allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

[Continued from here.]

Sweeney's proud that he managed to get all the way back to his place without yanking or shoving or hoisting his way into opening the neatly bandaged wound from that fucking greenhouse glass.

But now that they're here and his motel key is in his hand, he knows it's about to get a lot harder. As if his trousers aren't already tight enough.

He peeks down to her, his want tempered for a moment in sincere question.

"Ya still got time ta go home," Sweeney offers. "Actually get some sleep."

His voice drops a touch in promise. "I can wait fer you."

She doesn't want to explain that she isn't tired, or that she has only been awake three or four hours. She doesn't want to explain that she simply doesn't want to be alone but being around people isn't helping, and sleeping is the only way to shake it all off for a while.

With him she's wanted and she's useful, and more than that she wants to be here with him. "I think I'll like your bed under my knees more than I'd like going home."

The look of relief on his face isn't subtle. Sweeney's still working on the consent thing, but he thinks he's getting better at it.

He's got the key in the lock a moment later, and less than a breath after that, he's tugging at her with a mischievous smile. The door open, he pulls her inside and tosses the key carelessly. His hands are already in her hair, urging her mouth to his. He promptly kicks the door shut behind them.

Usually she'd jump up, wrap her legs around his waist, and she wants to now but doesn't. Instead she laughs into the kiss and pulls him to one of the beds.

The close bed is the obvious one for these sorts of things, its bedspread in disarray and unlaundered. The other one is almost pristine (as much as anything is in here).

He grins and pulls at her noncommittally, play more than desperation. Sweeney starts to yank off his jacket, only getting it halfway before he winces. He should have thought about it, he chides himself with a skyward roll of his eyes. Taking a moment, he slows to make a more calculated attempt.

She puts a hand on his chest to stop him. "Let me." She gently plucks at his sleeves at the wrists, getting it to slide down his arms and onto the floor. His shirt will be trickier and she gives him a quick grin. "Might have to cut you out of this one."

She starts by carefully sliding his breaches off his shoulders though.

"Like fuck, you will," he counters with indignance. It doesn't stifle his smile though.

"I'm onta ya. Just wantin' ta leave me without anythin' ta wear." His smirk is cheekily chastising. "I'm keepin' this one. In one piece."

None of it keeps him from stilling and granting her compliance as she helps with his clothes.

"Can you blame me?" She nips his chest. "You look so good with nothing on."

She does manage to get it off in one piece, but she tosses it away far out of reach.

"Oh I ain't complainin' 'bout you wantin' it." Sweeney takes the opportunity to grab her by the hips and urging her a bit closer.

"Just, ya know how hung up some folk get." His grin is lop-sided as he calls back to her New Year's remark about the issues some folk have here about sex. He needs to make sure he's got enough clothes to keep himself covered in the halls.

She rolls her hips up against his, not kissing him but only a few millimeters from it. "So I should make the most of you being naked here, huh?"

His grin spreads wolfishly.

"Pretty sure ya promised ta go gentle on me," he teases, his voice dropping low in want. It's clear he isn't that worried about tearing his stitches, even if he is trying to be good.

"Not sure how that spoils yer makin' the most of it."

"Just means I get to take my time with you," she purrs. "Ba mhaith liom an oiread sin duit. Get on the bed, yeah?"

She's feeling a touch bossy in her wanting, but can't quite bring herself to give orders instead of requests.

Even if it lingers in the tone of a request, Sweeney's all too content to let her be more assertive. It's good for her, and he wants her to have the confidence to do so. He wants her to acknowledge her wants and see that she can actually have them met.

Also, it's hot.

"Mar is mian leat."

He sits on the edge of the bed, wary of resting back, given the wound's placement. His hand lifts towards her, encouraging her closer but not actually touching her unless she meets him.

"Pants off?" He never has before and she doubts he will now. She isn't picky; it does remind her of all the quick fucks she handed out to strangers for coke, which is unpleasant, but the rest of being with Sweeney makes up for it and keeps her from thinking too hard about it.

The moment of consideration is fleeting, and his words are encouraging in its wake. His gaze is fixed up to her.

"I will, if that's what ya want."

Before, it had been a willingness to concede. Now, all she has to do is ask for it, and he'll give it freely.

It's going to keep feeling strange to have her wishes granted like this. She leans down to kiss him again, maybe reassuring herself he's real, and then she unfastens his trousers a slow button at a time, slides down to undo his boots.

Sweeney swallows at the sensation of the air on his bare knees. While she's low, he catches her gently by the chin, urging her to pause and look up to him.

"Say it." It is also a request, not an order.

"Buíochas." She turns her head slightly to kiss his palm, but never turns her eyes from his.

Not the words he was looking for, but he'll fucking take it.

Sweeney traces her cheekbone with his thumb before shifting enough to hook the heel of one boot with the toe of the other. The process is repeated with the other. Even though he's not in a position to step out of them, they're plenty loose to pull off.

His hand slides into her hair, but instead of gripping it, he rubs her scalp supportively.

She pulls his boots off and then settles on her knees between his legs. Still her eyes are on his, even as she draws her tongue up his length.

OH.

His lashes flutter, and he carefully swallows. Sweeney does his best to not use the hand in her hair to push her down.

He takes a slow breath, trying to sort out all the things he shouldn't be doing, while his body is screaming about how he should.

She told him she'd take her time and she sure as hell does now. She wants to hear the way he growls out words when she's teasing. She wants him to ask her for more, and then she wants to give it to him. Her hands crawl up his ribs and her fingers trail back down again, but her tongue and her mouth are relentless.

It's so different like this. Sweeney doesn't know what he's meant to be doing, insomuch that he knows what he wants to be doing and what he's supposed to be. But this activity has always been a brief precursor, and now that he's trying to wait it out, it seems almost tortuous.

He forces his hand from her head to her shoulder to try to minimize his urge to shove, the fingers of the other twisting the bedspread.

Doing his best to manage the words with some level of focus, Sweeney finds the effort requires a firm swallow to find the air for the attempt.

"Can't promise I won't fuck ya." He feels it's a confession that should be said aloud before he starts trying to implement it.

She pulls her head slowly back and gives him a plainly pleased smile. "I want you to fuck me. Pull my hair when you want me on you."

Thank fucking Bran.

It makes it easier knowing that she's good with his plan. His shoulders ease for a fleeting moment, before his grip tightens on her shoulder to keep it in place so it doesn't dart to her hair. He takes a slow breath to refocus. Sweeney really doesn't want to tap out immediately.

Except every part of him that does.

Stitches at Risk

Re: Stitches at Risk

Re: Stitches at Risk

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject