𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘓𝘰𝘶𝘥 | 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘺 1
Summary: A restless night leaves Mikey strung out and aching, his need too sharp to ignore. Alone in the dark, he gives in—rough, messy, and shameless, every stroke a glimpse at just how greedy he really is.
w/c: 712
warnings: NSFW, masturbation kink, strong language, exhibitionistic undertones, cum play, mild degradation, aged-up Mikey.
pairing: Aged-up/Mikey, Kinktober Day 1 'Masturbation'
The night was too still for him. Mikey hated quiet; it pressed down on his chest like someone had a hand over his ribs, squeezing. His whole world used to be fists and bikes, the roar of engines under his skin. But here, in the dark of his cramped apartment, there was only him—and the ache he could never fight out of his own body.
He sprawled across his futon, shirt rucked up, pale belly catching the glow of the streetlight bleeding in through the blinds. His hand dragged over his chest absentmindedly, nails scratching down his ribs like he was daring himself to feel something. He could still smell smoke and gasoline clinging to his hair. His eyes half-lidded, mouth set in that lazy smirk, but there was tension in it—like a rubber band stretched too far.
His sweatpants hung low, waistband cutting into his hips, the hard outline beneath already straining. He didn’t even mean to get this wound up; it just happened. He kept replaying little pieces in his head—soft lips brushing his ear, a teasing glance, the ghost of a laugh that belonged to someone who wasn’t there. It left him restless, cock hard and throbbing.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running his tongue over his bottom lip, teeth sinking in. He palmed himself through the fabric, groaning at the sharp pressure, hips twitching up like he was grinding against some phantom body. His thighs spread, lazy and spoiled, like he expected the world to just kneel between them.
The friction wasn’t enough. It never was. Mikey hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugged it down in one rough motion, cock springing free, flushed and leaking at the tip. He laughed under his breath, soft and dangerous, like he was amused at himself. “Look at me… fucking pathetic.” But he wrapped his hand around himself anyway, thumb swiping through the slick head, hissing at the sharp jolt of pleasure.
His strokes were slow at first, almost cruel in how he denied himself speed. Veins stood out along the shaft, skin hot, his hand working in a tight fist. He tilted his head back, throat exposed, the line of his jaw sharp in the light. His breath came heavier, ragged little pants that turned into broken moans when he twisted his wrist just right.
He imagined someone else’s hand—smaller, tighter, nails biting into his skin. Imagined their voice, that soft gasp when they saw just how needy he got. His hips bucked into his own fist, sweat beading at his temples. He wanted to hear his name dragged out, whined like a prayer. Wanted someone watching him unravel, not just the silence.
“F-fuck…” His voice cracked, and that only made him squeeze harder, faster, precum smearing down his shaft in a slick mess. He was ruthless with himself, strokes pumping loud, wet sounds filling the empty room. His thighs trembled, the muscles twitching, his toes curling against the sheets.
He bit his knuckle to keep the noises from spilling too loud, but it didn’t help; every gasp was choked, filthy, needy. The more he tried to suppress, the dirtier it sounded, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. His eyes rolled back, lashes wet, chest heaving like he’d just gone rounds in a fight.
The pressure built sharp and fast, pleasure coiling deep in his gut, fire licking up his spine. His balls drew tight, hips jerking into his hand like he couldn’t control himself anymore. He pictured it—someone kneeling, mouth open, begging for it. The image snapped something in him.
“Ahh—fuck, fuck!” he gasped, voice breaking as his body seized. Hot ropes of cum spurted over his stomach, dripping down his abs, pooling in the dip of his navel. His hand kept moving through it, messy, milking every drop out of himself while his whole body shook with aftershocks.
He collapsed back into the mattress, chest shining with sweat, cock twitching against his fist, cum sticky across his skin. His breathing slowed, ragged chuckles spilling out of him. “Damn… I’m a mess.” He dragged his cum-slick hand through his hair, leaving it matted, not giving a fuck.
And still, even after all that, the ache lingered—the hollow, hungry part of him nothing but louder in the silence.
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