allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

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.

For a bit there, Sweeney worries that this won't work, that it's too much focus and not enough doing; leaving all the work to her is distracting, even though it's also delicious.

The change of sensation causes his breath to catch, and he chokes on his tongue for a second. He pulls at her, clawing his fingers down her back as he bites her neck in short, tight bursts. Her ear is warmed with grunts, whimpers, and winces. His back is burning, but he's so far beyond caring.

In the end, it doesn't stop him from finding his goal and losing himself in her, his cry sharp before it melts against her skin.

She takes a little longer, keeps riding him a minute longer before she joins him, laughing breathlessly against his neck. She licks from the dip of his collarbone to just under his ear, enjoying the taste of his skin and his sweat.

He pulls long breaths as he stills in the wake of her satisfaction. Sweeney rests his arm on her thigh as his other hand slips into her hair so he might press their foreheads together.

"Just what the doctor ordered," he murmurs with a tired grin.

"Gotta keep you active," she is still out of breath, all but melted up against him. She can hear the Barge and all the life outside these walls. It's so different when the ship is mostly awake.

"Can I stay here with you? For a little while?"

"Sure." It's a reflexive answer; he has no need to deny her. He pulls down a cigarette and goes to dig for his lighter, only to roll his eyes at himself after looking longingly to his trousers. Sweeney blinks with a touch of focus and flips it into his hand, getting to work at lighting the cigarette.

He pulls a long drag before turning it, brow lifted in offering. All she has to do is part her lips, and he'll place it between them.

She smiles at him and gently opens her lips. Her fingers trail along his chest and she lifts herself off him to lay beside him instead.

Still, she can't help but keep one leg draped over his; she's always laying over her people, finding comfort in it.

Sweeney, however, does not lay back, and busies himself with another cigarette. He doesn't protest her contact in the meantime.

"Feel better?" he asks around his cigarette as he flicks the lighter. Taking a drag, he snaps it shut.

"So much." The flatlining she'd felt, and all but heard in her mind, has been nudged away. If she's still unsteady it's at least not noticeable. "You- oh shit, how's your back?"

"Mm." Honestly, he isn't sure. He's still glowing, full of endorphins.

Sweeney exhales his smoke and twists. The bandage is stained, but given what he'd gone into the Infirmary with, he has no reason they'd done any serious stitch splitting. The depth that it is would leave little question about whether it was open or not.

"A'right." That's the best assessment he's got. It still stings, but that's pretty much an all the time thing.

"Good." And then an exaggerated sigh. "I guess I'll have to play nursemaid to you another time."

She knows a fair bit about treating wounds now, but has never had much practice with it. Partly it's because there are other, far more experienced healers around.

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