Disclaimer: this imagine is NOT MINE. Credit to the original author, Omorka. I got this from Tumblr.

Rating: NC-17

***

Micky flung himself into the upstairs bedroom and nearly slammed the door behind him. Without bothering to fumble for the lights, he raced to the window, threw it open, and began unbuttoning his shirt. It was warm in there, and a little stale; he needed air, desperately.

With clammy hands, he finished the shirt buttons and grabbed at the shiny buckle on his belt. A couple of yanks had it open, the leather dangling down his thigh, as he popped the button on his fly so hard he almost tore it free of the slick grey fabric. He jerked down the zipper and almost got it caught on the fabric of his boxers; suppressing an expletive, he tugged it free and shoved down the elastic on the underwear.

He was already hard. He'd been halfway to an erection all evening, almost. It had been a fabulous gig - the audience was high-energy, he'd found a fantastic groove with Peter's bass, the harmonies had been tight all evening. The crowd had loved them. Nothing had exploded. No one got kidnapped. They'd even gotten paid.

Which meant that he'd been completely undistracted from the view from the drummer's throne all evening. It was a phenomenal view, by anyone's standards. Too bad it wasn't okay for him to admit that.

Micky took himself in hand and started pumping before he even sat down on the edge of the bed. Normally, he took care of himself in the shower; the four of them had an unspoken agreement not to criticize how long they each took in there, or question any odd grunts or groans that weren't drowned out by the splash of running water. But he needed to do something about his misbehaving dick, now, and Davy had claimed first bath to get the smell of smoke out of his shiny mop of hair.

Sighing, Micky leaned back, letting his head drop as his hand sped up. It wasn't like this was going to take long. All he had to do was close his eyes and remember those three perfect asses in front of him - Peter's, swaying and grinding as if he were humping the bass instead of playing it; Davy's, gyrating and bobbing as he showed off for every girl in the audience; and Mike's, nearly stock still for whole songs until he suddenly stamped a foot or leaned into the mic for emphasis and gave Micky a clear view of every curve.

Micky paused a second and spat into his hand. There, that was better; he ran a wet thumb along the soft spot just below the glans. He could feel his balls starting to tighten; he was getting closer. Just a few more strokes, and then he could change shirts, slide back downstairs, and join his bandmates in the post-gig discussion.

He gasped, trying not to moan. There, that was the rhythm, the same groove he and Peter had slipped into during the show. Micky's eyes tightened -

- And he heard, quite distinctly, the door swing open off to his left.

Oh, crap. Had he forgotten to lock the door?

His hand froze in place, too far down the shaft to cover anything important. He tried to open his eyes, but some part of his mind refused. Maybe if he didn't see anyone else in the room, they weren't really there.

A throat cleared in front of him and well above ear level. Not Davy, then. Almost certainly Mike; Peter would have knocked, even at an unlocked door.

Micky forced one eye open. Yup, it was Mike, all right. He was standing right in front of Micky with a peculiar look on his features, not so much surprise as startled curiosity.

Micky tried to grin. "Uh, um, hi, Mike. I didn't hear you on the stairs."

"Looks like you were busy," Mike observed, his eyes traveling from Micky's face downwards and then back up again.

The grin became something closer to a rictus. "Yeah, uh, sorry about that," Micky stammered, trying to yank his boxers back up and grabbing the edge of the zipper instead. "I was just -"

Mike nodded. "Don't mind me," he said, his voice indicating a casualness that wasn't reflected in his staring eyes. "You go on ahead."

Micky opened the other eye and glanced down. He would have expected he erection to wilt as soon as he became aware he wasn't alone, but no, it was still there, proud and red. "Um," he said anyway, "I don't know if I can with you in here."

Mike leaned on the headboard of his own bed, propping one boot-clad foot up on its toe. "You don't look like you're having any trouble yet," he noted. "Keep goin'."

Micky couldn't name what had changed in Mike's tone, but that last had clearly been an order, not an invitation. "Well, okay, if you say so," he said with a shrug, and started stroking again.

This time, though, he started slowly. He preferred it that way, usually, but he'd been rushing before. Now, he started each stroke at the root and slid all the way to the glans before easing back down, taking his time and letting himself feel every nerve as he passed it. He eased up on the pressure a bit, too, letting his fingers slip a little against the taut skin.

Mike's expression didn't change. He stared at Micky as if he were watching a particularly fascinating demonstration of a new guitar technique. The only indications that anything was the least bit out of the ordinary were the color rising in his face and the darkness of his eyes.

Micky closed his eyes and let his head fall back again. Carefully, he picked up the tempo just a bit, falling back into that groove - but now, he was on stage again, even if it was only for an audience of one. He slid his other hand down, cradling his balls, and arched his chest a bit. He let out a few heavy breaths in time to the stroking.

He heard Mike's weight shift. Micky increased the pressure just a bit and started adding a bit of a twist at the end of each stroke - not too much, just enough for a bit of extra friction. He didn't actually mean for the moan that escaped his lips to be audible; he tried to swallow it back, but he was too late.

"Do that again," Mike commanded. "Let me hear you."

"Mmm," Micky replied, rolling his balls in his left hand and finding the soft spot again with his right thumb. For all that he was trying to put on a show, he wasn't having to work very hard; his hips were starting to stutter and arch into each stroke. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple and dripped onto his chest as his breathing came faster.

"Stop," Mike ordered.

Micky froze. Had he done something wrong? Was Mike about to punish him for jerking off in their bedroom?

"Open your eyes," came the next command, from much closer.

Micky obeyed. Mike was now crouched in front of him, his eyes level with the top of Micky's chest and his ass perched just above his boot heels. His eyes were dark, and he seemed to be breathing a little hard himself.

"Go slower," Mike said in a low growl, "and don't close your eyes this time. I wanna see those baby browns."

Micky swallowed. "Yes, Mike," he answered, and the next stroke was excruciatingly slow. He let himself speed up gradually, settling into a steady rhythm when Mike frowned at him, and refocused on varying the pressure slightly. His balls felt strangely heavy and were starting to tingle, but any thought of disobeying Mike's order barely registered.

Another groan bubbled from Micky's throat. His hips were swaying in time with each stroke, trying to prolong the contact; his left hand snaked away from his groin and grabbed at the headboard to steady him.

"Keep makin' noise," Mike murmured. "You sound good, Mick. I wanna hear you."

Micky gasped. Every word of Mike's was hitting some spot deep in his chest he didn't know was there, and Micky wanted desperately to touch him, to grind up against him. Instead, he keened, a high, almost wailing moan, and Mike responded with a stifled groan of his own.

Micky's hand sped up of its own accord. Suddenly, Mike caught him by the wrist, shaking his head. "Not yet," he demanded. "Don't come yet."

"But Mike, I'm so close," Micky pleaded.

"I know," Mike answered. "But I don't want the show to be over just yet."

Micky slithered halfway off the bed and thrust upwards into his own curled palm, his back arching into each stroke. His voice shook as he punctuated each thrust with a grunt, the pitch gradually rising. His thighs were trembling with the effort of not speeding up, not thundering into the crashing accelerando his spine demanded. Every second seemed to stretch into hours, and he writhed under Mike's piercing gaze, barely managing to keep his own eyes open.

Finally, Mike spoke again, his voice even lower. "Stop," he said firmly. "I mean it, don't even touch it."

Micky's hands shook as he moved his right one away and pressed it against the sheets. His erection throbbed in time with his heartbeat; he felt like just breathing on it would be enough to send him over the edge.

Mike shifted position, kneeling instead of crouching. He seemed to fill Micky's entire field of view as he leaned forward. "Can I touch you, Mick?" he whispered.

Micky nearly came just at the thought. "Ye-e-ess," he replied through chattering teeth.

Mike's hands settled on Micky's thighs, then slowly moved upwards. Micky dropped his head to the mattress and let his eyes fall closed, concentrating on the calloused fingertips sweeping over his sweat-drenched skin. His hands closed into fists in the bedsheets as Mike's fingers circled the base of his erection and slowly squeezed as they moved upwards.

A few strokes in, Micky realized he wasn't going to last much longer. "Mike," he wheezed, "I'm - I'm -"

Mike nodded. "Look at me, Micky," he commanded, and Micky forced his eyes open, tilting his head up just enough to meet Mike's gaze.

Mike's hands slowed to barely a crawl, and he smiled, a wild, almost predatory smile. "Keep lookin' at me, Mick," he said. "You can come whenever you want, but you gotta call my name when you do it."

Micky's breathing went wild, and he thrust his hips up into Mike's careful grip. "Yeah," he grunted, "yeah, I - oh - god - MIIIIKE!"

The world faded to white for a second as Micky exploded in Mike's hands. It must not have been too bad an explosion, despite the ringing in his ears, because when Micky's vision returned, the only fluids visible were clearly jism. There wasn't even any smoke.

He tried to make his breathing return to normal. That didn't work very well, but he did find his voice. "I'm - I'm sorry for not locking the door," he gasped.

Mike stared at him like he'd just said something at Peter's level of ridiculousness, then leaned in and kissed him very gently on the lips. Micky was too shocked to return the kiss until it was almost over; he tried, but then Mike pulled away and stood up.

"Clean up the mess and then come back downstairs," Mike said as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "We need to figure out whether we're paying the rent or buying groceries with the gig money. Oh, and they want us back next Friday."

"Wait," Micky protested, his head still spinning from the jism explosion and everything else. "Did - I mean - what -"

Mike glanced down, then back at Micky. Micky followed his gaze, and realized that Mike was sporting a hard-on of his own. Well, he had just put on a heck of a show.

Mike grinned, giving Micky just a hint of that strange, predatory smile. "We'll talk about it later, okay?" he promised. "Right now, we need to hash out the gig stuff."

"Just talk?" Micky asked, tugging his shirt the rest of the way off and using it to wipe the mix of sweat and semen from his chest.

Mike chuckled and walked back out onto the balcony, closing the door behind him.

In a state of vague surprise that he could even stand up after that, Micky dropped the soiled shirt on the floor, rummaged in the closet for a fresh one, and muttered, "If there isn't more than just talking involved, I for one am going to be deeply disappointed."