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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.

"Control"

Title: Control
Author: Lucy
Rating: R-ish. Maybe NC-17, dunno, I'm bad at this.
Pairing: Torksmith!
Genre: Slash.
Warnings: Language. Sexuality.
Disclaimer: Don't own these people and this never happened. But I totally wish it had.
Summary: What we say is not always what we are.
Author's Note: After the complete emotion-drain of BnB, I wrote this smut-filled piece of drabble to lighten my mood and I really like it, actually, so here :)


"You like that, don't you?"

Peter moaned around Mike's cock, looking up into his eyes, which were filled with curiosity and something darker, dirtier.

"Suckin' my dick. Makin' me come. Gettin' down on your knees for me. You love every minute of it, don't you, you little queer?"

Yes, he did, he loved it, loved the hardness of the floor against his knees and the taste of Mike's hardness in his mouth and that look, oh God, that look in Mike's eyes that said he knew it all. Knew Peter was just a little queerboy, knew he loved nothing more than to suck and lick and make Mike come. He loved it.

He loved Mike.

But Mike could never know, he barely tolerated doing this with Peter; if he knew Peter was doing this for more than simple lust, it would never happen again.

So, he was happy here, with Mike's dick in his mouth, Mike's voice in his ears, Mike's hands tangling in his hair.

Because Mike didn't know.

And Mike would never know, not as long as Peter wanted this, wanted to have this small piece of Mike's beauty.

He was brought out of his thoughts by a low groan. Mike was close.

"Little queerboy... slut... I bet you'd get on your knees for anybody..."

No, Mike, only you.

"I bet Mick and Dave get to see you like this everyday, little whore... bet you suck 'em off just like you do me..."

No, Mike. You're the only one.

"Christ, Peter... so close..." His fingers tightened in Peter's hair. "Gonna come... come right into that pretty little mouth..."

Peter gave Mike one last, long lick, swirling his tongue around the head, wanting, needing to taste Mike's come.

"Shit, Peter, shit," Mike cursed as he climaxed, his releasing coursing down Peter's throat.

Peter finished milking Mike for every last drop. He climbed onto the bed next to Mike and the other man curled into him during a rare moment of vulnerability.

"I didn't mean any of that, y'know," Mike mumbled into his shoulder.

Yes, you did. "I know."

"You're a good friend, Pete."

"Thanks, Mike."

"I don't think you're a queer."

"It's okay." ... because I am.

"Hmm... I'm tired."

I love you. "Go ahead and sleep. I'll head downstairs in a while."

"Mmkay. Goodnight, Pete."

"Night."