Miniver Cheevy (miniver) wrote in utr_logs, @ 2008-03-14 17:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | miniver cheevy, pickles |
Who: Miniver Cheevy and Pickles the younger
What: Vaguely handwaved prior to this scene, Pickles finds that Miniver is in possession of some... less than innocent photographs taken of a much younger Pickles soon after he first arrived in LA. Pickles, maturely, flips his shit and goes to hide in his room. Miniver follows.
Where: Old-Pickles' mansion just outside London (or like in the suburbs or something, I forget, whatever)
When: Yesterday.
Warnings: Angst and buttsecks. :D!
The old ex-hippie actually doesn't knock right away. He stands outside Sean's door for a couple of minutes, thoughtfully nibbling a thumbnail as he leans against the doorframe. His notebook's tucked under one arm, and of course he's wearing his usual trenchcoat. He partly wonders if he ought to have left the notebook somewhere else... but leaving the thing around's what got him in trouble in the first place.
He knocks.
The sound of bedsprings stretching back to their normal positions was all that gave away the fact that Sean had heard the knock. He'd been furious hours previous, wanting to destroy everything that came into his field of vision, so instead of doing that, he'd gone up to his room and destroyed his liver, instead. He cracked open the door and scowled out at Miniver. "Oh great." Deadpanned the redhead, slipping away from the door, leaving it as it was before flopping back down on his bed. "Just what I need. Look, if it's about gettin' into yer stuff, I didn't know that thing was yers to begin with..." Pretending that he wasn't still blushing beet red due to the knowledge of the photos being inside the notebook was a great way to maintain.
Miniver saunters in after him and plops down beside him. "Hey, kid, whatever. Shouldn't have left the thing lying around. My fault someone found it." He pauses, watching him closely, his eyes concerned. "You okay? What was that about, anyhow?"
He faltered for a moment. He couldn't say 'nothing' because 1. Miniver knew better than that and it pissed him off that the hippie did, and 2. Miniver knew he knew what was in the notebook. He pushed his hair out of his face, back turned to the hippie. "I was broke, okay? I needed to get some money fer my guitar an' a place to stay fer a month while I got on my feet." He huffed. "You wouldn't understand." Teenager mentality; Elders never understand.
Miniver gives him a crooked smile. "Yeah, babe, I would, an' I do. What's th'matter, you think I'm judging you or something?" He reaches out and fingers a strand of red hair.
That was... not unpleasant, but he pulled away. "You know I was underage in those, right? It's like, Iunno, some sort of illegal... whatever. I ain't gunna hide th'fact they happened, shit, it's already all over th'fuckin' tabloids back home. Douchebag photographer sent 'em to playgirl, got a shitload of dough, too." He huffed a sigh. "Jus' don't tell Tony or Nat'n, okay?"
Miniver smiles gently to him. "I wasn't ever gonna tell anyone. I keep these journals for my own stuff. Only person allowed to read 'em is you in about 20 years. Hey. You really okay?" He's genuinely worried about the little-Pickles. "You need anything?"
He was hiding in his hair, which was never a good sign. "Don't need anythin'. m'fine." He didn't sound like it, and frankly, he was having issue with not sniffling, so he finally did. "I mean, it ain't like.. y'know... it's a big deal or nothin', we all got secrets, right?"
Miniver scoots around just a little, sitting cross-legged on the bed now. He puts his hand firmly on Sean's shoulder and gives a little squeeze. "Hey. It's okay. Promise. I won't tell a soul." About the photographs or... this. "Come on, luv. Don't be alone."
It really wasn't his intention to cry, but dammit, it was just fucking tough being so out of place! The guys he moved in with all knew each other, and were better, and one was HIM, for chrissakes, and now this on top of it? But those last three words Miniver spoke broke him utterly. He turned around and curled around Miniver, shivering out silent sobs into the older man's lap.
Miniver pulls him close and wraps his arms tight around the younger man. He rubs his back and sways a little with him. "'Salright, babe. Take as long as you need." At some point he does manage to fish a little packet of tissues from a pocket and hands it over (dust allergies -- he's always got a couple of these squirreled away). Otherwise he just holds on, and hums to him softly.
Sean took the packet with a murmur of 'thanks', a bit more raspy than he would have liked to have sounded, but he gathered himself back up in short enough order and huffed a bitter chuckle. "I'm such a pussy, I can't effin' even keep my shit together over some douchebag pictures."
Miniver fussily tucks the red hair out of Sean's face and wipes at the damp spots on his cheeks with a sleeve. "Man... you just stick around, I promise you're gonna see me fall apart over sillier things. That's how I am, dude, ain't nothin' I can do about it and I sure as hell don't hold it against anyone else. You feeling better?"
Pickles got a rueful smile at that, but nodded. He took a deep breath and sighed it out, collecting himself more firmly before nodding once more. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be alright. But c'mon, I ain't supposed t'freak out about shit like that, I'm a fuckin' star, y'know? I mean, well, y'know what I mean." But then came the unresolved question of, "So why did you have those in yer journal, anyways?"
"The obvious answer, which I'm sure you know perfectly well, is you're gorgeous. But honestly, it's more'n that. I'm not some freaky perv, y'know. Not like that. See, some friend of mine found 'em and sent 'em to me and.... it's about... it's more than sex, luv. It's that I like to know who you are, and who you were. Get it? It's memories. This other you, from this world of mine... he... you... whatever... he's the other piece of my soul. I keep everything I find of his." Miniver keeps petting Pickles' hair back, smiling at his red-eyed expression.
Sean blew his nose, then quirked a brow. "Yeah right, I really don't believe in souls y'know." he dropped out of Miniver's lap and flopped back onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "I met God, sure, but I don't believe in souls, I don't believe in soulmates neither, really. If I did, it wouldn't be some crazy haired hippie dude, it'd be... well, it just wouldn't be you, y'know?" He shrugged one shoulder. "No offense, but enh, I ain't... well, it ain't like that. Dunno what changed my outlook from now 'til then, but sorry." He stretched and arched his back, "Anyways, you wouldn't have 'em stashed in yer journal if they were just little mementos or whatever. So you wanna get freaky with me, fine, I can handle that, but I ain't feelin' it. Serious."
Miniver leans on one arm, head tilted to the side, almost resting on his shoulder as he looks at Pickles. "You're not," he says slowly, "my Sean. You're you. And that's cool. I'm not gonna spend all my time hitting on you or anything. I'm not gonna obligate you to spend any more time with me than you want. Okay? You're not offending me. I dunno if you CAN. Well okay... if you tried. I know a version of you close enough to YOU to know you ould break me if you really wanted. Not that it's hard." He grins then. "'Course, I won't lie an' tell you I don't find you gorgeous. But hell... you got how many fans? That's nothin' new. And I'm not pushy."
He does -- if Pickles will allow it -- reach over and lay a hand on his forehead, and knuckles on his cheeks. His hands are always cool, almost cold, and... Miniver knows that at least when he cries, he tends to rub his face a bit raw. So maybe it'd feel nice or something. It wasn't a come-on. Just... taking care of him.
Before the fingers reached his cheeks - and he did allow that - he murmured, "Hey, y'know, sorry about bein' a jerk when I was a chick an' just up an' left." He felt that was important to state, before smiling just slightly. "But y'know, I was feelin'... pretty weird. I mean... I liked that time we spent at the bar an' stuff, y'know, but I'm..." He huffed a sigh and stopped trying to find words, so instead, he just leaned into Miniver's touch, smirking as he turned his head to place a kiss in the palm of the poet's hand.
That pretty much summed it up.
The kiss was unexpected. Even though he knows it probably doesn't mean all that much. He laughs to cover up being startled and keeps pressing his fingers lightly to Pickles' face. "Don't worry about it, luv. I was a little glad you left. Did me good to get outta there and see a buddy of mine." He grins lopsidedly. "I keep tellin' you, I fall apart easier'n you know. I hope you were okay?"
He was still smirking, ever impish, as he gave a slight nod. "Was gunna wind up goin' home with you if I stayed much longer." He admitted. "Funny how that works out." And another kiss was placed to the tips of Miniver's fingers. That kiss meant a bit more than the previous one, and he let it linger.
The older musician only barely keeps himself from freezing on the spot at that. He takes a deep, silent breath, telling himself it doesn't mean anything, trying to brush it off as he fingercomb's Sean's hair. "So... you uh... tired or somethin'? I can go if you are." Despite all his experience, he's not sure what to make of this, and wouldn't want to make the wrong thing of it. Here is a person he genuinely loves, more than anybody else in all the worlds, no matter his age, no matter whether he's HIS Sean or someone else's.
Oh, the hairpetting, it was lovely. The smirk melted into a wholly blissed smile, and he closed his eyes, holding back from purring. "Nah, not tired. Eyes itch a little from cryin', though, but I get worse when I'm stoned so it's no big deal." Hey, the old hippie knew what it took to make him smile, that was a selling point for sure. He slowly levered himself up onto his elbows, looking over at Miniver with half-lidded eyes and the still blissed smile. "You ain't gunna just run off right after I tell you that, are you?"
Miniver stares at Pickles lounging like that, bassett-hound eyes half-lidded and intense, and he shakes his head slowly. He stills his hand in the younger man's hair, fingers tangled in it. "You serious?" he asks, a slight hoarseness in his voice contradicting his attempts to be nonchalant. "I ain't kidding, I don't wanna do nything t'you that you don't want..."
But yes he does.
Sean's overactive, graphic imagination had gone into a frenzy at that, and his smile only went a bit toothy. He was good at playing nonchalant, almost too good, really. His tone was low, almost consipring as he purred out, "I only said I couldn't love you, dude. I didn't say I wasn't attracted." His gaze didn't falter from Miniver's eyes, it was just as intense, just as luring - if not moreso than - his elder counterpart's. There was a different kind of fire inside the younger Sean, one which burned for the archetype set by his peers, of sex, drugs and rock & roll. Anger and hatred hadn't started fueling that fire yet, and he hadn't been subdued by excessive abuse of alcohol just yet. He knew what he was doing. And he did it well. He wasn't so much a musician as an icon, and he knew it, and he worked with it.
Everything Pickles is doing right now is driving Miniver slowly insane. At that look, Miniver's hand tightens in Pickles' hair. He leans close... very close... studying his face, the make-up, the marks from the tears, the faint freckles...
And he kisses him, somewhat more fiercely than he'd intended to allow himself. He won't stop until Pickles pulls away, either.
That's what he was after, really. He allowed the study, soaking in the scutiny of the poet's search, before his fingers tangled into the dark curls, nails lightly scratching the back of Miniver's neck as they kissed. He was more than willing to reciprocate the ferocity of the kiss, in fact, he reveled in it, was one with it. His movements were serpentine and graceful as he slid closer, then straddled the older man, pulling him close, not letting him up until they both needed air.
When they finally do part, Miniver's hands are tight around Pickles' arms. "You got one last chance," he growls, "to decide if this ain't what you want. Cuz... after that..." He licks his lips and draws his hand from Pickles' throat down his chest, his breathing a little shallow as he does. "God, you're gorgeous."
The growl got a full on toothy grin. "If I didn't want it, I wouldn'ta provoked it." Sean stated bluntly as his nails trailed down Miniver's side. He didn't say anything to the other statement, however. He knew it. He knew damn well Miniver thought so, and he wasn't going to stop anything from happening. Hell, fifteen years spent with his older, more experienced self would have given Miniver all the abilities to make him melt, and he wanted to experience that firsthand. "Yer turn, poet." He rasped into Miniver's ear, having leaned down to say so, "You know what yer doin'."
Miniver does indeed know what he's doing... and the thought of doing it to someone who DOESN'T know quite everything he wants yet makes the poet's expression turn positively predatory.
He pulls him down again and moves his hands over Pickles' body as he kisses him, fingers finding sensitive sports through cloth and first teasing Pickles with hints of what he'd eventually get to.
But for all Miniver likes to tease his lovers, he wants Pickles, and wants him badly. There's only so long he can keep up the playing before he ends up almost tearing at Pickles' clothing to get it off, all the while kissing him wherever he can reach, not only his lips but his throat and collarbone and shoulders, biting and sucking and licking.
The intensity of it all had Sean up and ready and rarin' to go well before the shirt came off and the pants were unbuttoned, and his breath was already ragged as his nails dragged over whatever skin he could find, not taking it easy on Miniver at all. He let out murmurs and moans before he even skinned out of his jeans, tugging at Miniver's pants, just as ready to get on with things as the hippie was, it seemed. His fingers worked deftly at the buttons and found their way to more skin, more pleasure. There was nothing stopping him from getting what he wanted, and he knew it was a mutual desire, possibly even moreso on the poet's part, and he didn't even realize.
Once he manages to squirm out of his jeans, and get Pickles out of his, he grabs hold of the younger musician's mane of red hair with one hand, while the other slides down his belly and slowly over his erection. He grins, his own body tense and wanting him. He searches Pickles' face as if looking for words, but eventually gives up and simply continues to stroke him slowly while kissing him.
There was another moan at the first touch of his arousal, and he looked up with something between concern and amusement, but all full of lust. One of his long-nailed hands wrapped around Miniver's cock in turn, stroking in time with the rhythm Miniver had established as they kissed. He wasn't yet satisfied with matters, so his other hand scratched up the poet's spine, leaving stinging red welts in their wake.
Miniver hisses delightedly at the scratching and presses closer to him, into his hand as he strokes faster. If the young one wants to be rough, Miniver is only too happy to indulge. He drags the nails of his free hand down over Pickles' shoulder, down his side, then back up. He leans in and bites -- not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to feel it. He leaves rough kisses on the musician's shoulders, some of which would leave marks. The scratches surely would.
He growls softly again, watching Pickles' face, his body rocking forward as his own pleasure builds.
Moaning was the least of the sounds that Sean was making at that point. There was a sly smile coming through the lust after a moment, and he leaned forward to leave a trail of rough nips across Miniver's jaw before his tongue came out to flick across an earring, before he rasped out, "This all you want? Just jackin' me off?" That was a dare.
Miniver digs his nails into Pickles' back. "What is it YOU want, doll?" he asks, his breath short. He shivers as Pickles tongueflicks his earring, nails pinching harder for a brief few seconds before moving around front to play over his nipples. "You name it, baby. What I want ain't got nothin' to do with it. I got what I want..."
There was a shuddered whimper, not at all unpleasant, before he tangled his hands through long black curls, and tugged, not lightly. He knew that anything he could say wouldn't surprise Miniver, or be turned down. And that was a delight. The one thing he did want, though, took a considerable amount of effort to express, so after a deep breath and an attempt to steel himself to the pleasure and stinging across his body, he finally spoke, his breath low in his throat as he shuddered his request into Miniver's ear. "Fuck me, dude, I know you wanna make me yers fer just a moment, make me moan... Make me beg." He whispered the last word, hand releasing Miniver's erection to trail light lines across his thighs and hips.
Miniver's eyes go wide at that. He cups Pickles' cheek in one hand and kisses him, lightly and tenderly but no less hungry for his gentleness. "Jesus, yes." He kisses him again, harder but more briefly before pulling away. "Where d'you keep stuff in here, doll?"
The kisses were responded to in kind before he leaned over to a bedside table, sliding it open. "Take yer pick." And there certainly was an array of lubricants, from gels to liquids, flavored, warming, cooling, water based, oil based, scented... hell, he was stocked. And obviously slightly smug about it.
Miniver laughs and shakes his head. "You know," he says while pawing through Pickle' collection, "a person could almost get the wrong impression about you. Wouldn't want to, y'know, tarnish your saintly reputation... hmmm..." Cinnamon-scented. Yes, that would do nicely.
With the bottle in one hand, Miniver pounces the young musician and pins him with a deep kiss. Balanced on his knees, he sits back slowly, leaving nips and kisses down Pickles' throat and over his chest and nipples as he opens the bottle and spreads the oil over his hands. He keeps nuzzling and kissing and biting as the smell of cinnamon permeates the air, and he moves one hand gently to reposition and prepare his partner.
"Tell me if anything I do hurts you," he instructs between bites to the younger man's hips. "Other'n that." Smirk.
Sean chuckled, "Oh whatever dude, everyone knows I'm a slut. Even God." That got a smirk before the kiss, and he wrapped his arms loosely around Miniver's shoulders, nails toying at the back of his neck, only working to the shoulders as the poet descended. "Christ..." He moaned, "You know how to play me like a damn guitar..." The word trailed off into another whimper at the bite, and he ran his hands into Miniver's hair, grinning wide. "You'll know if it does, babydoll." He said, peering at the poet through his lashes. He'd pull the man's hair, and not in a fun way.
Miniver believes him.
He continues to work with his fingers for a little while, making certain he's ready. As well as he knows his husband, he didn't meet him until he was almost seven years older than the young man whose body was so receptive to Miniver's touch.
He pleasures Pickles' body with nails over his skin and with touches and kisses until he himself can barely stand the anticipation anymore. He scoots up and kisses Pickles' lips. "Ready?" he asks, almost gasping the word as his belly twists with arousal.
Squirming was almost a given at the preparation, and he only made a pained expression and tugged Miniver's hair lightly the once, just as a warning. The amazing knowledge of every inch, every spot which made him moan, was well appreciated. "Mmhmm." Sean finally responded at the question, licking his lips, legs spread for the poet, eyes mostly closed in anticipation. He would have said more, had his brain not melted a few moments previous.
Despite his own excitement, Miniver is a very patient and cautious lover, especially with someone he's not certain is very experienced (and not certain he'd tell the truth about it). He puts one hand under Pickles' lower back to help move together and slowly slides inside him, watching his face for any sign of discomfort even as he bites back a hiss of pleasure.
The redhead was rather experienced by then, thanks to a year and a half of rock stardom, and a year of that was spent with Tony. Not that he'd been particularly fond of the fact until he realized that there was nobody else hung up about it than him when he got to this world.
As it was, however, he responded quite well to it, letting out a long, thready whine which turned into a moan, his hands balling into fists. Sean raised his legs up over Miniver's hips, crossing his ankles and got the older musician deeper in.
Miniver forces himself to go slowly, pushing gradually deeper, until he's absolutely certain he's not going to hurt Pickles. Once he's sure, though, his pace speeds, hands clutch both at the bedding beside Pickles' head where he's propped up, and against his skin. And once he feel secure enough in the safety of his partner to let go of caution and focus on pleasure, every thrust is like an electric wave through his entire body. And as soon as they find a harmony of motion, he moves his hand out from under Pickles' back and strokes him in time with the rest of their movement. It's only naturaly that the musicians find perfect rhythm quickly.
At first, he ducks his head to pepper kisses over Pickles' face now and then, but as their pace quickens, as sensation heightens, it's all he can do to keep breathing.
The effort to please at the first was regarded with delight. That was something Tony occasionally did, but generally it was straight out fucking for the both of them. It was a welcome change to Sean, who pet through Miniver's hair and gasped out the other man's name once the rhythm set in. There was nothing better in his mind until the poet found his erection once more and started working his fingers around it and he lost his grip on Miniver, his arms dropping away to dig away at the bedding beneath him, having issue with keeping a sane, steady rhythm in his movements, jaw set against a loud moan that would surely have found its way through the entire house. He did manage out another mutter of Miniver's name. This, of course, was nothing but delightful to him. He didn't know what to do with himself, and that was new.
Miniver manages, just barely, to be smug at the expression on Pickles' face.
This is good. This is very, very good. This is... he pushes in deep and cries out softly, too enveloped in pure sensation to form words or names. And with every push from then, he gasps and cries out louder, until he ducks his head and digs his nails into Pickles' shoulder and almost howls as he climaxes with a rare intensity.
Sean was driven over the edge himself, rare for being able to go long, extended periods of time, occasionally all night. It was the nails that did it, but the howling helped. His own orgasm crashed through him, and he let out that cry he was holding back, loud enough to echo through the room as he clung to Miniver, because if he didn't, he felt that he'd lose grip of reality altogether. It was fantastic and dear GOD he'd kill himself if he'd ever regret something like this.
Miniver collapses against him, gasping for breath and holding him close.
"Christ," he murmurs. "Babe... if your world's different than mine... whoever gets you is gonna be one hell of a lucky sonofabitch..." He nuzzles into the red hair and catches his breath as he breathes in the familiar scent of him.
There was a slight smile at that, he'd understood what Miniver said, but responding took more time to process words to say. He dragged the blanket over Miniver and himself, burrowing under it , at least up to his neck before he looked up at the older man. "I'm pretty lucky myself... in twenty years." He nudged Miniver, "You should go tell me how good he was. He's been bitchin' at me fer not gettin' the songs perfect all day. It'd be a little like payback." He paused then, and shook his head. "Nah, he wouldn't be pissed. He'd probably take it as a compliment. I mean, I would." His smile slipped into a half-smirk, as he got comfortable. NOW he was sleepy.
Recovering finally, Miniver pets Pickles' hair. "Sleep, doll," he says softly. "God you're gorgeous. Hey, babe, you're gonna be just fine here, y'see?" He smiles and kisses Pickles' neck. "You're gonna fly."
There was a murmur at the kiss and words. "We gotta do this more often. I mean, y'know, fer fun." He grinned, "Unless I got somethin' to say about it. Tony'll have a cow, but fuck 'im, he screws a hundred chicks a week an' I don't say boo to it." Sean curled into the blankets more, and looked up at Miniver, sleepy eyes half-unfocused. "Thanks. I mean it."
"Mmm," Miniver replies eloquently. He tucks the blankets closer around Pickles and curls around him, holding him in a cocoon of blankets and fluffypoet curls.
"Sleep, pretty. I'll be nearby when you wake up."
Sean shrugged, "I'll be alright, dude. Go an' be with yer me now. He needs you, I really don't." It wasn't meant to be insulting, it was just the pure truth. He enjoyed Miniver's company, but he preferred to sleep alone.
Miniver nods, nuzzles him again, kittystretches, and tumbles off the bed to collect his clothing, humming as he does -- a Russian lullabye. He gets dressed rather messily and stops by the side of the bed to touch little-Pickles' hair once more.
"I do love you," he whispers, unsure whether Pickles can hear him. "Dream well, luv."
And he's gone.