onlythebranch | (no subject)

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lucy

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It's a bar, which is the first point in its favour, but it's also under a fucking sex shop, which delights Sweeney in ways he knows he can't explain. Despite liking being bitten or punched and otherwise hurt during sex, he'd never think to describe himself as having particularly kinky tastes and though he can't imagine there's any man in the world who wouldn't like a good pegging if he allowed himself to get over his bullshit fragile fucking masculinity, he's never done much shopping for the occasion.

Still, it's a bar under a sex store and the promise of alcohol alone is enough of a reason to head inside. The idea of there being whips and handcuffs and fucking gimp suits overhead while he drinks just makes it all funnier to him.

It's possible his sense of humour has never matured all that much, even in the past seven hundred years.

He heads around to the entrance off the alley, walking heavily down the stairs, but he's in a good mood and he's got no reason to get into a fight tonight. A place like this might be the sort of place he wants to head back to in the future and unless someone really pisses him off, he'll try to be on his best behaviour tonight. Usually when he smashes the shit out of a place, no one wants to let him come back to drink anymore.

When he sees a familiar blonde behind the bar, he can't help but grin. Now more than ever he doesn't want to piss off the management -- not much, anyway -- and he drops onto a stool and leans heavily against the bar, his arms draping over the top as he waits for her to turn and see him.

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Fleetingly, Lucy can't help but wonder how it never occurred to her to try something like this before. It isn't as if this is the first time she's felt so distant, so far removed from her own life, like everything is fucked up and it's all her fault. This is a hell of a way to ground herself, really. Granted, she can't imagine most if not all of the other people she's been with willing to treat her like this, but the last thing she needs right now is to think about Tommy or Steve or Pete or Ryan. As terrible a place as her office during business hours may be to do this, she doesn't want to be anywhere other than right here. Even if she did, she doubts she would be able to manage it, the way his teeth press into her skin and his hand squeezes her breast making her bite her own lip, where he'd done so just a moment ago, to suppress a moan.

There's enough distance between here and the public part of the restaurant, and it's generally noisy enough, that she really doesn't think they'll have any problems, but the last thing she needs is any customer complaints because she was having sex too loudly in her office. Never mind the fact that this is currently the only place she has to go.

Her hand still wrapped around his cock, she strokes him roughly, but slowly, not wanting to get him off before he's had a chance to fuck her the way she wants him to, the way she thinks he will. When she lets go of his hair, it's only so she can tug at the white tank top under his suspenders instead, pulling it loose so she can slip her fingers up under the hem of it, then rake her fingernails hard down his back.

It may very well be hard enough to make him bleed and Sweeney groans against Lucy's skin at the sharp drag of her nails down his back. He's already achingly hard, but he knows this is far from over, knows there's so much more she wants from him and he's more than happy to give it. Being as bloody old as he is, too, means she's not going to have to worry about him popping off too soon like a fucking teenager. Her hand on his cock feels good, but it's going to feel even better to fuck her and he knows that's what she's looking for.

With an abrupt movement, he shoves her hard, and there's not really anywhere for her to go, not sitting on the desk like she is, but it's still hard enough to send her back. He uses the distance to yank his suspenders off his shoulders, leaving them hanging by his hips as he pulls his shirt over his head. He goes for her bra next, dangling as it is, and pulls it away hard enough that the strap first catches and then snaps against her skin.

One hand presses between her legs, feeling the heat of her cunt even through her pants, and he grinds his palm against her. It's not going to be completely satisfying, not with so many layers between them still, but that's what he's going for. The other hand grabs her by the chin, forces her to look at him, his fingers pressing hard into her jaw.

"I know you're at work, love, but I better fuckin' hear you," he says in a low voice, giving her a dark, slow grin.

Though she sincerely doubts that he would, if she were asked, Lucy wouldn't be able to say just why it is that she trusts him with this. She barely knows the first goddamn thing about him except that he can be both interesting and obnoxious and that he wants it to hurt, too, but they aren't really all that much more than strangers. Just sex would be one thing, but this is, somehow, considerably more intimate, something that leaves her far more vulnerable. She's outright asked him to hurt her. There are, probably, plenty of people who would take advantage of that, who really would go too far with it. Right now, though, she can't think of very much that would fit that description, and they are still in a semi-public place, anyway. This is her territory; she's safe here.

And, maybe, if she's honest with herself, part of the appeal is what she doesn't, can't, know here. He's an unknown quantity, and she's putting herself in his hands, which, so far, are at least starting to do what she wants here. Anything beyond that, including the fact that she never would have guessed before now that she'd get off on something like this, she can deal with later.

"You want to hear me, you better give me a good reason to make noise," she replies without missing a beat, a challenge in its own right, her eyes bright with it. The pressure of his hand between her legs isn't nearly enough, her hips rocking forward of their own accord; the slight sting from the snap of her bra strap isn't, either, her skin flushed just a little pink from the contact. "You still don't want me to think you're all talk, do you?"

The only makes Mad Sweeney chuckle and his hand drops from her jaw to her throat, pushing her back again, pushing her down against the top of the desk. He holds here there for a moment, his hand still between her thighs, looking at her as if he's trying to decide what to do with her, and then he's yanking open her jeans, pulling hard at the material, hard enough for it to bite into her skin.

"Get your fuckin' shoes off," he says and he lets up on her throat a little, because he doesn't care how she does it, if she needs to sit up or if she can just kick them off, but he wants to be able to get her undressed and he wants to do it now.

He likes her. They're strangers, but he still likes her, likes the way she looks at him, the way she talks to him. If he were a serious asshole instead of just mostly an asshole, he might have hit her for that, just to see what she'd do, but he wants to save that for a little later. He wants to get her undressed first and see just where he'd like to leave a mark or two.

Despite having spoken without actually knowing how he'd respond or what to expect, Lucy goes back easily when he shoves her, using her elbows to catch some of her weight on the way down just so she doesn't hit her head too hard on the desk. The last thing she needs is something that will end this too soon, defeating the purpose of what she'd asked in the first place. Looking up at him, she swallows hard, but her eyes are bright with interest, with desire, still wanting to see just how far she can get him to take this. So far, she thinks this might just be the best idea she's had in a long damn time. Granted, that may not be saying much, when her life hasn't exactly been rife with those lately, but it's true all the same.

It takes her just a moment to even remember what shoes she's wearing in the first place, but her sneakers, some off-brand Converse, are laced just low enough that she manages to kick them off without having to go to the trouble of sitting up and untying them. That would, as far as she's concerned, take up far too much time. There are other things she would rather focus on instead, like lifting her hips a little to make it easier to tug her jeans down. All they're doing now is getting in the way, and she doubts she's the only one of them who thinks so. "They're off."

It's not that Mad Sweeney is the most gentle of men to begin with -- he's capable of it, more capable than he ever really wants to think about -- but she's asked him to go out of his way to hurt her and so when he undoes her jeans and yanks them down, he doesn't pay any mind to the fact that they drag over her skin. It's a small hurt, one that might not add up to much in the end, but if he's going to do this, then he's going to do it properly.

Given how strong he is, it doesn't take much to get her stripped down, jeans and underwear tossed aside on the floor and it's a bit of an awkward position, her on the desk, him standing in front of her, but he's tall enough that when he sinks down to his knees, he can drag her exactly where he wants her to be.

When he bites the inside of her thigh, it's hard. Hard enough to leave a red mark behind for now, probably hard enough to leave a bruise for her to see tomorrow. His fingers press into her hips as he drags his beard across the soft skin of the inside of her thighs, and he tugs her against him, flush against his mouth without bothering to ask if it's all right that he do so.

She ought to be self-conscious, probably, being undressed so quickly, lying in front of him wearing nothing while he's still pretty well clothed. Once, maybe she would have been. Once, she wasn't the kind of girl who'd have done this at all. That girl she used to be is long gone, though, something that Lucy has been aware of for a long time, but possibly never so much as she is right now, fucking a near stranger in her office, some odd sort of rebound sex, asking him to hurt her. It seems like he means to make good on that, too, a breath hissing in through her teeth when he bites down on her thigh, her head thrown back as much as her desk will allow. It hurts, but it feels good, too, sends a jolt of pleasure up her spine; she shudders with it, hooking her legs over his shoulders when he pulls her close to.

It's unexpected, but she doesn't mind that. She likes not knowing what he'll do next, how he'll choose to act on what she's asked of him. Hell, at least it's managed to get her out of her own head for a little while, too, an added bonus with where this is leading. "Fuck," she gasps. "Come on."

Mad Sweeney doesn't carry condoms.

He can't catch anything from a person and he's never gotten a woman pregnant before, but he has to wonder how much the latter might have had to do with his luck. The luck he's no longer in possession of, the luck he can't rely on for much more than giving someone he's left him an offering a mildly good day. Luck that no longer gives a fuck if he lives or dies, not something to be trusted.

He grips her hip tightly, sliding his other hand between her thighs, under his mouth, pushing two inside of her without preamble. That might hurt a bit, too, but that's the bloody point and he pulls back a little to look up at her as he thrusts harder.

"Tell me you've a condom somewhere in here, love," he says, his voice low.

For a moment, Lucy can barely so much as hear what he's saying, aware only of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears and the way she gasps at the rough thrust of his fingers inside her, her legs instinctively falling a little further apart for him and her back arching off the desk. Once the words do sink in, though, she nods absently, trying desperately to remember just where they are. She'd half-figured she would wind up having rebound sex with someone sooner or later, so it seemed like a good idea to be prepared, but with all her shit stacked up in her office, it's hard to keep track of what's where. Finally, though, she gestures off towards the wall. "That little box over there," she says, "the open one." It has all of what would be on her nightstand in it, if she currently had a nightstand, which she doesn't. At least keeping things organized makes her feel a little less pitiful, though.

As badly as she wants him, wants more, she almost regrets that this is probably going to require pulling away. She thinks his other hand might be leaving marks on her hip, and she doesn't want him to let up, not with any of it.

He could tell her to turn around, but he doesn't. He only pulls back suddenly and goes toward the box she's indicated. There are condoms there, just like she's said, and he grabs one from the box, then turns back to her and begins to strip the rest of the way down as he comes back across the room. Kicking off his boots is easy and then he undoes his jeans, pushing them down his hips, letting them fall as he walks.

By the time he reaches her, he's completely undressed, holding just the condom in one hand and he smirks down at her before he reaches forward and grabs her by the hair, hauling her up and off the desk. Without a word, he turns her body, using more strength than he usually would on anyone, but she had asked, after all, and he doubts she minds much at all.

With her back to him, he presses forward, cock against her ass, the small of her back and then he pushes his hand against her shoulders. Pushes her toward the desk again.

As she'd expected, it's something of a disappointment when he has to pull away, but there's no getting around that part. It isn't as if she'd started today expecting a near-stranger to fuck her on her desk, to get her this fucking wound up from hardly any contact at all. Lucy has, over the past decade, had a good number of boyfriends and gone to bed with all of them, plus her share of one-night stands, and she can think of only one example who was, in retrospect, not particularly impressive. Still, she's never felt quite like this before, practically downright fucking electric, a rush of adrenaline leaving her almost shaking as she watches him move across the room and back. It isn't fear, not exactly; she's not afraid of him, or even of doing this, despite how different it is from anything she's done before. There's an unpredictability to all of this, though, and a vulnerability to being stretched out naked on her desk like this, essentially having told him to do whatever he wants to her, that leaves her with a different sort of rush than she's used to.

There's nothing tender here. They aren't acting on any long-held feelings. She's fucking sick of that shit, anyway; it never ends well. She would much rather chase satisfaction like this, already, in the part of her head that can still bother with coherent thought at all, thinking of a number of other things she wants to do.

For a moment, it occurs to her that there's probably something deeply ironic about the fact that she's worked under a sex shop for all these years, even owned it briefly, and it never once occurred to her to try anything like this before. She starts to laugh at the thought of it, a breath that quickly turns into a sharp gasp when he yanks her off the desk and to her feet by her hair, turning her around before she can so much as consider retaliating. He'd told her to fight back, after all, but in this, she's pliant, goes down easy when he pushes her, the surface of the desk rough against her bare breasts and her head on her forearms, legs slightly parted. He'll move her how he wants to; she feels certain she can count on that. Even being able to feel him hard behind her, though, even with as badly as she's aching to be touched, even with the self-consciousness she needs to fight off being in this position, there's one more thing she wants. "Hit me," she says before she can lose the nerve to, the words nearly a challenge. "Come on, you know you want to."

It's something else, looking at her like this, and he smirks a little at the request, first setting the condom down beside her on the desk and then running one hand up the length of her spine. It's not gentle, exactly, there's no tenderness in it, but it's not overly aggressive either. It's just that he can't resist, that smooth expanse of pale skin, but he's not going to ignore her request either.

It's perfect, after all, this position.

His fingers hook over her shoulder and then his other hand comes down hard across her ass. It's not as hard as he would hit Cassius, but it's a hell of a lot harder than he's hit any other woman who isn't also a god or already dead. Even in a bar office with the din from outside still murmuring, the sound it makes is surprisingly loud and his cock twitches impatiently against her.

It's the mark he leaves behind, though, that has him fighting another groan. Her skin is smooth and pale and when he hits her a second time, there's a bright red mark left behind.

"Christ, lass," he breathes. "If you could only see this..."

Lucy shivers a little as his hand smooths along her spine, partly out of anticipation of what she knows is coming, partly just because, while it may not be gentle, it's still the softest he's touched her since they first came back here and the contrast almost jarring, though not unpleasantly, provided they get back to what she really brought him here for in short order. Which, of course, they do. She'd suspected, blurting out on some sudden instinct that she wanted him to hurt her, that he'd be willing, that he wouldn't disappoint in that regard, and he hasn't let her down yet. Even bracing herself for it, she jerks forward under the strength of his hit, the edge of the desk digging into her skin where she's bent over it, the groan she lets out an involuntary one. He'd wanted to hear her, though, and it's as much if not more aroused than pained.

It hurts, of course it hurts, but that's what she'd wanted, and the more he gives her, the more of that she finds that she wants. And it's hard to feel anything like embarrassed by how turned on she is by this when he seems to be just as into it as she is.

She wonders idly just how much she could talk him into doing — not just now, but maybe once she's got more of a space than the office in her fucking bar — if she promised to do the same in turn. Those thoughts get quickly silenced, though, when he hits her again, a strangled sound tearing its way out of her throat once more. "Long as I can see it tomorrow," she says, breathless, a challenge again. She wants bruises, visible reminders of being here and what he did to her. She wants it still to hurt when she wakes up in the morning, so she'll feel something other than numb and miserable and guilty, so she can savor the ache of it when she presses the marks left on her skin. "Feels fucking good."

Right now there's only that red mark, but tomorrow, if he hits her hard enough, there'll be a bruise left behind. She'll get her wish, if not on her ass then on her shoulder where his fingers are digging into her skin or across her hips where he's pressing her into the edge of the desk. He'd love to leave some marks on her throat, but he's not sure how other people in her life might take that, finger shaped bruises making it clear someone's been choking her. This sort of thing, though, whatever it is, it strikes him as not being just a one time thing. When someone wants to be hurt, it's usually the kind of thing they want to do again and again so there's plenty of time.

Next time he can ask.

For now he lets go of her long enough to rip open the condom package, to roll it down over his cock before he steps closer to her again, kicking her legs further apart with his foot. Then he has one hand on her hip, his grip hard, feeling the delicate press of her bone just under his hands. She has no idea how strong he really is, she's only seen him do a few coin tricks, she's never seen him fight, never seen him hit someone or take a punch, but he knows. And he knows if he were to squeeze hard enough, he could break bones.

He won't, but he does squeeze hard enough that it ought to hurt more than any regular man would be able to do for her. At the same time he grabs his cock in his other hand and then presses forward, sliding inside of her just a little without giving her any warning.

It occurs to Lucy, not for the first time, that she probably ought to be nervous about this. Even when she's had one night stands before, or slept with people that she barely knew, it's never gone in this sort of direction, with her more than willingly ceding control, asking him to hurt her, and him fully obliging. Instead of making her worried, though, it feels good to let her guard down like this, to fall apart instead of feeling like she has to hold things together, just as much so as his tight grip on her does. Her hip will probably bruise. She hopes it does, inasmuch as she can really stop to think about anything right now. This is the best she's felt in fucking ages, maybe even before she and Tommy broke up.

After he kicks her legs apart, it isn't exactly surprising when he starts to slide into her. Lucy breathes a little more heavily even so, shifting her hips mostly for the resistance she knows his hand will provide. "What," she says, "don't tell me you're just gonna be a tease now."

"Gonna do whatever the fuck I want," he answers, his cock sliding deeper into her, deep enough that he can let go of himself and reach up to grab Lucy by the hair instead. There's no attempt made to hold her lightly, his fingers still pressing hard into her hip, his hand twisted in her hair, yanking her head back slightly. It makes her back arch a little, a lewd sort of rise and dip of her spine and it makes him groan with pleasure.

She's tight around him and he knows she wants to be hurt, but he can do that without fucking her up in any lasting way. So he rolls his hips back and then forward again, taking his time, enjoying the way her body slowly opens to him. She's the first woman he's fucked in a long time, probably nearly two years, and he sure as fuck isn't disappointed in this choice.

"Isn't that what you're lookin' for, lass?" he asks in a low voice. "For me t'do whatever the fuck I want and leave you however I please?"

It is what she's looking for, and Lucy knows full well that any attempt to deny it now wouldn't be the least bit believable, in no small part because of the way she reacts to his touch, gasping audibly when he pulls her head back. Maybe she hasn't thought about it in such succinct terms, possibly because she'd never thought about wanting this at all before now, but as long as what he wants isn't gentle — and it's plenty fucking obvious that it wouldn't be — then she doubts there's much he could do to her right now that she would object to. The thought may be a nonsensical one, the product of adrenaline or endorphins or some other fucking thing like that, but for the moment, at least, it seems true enough. Hell, just the sound of his voice is enough to send a shiver through her, a quiet, strangled sound in the back of her throat.

"Yeah," she says like it's a concession, nodding mostly because she knows she won't be particularly successful in doing so with the way he's grabbed onto her hair. "Fuck. Yes. That's what I want, yeah." Admitting it outright like that doesn't mean she intends just to stand here, practically non-responsive — it's still in the back of her head that he'd wanted her to fight back, and she can do that — but first, she may as well see what he does next.

The fingers he has in her hair tighten, they pull harder, he wants her to feel the sting in her scalp, but then he pushes her down again, presses her face into the desk, though he allows her enough time to turn her head. He wants her to feel it and he wants it to hurt because that's what she wants, but he figures a broken nose because he's shoved her face too hard into a the desk is probably a step or two too far.

He does, however, let go of his hair as he thrusts into her again, a little harder this time. His hand slides around her neck, then to the front of her throat. From this angle, with her pressed down into the desk, it's a little awkward and he has to lean forward, but he'll make it work.

Just a little, his grip tightens. It's not enough to entirely cut off her air, but she'll feel it. And she can tell him if she wants more.

Even without having done anything quite like this before, it isn't too difficult, practically instinctive, to pick up on his cues. She turns her head just in time for it to be her cheek and not her nose that hits the desk when he pushes her back down, breath leaving her in a short gasp a moment before she feels his fingers around her throat. With something like this, she ought to be careful. She's at work, and it isn't as if she has anywhere else to go or any convenient way to hide what she's been doing except with her clothes, which won't do much good when it comes to covering her neck, if need be.

She doesn't care. Maybe she'll just stay back here until they fucking close. It's not like it makes much difference, or as if anyone who needed her couldn't find her, when she isn't otherwise occupied.

"Yeah," she says again, the word little more than an exhale this time, and awkward as the angle for it may be, she nods slightly, just enough that she knows he'll be able to feel it. She reaches up as she does, her own arm bent so she can grab his forearm, fingers pressing hard into his skin. "Harder."

Even in his very long life, she's going to stand out, he thinks. There's something else going on with her, something underneath, something she doesn't want to dwell on and he doesn't fucking care what it is, only cares as far as it's the reason for her enthusiasm now. There are people who say they want to be hurt when what they really want are silk fucking scarves and a few gentle pats on the ass, and that's what he's encountered most often.

But Lucy means what she says.

And so his hand on her throat tightens, his fingers pressing into her skin. He has to bite back a moan at her hand on his forearm, because even that slight bite of pain is enough to send little electric shocks through him, down his spine and into his cock. He still has his other hand on her hip and he tightens his grip there, tightens it enough that it'll bruise, leave little finger shaped imprints for her to remember this by.

Lucy gasps in a strangled breath when his hand tightens around her throat, pulse racing under his fingers. For all that she might not know what she's doing here or what possessed her to prompt any of this in the first place, what she does know is what she wants, and she doesn't see any reason not to make that happen. He hasn't gone too far yet. She's not sure what too far would be in this instance. It's difficult to think straight, anyway, and that's half the appeal. The absolute last thing she needs is to spend too much time stuck in her own head. She much prefers this — the pressure against her hip and her neck, the way he rocks into her, a chance to fucking let go for a little while.

Her grip on his arm tightens in response, a silent sort of approval, hand curling enough that her nails can dig into his skin. So far, it hasn't much seemed like he wants her to hold back either, so she doubts there's much need to second-guess herself.

While he may not be a man known for his sense of caution, but this is a fine line he's walking here, one where he wants to hurt her without doing permanent damage. He shifts his hand around her throat, fingers and thumb pressing harder, enough to bruise a little, enough that she'll feel it later and in the right position where it'll bring her both pain and pleasure, but won't crush her fucking windpipe.

That'd be a hell of a thing to do.

The bite of her nails in his arm makes him shudder against her, though he's not going to come, not yet, not when she hasn't. Sweeney might not be the most giving man in the world, he's probably on the low end of that list, but she needs something and she's going to get it.

"What do you need?" he asks, his voice low, still thrusting into her, his movements sharper. Designed to cause pain and feel good all at once. "Tell me what you need. I want to make you come."

It's a more difficult question than it probably ought to be, and not just for the way that she can feel his fingers pressing into her neck. While Lucy would be willing to bet good money that it isn't the case for him, this is uncharted territory for her, nothing she ever stopped to consider that she would want at all, never mind the specifics of it. An hour ago, she wouldn't have even known she needed this in the first place. She must have, though, breathless — in more ways than one — and nearly trembling, amazed that her legs are still holding any of her weight at all.

"Hit me again," she blurts out, a sound like a whimper in her throat. "Fuck. Please."

Without giving her warning or pausing even to consider, Sweeney hits her ass once again, relatively hard. But then, without waiting for anything else, he pulls out of her, steps back far enough to give her space, then releases her throat. With his other hand, though, he grabs her by the shoulder, lifts her from the desk and growls, "Turn around."

His palm against her ass is one thing, it feels nice, it makes a good sound and leaves a good mark, but there are other places where he can hit her. And he doesn't wait for her to turn on her own, instead manhandles her, knowing she wouldn't be here at all, wouldn't be asking him for these things if it wasn't okay. If she tells him to stop it, he'll stop, but she's not asking for that. She's asking him to hurt her more, to hit her again.

He pushes her onto the desk, uses his hands to press her onto her back, stepping between her legs again and the head of his cock nudges against her. Then he hits her again. It's not nearly as hard as he'd slapped her ass, he knows fucking better than that, and he uses an open palm against her cheek, wanting to keep it from bruising. It's hard enough, though, that it'll sting.

It's unexpected, but then, all of this has been, both from herself in wanting this in the first place and from him, which Lucy supposes is the point. None of this was ever meant to be boring or predictable. There would be no sense in doing it at all if it were, and she wouldn't feel actually fucking alive for the first time in weeks, instead of just drifting or going through the motions. Maybe she would have liked this anyway, letting him hit her and move her around without so much as pausing to give her a moment to do so for herself; she's never tried it before to know one way or the other. As it is, though, it's all she wants, nothing else needing to matter or require any thought for just a little while, the sting of his hand against her skin setting her nerves alight.

She gasps when he slaps her, her cheek warm and flushed pink from the contact. That breath leaves her then on a moan that she quiets by biting down hard on her lower lip. She's close, so close, and nearly shaking with it, and if some small part of her thinks that his hitting her shouldn't bring her that much closer, she doesn't care enough to let it concern her. Instead, she wraps her legs around him, the best move she's got from this position, trying to draw him that much closer. "Fuck, come on, come on."