It is very much for her, but there's a lot in it that she delights in because he enjoys it, too. "Éileamh orm," she echoes, committing it to memory. And then he hesitates, and she lays her hand on his cheek. "What is it?"
He can't help but think about all he's been working towards, for both their comfort. Sweeney doesn't know if it'd be better or worse for it being in her repertoire. He turns his hand into her cheek, savoring her support, even as the wariness lingers.
"I...I'm not sure I should say it," he whispers. "Or that you should."
She bites her lip against wanting to ask, but can't help it. Her thumb strokes his cheek. "You can tell me. And if you don't want me to say it, you can tell me that, too."
She lets herself think on it. She wants everything with him to be something they both want, mutually, or she doesn't want it done at all.
There have been hints all throughout, though. The rough way he takes her; the way she wants him to pin her wrists.
When she's sure she knows what she thinks about it she kisses him slowly. "Bhfeidhm orm." The tip of her tongue touches his top lip. "Did I say it right?"
It's obvious by his shiver beneath her that she'd managed the phrase readily enough. The breath catching sharply in his throat only accents the point. It's the forbidden, the knowing he shouldn't want it. 'Claiming' is plenty close enough.
Sweeney slips his arms around her back, his forearms parallel with her spine as he pulls her to him. His eyes search hers in need for her to understand. He whispers, even in his firmness.
"Never for me. Promise." The unspoken intent lingers. Only because it's what you truly want. He needs her to say it, to be a creature of her word. Sweeney doesn't want to live with it on his conscience.
She holds his gaze, needing him to know that there is a list of things she would never do to him. One is that she would never expose any vulnerable part of him to outsiders. Another is that she would never do anything that might add weight to all the regrets he already has.
Quiet relief eases his shoulders, though he doesn't lessen his grip. He kisses her chastely.
"'Éileamh orm' is better." Sweeney wants her to understand that the intent is there just as much, if not more. It's yielding through giving, not taking. Even if that giving looks an awful lot like it.
"Much." He dares a small smile. "You have no idea how much I'd love ta hear it on yer lips."
The idea of being claimed is one that never fails to make her shiver. The fact he enjoys it only heightens it. "How long do you think it'll be before I can say it without us putting you back in the infirmary?"
His smile grows more mischievous, and his eyes roll up to linger a moment on the ceiling.
"Not fuckin' soon 'nough," he laments cheekily, rocking his hips up to meet her. It's readily apparent that all of this talk has not left him unaffected.
She's still got her skirt hiked up and he's still naked and she can't help but roll her hips against his when he moves. "Just so you know, I might not be as good as Tiffany but I've stitched up a guy or two before."
"Mmm." The hum is accompanied by a discerning lift of his brow.
"You sayin' yer lookin' ta open me up?" he inquires with a touch of suggestion. Sweeney's running the numbers while he still has enough blood above his waist to do so.
Sweeney's surprised by her hint of withdrawal. Not that it's bad, just unexpected. She's always...eager. But there's a realization and a sense of pride on her behalf for her making the choice to restrain herself against her wants, understanding there will be deferred rewards, and they'll come a fuckton faster if he isn't ripping his stitches open on the regular.
The brief flicker of confusion yield to one of respect, and his eyes linger on hers. His hands slide from her back to rest on her hips.
"Well, might not be quite as pent up as a month'll do, but I'm 'xpectin' both of us will make the most of the fruits of our waitin'." His grin grows a bit wicked, but he doesn't pull at her.
"Not gonna promise anythin'," he answers cheekily, taking his clothes with an appreciative tip of his head.
It's not a yes, but his inflection implies there's a decent chance it might turn out to be one. Neither of them will know for sure until the time comes.
Sweeney rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He takes his time to rise and slip them on, giving an extra bounce to get them over his hips so he can get everything tucked away.
He slides the braces up over his shoulders, but doesn't bother with the buttons before he crosses to her. His voice is low and warm.
"It's not so bad is it?" His eyes give a brief dart down him and back up, implying his clothes. "I can still fuck ya plenty well in 'em."
His tongue slides over his teeth, and he takes her hand. Sweeney presses it flat against him, to cup him where his buttons should be fastened. He lowers his head so he can speak against it.
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"I...I'm not sure I should say it," he whispers. "Or that you should."
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"Bhfeidhm orm." He licks his lip and swallows, feeling that last moment to avoid it, the pushing through it with a bit too much hunger.
"Force me."
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There have been hints all throughout, though. The rough way he takes her; the way she wants him to pin her wrists.
When she's sure she knows what she thinks about it she kisses him slowly. "Bhfeidhm orm." The tip of her tongue touches his top lip. "Did I say it right?"
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Sweeney slips his arms around her back, his forearms parallel with her spine as he pulls her to him. His eyes search hers in need for her to understand. He whispers, even in his firmness.
"Never for me. Promise." The unspoken intent lingers. Only because it's what you truly want. He needs her to say it, to be a creature of her word. Sweeney doesn't want to live with it on his conscience.
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"I promise."
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"'Éileamh orm' is better." Sweeney wants her to understand that the intent is there just as much, if not more. It's yielding through giving, not taking. Even if that giving looks an awful lot like it.
"Much." He dares a small smile. "You have no idea how much I'd love ta hear it on yer lips."
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"Not fuckin' soon 'nough," he laments cheekily, rocking his hips up to meet her. It's readily apparent that all of this talk has not left him unaffected.
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"You sayin' yer lookin' ta open me up?" he inquires with a touch of suggestion. Sweeney's running the numbers while he still has enough blood above his waist to do so.
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The brief flicker of confusion yield to one of respect, and his eyes linger on hers. His hands slide from her back to rest on her hips.
"Well, might not be quite as pent up as a month'll do, but I'm 'xpectin' both of us will make the most of the fruits of our waitin'." His grin grows a bit wicked, but he doesn't pull at her.
"Is fiú duit fanacht."
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"You're worth the wait."
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"Don't s'ppose ya'd be willin' ta toss a Fellow his trousers on the way."
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She does, however, climb off of him and give him his clothes. Including the new shirt.
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It's not a yes, but his inflection implies there's a decent chance it might turn out to be one. Neither of them will know for sure until the time comes.
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He slides the braces up over his shoulders, but doesn't bother with the buttons before he crosses to her. His voice is low and warm.
"It's not so bad is it?" His eyes give a brief dart down him and back up, implying his clothes. "I can still fuck ya plenty well in 'em."
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"I ain't runnin'."
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