Work Text:
It was soft and comfortable where he woke up. Had he- always been awake? Always been here? "Mike?" Then there was light and someone grabbing him, right yes of course. He was Mike. He had... know that too of course. How could he not know his own name?
He went from hand to hand. These hands might have been familiar but... they weren't... right. Mike didn't know what he wanted, but he knew he'd know it when they held him again. "When he's ready." There was a piano playing in the distance. Mike knew there was another like him at the piano, but that one... well it just wasn't him. Not as special, not as beloved, and held so close. Ah, to be held so close. That was all Mike wanted, all he was longing for. And fortunately, that was exactly what was coming.
The piano stopped to be overtaken by the guitar, the pianist was strutting towards his side of the stage and Mike was held out to be swept up. Ah, Freddie Mercury. If Mike had to be a microphone, and he supposed he had to, then there was no greater singer he would want using him. The way he hit and held the notes, the passion, the enthusiasm and the unwavering full-throated effort. It strained at his voice especially as the tours went on for months, but what a talented and dedicated performer.
But that was not what Mic loved best. To serve in his purpose to amplify Freddie's voice was nice... but better still was what came when the lyrics lulled. When it was the guitar solo's part, or whatever. When Freddie had to fill the time.
The entertainer strutted and danced, and wielded his microphone and half-stand. Wielded it not like sword, but like a stripper pole. Mic got to feel himself get pressed along Freddie. Against his chest, against his thighs, but more often for easy of movement, between them. Between his thighs and pressed right up against his crotch. Freddie's clothes were tight and left nothing to the imagination. Mic could clearly feel all he was packing with how he was made to rub over and around.
Freddie's cock was large in itself, but also sat above that sizable sack. Mic got the honor of running up and against it. On the edge of the shaft, above it, sliding in the space between the cock and balls when he moved just right. Just be ground against him, against that hot sweaty musk that came from being under the stage lights and performing for hours. And Mic didn't think he was the only one enjoying it.
It was rare for Freddie to get hard while on stage, he was a performer, and this was his job, however it did happen occasionally. Still, even when Freddie did not grow physically hard, he still got sexual pleasure from this. From strutting his stuff in front of the screaming, delighted fans. Seeing how they drank him in while he was wearing such revealing clothing. The power he felt when they all responded so ardently to his lead. And his 'dancing.' How he would basically grind and hump the stage equipment, the air, that leggy guitarist of theirs- that half-microphone stand. Just put it between his legs and arch his hips to run himself against the length of it.
Oh, what a hot and luxurious place to be. Nestled against the man's straining cock and rubbed against it. Up and down, pushing and pulling, Freddie was filling the air with moans and grunts to 'accompany' the guitar solo. And fuck, what a tease this all was. Because just as Mic had been so enjoying himself, the Queen song demanded Freddie to sing again. Mic just had to wait until the next song for some more. There would be another lull, and he knew Freddie. Freddie was going to do it again, that slut. But what did that make Mic who enjoyed it so, and couldn't wait for it to happen again?
Yet this time Mic was even luckier than that. As the song died down and there was a slight lull, Freddie interacted with the crowd, making a jerk off gesture just with the air, and then by stroking Mic. A tight grip, with hands slightly sweaty from that workout of a performance, holding him firmly and just stroking up and down, up and down. Then, the only thing that could make this better-! Freddie pressed Mic right up against his bulging crotch and thrust him stiff. Running over his cock yes, but also up his stomach and up that thick line of hair, all along that sensitive skin.
'Just a little more,' Mic dared to hope, and indeed that naughty Freddie couldn't help himself. Rolling Mic just a little to the side of his chest, just nudging his nipple with it. Freddie's dark dusky nipples were exposed by his scandalous outfit sitting there like jewels among his thick, black, chest hair. Mic loved all that hair, how coarse it felt running all along him. Mmmm, Mic savoured being where he loved most, doing what he loved most, rubbing his whole length against Freddie.
As the show continued, as the songs bleed into one and then another, Mic was always the focus of all of Freddie's attention and power. Freddie running Mic up and down his lithe body, cradling him, stroking him, his hands and body constantly giving him attention. It was... bliss. What Heaven. And Freddie's enjoyment, enjoyment of what he was doing, enjoyment of Mic, was beyond reward enough.
By the time the concert was over, Freddie was exhausted and covered in sweat. Mic liked him like this too. Wired from being on stage, but tired and just ready to be taken apart. Especially after he had so enjoyed their 'first round' of Freddie being so high energy. However, Mic knew their time together was coming to a close. He would have to wait until tomorrow, still, he was impatient for something so soon. No amount of time with Freddie was enough, and every moment was treasured.
It never got old. Not for Mic, and certainly Freddie had shown no interest in changing for some other setup. There was no reason Mic supposed he couldn't be set up as a whole stand, but he suspected if that happened, Freddie couldn't and wouldn't be able to get as close to him.
Mic was handed off to a roadie as Queen went to take their final bows. The crowd cheer deafeningly and Freddie even threw flowers into the crowd. He imagined the people that caught flowers, from Freddie's own hands, felt as thrilled as he did to be in Freddie's hands every night.
The roadies were waiting in the wings with robes as the talent came off, sweating but soon to be cold without the stage lights to roast them. Phoebe and Joe help tend to their employer with bottles of water, towels, and his favorite yukata. Mic was happy, but he couldn't imagine being Freddie's yukata was bad either, to be draped and wrapped around Freddie's toned form for hours, especially against so much bare skin.
Jobby and Crystal were there to take their guitars, detaching them from their amps before they could be cleaned down and put in their cases. Next, they came for Mic, detaching him from his wires once he was off. He'd hate to produce feedback, his only sounds should be tasteful, delightful amplifications of Freddie's singing.
As he was unplugged and going from roadie to stagehand, soon to returned to his case, Freddie gave him a pecked kiss as he passed.
"Why don't you just rub that thing between your arse cheeks?" Roger said with a laugh as he sprayed Freddie down with the iced champagne.
Freddie laughed, "Well, you know what- maybe one day I will!"
Mic tingled, probably just electrical discharge, as he was returned to his comfortable and soft foam housing. This was truly the life.