allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

"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.

"I like how much you want me," she murmurs, returning to her task, determined to get him to pull on her.

Men who wanted things from her wanted it like this, most of the time. It was quick, and it was easy to demean her with it. She likes going down on Sweeney because she never feels belittled by it. Sometimes it's nice, she thinks, to have a little reminder that she isn't the desperate girl she once was.

"Déanaim," he breathes, only able to handle another half a minute before his hand abandons her shoulder. "Déanaim."

Sweeney tangles and tugs, firm but not a harsh yank. His eyes refocus on her.

"A fháil ar dom."

He's not sure if this will work, if it'll keep him from heading right back to the Infirmary. But he's long past giving a fuck.

She knows that first word and she's able to guess at the second phrase. In one smooth motion she's gone from kneeling on the floor to straddling him. She pulls her shirt up and throws it to join his.

"Skirt on or off?" She's only asking to draw this out, tease him a little longer.

THAT. That's so much better.

Before she's even asking, his hands have found their way under it and are pulling hungrily at her thighs and hips. Sweeney buries his face in her hair at the swell of her shoulder, subconsciously finding the darkest bruise to murmur against.

"I don't care." The end starts to taper into a growl. "I just want to be inside you." His fingers dig roughly into her flesh as he tries to shove her down on him.

Her knees cinch up tighter around his hips to help keep him in place. She isn't sure how Tiffany would take it if she had to stitch Sweeney up twice in one night, but if it's going to happen it won't be right now when they've barely started.

"Is maith liom thú," she murmurs, sinking down onto him in one deliberate move.

The squeeze of her thighs brings one of his hands back to her hair, trying to urge her mouth to his. "I gá duit." The words yield to a whimper when she indulges him.

Without his boots, the curl of his toes is easily noted. It takes a serious effort not to thrust up into her, but he's still trying to be mindful of his stitches and letting her stay in charge. Neither is easy.

As much as she loves to tease him, he's had a long day and she doesn't want him straining to get her. Which is difficult for her because she prefers being on top with most people, but she's come to trust him enough she enjoys the weight of him over her, holding her steady while he takes her.

She keeps her knees tight to hold his hips from arching and moves hers, lifting almost off him and sinking all the way to the hilt. "I really missed you," she whispers, and does it again.

This is weird. Wonderful, undeniably, but the indulgence is reined in by his inherent need to be more involved than he is. Sweeney wants to push, but her knees make it a futile effort. The frustration makes him want to yank her up and toss her on the bed to claim her. He tries to keep his focus and will, but it's difficult. Especially when she's doing...that.

He works to busy himself with clawing and pulling and trying to shove her down while he kisses her hard. Sweeney's not great at finding a middle ground when fucking is involved.

"Good ya found me." He presses the words hotly against her lips.

"Mm-hmm," she agrees, but it comes as a whimper as her hips work harder, faster against his. This, this is where she's safest, this is where her thoughts don't crowd in to hurt her. This is where she feels wanted as herself--knowing that even after this is over he'll like her just the same.

Fuckkk.

Sweeney can't tell if the new pace is better or more perplexing. Probably both at the same time. In the end, he doesn't have enough blood in his brain to reason through it. He just knows he craves more, hungrily and increasingly desperate. The muscles in his thighs coil tight as he prepares to thrust, then tries to walk back down.

"Ná stad," he growls, his shoulders rolling. Sweeney snarls through a wince as his back tenses. "Níos mó. Níos crua."

The tendons of his neck strain taut. He presses his eyes shut.

"Ná stad."

She wants to tell him not to hurt himself but only part of her mind is able to process that, and that part of her is already occupied with holding him down while she fucks herself on him. She sits up a little onto her elbows, propped on his chest so she can adjust the angle and take him deeper, have freedom to grant him what he's asking.

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