Copyright (c) Naked Persimmon 2010-11. All Rights Reserved.

Contact Us - Submit Your Stuff

Feedback for the author...

DISCLAIMER: This site is in no way affiliated with the Monkees or personal relations thereof. All fan fiction and fan art is intended for entertainment purposes only and no defamation of character is intended whatsoever. To break it down one more time: It's all just for fun, folks.

"Another Possibility"

Title: Another Possibility
Author: Rinny
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Torksmith
Disclaimer: Never ever ever happened!
Summary: All good things must come to an end!
Author’s Note: I just wanted to sort of write a semi-angsty PWP today. Trying for something sunnier and happier down the road!


Mike hadn't kidded himself that what he and Peter had would last forever. Sometimes it felt as if it might, especially afterward, in bed, when they clung to each other sticky and sweaty and Peter tucked his head right below Mike's chin. A perfect fit, just like Peter's dick in Mike's mouth, Mike's cock in Peter's ass. Made to fit the space. Then, Mike thought time stretched out, wrapping warm arms around the two of them, inviting them to stay and laze in the sensation of a world standing still.

But it was only then that Mike allowed himself to be deluded. Other times, he didn't think about it. Or if he did, he didn't think about it very long. Of course it wouldn't last. It couldn't. There were obstacles. The queer thing, for one. The mental gymnastics it required to really and truly be able to dig that long-term. Pete was young and impressionable. No telling what was in his mind, or what would be in his mind five minutes out, let alone five years down the road.

Mike thought he could, but that wasn't certain. He had dug chicks for nearly two decades. Yes, he'd met Peter and that had all gone out the window in a sense, but hey, 20 years of liking chicks was nothing to sneeze at. He might find a chick and like her again. There'd been April, after all. And there'd been that Buntwell babe at the dancing school, and the girl he'd met at the answering service. Ellen something; he couldn't really remember. So it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that one day, he'd want to grope a fine pair of tits or finger a girl or slide into a warm, naturally slick space.

But Peter had beat him to it. Well, not really, but he would. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop on Peter and Davy's conversation - they thought he was out getting sandwiches at Pop's, but he'd delegated that task to Micky, hoping that Davy would head out and visit whatever chick had him by the maracas that week and he and Peter could be alone in the pad.

It hadn't quite worked out that way: Mike's ardor turned cold as he stood right inside his and Micky's bedroom as Peter discussed a 'dilemma' with Davy. As Peter had talked, Mike had listened, and he'd processed it all and he'd understood what had to happen next. Davy had given rather good advice considering that Peter hadn't told him anything close to the whole story and then he'd left Peter to it, staring out at the beach from inside the pad, his chin resting on his knees.

Mike waited for a good while, and Davy did eventually head out to parts unknown. Micky always got into a long-winded conversation with Pop, so Mike knew that if he wanted to make a move, he'd have to do it quickly. Despite the conversation he'd just heard, as soon as the door shut behind Davy, desire flared up. The rest could come later. Mike knew he had to come now, and his right hand wasn't making it. He pushed unwelcome thoughts out of his mind and strode into the living room.

Peter turned around, surprised to see him. When the shock on his face morphed into a big, broad Peter-smile, Mike felt something in his gut give way a little bit. His willpower was ebbing, and he was tempted to unburden himself, tell Peter the truth, tell him what he'd heard and ask him what it all meant. He debated it for a moment, then dismissed it. It would only create a bigger mess, and it wasn't as if he could really do anything anyway about that.

He set it aside as he made his way over to Peter, hauled him onto his feet and without preamble, dove in for a kiss. The kiss was gentle at first, their lips nibbling together, but it soon increased in intensity. Their tongues twined together, battling for dominance, but neither of them yielded. Mike pulled back long enough to divest Peter of his shirt, sliding his hands along the smooth warmth of Peter’s torso, the light hairs ruffling under his palm. He flicked his thumbs against the pebbly flesh of Peter's nipples, squeezing them with just enough pressure to cause Peter to sigh into his mouth. He heard the tinny catch of a zipper sliding down, realized it must be his own and he bit back a curse as Peter slid his hand across his groin, palming Mike’s leaking dick.

Mike pulled back again, dragging them both over to the sofa, grunting as he flipped Peter into position beneath him. Peter made himself comfortable against the pillows, watching Mike prepare himself for him. Working lube along his length, Mike stared down at his waiting lover. The living room was now bathed in a twilight glow, the only light coming from the setting sun filtering in from the windows, washing over the both of them like a warm shower. Mike thought that Peter’s skin looked like marble in the rosy light ... as if he’d been carved from some soft, striking stone ... so beautiful. Peter was so damn beautiful it nearly broke Mike’s heart.

Mike leaned in and kissed the tip of Peter’s nose and began slowly penetrating his lover, his mouth planted on Peter’s. Peter moaned softly beneath him, and when Mike had buried himself completely, they lay motionless, their bodies pressed tightly against each other’s. Mike began pumping his hips, slowly at first, and then with greater intensity. Peter drove his hips up in response to the thrusts, and Mike gave a strangled groan of gratitude as they settled into the serious business of screwing. Mike plunged into the velvety tunnel with long, deep strokes, his own sense of urgency and Peter’s frenzied moans telling him that this was going to be a sprint to the finish.

Mike pulled away to press his lips against the smooth, pale, freckled forehead, and he thought about the strangeness that was his life. Even in the midst of his and Peter’s lovemaking, Mike noticed the difference between being with the sandy-haired man and being with a girl. Peter knew his body well; he understood just what it took to really set him off, which little twists and thrusts drove him wild. Sex with Peter ratcheted Mike up to a pitch he’d never reach with a girl or another guy or his hand or a llama or anyone or anything. Mike wondered if this was his version of being in love.

"Mike..." Peter was gasping, working his cock in sync with Mike's thrusts, his tight, smooth torso squirming against Mike's own. “Mike, I - I ... need ...”

"Mmm, I know, babe. I know what you need." Mike gently bit down on Peter’s shoulder and groaned at Peter’s cry of pleasure. “I need it, too. Ahhhh ... yeah ..."

He pistoned in and out of Peter, wrapping his hand around Peter's, and together the joined hands glided down Peter’s cock, precum wetting both their fingers. Peter moaned and bucked helplessly upward, and Mike felt the his dick throb in his hand.

“Mike .. . coming ... ohh . . . ohhhhhhfuckcomingMike . . .” Peter’s body trembled, and Mike felt wet heat hit his belly, raining down in hot, sticky drops. “Oh, Christ. Mike -” Peter’s voice broke as the last of his cum drizzled out, and oozed down their still-linked fingers.

Mike groaned as he continued his thrusts into Peter, feeling his orgasm build to the trigger point. Pulling out of Peter's ass to the head of his dick, Mike thrust back in all the way, going for broke, and that sent him over the edge.

His orgasm swept over him, and he shot into the tight tunnel that was still convulsing around him.

“Ahh, shit - god, Pete . . .” he hissed as he rode out his release, his body jerking as each wave crashed over him.

When the last spasm subsided, and his breathing returning to something approaching normal, Mike carefully pulled out of Peter and wrapped the damp, slender figure into his arms. They lay there in relative silence for several minutes, and their labored breathing and the soft whirring of the refrigerator were the only noises breaking the silence.

He felt Peter stir beneath him and Mike rolled to the side as best he could. Peter's breath puffed against his neck.

"Mike?"

"Just hold on a minute, shotgun. Let me get the feelin' back in my legs and I'll move off ya."

"I'm okay." Mike looked down and saw clear, dark eyes and a slightly furrowed brow. "Mike, I ... this was amazing. I -"

"Yeah." Mike suddenly had a premonition where this was going, and could go if he let it. And he wasn't going to, not then, not yet. There was, he reckoned, plenty of time for Peter to tell him what he'd told Davy, namely that Valerie Cartright had written him from the girl's school in Paris she'd been in for the last year and was coming back to L.A. And still thought about him. And hoped they could pick up where they'd left off the year before. And Peter was conflicted, because he'd dug Valerie a lot, had damn near been in love with her, but there was this other person, this other possibility he had, and he wasn't sure what to do, who to choose ...

Mike had his own advice for Peter, and he'd give it when he was good and ready. But he wasn't ready yet. As he felt Peter melt into him and was dimly aware that Micky would be back soon with the food and he really didn't give a damn, Mike felt himself drift off, his brain crafting wonderful advice for Peter that he didn't have the heart to voice.