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Home Slash Fiction Het/Gen Fiction Donatella's Head

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"A Good, Reasonable, Pressing Alternative"



Title: A Good, Reasonable, Pressing Alternative
Pairing: Mike/Peter, minor Davy/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Author: Lauren
Summary: Peter gets caught in a compromising situation but Mike will keep quiet if Peter does him a favor.

Peter had a little 'problem;' call it a quirk in his personality. He'd tried to analyze it, himself (something he usually avoided), and when feeling generous, ultimately linked it to an excessively giving nature and a general reluctance to say no, though it did have its limitations, thank goodness! If he had already eaten two and a half ham and peanut butter sandwiches, for example, he could turn down lemon candy that was too sour for him. If he had a doctor's appointment, well, he could politely decline an invitation to go see a football game. And just the same, if he had a girlfriend who actually cared at all about monogamy, he could (with confidence!) deny less appealing women should they proposition him, or pounce him outright. However, unlikely candidate though he was, there had been many an occasion when a pushy, hard-up girl had decided he'd make a fine snack between meals, so to speak, and if he hadn't been going steady at the time, he'd given in and gone along. He'd even once found himself crumpled across the back seat of the '57 Chevy belonging to the
boyfriend of a girl whose name he didn't even know at the time, just because she'd pushed. They hadn't gotten very far before Dirk or James or Hank or whomever came to pummel Peter senseless and reclaim his property, but the point is that Peter had very little will-power to refuse what was offered him, good idea or not, if he didn't have a good, reasonable, pressing alternative.

He never thought about this at the time he was giving in, of course. He might go through the motions of considering declining, but that never did get anywhere. If the person he was sitting beside at the movie theater reached by the armrest to grip him through his jeans, well, he let them. He'd keep his eyes ahead and sit quiet, and try to laugh at the appropriate times, hoping that the glow off of the screen wasn't spotlighting what was going on in his lap, and that his fellows would not look, in the event it was. He knew they would ask questions, if they caught it, just knew it, and that they would wonder what was wrong with him--he was a grown man, after all, and could have stopped it! They would have their ideas on

No, he didn't need it from them. Because. . . as soon as the movie ended and he leapt up, making sure his shirt was untucked and hanging loose over his pants, he would be calling himself on the same things he supposed that they would. Why didn't he say no? He obviously didn't like it, at least. . . not after the fact, and would be guilt-ridden for an hour, no matter what his anatomy might be protesting. But then, maybe he did like it. . . Maybe there
was something wrong with him! Or maybe he really was just very, very weak. . . Too accommodating. Too martyric. He didn't like the word, but he might just be a bit promiscuous, whatever was behind it. . . It didn't usually go very far--groping, or a bit of making out on a walk that took him beneath the pier--but it was usually fate that stopped it up, not his own free will. He made it to his doorway, the movie ended, he had the rare gig to rush and attend. . . a good, reasonable, pressing alternative.

At the time we're concerned with, Peter didn't have a significant other of any variety. He most certainly had an interest, but when he had finally had the guts up to confess, the object of his affections declined him outright. Gently, at least, and it was nothing Peter could help; "You'd be my type, if only. . ." . . .but some "if only"s are worth giving up on.

So, one particular night, not much different than most others at onset, if lonelier and more unrequited, Peter had no good, reasonable, pressing alternative to. . . anything, really.

- - - - -

One particular night, not much different than most others at onset, Mike came tired and quiet into the already pitch abode, taking care with the door. It had been too long and too frustrating an evening (most were), and he didn't particularly want to rouse his bandmates, as it would impede his path to a long and very detailed shower and a hard crash into bed, and those, frankly, were all he was prepared to deal with at that moment. He'd be careful, as, he figured, it wasn't late enough for them to be dead asleep, not yet. . .

He'd figured right.

He was learning, night after night like this, that he'd be sick if he didn't get a little food in him, so despite the conflict of his other basic needs, he did detour towards the kitchen on slow steps. Davy and Peter's door was half open, and from the darkness within came a soft, nasal muttering that sounded very much like an Englishman trying to plead his way out of a bad dream, and Mike assumed that that was exactly what was happening. He gave the door wide berth (he wasn't ready to play security blanket, should someone jar awake), and crept the entire way, certain that a wrong step, on top of the murmuring, would wake Peter, and waking Peter would force the hippy's good nature to wake Davy out of his dream, which would then force Mike to sit down and listen to it, and be the good sport.

'Definitely wasn't up for it.

By the time he'd made it across almost to the fridge, however, a new sound had caught his attention. It was really so faint and repetitive that, at first, just a soft and rolling whisper, he'd written it off as the to's-and-fro's of the surf outside, but--and he could've been wrong, he hadn't been in California
all that long--he didn't think that the Mother Pacific, ah. . . grunted. . . much. In so bass a voice, anyway--Father Pacific, then? And certainly not while gagging himself with his own right hand, jeans tugged down around his knees, casting all sorts of strange shadows across the floor in the oh-so-limited glow of moonlight, bearing down on that sandy belly over and over and over again. . . (he really ought to have been taking care of that shower, by then, but some things will catch one's attention). No, he was fairly sure that that was not, in fact, Mother or Father Ocean loving itself on his living room floor, but a sandy-haired hippy boy who should've been asleep by now.

The sandy-haired hippy boy, unlike Mother Ocean who kept her thrusts respectfully out of doors, was pooled right there just outside the bedroom door, apparently much more concerned with Davy's bad dream than Mike, himself, was. He was subtle in the dark, conspicuous in his solitude, and, well, he was loving himself on the living room floor. Now, why was the sandy-haired hippy boy loving himself on the living room floor?

Possibly because, from where the sandy-haired hippy boy was sitting (and Mike could see it, now, too, creeping a little closer), one could make out the inside of the downstairs bedroom pretty well, what with that conveniently ajar door. One (or two) could see the bedding on the nearest bed, and see how it was pulling up from the end of the mattress, because toes were curling on its surface, and knees were drawing up, pulling it along. One, two, could see a second pair of knees doing their valiant best to hold the bedding in place from between the more disruptive pair. And two, too, could tell beyond a shadow of a doubt that the girl to whom the second pair belonged, with the merciful braid keeping her hair out of the way of the oddly riveting image, was the cause of not only all this manhandled bedding, but the arching back of a much smaller British boy, the desperate if surprisingly docile whispers coming out of him, and the stolen neckties that were collectively binding and blinding the boy.

Mike's first thoughts were proprietary--those were
his ties.

But, after the initial shock of the robbery of his wardrobe for the sake of sex play wore off, he was really more amused, than anything. . . Davy, usually so stand-up and sprightly (and not at all quiet or mistakable, when in the act), was writhing like palm fronds in a storm, tied down to his bed. . . begging, no less (Mike couldn't make out the words, but that was plainly their purpose). And Peter; wholesome, naive, tender Peter, was beating himself raw, trying not to scream and get caught, at the sight of it.

Come to think of it, that was all less amusing than it was.. other things. . .

Now, he'd had his suspicions about Peter. Ever since he'd seen the boy beet red and sickly in the eerie green glow of the screen, with that unclaimed meaty palm pushing his knees apart, Mike's concept of the "kid" as innocent and wholesome, if not pure, had been tainted. He'd looked dazed, and guilty, like he was trying to pretend he was elsewhere, and didn't notice the dark-haired knuckles, the dirty-nailed fingers, and if Peter'd been a girl, or any younger, Mike would've knocked the offender's block off in a heart beat, consequences be damned. But Peter could've taken care of himself. He was older than Mike was, for Christ's sake, and bigger around by far, and one shove would've pushed the pervert into Tuesday, and naive or tender or not, that had been Peter's own fault and own weakness to not have taken care of it. It had really colored him in a very pathetic, over-accommodating, free-love-hippy-brat light, in Mike's eyes, and he didn't much hold with any of that. A sense of responsibility had kept him from letting Peter get himself killed or robbed blind, but he reasoned that a dead or broke Peter would mean no bassist, pianist, or fourth occasional income for the group, whereas Peter getting groped by dirty old men in theaters would just eventually teach him to stand up to people. He reasoned.

And, if not, no big loss.

Safe to suffice, he really didn't have much respect for Peter, these days, and a fairly petty streak in him would've liked little more than to call the boy on. . . everything. The look on his face if he were caught pumping along to the binding and blowing of a very straight (and assumedly, oblivious) little Davy might just be priceless, and there really was something Mike got out of the frustration and urgency, there, as much as out of that manhandling before. Peter, he was thinking, you do it to yourself; you bring it on yourself. You deserve it, kid.

- - - - -

That particular night, while Peter sat concerning himself with his unrequited affections, he was quite unaware of his audience. Glaring guiltily over his own palm, he'd bowed his head forward to where his hair was obscuring most of the particulars of Davy's companion, and he was far too wrapped up in envisioning himself in the arms of his friend to give any note to the world around him; the blood was pounding too hard in his ears to hear the name Davy might be crooning, or the now shoeless creeping behind him. . . For all Peter knew or cared, the world could have consisted of him, the doorframe, and David Jones writhing on the other side of it. That is, until one strong hand folded over his de facto gag, and another gripped the back of his neck, effectively pinning him in place.

All of a sudden, he couldn't breathe (he had been stifled high), which may have been merciful, as he would have certainly screamed, if able, and the game would've been up for good, then. He dropped what he was doing to grip the asphyxiating appendage, in panic, but it didn't budge. Murder! Treachery! Rape! Oh, help!! Mercy!! . . .Luckily, the partially unbuttoned Texan was, in fact, merciful, and shifted around into sight, proving himself to at least not be a wandering serial killer (that's something, right?).

Mike had wanted to see his face when caught, and he had his wish: Peter's eyes were over-wide, and his brows arched up exceedingly high. It was a look of pure horror and slight pain, but shame soon rushed in to tint it, and Mike, even in his less than crystal-clear state, noticed how Peter's eyes were suddenly picking up the dim light a good deal better, shining before closing tightly and refusing to regard him. Mike lifted the hand that was keeping his bandmate from breathing, and lowered it instead to his collarbone, so he still wouldn't be running off--he reasoned that that would startle Davy, and get them both into trouble, not to mention being unfair to the fellow. Peter's hand was shaking, but staying where it was left--the urge to whimper had not yet passed, and Mike shook his head, settling down on his knees beside and behind him, patting his chest comfortingly and leaning on him just a bit, for support.

"S'okay, buddy," he mumbled oh-so-quietly, "you get back to what you were doin'.." He didn't laugh, but it was a near miss.

Peter winced, and lowered his hand intending to mutter back, but his response was choked, and even softer than Mike's, too soft to hear. Mike leaned in, listening close, as a prompt to repeat himself, but instead, Peter panicked, and made to plead with him in a sudden, frantic whisper.

"Please, please,
please don't tell--are you gonna' tell? You're going to hold this over me, aren't you.. . God, Mike, please.. . ." He would have run off, if not for the continued attachment of his fellow, who straightened up, thinking somewhat coherently that Peter didn't have a half bad idea, there.

"Just get back to what you were doin'.. . "

Peter couldn't fathom it. In front of.. . He felt dizzy. ".. .W-why?"

Mike shrugged. "Gimme' time to think over whether or not I'm gonna' tell. 'Rather be doin' some of that, myself, 'tell ya' the God's-honest-truth. . Davy's a lucky bastard, ain't he?" Peter wasn't going to argue, but didn't hide his disagreement very well. ". . .Guess you think she's the lucky one, then, huh?"

"Mike!" he scolded weakly, looking just slightly away from his eyes, confirming Mike's suspicions to him. He'd seen that guilty wish-I-were-elsewhere look, before.

"Well, hey, if you really want to be doing something like that, I'm here for you. . ."

Peter's guiltily stiffened anatomy did not falter so much as he'd hoped it would, at that, but that made the suggestion no less questionable. ". . .Mike?. . ." He would've been incredulous, if he didn't have one lean, strong arm gripped around his chest, and a hand at the nape of his neck.

"Y'can hear Davy, from here. You could close your eyes. I'll be quiet.. ." He demonstrat ed by whisper-hissing, "Quiet. . . " again. Neither was sure if Mike was teasing, but by the state of him where their hips were meeting, he wasn't adverse to the idea (we take it where we can get it, when we need it, don't we?).

Peter wasn't sure, either, if in the event it was sincere, it was an imperative that would keep him from being blackmailed, or a friendly offer that the Texan would more likely than not have forgotten by morning, if he remembered coming home at all; all the same, it was vaguely tempting in the way that most people were vaguely tempting when they showed interest. With dark hair under his eyes, and the teasing soundtrack from the room beyond, and an offer, any offer, posed. . . feeling a little ill, he whispered, "You won't tell?" hoping to high heavens he wouldn't get railed on for taking it seriously.

He wasn't railed on. Easily, Mike replied, "Naw. I never kiss an' tell." Peter was obviously not convinced, so Mike went on slowly, drawling his letters into one another in a fashion that was excessive, for him. "Look, if I said, 'Hey, man, Peter totally got my rocks off last night,' I'd have to say I let you. I dun' even much like you, let alone. . ." Well, that didn't come out right, judging by the look he was getting, now. "All's I mean's 'at I dun'
wanna' get you in any trouble, or me. . . But I think," he said patronizingly confidingly, "we're both prob'ly a bit lonely, or whatever you wanna' call it, and it idn't gonna' harm anyone none if we do a little role-play, yanno?"

Peter wanted to ask what role
he'd be playing, but didn't. He assumed there was some tight-skirted girl Mike knew but couldn't get a hold of, and was almost insulted, but if Mike was going to be Davy, dissimilar as they were, it did make sense that he play the blonde. 'I hate you. . .' briefly flickered through his brain as an appropriate response to the offer, but he sighed, and rethought it. He didn't hate him. He was just offended by him; they were still friends, bandmates, padmates, and you don't hate people like that! Because you have to get along with people like that. Especially when they're The Leader, and the one keeping the place paid for, the one offering to let you go down on him--as a favor to you, a mutual favor--and the one who caught you lusting after the boy who already turned you down on grounds of his heterosexuality.. . which didn't seem to be a problem, here (at least not to the point of where he'd turn down a mouth, flat out).

No. He couldn't hate Mike. Mike had their, ah, mutual best interests in mind, he insisted to himself.

And why not, y'know?

"I am lonely," Peter replied, very quietly, though more with resignation than upset. Mike snorted and gave an odd sort of smile (smirk?), and patted him on the back and chest simultaneously, shifting up ungracefully, stumbling once, to tug him over to the nearest couch, whose back stood wall-like, facing the bedroom. Just in case they weren't as quiet as they might be, a little more distance could help. Peter gave a long look at Davy, reluctant to give up the view, but decided against arguing; he didn't have a better suggestion, and Mike was being fairly insistent, now. When pressed, go as directed.

Mike flopped back onto the couch, directed Peter to the floor, and pressed the sandy head down towards his open fly. Amazingly, Peter had a protest, but it turned out to be exceedingly reasonable. "I've never done this before," he whispered anxiously, and whether it was a cry for help or a warning, Mike wasn't sure and didn't much care.

"S'fine. Jus' don' bite."

His last truly coherent thought for a while was, 'Huh, soft hair. . .' and he let his fingers wander the pale brown or dark blond or whatever it wanted to be, and let him figure it out for himself.

- - - - -

Peter closed his eyes tightly and listened hard. Once he'd stopped rustling the fabric in front of him, and gone eight shades paler, he'd had to stop for strength, and in the new quiet he could once again hear the ever more frustrated narrative from the room beyond. "Please, baby, just.. . just.. . . "

Whatever you want, anything. . .

He found himself kissing blindly along strange, unfamiliar flesh, as softly as he could, as quietly, not wanting to detract from the already perfect sound effects. He dipped his tongue out all along the underside, pressing, inching up with wide suckles, like he were about to bite into a plum and didn't want to lose anything in the process--of course, sparing the teeth. . . Unsure of what to do, otherwise, he just treated it as affectionately as he could; stroked along it with shaking fingertips (one-handedly, of course. .), eskimo-kissed it, tongued and touched and brushed until his scalp hurt from the sudden onslaught of guidance from above. He hadn't really realized how much he'd been enjoying the wandering fingertips on his scalp until his hair had become a leash, and he lifted up a little, rather eager for the return of the petting.

Beginning again to notice the proportions of the creature in front of him, as he kissed up and up, waiting for the end, he worried about the mechanics of it all, but, really, it wasn't all that much different from a. . . from a what? It was familiar, it --recorder. It was a recorder. Long, thick, and solid, swollen before it could come close and tip with that narrow opening. . . Yeah, he could play a recorder; it would just be a matter of opening up around the mouthpiece. . .

A recorder, yeah. But a tenor. . this really did dwarf his alto, girth wise. . . Instinctively, then, his thumbs dragged up along the underside (he'd generously freed both hands for the study), from the base, slowly, learning the feel of the foreign instrument--or rather, the close cousin to one he was very familiar with--while his fingers settled fairly evenly along topside, his lips pursing, hovering. He knew he'd have to sink his lips to the reed to get anything, here, but a preliminary blow of chilled air seemed appropriate, at the time, because. . . well, the mechanics after kissing the reed would be quite different.

Something startled and grunt-like responded, and the long fingers in his hair stretched out, splaying on his scalp uncertainly, two legs tensing and pressing around his shoulders--one had a tremor running through it. Peter waited a moment longer, hesitantly flicking the tip of his tongue down. Listening again for the nasal ooh's and aah's, for that ultimate motivation, he parted his lips around the mouthpiece, wetting it slowly with ponderous twists of his tongue, but all too soon was that concentration broken, as that nervous force on his skull shoved him face first down on the would-be woodwind in nothing but desperation and frustration.

- - - - -

Desperate and frustrated, Mike dragged the cocktease down by the mop, having no second thoughts in concern or guilt. . . A little exploration was good; great, even, but that twitching, feather-light touch and too-slow tonguing were going to drive him mad, and soon. It wasn't quite enough to get him anywhere, and it was too much to ignore; he'd had enough of it. A little push in the right direction could do the trick.

It was a hint even Peter couldn't miss.

Peter sat still for a long time, and in the break, Mike was once again able to make out the whimpering nearby, and sighed, quietly; he would almost rather have hummed to himself than have that particular image in mind, and for a moment, all he could think was that Davy had probably been dealing, all this time, with the same feathering as he had, by someone who knew full well what she was doing. Jesus.

He was sad to see his brain was coming back, in reluctant flickers. C'mon, Pete, wake up. . . He appreciated a warm, wet place as much as the next guy, so he was willing to wait, again, let the kid get settled, but only for just so long. . . He shifted his hips for a little grind, and breathed out hard, peering down fuzzily at his startled, tense little outlet, who never did open his eyes. That's right, Pete, he thought, imagine hard. . . I'm a far cry. But, then, he reminded himself, so was Peter. He let go of all that straight, sandy hair, and reached for those hunched, (comparatively) broad shoulders, rubbing into the muscles there, if a little clumsily.

It still had the desired effect.

As he kneaded his knuckles into what should have been a more delicate frame, a hesitant pressure came up around him, tight and close and sweet and there, my friends, was true bliss; the pressing, pursing wonder of drawn cheeks and a clumsy tongue, the perfect glove of lips and palates and tonsils, with just that tickling hint of uvula. . .

He couldn't press in as far as he'd have liked. Though Peter had lost one hand to the battle for self-gratification, the second still had him 'round the base, splaying its digits whenever his mouth gave way, retreating when it returned as far as it could, in an unsteady ebb and flow of whispered brushings and very solid pressure. . . That was fine, though. . . that odd mix of touch was doing wonderful things on its own. Every time his fellow would lift his head, he would waver for a moment, and breathe shortly over everything he'd just wet, and Mike was getting a little chill every time, shuddering happily into the return of that beautiful warmth when it bowed back into him in lovely subservience.

He let go of the too-broad shoulders, laying his head back and feverishly tracing circles into hair that wasn't any more right, twisting curls into it with his fingers. . . He was, he was glad, returning to auto-pilot. That mouth was certainly getting the hang of this.

Soon, there was no more background of "nh"s and grunts and little coughs, only the Pacific, and the tidal fingers, and the blood in his ears, all pounding and pulsing and pulling, dizzying, and he was mounting the steps, climbing the stairs to a suicidal leap, oh, oh-so-slowly. . . He was curled up in dark hair, in a sweet mouth, and he grabbed, suddenly desperate, for one of those hands, the hand he couldn't feel yet, tugging it up by the elbow to pull into his own, entwining fingers closely. Steadied, he found his footing up toward that fatal ledge, and then he was hanging there, tense, poised to spring off. . . and then the air rushed upon him, blew him back towards the steps, and he was lost.

He let out a sharp expletive, and squinting down, he barely caught the flurry of movement until it had clambered on top of him. His spirits rose again, but only briefly: this wasn't affection, it was distraction. Oh, good Lord. . . He gripped but nervously abandoned the hand he hadn't quite realized he'd captured, and sat up, blinking the blinding glaze from his eyes, slowly coming to the realization that the sounds from the bedroom nearby were changing.

Davy had been released from his bonds. But, apparently, not released from his own tensions. Mike commiserated.

Now that sight, those sounds, were more familiar. Unmistakable. Before the girl could giggle and get her dress off over her head, she'd been attacked from behind by a desperate man, and hips tossed high, she was cooing into the comforter and rocking with the assault. Davy was cursing a blue streak, incoherent, but apparently enjoying himself.

Peter, whose jeans had been lost somewhere during his most recent bout on the floor, was now perched, kneeling, on the sofa, staring wide-eyed, rocking himself forward into the couch cushions and chewing on his lower lip. Mike pushed up, himself, bracing one foot back down on the floor for leverage, shifting to peer over Peter's shoulder. The other was obviously not ready to duck back down, even though it would take very little now for the bedroom couple to peek up and see him, see them. But that didn't matter. Everyone was far too wrapped up to pay too much attention to anything.

- - - - -

Peter was far too wrapped up to pay attention to anything but Davy, so crazed and engrossed and demanding, that delicate man all riled and wild and lost and chaotic. . . All that fire and spirit was just moving (and it didn't hurt that he was pretty). . So Peter was moving, too. And when he was pushed mouth-first into the cushions by the weight of the frustrated body behind him, stifled, he kept moving, even when his hips were pulled back, losing contact with the friction of the furniture; kept watching, eyes wide, even when he wanted to wince, biting down hard when one of the least comfortable things he'd ever experienced set to him quite ungracefully. . . He gripped the couch, and himself, in self-defense, focusing harder still on the man in front of him, breathing hard, blinking rapidly when it grew too foggy to see, and bore with it like any real man would. He entreated himself to enjoy it, and when the going got easier, there would be odd moments when something was obviously being done right, but he was very aware of his pain and his discomfort all the same. . . What's begun is to be finished, though. What else was he going to do? Did he really have something better worth his time, right then?

He didn't suppose he did. And it wasn't
that bad. But he was cramping and he was sore and his hair was being pulled too taut, so in the boldest he could imagine being, he tugged the fingers from his hair and into his hand, where they'd so oddly, so briefly strayed, before, and pulled them down and around his body, holding them where they should be, and rocking in time, pressing into them. That was more like it.

There was a startled shudder from on top of him, before a gutteral grunt and a very sharp, deep thrust emphasized the point his friend was making, and for a moment, Peter saw stars. When his vision straightened out, Davy's head was leaning back, his swearing sounding more futile, desperate, and in moments, with another of the rare perfect thrusts, Peter followed him over, mercifully drowned out by Davy's lingering oratory. Neither Mike nor The Blonde had quiet finished up, though, so quivering, Peter let his eyes fall to half mast, feeling somewhat like he'd lost a fight, while Davy struggled to keep at for his bedmate's sake. The battle was lost, and she rolled over, to drag him down headfirst, and turned out to be nearly as vocal as Davy himself; merciful, with the bit-down-upon-but-not-vanquished groaning of the Texan. Peter was practically asleep under his weight, and was surprised when Mike stumbled back, quite finished, and loped for the shower amidst the banshee howls from the bedroom. Peter wanted a bath, himself, but decided he'd rather lie still than fight for it, and with much labored effort, dragged his pants back on, not bothering to button them up, sprawling face-first across the couch. He was honestly asleep when the blonde passed by, staggering happily out to her car, and just as asleep when Micky returned even later.

Mike missed the comings and goings, and Micky had pulled a blanket over Peter and gone up to crash into his own bed, to be dead asleep before Mike made any motions of following (forgetting yet again to get a meal in). Peter dreamt he lost a box of licorice at the theatre, and didn't move 'til late in the morning, very much regretting sleeping on his stomach.