Melt
Sequel to Warming Up
Author's Note: You know, some people have respectable hobbies. Some people go in for gardening, or take up a sport, or knit socks when they need something to do. But me, oh no, I write the homoerotics. Also, now that we've got this image thing, you all get a lousy ink drawing to go along with the story.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, please don't sue me.
PSA: Despite events portrayed here, I advocate safe sex in real life.
Contains: Sex, and some sickeningly sweet really unmetal things like feelings. Some profanity as well.
It seemed, to Skwisgaar, a perfectly normal Saturday morning. He woke to the rays of the sun on his face as it streamed through the large bay windows of his room, and immediately turned over to assure himself that Pickles was still in his bed. Duly assured, the guitarist smiled a most unbrutal smile.
Though they often held each other until one of them fell asleep, Skwisgaar usually ended up on the other side of the bed—not out of any reserve on his part, but rather because he'd simply never been able to sleep that way, and tended to require space because he rolled and thrashed in his sleep.
Now that he was awake, he snuggled closer to the still-lightly-sleeping drummer and wrapped an arm around his waist. Pickles stirred and rubbed his eyes.
"Mm, mornin'."
"I did not means to wakes you."
"It's cool, dood." He reached up to sweep Skwisgaar's hair back out of his face, and kissed him on the forehead. "I like waking up to you."
"I—I like wakings up…as well…to's you," said Skwisgaar, still a touch uncomfortably.
"Really?" said Pickles, resting his head against the other man's shoulder. "It makes me happy ta hear you say that."
#
Later that afternoon, the two found themselves alone in the living room. There was little to do; the band had the day off from recording, Nathan was secluded in his room working on lyrics, and Toki and Murderface were trying to involve Charles in what would surely prove to be another ill-thought-out project of theirs.
"So…" said Pickles, coming up behind Skwisgaar, who was seated on the sofa, and rubbing his shoulders, "What do you want to do with the rest of the day?"
"Mmm…whatevers you wants," murmured Skwisgaar, leaning back and letting the drummer's skilled hands work the tension from his muscles.
"I was thinking," Pickles whispered, leaning in close to nibble at the top of Skwisgaar's ear, making the blonde squirm in his seat, "we could spend some time alone. Alone together. And not here. Somewhere," he leaned down further to kiss Skwisgaar on the jaw, "private."
Apparently not satisfied yet with Skwisgaar's reaction, Pickles slid one hand down the back of his shirt, raking his nails up his back and forcing him to stifle a moan of desire.
"Ja, let's—let's go elsewhere," he agreed. Somehow he made his way to his room with a raging boner without running into anyone. Pickles arrived moments later and by a different route, since they were still trying to be discreet. Skwisgaar locked the door and they both began to undress.
"I was thinking," Pickles continued as he peeled off his shirt and tossed it to the floor, "we could do somethin' different this time, if you wanna."
Skwisgaar paused while undoing his belt. "What—what exactlies dids you have in mind?" So far, they'd mostly limited themselves to oral sex and some touching, but they'd held off on going further. Skwisgaar wanted to fuck Pickles, but as for being fucked—he'd never done it before, and as much as he liked being fingered by the drummer, the idea of receiving anal sex was a little scary. Pickles himself had no strong preference to top or bottom, but Skwisgaar was big, and that left him a little reluctant.
Pickles, now fully naked, came to Skwisgaar, stood on his tiptoes, and kissed him. Skwisgaar returned the kiss, but broke away to hurriedly finish removing his pants. The two men moved to the bed.
"Well?" asked Skwisgaar. Pickles had never answered his question.
Green eyes met blue. Holding his gaze, Pickles whispered, "I—I want to make love to you."
The Swede's initial inclination was to scoff and say that this was just the least brutal way possible to refer to fucking, but he repressed it. After all, he had heard plenty of people say there was a difference, though he himself had never noticed one.
"Pickle," he said contemplatively, "Maybes this ams just something what I do nots understand in English, but what ams the difference between the fuckings and makings the love?"
"Well, dood, it kinda depends on the person—but I think it's like this: Fucking is, like, what you do with a one night stand, ya know, like with groupies. Making love is more like…like if you—" He'd been going to say if you love the other person, then amended that in his head to care about, then to really like, then gave up. "Dood, it's like, making love is when it's not just about the fuckin', ya know?"
"Like when you ams actually likes each other?" the guitarist inquired. "Or just that it ams slower?"
"Maybe both," said Pickles cautiously.
"But you ams wanting to—" He bit his lip and looked doubtfully at Pickles. "To do's it to me?" He indicated with a thrust of the hips exactly what he meant by it.
"Yeah," answered Pickles. "If you'd like."
Skwisgaar took a deep breath, then nodded. "Ja. I woulds like you to. But you promise to be gentles?"
"Course," said Pickles, and kissed him again, this time gently, slowly, rather than in the deep, eager way that he had before, reaching up to caress Skwisgaar's face like he was touching something fragile. The guitarist shivered. Once in a while, in the past, one of the girls he'd gone to bed with would try something like that, but he'd always turned away, scorning sentiment, not wanting to pretend there was any attachment there, and they'd always get the message after that.
"You okay?" asked Pickles, raising his head to look into the light eyes.
"Ja," said Skwisgaar, then: "Do—do thats again?"
Pickles obliged, laying his palm gently against Skwisgaar's cheek, then, slowly, tracing with his fingertips from his temple over the protruding cheekbones to his jaw, then down over his throat and chest, a light touch just short of tickling.
"You act like nobody's ever touched ya like that," said Pickles.
Skwisgaar shook his head. "I don'ts let them."
The drummer paused for just a second, then nodded. "Thank you," he said softly.
Before Skwisgaar could ask why he was being thanked, Pickles leaned in again to kiss him, then moved lower, kissing down his neck and shoulder, letting his tongue move slowly over the pale skin, and refraining from using his teeth even though he knew Skwisgaar liked it.
Skwisgaar felt his breath catch in his chest. He was still aroused, yes, but somehow this was different. He pulled Pickles closer against him as the smaller man trailed more kisses down his chest and with maddening slowness teased first one nipple and then the other to hardness. Skwisgaar found that he was whimpering in response to the sensation.
"Oh…ja…Pickle, I likes dat."
Pickles didn't answer, just continued moving lower. His beard tickled against the Swede's sensitive ribs as his fingers ran through the fine blonde fuzz on his belly.
He moved lower still and kissed along Skwisgaar's hip, finally giving in and gently biting the soft flesh of his thigh. Skwisgaar cried out, and one hand shot out to play through Pickles's dreads. He was rock hard now, and couldn't help but give a moan of relief as the redhead took his aching cock in his hand.
Pickles stroked him slowly, so slowly he didn't think he could stand it, and he thrust his hips upward, silently begging for more contact, more speed, more anything, but Pickles wasn't taking the hint—probably deliberately.
"Pickle," gasped Skwisgaar, "I need—I need you to do mores—please."
Pickles nodded and reached past him to retrieve the lube from the nightstand, momentarily releasing his grip on Skwisgaar's cock, leaving him disappointed, until he felt the familiar sensation of warm, slicked fingers tracing over his entrance. Skwisgaar was glad when he resumed the agonizingly slow handjob, and even more so when he felt one, then two fingers inside him, stretching him. When Pickles worked in a third finger, it was a little uncomfortable, more than he was used to, but not too bad. He was also distracted by Pickles leaning down to take the head of his cock into his mouth, just teasing it with his tongue. Skwisgaar tried to thrust in deeper, but Pickles moved away and began slowly coating his own dick one-handed with lube, leaving Skwisgaar without contact except the fingers inside him, which he felt himself tightening around, in a sort of enjoyable way.
"You ready for this?" asked Pickles.
Skwisgaar didn't answer, just looked down at the other man's erect penis. It didn't look like it would hurt that much, definitely not as much as his own would. Pickles was average-sized, maybe even on the small side of average, and for this, Skwisgaar was very thankful.
"If not," continued Pickles, his eyes gleaming provocatively, "I could just get myself off," here he gave his own cock a few slow strokes, and his breathing sped up as a slight flush came to his face, "mmm—yeah—and make you watch. That'd be," he bit his lip, panting a little now as he continued to touch himself, "would be—unhh—Skwisgaar—you make me so hot—" Pickles couldn't play with the blonde anymore, who was regarding him with a slowly building desperation that was certainly reciprocated.
"You ready for this?" he asked again.
"Ja," Skwisgaar said, and, unexpectedly, even to himself, "I want you insides me, nows."
Pickles nodded, needing no more encouragement, and removed his fingers, only to replace them slowly with his cock. This time Skwisgaar was glad he went slowly.
"Tell me if it hurts, okay?" said Pickles.
It didn't hurt, though. It wasn't the most pleasant feeling in the world, but after having been prepared by the drummer's fingers, he didn't find it painful, either. It seemed a sort of logical next step. Once Pickles was all the way in, he stayed still for a moment, leaning down to kiss Skwisgaar again. Skwisgaar arched up to meet him, and Pickles slipped one arm around his shoulders, helping to support him.
"Thanks for doin' this for me," he whispered. "I hope it's gonna be as good for you as it is for me. I wanna—," Pickles paused, biting his lip again as his cock twitched involuntarily inside the tight heat, "wanna make this good for you, honey."
"Mmhh," Skwisgaar agreed, thrusting his hips a little and trying not to let on how surprised he was. It was the first time Pickles had addressed him with any sort of endearment. "Ja, do it to me, Pickle, please."
"All right. You tell me if ya need me to stop anything, got it?"
Skwisgaar nodded. Pickles lowered him back onto the bed and began, still slowly, very gently, to thrust in and out of him. It was a strange feeling, at first, but after he got used to it, he began to like how it felt to be completely filled by the drummer.
"I love how it feels, bein' inside you," said Pickles. He leaned down to kiss Skwisgaar's throat and along his jaw. "So close to each other." His breathing was heavy now, his eyes flashing. "It doing anything for you?"
"I like it," said Skwisgaar truthfully. "It doesn'ts hurt."
"Hmm." Pickles considered, then took a pillow and eased it beneath Skwisgaar's hips. "Let me know if this is better." He began to move again, shifting his position to find a new angle. "Mmm. Yeah…yeah."
Skwisgaar stared up at him, unable to take his eyes away from the flying dreads, the flushed pale skin, the expression of unspeakable pleasure on his face.
"Pickle...you ams so…veries pretty," he managed. "When you look likes that, I want—ah! Ja, ja," he broke off incoherently as Pickles finally found the right spot, and, noting the guitarist's reaction, increased his pace.
Skwisgaar heard his own voice, babbling in Swedish, saying a lot of things that would have made him die of embarrassment if Pickles had been able to understand them.
"Skwisgaar," Pickles interrupted him, slowing down. "I need ya to do somethin' for me."
"Fucks—oh, ja, ja—what ams that?"
"I want you to touch yourself, just how I tell you. I'd do it, but I can't in this position." And this was true; Pickles needed both arms to hold himself up above Skwisgaar.
"Ja." Skwisgaar took his dick in his hand. "Tells me how, Pickle."
"Do it slow," he commanded, drinking in the sight of the blonde throwing his head back and writhing in pleasure that he, Pickles, was causing. "Little bit faster now," he said, speeding up his thrusts accordingly. "Now touch your balls, too. With your other hand."
This was almost too much, staring down at the beautiful Swede jacking himself off with one hand and fondling his sac with the other. "Look at me," he ordered, and Skwisgaar's eyes snapped open. "Look at me, and do it faster. Fast as you want, now. I wanna make you come."
Pickles didn't know how much longer he could last, but he was determined that he would make the other man finish first. He thrust faster still as Skwisgaar's hand moved faster and he stopped speaking even in Swedish, just gave unintelligible, animalistic cries until, through their combined efforts, he came, shuddering, spilling onto his own hand. Between the noises Skwisgaar was making and the way his muscles clenched around Pickles, it took the drummer only a few more thrusts before he orgasmed as well, gasping for breath and collapsing on top of Skwisgaar.
When he was capable of coherent thought again, he eased himself out of the other man and rolled over to lie next to him. He rested his head against Skwisgaar's shoulder, turning to bury his face for a moment in the blonde hair.
"Was that—was that good for you?" Pickles asked, nuzzling against Skwisgaar's neck.
"Ja. I never dones anythings like that before."
"I know, ya said." Pickles draped one arm over his chest, tightening it into a half-embrace. "I—I'm glad you let me."
"I don'ts mean just that," said Skwisgaar, tracing his fingers up and down Pickles's back. "I mean—the makings the loves. I dids not think there ams a difference. But there ams."
"And?" asked Pickles. "Did ya figure out what it is?"
"Ja." Skwisgaar considered. "It ams—if you loves—ah—likes, ja, reallies likes the other person. And," he went on, ever the pragmatist, "you want the fuckings because it ams them, not because of the fuckings on its own."
Pickles had caught it, though, and wasn't going to let the statement slide. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Skwisgaar.
"Do you love me?" he asked.
Skwisgaar shifted uncomfortably. "Ja...I mean, ifs you wants me to."
"If I want you to?"
"If you amnest not wanting, then we just forgets about it and pretend otherwise," said Skwisgaar uncertainly.
Pickles smiled. "I love you, too."