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Home Slash Fiction Het/Gen Fiction Donatella's Head

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.


"In the Red"



Title: In the Red
Author: Mini
Rating: R/NC-17
Pairing: Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Genre: Slash. Smut. Also some angst.
Warnings: Contains adult content between two characters of the same sex. If that isn't your bag, don't read this. Also contains some adult language.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened, completely 100% fictitious. I make no claims as to the personalities or sexual proclivities of the real Michael Nesmith and Peter Tork, and I glean no profit from this story whatsoever. So don't sue me, cause I'm a broke grad student and I'd have to pay you in little tiny packets of Chinese mustard.
Summary: Starts in 1997, at the time of the “Hey Hey We’re the Monkees” TV special, but the majority of the story takes place in 1967 (flashbacks).
Author's Note: I got the idea for this fic after noticing the bandanna Mike is wearing here.



Michael Nesmith had nothing to wear.

The former-and-once-again Monkee rummaged through his closet, pushing aside hangers and hangers of old clothes.
A couple of these don’t fit anymore, a couple of ‘em I wish didn’t... Mike sighed, wading through the sea of shirts and suits. ‘Oughta give some of these away... the thought pressed on the back of his mind, but he knew he’d never go through with it. Everything seemed to open memories, faded flashes that he didn’t expect to see again left in the dark. But the years had brought change, inviting him in, taking him back to where he hadn't dreamed of going for so long.

So here Mike was, getting ready to film the documentary about the Monkees, thirty years later.
Why am I nervous? I feel like I’m gettin’ ready for a date or something-- he cut himself off. No. It wasn’t that. It couldn't be. His denial sat unfinished as the name of his bandmate slowly crept into his head:


”Bandmate?” When had he relegated Peter to that status, Mike wondered. It didn’t seem so long ago that they had shared everything--music, passion, love, lust, anger, fear, devotion. As always, Mike went in with his eyes open. Ever the pragmatist, he saw their relationship as a business arrangement--something that had a definite beginning and end. Peter, on the other hand, was all hearts and flowers. He gave Mike everything, without reservation, without questioning. Dizzied up, swaying, eyes closed, head tilted backwards in a maelstrom of ecstasy. That was how Peter lived inside their relationship, his emotions free-flowing over both of them. If such things could have tendrils, they would have draped themselves all over Mike, just as Peter’s arms often did when they found themselves alone, in the quiet of a dressing room or on a balcony, far from the prying eyes of the other Monkees and the rest of the world.

Mike inhaled deeply, bringing himself back to the task at hand.
Got to find something to wear... he repeated to himself, a silent mantra, repelling everything else in his mind. A flash of red suddenly fell before his eyes. Mike looked down, thinking that one of his ties had fallen from the shelf above. He crouched down to grab the item, finally realizing what it was as he got closer to it.

A bandanna.

He lifted it up slowly, clasping the fabric in his hand, squeezing softly. The bright cherry red was now dusty from the years since it had last seen the light; the material slightly moth-eaten.

Catalina...nightfall... The memories. They were resurfacing again, and Mike didn’t know if he could fight them. Or if he wanted to. He stayed there on the carpeted floor, silent, clutching the bandanna in one hand, the fingers of the other reaching up to gently touch it.

With trembling hands, he stroked it, remembering clearly the purpose it once served.



“CUT!” The director’s angry voice reverberated across the set.

The Monkees were in a museum this week. Lamps, statues, vases, a mummy case, and other props littered the soundstage, adding to the illusion of a cluttered, art-filled basement. Micky and Davy bounded through the mess over to the director’s chair, continuing the very vocal “debate” they’d been having all afternoon. Take after take, the two of them kept cracking each other up, and the director was losing patience, as were the guys.

Back on the set, Monkee Peter was tied to a chair, “suffering” for his art. Person Peter wasn't doing much better, his arms slowly growing sore from the ropes wound tightly around them. He sighed, trying to exhale deeply enough to relieve some of the pressure. A bright, cherry red bandanna was wrapped around his head, covering his mouth. Normally, one of the guys would have pulled it off, but the takes were so numerous and the pauses between them growing shorter that it made little sense to keep pulling the fabric up and down.

Mike stood off to the side, looking over at Peter from behind a charcoal wave of hair. A pang, a sharp twinge of lust coursed through him at the sight of his bound and gagged lover. He didn’t know whose idea it had been for the bassist to be tied up, but he made a mental note to find out and send them a bouquet of flowers after shooting wrapped.

He and Peter had been quietly seeing each other for some time, never declaring whatever it was that existed between them a “relationship”--the word was too traditional, with too simple a definition. Mike had never felt this close to anyone before, let alone another man. There were moments when he couldn't stand to look at Peter--he was so damn
willing, so unafraid to give up control; control of himself, of his emotions. Mike regarded such behavior with disdain, seeing it as a weakness, if not outright dangerous. He knew Peter didn’t care--he was a free spirit, wanting to love and be loved by everyone. Mike also knew that he loved Peter. He knew it because there was no one and nothing else he felt those feelings for; not even his wife. But he could not say it. He’d die to protect it, and to protect Peter; but still, the words wouldn’t come.

None of that mattered now, though, or even crossed Mike’s mind as he studied Peter intently. A slow flush crept across his face as he imagined Peter bound when they made love--arms and legs both tied to the bedposts. Peter's legs spread wide, completely vulnerable.
Delicious... Mike thought. And that bandanna. It had caught Mike’s eye from the first moment that the prop department brought it out. He’d seen plenty of bandannas like it over the years, tied around the necks of overheated cowboys in the rodeos he used to go to, or in the movies, worn by the likes of Mike's own personal hero, John Wayne. But this was different.

He'd never seen anyone as pretty as Peter wearing a bandana. And not like this.

Not as a gag, pressed firmly against warm, pink lips.

Mike remembered the cowboys at the rodeo telling him to ride, but he never wanted to, preferring instead to watch.
"Come on, Nesmith! Geddup on there n' ride!" they encouraged, but still, he refused. He couldn't hide a smirk as he thought of how he finally did get around to 'riding.' Probably not what they had in mind, though... Mike looked Peter up and down again, his lust for the other man pouring off of him in waves. But I like my way better.

The sound of the younger Monkees and the director shouting at each other suddenly interrupted Mike's reverie. Annoyed and now desperate for the day of filming to end, he strode over to where the quarreling threesome stood.

"Mick, Davy, come on...let's just cool it for now and finish the shot, all right?" His voice was soft, but neither Micky nor Davy missed the clear
quit-fucking-around-already look in Mike's eyes.

"Um...okay, Mike," Micky nearly whimpered, clueless as to what he'd done to incur the Texan's wrath, but wanting to avoid it all the same.

He and Davy scurried back onto the stage, a glowering Mike following behind. He waited for the action cue, never letting the view of Peter in the chair escape from his sight for the rest of the shoot.


"Watch your step." Peter craned his neck as he spoke to make sure Mike heard him. He slid the key into the lock, and Michael pushed him inside, slamming the door shut behind them.

"No...you watch yours, shotgun." Mike's voice was low, desirous. He'd been longing for them to go back to Peter's house, and here they finally were, ten hours' worth of taping and two hours in the recording studio later.

"I've been waitin' for this all day," the Texan whispered, one hand sliding down Peter's back to his ass, firmly squeezing the warm flesh. Peter moaned quietly, closing his eyes as he felt the heat flowing over his body and concentrating itself in his groin. Mike's other hand reached into his pocket, grasping tightly the contents within. His hand shook slightly as he fingered the material, the anticipation of what was to come overwhelming him. Not wanting to give away the surprise just yet, Mike grabbed Peter by the elbow, pulling him toward the stairs.

Mike needed to taste those pink lips
now, and he shoved Peter against the stairwell wall, slamming his mouth against the other man's. Peter slid his arms around Mike's waist, reaching one hand down to cup the front of his pants. Mike pulled Peter's arms away, yanking them swiftly behind Peter's back.

"No..." his voice was raspy, but not angry. "Not yet. Follow my lead."

Peter nodded, pressing his slightly open mouth back against Mike's to continue the kiss. Their passion intensified as they made their way up the stairs, half-stumbling through the dark into Peter's bedroom. Groping, caressing, they moved further into the room, tongues sliding against one another in a fevered dance. Mike stopped in front of the bed, pulling his lips from Peter's and moving his hands to Peter's upper arms. Pale beams of moonlight were pouring in from the window, illuminating the deep red comforter. Mike gently sat Peter down, moving his arms behind him so he was propped up on his hands. He stepped back for a moment, taking in the sight of the man before him.

Long strands of sandy-brown hair fell just over Peter's eyes, and were disheveled from Mike's fingers tangling in them. Peter's lips were still red and glistening from their frantic kissing, and were parted slightly as he breathed deeply, watching Michael as he looked him over, admiring his handiwork. The buttons on his shirt had come undone thanks to the dark-haired man's clever hands, and the moonlight from the window hit Peter's bare chest at just the right angle, sliding across the softly defined lines of his abdomen.

Beautiful... Mike thought. All this belongs to me. Peter belongs to me...

Mike's cock was straining almost painfully against the confines of his pants. He walked up to the bed and stood beside Peter, his crotch nearly eye level with Peter's face. He brought a hand to the back of the blond's head, caressing it softly, and pressed his groin to Peter's cheek, letting him feel the heat that radiated within.

"What you do to me..." Mike whispered. He wanted to take Peter so badly right then, to shove him back onto the bed and slide into his willing, eager body.

No... he forced himself to keep to the plan, his free hand moving back to his pocket. It's going to be different this time.

Mike moved to the other side of Peter, sitting down beside him. He took one of Peter's hands in his own and pulled the hidden item from his pocket, gently placing it in his palm. Peter looked down to see what Mike had given him, and recognized it immediately.

"Michael, is that...?"

Mike nodded, not looking at Peter. "Took it from the set after we finished shootin'."

A small smile curved up the corners of Peter's mouth as he realized how long Mike had been planning this. "You were watching me today. I could feel you."

Not like you're going to... Mike thought.

"I need to see you in it again. I'm not givin' you a choice here," Mike said matter-of-factly, his gaze drifting over to the sight of Peter's thumb caressing the red fabric.

Mike felt a finger under his chin--Peter's, tilting his head up so he could look straight into his eyes. Without hesitation, Peter pulled him in for another kiss, his long fingers curling in Mike's hair. He slid his tongue into Mike's mouth, searching. The kiss deepened as Peter reclined on the bed, his hand tugging on the front of Mike's shirt, pulling the other man down on top of him. A low moan escaped from Mike's mouth as his hand went to Peter's hair, fisting the golden brown locks. Peter reached for the hem of Mike's shirt, deftly untucking it from his pants, and immediately undid the bottom few buttons, exposing the dark, dusty trail of hair beneath Mike's navel.

Peter moaned into Mike's mouth, reaching up to touch his stomach. Mike shuddered at this, his arousal so great that even the slightest sensation--especially one delivered by Peter--was enough to set him aflame. Peter broke the kiss a moment later, and moved his mouth to Mike's neck, slowly sliding his tongue across it, teeth gently nibbling the sensitive skin. He gasped as Mike's hands tightened around his upper arms, pushing him back down onto the mattress. He saw the impatience in Mike's eyes, and how the man's control was barely hanging on by a thread. It was time.

"Okay, Michael," he whispered, biting his lower lip nervously.

Something like a growl erupted from deep inside Mike then, and he tore the bandanna from Peter's hand. The light in the room turned to cherry red in front of Peter, then faded to black as Mike secured the bandanna over his eyes.
What is he doing...? Peter wondered, feeling Mike lift his head and pull the bandanna around it, tying it tightly.

The bed shifted slightly as Mike moved away from Peter. Unable to see, he felt so helpless, yet incredibly aroused. He was left at Mike's mercy and had to trust him completely, without fear, putting himself--literally--in Mike's hands.

And what capable hands... Peter thought, flinching as Mike suddenly grabbed his waist. Mike swore under his breath as he fiddled with Peter's belt, finally wrestling it free. He quickly rid Peter of his trousers and underwear, and Peter sighed at the combined sensations--an inferno of heat burned inside of him; by stark contrast, the cool night air was ghosting over his now-bare legs, making the fine hairs on his thighs stand on end.

Every sensation felt foreign to Peter, as if he'd never been touched before. He hadn't; not like this. Robbed of one of his senses, Peter noticed how the others now seemed to heighten, to come more alive. Mike shoved the shirt the rest of the way off of Peter's shoulders, discarding it on the floor. Peter gasped as Mike's tongue encircled one of his nipples, then moved to the other, clamping the pink nub between his teeth.

"Oh, fuck...Michael..." Peter breathed, thrusting his hips upward appreciatively, unknowingly rubbing his fully erect cock against Mike's stomach. The Texan growled at this, moving his mouth lower across Peter's stomach, stopping to dip his tongue in Peter's bellybutton, causing the blindfolded man to squirm.

"Unh...that tickles..." Peter chuckled softly and then moaned as he felt Mike's lips on his inner thighs. Mike savored the taste of the tanned flesh; Peter smelled like the ocean and sun, hours after daylight had gone. Mike breathed it in deeply, storing the scent inside his mind.

God...I want him so badly...I need this, he needs this...I can't stop touching him...can I do this? I can. I have to. I need to.

Mike's mind raced as he ran the back of his hand along Peter's thigh, stimulating the nerve endings there. He continued petting him, lulling him into a state of blissful, humming arousal, and then dove in for the kill, swallowing Peter's cock down his throat in one motion.

"FUCK!" Peter howled, reeling from the unexpected onslaught of heat--Mike's mouth engulfing him fiercely, sucking him off as if his life depended on it.

"Oh, God...oh, God..." Peter moaned loudly, clenching bits of comforter in his fists as Mike moved up and down on him, gasping as Mike cupped his testicles in one hand and massaged them. He reached a hand down to Mike's hair, fingers tangling in the thick, chestnut locks. Mike grabbed his wrist and pulled it away, pinning it back down on the bed. He moved his mouth off of Peter's cock, looking up at the writhing man in front of him. He knew Peter couldn't see the glare in his eyes, and so he waited, not touching or licking Peter's aching arousal.

The seconds that passed felt like hours to Peter. "Michael...why did you stop?" he finally asked, finding his voice somewhere in his throat.

Peter suddenly realized his mistake.
Oh, shit...my hand. I wasn't supposed to touch him. God damn it.

"Michael...please...I need you," Peter whimpered, desperate to find the magic combination of words that would get Mike to touch him again.

Mike said nothing, but rose up on his knees, looking down at Peter, watching as he bit his lip in frustration, trying to get what he wanted.

This isn't about what you want, Peter. This is about what I need. Mike was a selfish bastard, but he believed the voice inside his head that was telling him it was okay to be selfish this time. It was to both his and Peter's benefit for Mike to be selfish. Just this once.

But Peter looked too good for Mike to stay away for long. He took pity on him, sliding a hand back up Peter's thigh. Peter shuddered and sighed in relief as he felt Mike's fingers on him again. Mike leaned back down over him, lowering his mouth over Peter's erection, but not allowing it to touch the sides. He slowly exhaled a puff of hot air onto the other man's cock, causing Peter to gasp. Peter clenched his fists, willing himself not to piston in and out of that mouth as he so desperately wished to do.
God, stop teasing me, Michael...fuck... A thin layer of sweat covered Peter's chest as Mike finally started to suck him again.

Mike moved a hand down to Peter's ass this time, gently flicking it around the puckered opening. Peter raised his hips, allowing Mike better access. Both men groaned as Mike slid a finger inside, then added a second. He thrusted into Peter in a rhythm dissimilar to his sucking, never wanting him to get too close to the edge. When Peter's half-moaned curses evaporating into incoherence, his pleas lessening to concentrated silence, Mike knew he was ready to come. He stopped entirely then, moving up on the bed and covering his body with Peter's, kissing him deeply before he could protest. Mike's hands went to the back of Peter's head, loosening the knot on the bandanna. He pulled it off and gasped as Peter's darkened eyes greeted him, eyes hazy with lust and need.

I know...I know you don't get it yet, but you will. I need you now, Peter. I need you to give it to me and take it away, all at once. I need you to make me stop thinking. Please. Please make me stop.

"My turn now..." Mike whispered shakily. He planted a foot flat on the bed, swiftly reversing their positions so that Peter was now on top. Mike's hands trembled as he lifted the bandanna to his own lips. He slid the cherry red fabric between his teeth, nearly dizzied by the scent of Peter still on them. He noticed Peter looking at him and forced himself to level his gaze. Mike's already rapid heartbeat sped up when he made eye contact with the bassist, and his now-sweaty palms fumbled as he tied the bandanna behind his own head.

Mike slowly spread his legs open, the ball of nerves in his stomach making it more like opening a bear trap, proceeding ever-so-gingerly, terrified that it might snap shut at any moment. He breathed deeply, concentrating on the man above him, nudging Peter's thighs in between. Peter's eyes widened, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. He reached a hand up to stroke the side of Mike's face, trying to ease the fear he knew the dark-haired man was feeling.

Don't worry, Michael. I'll take care of you.

Peter leaned down to kiss Mike, as much as he could with the bandanna between them, and was unable to suppress the small grin that was playing on his lips. The truth was, he'd been waiting for this, wanting it for so long, but had never thought that Michael would allow it. Peter tried to ponder what had changed, but the sight of Michael below him, vulnerable and exposed, left little room for introspection in his arousal-clouded mind.

He carefully undid Mike's belt buckle, tossing it aside, and slid his thumbs into the waistband, pulling Mike's pants and underwear to his ankles, then off all the way. Peter smirked as the muscles in Mike's stomach twitched, evidence of relief at his enormous member now being freed from its clothed prison. He reached down and wrapped a hand around it, his thumb flicking over the slit, now dripping with pre-cum. He looked up to make sure Mike was watching and lifted his hand to his mouth, licking off the sticky fluid.

Mike groaned from behind the gag, aching to taste himself on Peter's tongue. He threw his head back, chest heaving slightly as he stared up at the ceiling, forcing himself to focus. Peter's hands were on his arms now, lightly moving up and down as he looked up at Mike, waiting.

He's waiting for me. Okay, this is it. Come on, Nesmith. Let him know how much you want it. Show him...unhh... Peter had chosen that moment to run his tongue up Mike's neck, kissing and nibbling a tender trail down to his collarbone. Jesus, Peter...you're interruptin' my own internal monologue... he thought, then mentally smiled, realizing he was getting the desired result.

Mike threaded a hand in Peter's hair, savoring a few more minutes' worth of Peter's mouth on him, then tugged gently to get his attention. The bassist lifted his head, looking straight into Mike's eyes, and Mike gulped, suddenly realizing just how bare he was right then. Any sign or signal he'd hoped to give Peter tangled in his brain cells like unruly spiderwebs, and all he could manage was a simple nod of consent.

Peter smiled at him, that beautiful, intoxicating smile, and Mike shivered. Peter's smile always made him feel just a little short of breath, but seeing it now sent a thrill of excitement coursing through his body, more powerful than any he'd felt before. Mike steeled his mind for what was to come as Peter reached into the night table, pulling out a small bottle of baby oil. He poured some into his hand, stroking it up and down his erection as Mike watched hungrily.

"Ready for me?" Peter whispered. Mike slid his hands under his knees, pulling his legs up on either side of his chest, hoping that Peter got the message.

The sandy-haired man stifled a chuckle when he saw this.
You don't have to impress me, Michael. I was impressed the first time I saw you. He tried to transmit the loving thoughts to Mike, knowing he wouldn't want to hear such affections aloud right now. Peter couldn't help but lick his lips at the display before him, and he gripped Mike's slim waist, pulling him down slightly and placing his long legs on his shoulders. Peter teased Mike's opening with the tip of his cock, sliding it up and down the cleft of Mike's ass.

God damn it, Peter, stop fucking around, just do it already...I'm ready for--SHIT! Mike yelled in his head and out loud as Peter penetrated him, sheathing his cock in Mike's ass in one fluid motion. Mike's eyes flew open, glaring up at the other man, trying not to curse his nickname of "Big Peter," which suddenly took on new meaning. Quotes from Mike's high school history class randomly invaded his mind--"a house divided cannot stand." Yeah, well, Peter's dividin' me and I'll be damned if I'll be able to stand right after this--

"UNH!" A loud grunt erupted from Mike as Peter thrust forward then, his cock curving upward to touch a spot that Mike never knew existed.
What the FUCK was that? Peter pulled back and thrust in again, hitting the same spot, and Mike saw stars, throwing his head back in ecstasy. When he looked up again, Peter was grinning cheekily, lightly caressing Mike's calf. Mike hadn't thought it was possible for Peter to look more appealing than he did before with the bandanna, but right then, he was (happily) proven wrong. His bangs were falling over his eyes and somewhat sticking to his forehead, now damp with sweat, and he flicked his tongue over his upper lip.

Christ... Mike thought, the pit of his stomach tingling at the utter beauty of the young man on top of him. He wanted to be fucked by Peter, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. The thought scared him a little, but vanished as he felt Peter moving again, pulling back out and thrusting forward, creating a rhythm.

"Oh my God..." Peter moaned, savoring the feeling of Mike so tight and warm around him. He moved slowly at first, then faster and harder, urged on by the low grunting noises Mike was making. He rotated his hips, curving up to massage Mike's prostate, and the dark-haired man growled his pleasure, throwing a hand around Peter and scratching his nails down his back. "Shit!" Peter cried out, and began to fuck Mike harder, slamming himself against Mike's ass.

Any sense of order either man had tried to hold onto quickly fell apart as they were lost to their passions. Mike was biting hard on the bandanna as a prize racehorse chomping on a bit--both being ridden for all they were worth. Peter brought a hand to Mike's erection, which was so stiff it was nearly purple, and began jerking in time to his thrusts.

Fuck, yes, that's it... Mike silently hissed, feeling the rolling wave building in his stomach. He pressed his hand to the side of Peter's face, sliding two fingers between Peter's lips. The blond man smiled, sucking the tips into his mouth, flicking his tongue over each one. Mike groaned, feverishly imagining Peter doing the same to his cock. His erection throbbed at the mental image, doubly so as Peter hit that spot inside again, making Mike's back arch.

God, I can't...can't hold on...fuck..fuck... Mike's mind was dissolving into a gelatinous mass, but he no longer cared. The wave was traveling into his pelvis now, bringing with it the familiar tightening of his balls. I'm gonna--oh, God--oh, GOD-- One final image entered his mind before he went over the edge, of Peter on the set, playing his guitar, not long ago. His hips moved in little circles as he played, brow sweating and that beautiful smile across his face as he was consumed by the music. It was the exact moment that Mike knew he wanted to be taken by him. The memory went straight to Mike's cock, and he howled as his orgasm overtook him, jets of white cum shooting out onto his stomach and Peter's hand.

Peter groaned as he watched Mike come, never having seen it from this angle. He felt Mike's muscles clench around his cock, and cried out. "MICHAEL!" he screamed the man's name as he climaxed, everything going still and white as the pleasure shot through him like lightning, from his scalp all the way down to his feet. Peter thrust into Mike several more times, milking his release, and then finally collapsed onto Mike's chest. He felt Mike's heart against his cheek, pounding furiously, mirroring his own harsh gasps.

Peter was boneless, arms and legs like lead weights as he fought to breathe normally. He looked up at Mike through sweaty hair and flushed cheeks, and saw him gesture to the bandanna. "Oh!" Peter gasped, having forgotten the gag's presence. He reached behind Mike's head and untied the knot, pulling the bandanna from Mike's mouth and setting it down beside him. Peter expected a lengthy stream of feedback from Mike, but he remained silent, taking Peter's hand in his own. The two men just looked at each other for a while, basking in the hazy afterglow of their exertions.

Mike felt nothing, thought of nothing, except Peter's now softened cock still in his ass, and those brown eyes looking lovingly at him. He cleared his throat, trying to remember how to speak again.



"I--oh, hell--I love you." And there it was.

Peter sat up slightly, an arm on either side of Mike, hands flat against the bed. "Michael..." he said softly. "I love you, too."

"I mean, I don't know how to do this, really...you and me. But I'm gon' try my best, 'cause all I want from now on is to be with you, and if that means bein' in a queer relationship, well I'll do it."

Peter buried his head in Mike's stomach to stifle his giggles.

"What?" Mike asked, indignant at Peter's response to his bared-soul confession.

Peter looked up at him again, eyes sparkling mischieviously. "You called this a relationship, Mike."

"Oh, damn it!" Mike laughed, remembering their past vows to not use the word. "I owe you a dollar now, don't I, shotgun?"

Peter kissed the line just over Mike's hip. "Uh huh," he grinned.

The laughter subsided into comfortable silence, Mike's hand stroking a small patch of hair at the back of Peter's neck. He turned his head to the side, spying the red bandanna, now lying a few feet away.

"All right, well...you wore me out somethin' good, so how 'bout we get some sleep now?" Mike said, just as Peter let out a yawn.

"I'll take that as a yes," Mike chuckled, gently pushing the sleepy blond off of him, turning his body so that he was spooned back against Mike's chest. He wrapped one arm around Peter's chest, the other reaching for the bandanna, balling it back up in his fist.

"Good night, Michael," Peter said in a half-asleep whisper.

"Good night, Peter," Mike replied, planting one final kiss on Peter's freckled shoulder.

Thank you, Peter. Thank you.