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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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."

It's so easy, slipping back inside of her, one hand at her hip, fingers pressing in hard enough to bruise, the other creeping up her torso, squeezing her tit hard. There's nothing romantic in that touch, nothing gentle, but it's clear she's getting off on it and so is he. Sweeney fucks into her, his hips driving forward harder, groaning with pleasure at the sound of his skin against hers, his balls slapping against her every time he sinks deeper into her, giving another little spark of pleasure he can't ignore. This sure as fuck isn't what he expected when coming here tonight, but he doesn't have the slightest regret.

His fingers roughly twist her nipple before his hand slides back up to her throat. It could be easy to get caught up, to hurt her by accident, it's not like they established a fucking safe word, but he's been around long enough to not lose himself when it matters. And he knows what he's doing. It's a weird fucking talent to have, knowing how to hurt people, but it's his.

His grip on her throat tightens and he presses her down on the desk, driving into her, sweat sliding between his shoulder blades as he pants and moans.

The harder he fucks her, the tighter his grip on her hip, her breast, her throat, the more Lucy finds herself utterly, blissfully lost in this. At least for the moment, she's aware only of this, the two of them and the fact that they're in perhaps the worst possible place for something like this and the sparks of pain under her skin. It hurts, of course it does, but she'd wanted that; there will be bruises later, she's sure, but she'd wanted that, too, and that hasn't changed now that she's getting it in practice and not just in theory. She'll remember this, and at least for a little while, she'll have felt alive, not just like a ghost wandering through her own goddamn life.

"Fuck, fuck, yes, that's it," she gasps as best she can with the hand around her throat, back arching up off the desk, hips bucking against his. "Come on, come on, fuck—" That's all she can manage before, finally, she comes, biting down hard enough on her lower lip that she thinks she draws a hint of blood in an attempt not to cry out. Chances are, they've made noise enough already, but she really doesn't need to alert anyone in the bar to what they've been doing back here.

This is why the female gods have better luck finding someone to worship them.

Lucy's body arches, a beautiful line of smooth, pale skin, and the the words spill out of her like music and Mad Sweeney knows a hundred men and women alike who would lay down their lives for a vision like this moment. He's moments away from his own orgasm, heat pooled in his belly, in his balls, everything tightening and constricting and pulling inward for the moment before the release, but he holds off as long as he can, just wanting to watch.

This is why people fall at the feet of queens and goddesses and amazons. There will never be a man who looks as beautiful as this.

And then her body tightens around him, her muscles dragging him in and he's coming, too. His hand finally releases on her throat as he nearly collapses forward, catching himself on the desk as he jerks into her once last time, burying himself inside of her and he comes with a groan, not working nearly as hard to keep himself quiet as she has done.

For a few moments, time seems to stand still. Even without his hand on her throat, Lucy can barely breathe, chest heaving as she gasps for air, her eyes heavy-lidded. This shouldn't, in theory, be anything new. She's had plenty of sex; she's even had her share of one-night stands, though she doesn't know if that's what this will be, even if she does know that it won't be anything serious. Still, it's never left her feeling quite like this. It's never been quite like this. Now, sprawled out on top of her desk, exhausted and pleasantly achy, she's not sure what to do or say. It's not like this is a business transaction, something to thank him for. That clarity she'd felt a moment ago is quickly leaving her. She wants to try to hold onto it while she can.

"Jesus," she finally says, the word a rush of air. It's about all she can manage.

"All that work and that's the god ye choose t'thank when I'm right here?" Sweeney says with a tired sort of laugh, dropping a kiss to her collarbone, then another between her breasts before he carefully slips out of her and reaches down to deal with the condom. His body aches pleasantly and as he tosses the condom in a nearby garbage, he stretches his arm, his back popping a few times, utterly unashamed in his body and his nakedness.

He could just leave her where she is, perhaps leave her feeling as used as she might want to, but as willing as he'd been to hurt her -- and use her, certainly, though not without her using him in return -- he's no need to make any of this feel cheap. So he reaches out a hand toward her, his fingers curled slightly.

"Up now, lass," he says. "Or the patrons'll think we've gone and fucked each other t'death."

"Not like I know a whole lot of others," Lucy says, half-teasing, though the words still come out thin and tired, if pleased. If given the chance, she could just stay here for she doesn't even know how long. He's probably right, though. Despite her best efforts, she doubts they've been all that quiet, and she doesn't need anyone to start worrying or come looking for her. The best thing to do, the only thing to do, is get dressed and go back out to her bar like nothing ever happened. With that in mind, she takes his offered hand and carefully gets to her feet.

Given everything they've just done, she doesn't see any particular need to be too self-conscious, finding where her clothes went without doing anything to cover herself otherwise. Maybe she ought to be embarrassed now, given everything she asked for him to do, but she can't quite work up the will for that yet. "Probably better not to have anyone think there are dead bodies back here, though, no."

It's for the best, really, that it's Jesus Christ whose name she'd invoked instead of his. Without his coin, without the luck coming to him with such ease, were she to say his name in such a reverent manner, it would only end up going poorly for her. That's not what he wants. It's true he doesn't know her well at all, but he has no desire to see the ill winds fall upon her.

He reaches for his jeans, pulling them on, then his shirt, sliding his suspenders back over his shoulders. Once he has his boots back on, he reaches for his jacket, then goes back to her, sliding his hand along her jaw and into her hair. He doesn't pull, not this time, but his grip does tighten, making it impossible for her to look away without really trying.

"You need that again, lass, you can find me," he says, holding her gaze for a moment before he grins and lets go of her hair.

"You can count on it," Lucy says once he's let go, offering him a ghost of a smile, but a heartfelt one. Thanking him still seems a little crass, but she hadn't known just how much she would enjoy this — would need it, maybe — until it was happening, and now she's mostly just fucking grateful. He's practically a stranger, and wouldn't have had to go along with any of that. He'd seemed to enjoy it as much as she had, though, and if he's offering a repeat performance, well, she sure as fuck isn't going to turn him down. If she weren't so fucking worn out, in the best possible way, she'd probably already be wondering what they might be able to do without having to worry about being in her office in her bar.

"And, hey, next time you come in for a drink, s'on me."

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