride. He'd be damned if he was going to let a skinny drummer get the better of him (no matter how incredible said drummer might be). But it was a losing battle. His sweat made every scratch sting, his whole body humming with the sharpness of the pain.

The rough fabric of the suit rubbed against his bare skin, the contrast of the two making him feel all the more powerless. He bit the pillow, knowing that Micky must still be able to hear him groaning.

The sensations ground to a halt. Micky pulled away completely, though Mike could feel that the drummer was still on the bed. He heard a zipper, then felt Micky's fingers curl around the edge of his boxers and ever so slowly pull them down. It took his brain a moment to understand that the sensation he was feeling was Micky's cock grinding against his ass. It was incredible, and better still the movement of Micky's hips pushed Mike's own down against the bed, letting him grind against the covers in a desperate attempt to get off.  But Micky was paying attention.

"Not so fast." He yanked Mike's hips backward and up so that Mike was hunched on his knees,  unable to rub against the blankets. He kept grinding, the movements getting sharper and harder as his growls increased their volume.He never penetrated, just thrust and ground wildly against Mike's body.  Mike couldn't take it. He surrendered.

"I give Mick, I'll do anything you want, please just fuck me. I don't care how, but I need you to, please, please, please fuck me. "

"Now why would you want me to do that?"

"Because I want to come, Jesus aint that obvious?!" There was desperation in Mike's voice, but he was past caring. He wanted Micky, wanted whatever else he was willing to offer.

A satisfied laugh came from behind him and his hips were released, all of his body once again pressed against the bed. Micky kissed the nape of his neck.

"You did good cowboy, you held out a long time. I think you deserve a reward." The softness of his voice was jarring, like silence after a fireworks show.

"I'm going to keep to doing what I was doing, but no rules for you this time. Just do what feels good. Alright?"

"Yeah" Mike smiled, turning his head for a kiss that was gladly reciprocated.

Micky's hips began moving again, roughness replaced by gentle, deliberate motions. Mike's hips thrust in response. Pressed between Micky and the bed he felt secure, surrounded on all sides by pleasure and heat and the sheer, overwhelming sensation of Micky's need for him. He focused on all the places Micky's body met his own, on how electric the contact between them felt.  The force of the feeling nudged him over the edge. He came, letting the sounds that he'd kept inside for hours, for days, for months escape into the pillow.

Micky's breathing was now nothing but shallow gasps until Mike, on a whim, pressed upwards and ground against the drummer's cock. There was a groan as Micky's thrusts came faster and faster until he came against the small of Mike's back.

They lay still for a moment, panting, sticky, and absolutely satisfied.

Micky rolled off of Mike, flopping on his back with a sigh.

"Whelp, now I really have to send this to cleaners."

Mike gingerly lifted himself up to look at Micky. The drummer was a mess, the suit soaked with sweat, its shirttails askew and some new, very telling stains on the slacks. Mike looked down at himself  to see that he was more disheveled than his friend was. A map of scratches, dotted with bruises, covered his body and Micky's hands had thoroughly snarled his hair.

Mike started laughing at how ridiculous they looked, at the sheer unlikeliness of the whole night. And he laughed with relief that Micky was still Micky, still a chatterbox with the oddest sense of humor Mike knew of.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothin. Just feelin awful nice is all."

Micky peeled the suit off and tossed it away, the sight of him naked making Mike wish he had more energy to spend. Instead first he, then Micky, washed the sweat from their skin and climbed into the bed.

They talked for hours, curled up together as tight as possible until one, then the other, fell asleep. In the morning they knew they'd have to journey home, have to sort out what, exactly, this all meant.

But for now, all that mattered was that they were together.