Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, usedusernames. I got this from Tumblr.

Rating: R

***

Truthfully, the party had gone better tonight than it usually did. Nothing had been destroyed, they hadn't gotten kidnapped, no one had even pulled a gun on them. No spies, no mobsters, no crooks. All in all, having one band member in a dress and their guests march out the door under military command was the closest to success they'd ever been.

Even cleaning was going according to plan. Davy and Peter had already cleared out the living room and headed up to bed―though Mike guessed that Davy would be sneaking out to stand under Leslie's window or something silly before too long. The kitchen was slower-going, as was often the case with any room Micky had a hand in tidying, but even here Mike thought there was more progress than usual: Micky had yet to change out of his dress or even kick off his heels, and while he still knocked around the room wildly it turned out this outfit severely limited how much he could climb the furniture.

They weren't in complete silence. Micky was singing something pleasant but indistinguishable under his breath while sweeping the floors, and Mike was playing accompaniment by throwing paper plates into the trash as loudly and rhythmically as possible. Just the same, it was suddenly loud when Mike decided to ask:

"Were you really gonna marry him?"

"Huh?" Micky's head shot up, eyes wide, before he understood. "Oh, pssh." He waved Mike off with a flick of his wrist. The action seemed more feminine than usual, Mike thought, a holdover from pretending to be a woman for a whole evening. "I wouldn't run out on you guys."

Micky danced around a little with his broom, clumsy in his shoes but almost energetic enough to make up for it. The broom must've been leading, because after dipping himself deeply, he continued, "Anyway, I think he'd have me pegged before we got down the aisle."

"Oh, I dunno," Mike said, chucking a plastic cup. "He's a respectable kinda guy, I think he'd wait until the honeymoon."

Micky turned his dancing partner into a machine gun and shot at Mike, who obliged by getting hit by the bullets.

He was just about to die when Micky showed mercy and lowered his weapon. Near-murder not enough, Micky chided, "Very funny."

He sounded rather motherly.

Mike shrugged. Micky rolled his eyes.

But no love was lost, and within seconds Micky was back to singing.

Mike grabbed a loose paper towel and wet it in the sink. He started wiping down the kitchen table, stickied with splashes of punch. He told himself to drop the subject with every swipe.

He didn't. "What'd you take the ring for?"

"To hock it."

"Be serious, now."

Micky smiled softly. He leaned his broom against the sink and dragged his index finger in lazy circles on the countertop as he started reminiscing. "I just got caught up, is all. Harley started telling me about all the things we were going to do, once we were married. Walking on the beach, going on picnics, vacations, family game night...." He sighed wistfully. "I would've made a great stepmother to Leslie."

Mike stopped mopping up the table to look at Micky reproachfully.

"You're practically the same age she is."

Micky stopped drawing circles on the countertop. He realized how long it had been since they dusted as he wiped his dirtied finger on his dress. "It's good for mixed families to have some common ground."

Mike said nothing, but gave Micky a smirk for this one despite himself. He went back to cleaning up, tossing this last dirtied paper towel away before hauling the bag of trash from the can. He strained to tie the bag up tight, feeling its weight. They could probably fill another bag if they wanted to.

Micky didn't go back to his chores; distraction had left him uninterested in cleaning. His head was rocking. His fingers drummed against every item he picked up, his palms made bongos out of cupboard doors and countertops. "I'm kinda serious. Not about— I didn't wanna be anyone's mother, but the stuff about getting carried away. Being Mrs. Arcadian was neat," he said. He started moving more, faster. The only time he could easily wind down to radio silence was when there was a heart-to-heart, but this one he wanted to cover with static. "I like dressing up."

He slapped the brick partition by the sink only once. It stung enough to get his attention, centering him: He forced himself quiet to hear Mike's opinion.

The silence lasted exactly the length of time it took for Mike's gaze to travel from Micky's head, to his feet, and drag back up to his eyes. "Like that?"

Micky wasn't sure what to make of Mike's response. He flushed at the gaze, worried at the question.

"Like anything," he answered quickly. "Don't go asking me to put on a dress every time Davy's date has a single father, though, man, 'cause that's not my scene."

"You and the general seemed to be gettin' on pretty well," Mike countered, a little sharp. He tried to blunt it with, "But it was for a good cause, helping Davy out like that."

Micky stared at him for a moment. Micky's gaze was usually easier to take than most people's because there was nothing either judgmental or hidden about it. Even when he was hurt, the pain was open, pure, and raw, with no attempt at bravado. Mike liked and worried about this often; although he'd never taken advantage of this openness himself he knew how easily it could be done.

The hurt was there now.

So was curiosity.

"I really wasn't gonna ditch the band for Vandenberg," Micky ventured slowly.

"Oh, I know that," Mike nodded twice, small, fast. "I know." His eyes met Micky's for only a second before looking down at his feet.

In that split second of looking at Micky's face, the hurt disappeared and curiosity doubled in its stead.

"Then how come you're mad at me?"

"I ain't mad," Mike said, looking away again. For a second he couldn't think what he was.

Supreme understanding fell across Micky's face. If he didn't know the secrets of the universe, he knew the secrets of Mike, and that was close enough. "Oh."

"'Oh'? What 'Oh'?"

Micky shook his head as he sat on the edge of the kitchen table. "Nothing."

"I'm not mad," Mike repeated, choosing to ignore him. "But you got engaged, you know, that's a big thing."

Uncomfortable sitting on his dress, Micky tugged it awkwardly out from beneath his thighs until it splayed out behind him. Doing so wasn't indecent, not really―he must've had something on underneath and they didn't have a pair of women's underwear to match the dress, so it must've been his own long boxers. Just the same it made Mike think of secret skin pressed against a table that was still damp from where he'd wiped it down.

"You think I shoulda gone for Babbitt? He might've knocked our rent down for me." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively, smiling wide, all teeth and crinkled eyes.

Mike shook his head. He knew he looked serious, but it must not have been serious enough for Micky to stay wound down. Maybe he should have said he was angry; Micky took blacks and whites better than shades of gray.

"No, man, I just want to know why you went for Vandenberg at all."

"Well! Let's see." Micky looked skyward and his entire head rolled in an exaggerated depiction of thinking. He shoved his hands between his knees and rocked side to side like a clock's pendulum. "Hmm. You know I was ready to split for a while there, what with his getting fresh and all, but he grew on me."

"Grew on you enough to accept a proposal."

Micky nodded his head vigorously, paused, considered, and shook his head just as vigorously. "Yeah, but he didn't actually ask me to marry him, he told me to. He was telling me all these neat things we were gonna do. Like, Friday's pot roast for dinner, always. And every day we'd have breakfast together, go for a walk—" Micky's face contorted in mock-seriousness and he imitated General Vandenberg poorly, with puffed chest and arms tucked behind his back in as close to military posture as he could get without getting off the table. "'My dear Mrs. Arcadian, when we're married, we'll stroll the perimeter of our neighborhood every day. It takes thirty minutes exactly―exercise is essential, as I'm sure you're aware, with a figure such as yours'." He softened his expression and whipped one hand out from behind his back. He held his fingers wide in front of his face and flapped his palm like a fan, batting his eyelashes behind his fingertips. His voice climbed higher, "'Oh, General Vandenberg, that sounds wonderful!'"

Mike made a face. "Yeah, real romantic."

"It was," Micky answered, voice still higher than usual. He laughed, pitch staggering back to normal, and continued, "Well, it wasn't, but I dug it, he was making all these plans, just telling me what to do. It was really exciting. I just wanted to go along with it."

Mike folded his arms and pursed his lips. Micky liked outlandish tales, to make believe he was a werewolf or a vampire, but this one was ridiculous even for him. "You mean to tell me, if I bossed you around you'd just go along with it?"

Micky crossed his legs. The heel of his right shoe came loose. He let it dangle from his toes. Mike could see now that he'd put on pantyhose. He'd been very thorough.

"Well, I dunno," Micky said. He sat very still except for swinging his dangling shoe. He smiled. "Try it."

Mike glanced around the room to find something to make Micky do. His first thought was practical, to make Micky do the dishes if he was in such a June Cleaver kind of a mood. He was just about to demand it when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the box of things Davy and Peter had gathered cleaning up after the party. He knew what he'd find there: from deep in the box he yanked out Mrs. Arcadian's disheveled, discarded wig, tossed by General Vandenberg as he'd left. Triumphant, he shoved his hand out to Micky. "First thing's first," he said. "Put this back on."

Mike knew he'd wanted to see Micky in the complete outfit again, but it was only after he'd passed the wig over that he realized why. He had thought, as he pulled it from the box, This'll be funny. But he saw now that that had been a self-lie, a placation to get what he wanted.

His stomach churned.

But Micky took the wig willingly. He put it on, even ran his fingers through it to comb out the snarls. Smoothed it out like he would for his own."How do I look?"

"Same as you looked all night."

Micky laughed. "And how's that?"

Mike gave a minuscule shrug and a couple tips of the head, before answering, "Good."

This compliment wasn't anything compared to what Vandenberg and Babbitt had been laying on him all night, but Mike's voice was quiet and thoughtful, a little embarrassed. Micky beamed, lighting up from the inside like a burning lantern.

He bowed his head coquettishly, looking up at Mike through a lock of blonde hair. He teased Mike's calf with his left foot; this shoe had stayed perfectly in place. "What's next?"

His voice was careful, lilting, but Mike knew at once that the flirtation was serious.

Mike could feel the catch in his throat as he breathed. He tried to think of just making Micky do the dishes again. Something silly. Something just annoying enough to teach Micky a lesson about going along with anything a person said. Instead he thought of Micky hiking up his skirt. He thought of Micky yelling out, high and breathy. His own hands grabbing Micky's thighs, rolling pantyhose down them, maybe all the way but maybe just as much as was necessary. His heart skipped a beat, skipped several, as it redirected his blood at the thought. He pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his hair.

He thought next of Micky himself. People-pleasing Micky who had only dressed in this get-up for Davy to get a date with a girl he'd stop seeing next week. Who had gotten engaged because he was told to. Who hadn't gotten angry when Vandenberg had slapped his ass announcing the engagement, only silently nervous. Who Mike realized now —"Oh."— had seized on his weird bout of jealousy, had felt it out to confirm it, and was trying now to please him the same way.

The second thought was what mattered.

"Forget it." He backed off, and continued, "Mick, this is crazy, I can't tell you to do anything."

Micky cocked his head. The bangs of the wig flopped, covering his eyes almost entirely. "Why not?"

"You see what's goin' on." His voice was nearly an accusation, borne from his own self-loathing.

"I thought I did." Micky blew the hair from his eyes, probably not conscious enough of it to be making an ironic statement. "If you don't want to—"

"Man, who cares if I want to? I'm not gonna." Mike had a stranglehold on his wool cap. "That's just not something you tell people they gotta do. If that's what Vandenberg was sellin' you on, I'll—!"

"Mike!" Micky bolted to his feet, alarmed. He nearly fell over his loose shoe, but Mike caught him fast by the arms. Micky grabbed back. "Thanks. Oh. He didn't say that. But he could've. Telling me's not making me." Micky stayed holding onto him even after putting his shoe on right. "Listen, you're leader, right? But it wouldn't work if I didn't wanna follow."

Mike carefully guided Micky back down to sit. His legs were uncrossed this time, open just wide enough for Mike to fit between them if he wanted. Even if he didn't want; Micky stayed holding onto Mike, slowly making his way down to Mike's hands. He let Micky keep him pulled in against the table, fitting between Micky's legs perfectly, Micky's knees hot up against his sides.

"What you said about gettin' caught up," Mike said, watching as Micky took the wool hat from his hand to place it on the table. "With General Vandenberg, that's groovy." He shook his head. "That's not true. I don't dig it, but it's not gonna matter tomorrow, neither. But you and me, well we work together. We live together." He set his hands on Micky's legs. "We're friends." He could feel the curve of them, usually held taut every time Mike touched a knee when offering advice, now softened by the looseness of the dress. "And most important, we love each other."

Micky nodded, not quickly but emphatically. "That's right."

"Gettin' caught up with that's a whole other beast." It dawned on him slowly how easy—purely, physically easy— it would be to put his hands up Micky's dress. The fabric was bunching beneath his fingers every time he moved even slightly. He stopped touching. "Don't go doing something just for me."

Micky brought Mike's hands back to his thighs. "I'm not. I listened to General Vandenberg tonight 'cause it was fun. I've listened to you for years, and it's...." He made an exaggerated thinking face, pursing his lips, working his jaw, and rolling his eyes up, "mostly fun, but that's not why I do it."

"That's hard to believe."

"You won't let me get hurt, right?"

"Right."

"I get kidnapped, you'll come sprinting in to rescue me from the clutches of evil, right‽"

"That's true."

"That's dumb, call the police." They snickered together as Micky laced his arms around Mike's neck. "I listen to you 'cause I trust you—'cause I want to listen. And I want to do this." He kissed Mike slowly, carefully, only relaxing once there was reciprocation. "We good?"

Mike nodded. "We're good." A weight was lifted just to be replaced by another; Micky's trust was a huge and wonderful burden. He let his hands climb higher up Micky's thighs. The dress bunched beneath his palms. "Start talkin' like you did before," he demanded, hesitantly. He was too nervous to say 'Like Mrs. Arcadian', but maybe forcing the wig earlier was enough for Micky to get the hint, because there was no question.

"If you want," Micky said, his voice immediately pitched higher, lighter, a little weird and desperate. "Like this?"

Mike had forgotten how ridiculous Micky had sounded most of the evening. "No," he pressed his lips together to keep from laughing; Micky didn't even try to hold it together. "Don't do that. Do like when you came down the stairs."

"Oh, yeah, that's better," His voice went lower than before, but the pitch still an inch or so above normal. It was sultry, smooth, "But you'll have to wait for me to say it's nice of you to come."

The words sounded loud in Mike's chest. He crowded Micky, kissing him roughly. Micky huffed a startled laugh but quickly responded, holding onto Mike's shirt to keep him close. He was thrilled rather than frightened at the way their tiny kitchen table rocked as their combined weight leaned against it. Every move was needy. Every action desperate. They tore at each other, wanting to get closer. Mike pushed in so close that the table skidded even with Micky atop it, scuffing the floor.

Mike pushed the skirt high enough to be able to get his hands underneath. He pulled back from Micky, mouth wet, eyes wild, panting, and took him in. He sank to his knees on the floor. Micky hiked his skirt up higher to help his way.

The boxers came first, above the pantyhose. Mike wondered idly if Micky just couldn't figure out how to fit their bulk underneath comfortably, or if they'd been an afterthought resultant of knowing partygoers could be under the stairs when he came down. Both scenarios were equally likely. It didn't matter: Mike grabbed the waistband and tugged them down. Micky let go of his dress so that he could better aid the removal, planting his hands on the table as he lifted his hips, and the skirt fell back down. It covered Mike, trapping him in the heat of Micky's thighs.

Mike removed the underwear without removing himself from under Micky's skirt. For a second he just took it in, feeling Micky's calves with his hands, hearing the dress move with the sound of two palms gently rubbing together. The pantyhose were sheer black, the dress' material heavy, and he could see mostly shadowed outlines, soft in the dark.

He kissed Micky's legs. The mesh tickled his lips. Micky squirmed, inner thigh, already smooth and pressed smoother by the nylon, rubbing against Mike's cheek.

Mike turned his head and bit down hard.

Micky yelped, pleased.

The hosiery was thin on Mike's tongue, half air, as though it had been sprayed on and could be licked off. He tasted skin and fabric, and tugged the pantyhose gently between his teeth.

"You're gonna make me get a run!" Micky accused as he felt the pull.

He wasn't upset; he just hated silence too much to let it be.

Mike liked silence, so he didn't answer. He did let the pantyhose go. It snapped back tight against Micky's skin.

He moved higher. Micky's dick was only half-hard but pushed tight up against his belly, trapped there by the undergarment. The crotch's seam, darker than the rest of the fabric, stark enough to see, ran straight up the middle of his cock. Mike found this seam and followed it with his tongue. He could smell the sex. He could taste the pre-come, already collecting in the fabric to stain it darker still.

Micky moaned from the top of his throat.

Mike's own cock quickly stiffened at the taste; the smell; the touch; the sound; even his half-blind sight, all his senses working together for arousal.

He pulled back, lifted his arm up between Micky's legs to push away the skirt, and stood. Immediately Micky's hands were on him, popping the big, white buttons on his shirt. Mike pulled the hands away. "Don't."

To his surprise, Micky deferred without asking why. Mike took one of Micky's hands and led it to the front of his pants instead.

Micky loosened Mike's belt quickly, obediently. He was good with his hands and within seconds had the fly opened, the underwear down. He started to stand so get on his knees himself, eager to reciprocate and then some, but Mike stopped him again, "Just your hand."

Micky nodded and took Mike's cock in his hand. He stroked the way he did anything, fervently, reverently, with excitement and love. "You can do anything to me," he reminded, looking up at Mike with a strange face that Mike didn't have the frame of mind to read.

Mike nodded. "This is good," he said, because it was. He reached up Micky's skirt and he wrapped his hand around Micky's dick through the pantyhose to prove it.

The nylon strained under his hand as he fisted Micky's cock, creating a second grip even tighter than his own. Micky whimpered an agreement. Mike could feel the square heels of Micky's shoes bruise into his legs, trying for leverage.

Micky's hand faltered as Mike's started moving, but he quickly recovered. They were good like this, they harmonized well, mirroring each other's touch with their own emotions. A rough, slow stroke echoed by sweet energy.

But he had to make sure there was no more misunderstanding:

"I mean you can fuck me," Micky said, gasping, his voice crawling even higher without the focus to restrain it. His face was hot, pinked, he was sweating a little; a few stray strands of both real and artificial hair stuck to his forehead.

Mike nearly came at that alone; Micky was nearly as innocent as Peter, and his words were made even dirtier by his new, sweet voice. "Is that what you want?" he panted back.

"I don't know, I've never done it before," Micky said. It was barely an answer to the question. I don't know did not mean I don't know if I want to;meant only I don't know how good it is compared to this. But it was answer enough.

"Later," Mike said. Micky accepted the ruling.

Mike stroked harder, rougher, gripping tighter, wanting to make sure that Micky didn't feel cheated. Micky arched back, looking at the ceiling. "Oh. Oh, oh, Mike," the voice he used was definitely not Mrs. Arcadian's; it was more Micky than anything Mike had ever heard. And it was wonderful.

The beads decorating the top of his dress glittered bright under the light, dancing with every heavy breath. His stomach tightened and relaxed rhythmically. He came hard, soaking his cock, making the pantyhose heavy with wetness. The sticky cling against his body was immediately uncomfortable and also immediately appealing.

Micky was still quivering when he wrapped his free arm around Mike's neck to draw him closer and redoubled his efforts on Mike's cock. Within moments, Mike had joined him; coming across Micky's dress in wild streaks. Micky was transfixed enough that his final pumps slowed to a crawl, dragging the orgasm out long. He watched Mike stain him like he was seeing an artist paint a masterpiece.

"Wow," Micky said, grinning up at him as Mike regained his composure.

Mike was glad his lack of breath excused him from having to know how to respond. He had never been looked at with such pure adoration.

He leaned in and kissed Micky soft on the lips. Micky smiled broad against his mouth rather than return it. But then, that meant the same thing.

Mike reached up to touch Micky's hair. He found Mrs. Arcadian in his way and threw the wig aside.

Micky looked up curiously. But he said nothing as Mike ran his fingers through his flattened hair to revive it.