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After hours. Micky and Peter sat opposite each other, lazily playing their instruments. Peter’s banjo was balanced on his knee, and he plucked at the strings absent-mindedly as he watched Micky. Swaying ever so slightly, Micky strummed at his guitar strings, his eyes closed as he hummed a tune.
“A new one you’re working on?” Peter drawled. Micky’s hands stilled.
“It’s nothing yet,” he said shortly, eyes fixed on the neck of his guitar.
The pair had gotten into a habit in the recent weeks of shooting the TV show of staying behind on the studio set, at least a couple of hours or even several after everyone else had left - the crew, director, set-dressers, makeup artists, costume team, Davy, Mike - and often spent these late evenings jamming with whichever instruments were laying around. One time, Peter picked up a tambourine, another time, Micky had composed a simple piano tune to be accompanied with a pleasant sing-song. It was a sweet little routine the two of them had found themselves in, having the whole space to themselves and infinite time to enjoy each other’s presence. Peter often ended up watching Micky as he hummed or strummed or played a tune, and Micky didn’t mind having a one-man audience.
Now, Peter was perched on the bench on the faux sundeck, with Micky seated hardly a metre away from him. He watched the way Micky’s fingers danced over the guitar strings, his hand sliding up and down the neck of the instrument again and again, the way his muscles moved elegantly under his shirt. Peter swallowed drily when Micky stopped and turned his gaze back to Peter, looking at him through his eyelashes.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s beautiful, Micky,” Peter said matter-of-factly. Micky gave a small smile.
“You flatter me,” he said, noticing as Peter very obviously glanced down at his lips before meeting his eyes again. Micky raised his eyebrows.
“Do you think there’s anyone still here?” Micky said, his voice suddenly dropping almost to a whisper. Peter shook his head, and with Micky’s eyes following his movements, lifted his banjo from his lap and placed it gently on the floor. It made a small sound as Peter laid it down. Then, using his arms to stabilise him, Peter leant forward and kissed Micky softly on the corner of his mouth. Micky brought a hand up to Peter’s head and cautiously moved a strand of hair out of his face as Peter drew his face back.
“Come,” Micky said quietly, removing his guitar strap from around his shoulders. He balanced the instrument against the edge of the bench and stood, beckoning for Peter to follow him.
The two walked inside onto the set, the downstairs interior of the Monkees’ pad. Their footsteps echoed quietly in the expansive room, which felt oddly large and oppressively empty without the hustle and bustle of dozens of crew members and extras dashing about and sitting around the set, which usually filled the space with noise and chatter. The set was dim without the huge stage lights on, which illuminated every angle during the workday; now, it was only lit up by the overhead lights in the studio, casting soft shadows across the floor.
Micky stopped near the love seat adjacent to the band’s instruments in front of the fake floor-to-ceiling windows, turning around to face Peter next to him. The expression painted across Micky’s face made Peter’s heart jump. Micky’s eyes were half-closed, and he was staring at Peter as if he were the only thing he had ever wanted. Micky’s demeanour had changed, his stature shifting from relaxed and slightly tired to lustful, seeking, needing Peter’s touch. A new confidence finding its way to Peter, he took Micky by the waist, pulling him in with both hands for a gentle kiss that lingered for a long moment, deceivingly innocent, painfully soft, his arms wrapped around his torso. Micky exhaled shakily as Peter broke away from his lips, and immediately gave him another short kiss, hinting at his desire for more. Then, without a word of warning, Micky pushed Peter by the shoulders against the wall behind him. The heat of Peter’s skin against Micky’s hands under his silk button-up only intensified his need as the soft thud of Peter’s back hitting the wall rang out through the large set. Peter opened his mouth to speak, his eyes wide, heart racing, but was promptly cut off by Micky’s lips slamming into his. Micky’s hands quickly found their way into Peter’s hair, then slid down to his waist. He held onto Peter tightly, desperately, digging his fingers into him so hard that it would have been uncomfortable were Peter not absolutely beside himself with how badly he needed to fuck Micky. Peter tangled his fingers in Micky’s curly hair, still dry and stiff from the metric ton of hairspray that the crew used to keep it pristine on screen. The urgency of Micky’s grip only made Peter harder, and Micky was all over him, not even stopping his kisses to take a breath.
Micky pulled away for half a second and drew in a sharp breath. He bent his pelvis toward Peter, closing the tiny gap between their bodies, and dived in for another kiss. Peter gasped into Micky’s mouth as he felt their hips knock together and Micky’s dick pressed against his, just as erect as Peter’s. The way he was kissing Peter like an animal mauling its prey made it abundantly clear he was just as desperate as him to get down to it.
“Micky, we-” Peter started as Micky tore his lips from his, his eyes wild with lust.
“What, sweetheart?” Micky said, gaze fixed on Peter’s lips, his hands still firmly around Peter’s hips, his dick now pressing urgently into Peter’s upper thigh, which was making Peter feel dizzy and if he couldn’t have his way with Micky soon he might just explode into a shower of hot viscera - and that would be quite the disaster for the set dressers to clean up.
“I need-” Peter began, his voice strained with want, until he cut himself off with a whine as Micky suddenly lifted his leg and pushed his thigh forcefully between Peter’s legs. The sudden pressure sliding and pressing against Peter’s cock made his head spin, so sensitive that he had to make a conscious effort not to grind down on Micky’s leg.
“What do you need?” Micky said sweetly, his nose brushing against Peter’s. Instead of answering, his words sticking to the back of his throat, Peter tilted his head forward to kiss Micky again. His hands trembled against the hot skin of Micky’s neck as Micky pushed his tongue into his mouth, moving his thigh upward against Peter’s body at the same time. Peter moaned into Micky’s mouth as a shiver ran down his spine, every muscle crying out for more. It was unbearable. His lips still connected with Micky’s, unable to help himself, Peter bucked his hips forward, grinding against Micky’s thigh. He felt Micky smile against his mouth, his grip half-guiding Peter’s hips. Feeling encouraged, Peter thrust again, the friction making him throb with anticipation.
“M- Mick…” Peter mumbled, shakily grabbing onto Micky’s sleeve with one hand. “Do you want me to-”
Peter’s free hand drifted down to Micky’s belt, but before he could get a hold of the buckle, Micky caught his wrist, stopping his hand from meeting it. Teasing, Micky pecked Peter’s lips, his fingers still wrapped tightly around his wrist.
“I have a better idea,” Micky breathed into Peter’s mouth. He removed his thigh from between Peter’s legs, making him groan from the loss of stimulation. Pulling Peter by his wrist, Micky guided Peter across the room. Peter was transfixed by the way Micky’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed heavily, the way his back swayed as he walked, the way his curls sat disorderly on the back of his head and gathered at the nape of his neck. The sound of their footsteps weighed heavily on Peter’s ears as they walked through the set, past the lounge chair, past the tables and wooden chairs, under the stairs and to the door of the Monkees’ downstairs bedroom.
“You think this place has seen much action?” Micky said lightheartedly, turning toward Peter. He then twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open without looking back at it, his eyes fixed on Peter as he led him into the room. Peter considered protesting for a split second; surely fucking on the set on the TV show that you spend almost every day of your life shooting is a tremendously bad idea, especially if the bedsheets that aren’t actually meant to be slept in or used - especially not like that - get ruined, and what if they break something, or they don’t leave it pristinely tidy and someone notices something is wrong and they get discovered, or what if security decide to come back at god-knows what time of night to check up on the place? However, at that moment, these were the least of Peter’s worries - he was too preoccupied with the feeling of Micky’s fingertips pressed firmly into the skin of his wrist and the fact he was going to get it on with Micky any second now and how desperately fucking horny he was. It was so dire that Peter was halfway to grabbing Micky’s other arm with his free hand and demanding he fuck him right then and there - on the floor, against the wall, whatever, as long as he would have his way with him.
When they were finally beside the bed, after what felt like a lifetime, Micky released Peter from his grasp. Peter needed no instruction - he immediately climbed onto the bed, lying back against the metal railings with his legs apart, his dick straining against the fabric of his pants. Micky crawled on top of him on all fours, his hands ending up on either side of Peter’s shoulders. Peter propped himself up on his elbows and kissed Micky needily, until Micky pulled away with a string of saliva connecting their lips. Micky sat down directly on Peter’s erection, shifting his hips provocatively, providing him some much-needed stimulation. Peter immediately whined and thrust his hips upward, to which Micky rolled his hips back, grinding on him hard. He was pleased that this earned him another involuntary sound from Peter, who threw his head back against the metal frame, open-mouthed. Micky began slowly rhythmically grinding on him, making Peter’s breath shudder as it escaped from his parted lips. Peter bucked up against Micky again, desperate for more as Micky rocked against him agonisingly gently. To Peter’s utter dismay, Micky stopped and leaned in close to his face, intentionally maneuvering his hips to rub against Peter’s cock, making him whimper as he positioned himself forward.
“You’re getting too excited,” Micky mumbled in a low, sultry tone, and kissed Peter deeply. As he drew back, Peter followed his lips with his whole body, resulting in Peter sitting almost upright with Micky in his lap, Micky’s cock pressing into Peter’s lower abdomen.
“Please,” Peter whispered, hurriedly wrapping his arms around Micky’s waist. “Please can you-”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence - Micky pushed his hips forward, harder and faster than before, and Peter thrusted against Micky’s body on top of him. The room filled with the sound of their panting mixed with the noise of the flimsy bed shaking and clanking and rattling as they grinded against each other. Peter’s head spun as Micky’s hips slammed into him again and again, and he clawed desperately at his shirt, his hands all over Micky’s back. They were both still fully clothed, making Peter whine as the fabric of his jeans rubbed against his hard-on from the friction of Micky’s thrusts, adding to the sensations shooting through his body and going straight to his dick. Micky kissed Peter hungrily, tangling his fingers in Peter’s hair and speeding up his rhythm. His lips, wedged against Peter’s, hot and soft, were only making him more desperate. Peter’s thrusts were beginning to falter and become uneven as he reached his climax, the feeling aching and erupting in his stomach, and if Micky kept kissing him so hard and grinding against him like that, he was absolutely done for.
Without warning, Micky tugged hard on Peter’s hair, and Peter cried out, all of his muscles tensing under Micky’s body as he came in his pants. His nails dug into Micky’s back, and he panted into his chest, lightheaded from the sudden release. Micky didn’t last much longer - he found a sweet spot grinding on Peter’s thigh, his thrusts becoming slower and choppier, until finally he followed through with a heady moan as he came too.
For a long moment, the two of them remained with their bodies pressed against each other, sighing heavily as they both reached to regain their bearings. Peter looked back up at Micky, and was promptly pleased to see the state he was in - skin flushed beautifully, his hair dishevelled with pieces falling out of place, breathing open-mouthed. Micky back gazed down at him with adoration. Peter pressed a soft kiss against his lips.
“Well, the television network wouldn’t be allowed to broadcast that,” Peter quipped. Micky laughed into his mouth and gently caressed either side of Peter’s face. He planted a kiss on his nose, then dismounted him. A sense of satisfaction crept into Peter’s chest as he noted how Micky’s legs were slightly shaking as he lifted himself to his knees and climbed off Peter’s lap. Micky shifted his weight off the bed, and a great ping! sound rang out as he steadied himself on his feet.
“That didn’t sound good,” Micky said.
Peter exhaled. “You don’t think the bed is broken?”
“I wasn’t that rough!”
“This is a fragile old thing,” Peter started. “It wouldn’t take much.”
“Shiiiiit.” Micky groaned.
Peter unsteadily rose from the bed, and Micky pulled him in by the waist for another quick kiss before crouching down to inspect the old metal frame. Peter’s eyelids fluttered as he watched Micky bend to see underneath the mattress.
“A couple of screws fell out,” he said. “The bed probably won’t fall apart, we’re fine.”
“Thank god for that,” Peter muttered, suddenly becoming uncomfortably aware of the stickiness in his jeans. “I must have a change of clothes somewhere around here…”
“Hopefully the bed doesn’t collapse next time someone lies on it,” Micky laughed, straightening up to his full height.
“We’ll find out next time we shoot a scene in here, I guess,” Peter said dismissively.
Micky kissed Peter’s cheekbone. “It’s late, you can stay at my house for the night, if you like. We have shooting tomorrow anyway,” Micky said, more of an expectation than an offer. “Or I could drive you home?”
Peter smiled.
“As long as you don’t mind risking the integrity of another bed, I could sleep at your house,” he joked.
“Yeah, you wish,” Micky laughed, and wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist. Peter let Micky steer him towards the exit and looked back at the dimly-lit set behind him as they stepped through the door.
Perhaps he would propose to Micky that they stay after hours more often.