(Untitled)

[dingdongdoodily]

With the cauldron and book set down and the hat tossed aside, Pickles only had to put out his cigarette before practically dragging Miniver into a longing, lustful, rough kiss.

It had been days, mind you, he was a bit frustrated.
Okay, make that a lot frustrated.

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[dingdongdoodily]

Pickles didn't even warn Miniver, it was a split second after the nod registered in his mind that he was driving into the poet, both hands pulling Miniver's hips back onto each unrelenting, brutal thrust. He leaned down and stretched across the hippie's back, hair slipping off his shoulder, as he bit down against the curve of his lover's neck with a groan.

[cheevy]

Miniver gasps as Pickles thrusts forward, but very shortly learns the rhythm and follows it automatically. His brain is very solidly Elsewhere, registering nothing but vague and ecstatic approval at the bite. Now and then he squeaks at a particularly deep thrust, but not in pain. He could almost get off just IMAGINING Pickles' expression right now. He turns his head and bites to tug at a little of Pickles' hair as it falls, but just for a second. It's a fairly acrobatic move and much more than a moment's tugging would break the rhythm. His own erection throbs with arousal as they move, at every sound his lover makes.

[dingdongdoodily]

It only took a few minutes of this before Pickles slipped one hand across Miniver's hip to wrap around his lover's erection, stroking it at twice the speed he was pounding into the poet. He sat up finally, moving his free hand to the small of Miniver's back, pressing down.

Gad, too sexy. Too effin' sexy... Gunna cum soon. He thought, though all that got through his lips was a growling "Nnnnn..."

[cheevy]

Miniver utters a soft cry as Pickles touches him, and from then on is quite incapable of coherent thought. His fingers clutch at the bedding, hair falling in his face, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. And there is nothing, now, NOTHING that could make this better, unless he could see his lover's face. He almost does, through the shadows in his eyes as they cloud over -- too wholly enslaved to the pleasure and the moment to notice the tears dripping onto his hands.

[dingdongdoodily]

Had they not been in such a rush, Pickles would have thought to turn and face the mirror instead of the other way, but hey, heat of the moment, what can you do?

He speeds his pace, with an almost manic, frantic moan, leaning forward, his stomach pressed flush against Miniver's back, huffing into the poet's ear his short pants and soft growls of pleasure, his hand speeding. He knew that if Miniver just tried, he'd be able to reach and they could kiss, but he couldn't say as much just at the moment, so he flicked his tongue out to graze across bare skin instead.