onlythebranch | (no subject)

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tris

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"We could get away with it," he says with a rumbling laugh, but he has no real intention of pulling out his dick right here on the street. There are some things worth going to jail for and sex is one of them, but he's learned a long time ago he'd much rather enjoy sex than get arrested in the pursuit of it.

"But, no, love," he tells her, speaking against the curve of her throat. "Not here. We both have places to go, don't we?"

And now that he's thinking about it, it's the only thing he wants to do. Her skin is warm even though her clothes and he wants to pull away that layer.

If it's a mistake, he doesn't see the point in dwelling on it. As far as he's concerned, it's something she needs at the moment and he may be a shitty man with shitty ways of dealing with things, but he does care in his own way. Not that he'd admit it. What he can do instead is offer her something, some kind of distraction if that's what it takes.

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She is fact, but he's surprisingly so for a man of his size. It might look to an outside as if he's chasing her and maybe he is in a sense, but the both have the same end in mind. Still, it gives him a little burst of adrenaline, the thought of a chase, and when he does catch her, it's within steps of a cab. Close enough for him to grab her by the shoulder and spin her around and press her between the door of the cab and his chest.

"Suppose you beat me," he says. He doesn't care. He doubts she does either at this point.

From inside the cab he can hear the driver, disgruntled, asking if they're getting in or just fucking around and Sweeney reaches down to look for the handle.

I'm not surprised that he catches up to me so quickly, turning and pinning me against the car. He's so much broader that he practically blocks my view and my world concentrates to his arms around me, his chest and abdomen against mine.

The cab driver startles me and I turn bright red, jumping away a little from Sweeney so that he can open the door. I scramble into the back seat with him and breathlessly give the man the address of the Bramford Building.

He has the mercy to roll up the screen between the back and front before he goes.

It's a damn good thing she gives the driver the address because Sweeney's not sure he's in any shape to be giving directions. He hadn't expected her to flush like she had and he's known for a long time now -- decades, centuries -- that he's got an odd affection for that involuntary display of self consciousness.

He reaches for her once they're in the back seat, doesn't stop to think about seat belts, doesn't think she'll give a shit either. She's a bit of a daredevil, after all, he doubts she'll complain if he drags her into his lap in the back seat of the cab. His fingers curl over her hip and he leans toward her, pulling her in his direction.

I let myself be pulled over, seating myself on Sweeney's lap so that I face him. With the relative degree of privacy, this feels like a dangerous game, pushing to see just how far we'll go. "Don't make me do something I'll regret," I say, more tease than real warning. I regret and probably will keep on regretting many things, but not moments like this. It may be a far cry from the kind of girl I was, once, but I like to think that this is healthier than jumping off buildings for fun.

Maybe.

I push my conscience roughly away in favor of focusing on what's in front of me.

"Wrong god, love," he answers with a rumbling laugh, though he knows she'd been joking. This isn't the first time he's glad Wednesday isn't here, though, and he knows it sure as hell won't be the last. This place is already fucked up enough without gods showing up and bending everyone who lives here to their damn will.

"Can't make you do a damn thing you don't want to," he says, then smirks pointedly before he reaches up and tangles his fingers in her hair, pulling her mouth down toward his. She's warm and strong on his lap and he rolls his hips up, not looking to really start anything in the cab, just looking for friction.

He wouldn't want to make people fuck him the way Wednesday does. If ever there was the very definition of a creepy old man, the one-eyed bastard is it.

"No," I agree. "You can't." And maybe it's egotistical to assume but I think it's the fact that he can't that he likes about me. Flirting and fighting go a little too closely together for both of us. I can't necessarily call it a good trait of mine but at least it's one where we match.

He pulls me over him, tugging slightly on my hair. Something about the potential for force that doesn't come makes heat flare up under my skin again. We could break each other, in different ways, but instead it's this. His hips roll up and I press down, feel hard muscle and desire, his opinions obvious despite layers of clothing.

Someone could. He hates that he knows that, hates knowing there's a god out there who not only can make her do whatever he wants, but would. Hates it more to know he'd worked for the fucker.

Now's not the time for any of this pity, though, not with Tris in his lap in the back of this cab. His hands roam over the plane of her back before they drop to her hips, using his hands to guide her even as they kiss. He's already hard, has been for some time now, and he's making no effort to hide that from her.

It's easy to grind against him, to arch my back so that my body slips down and my chest presses against his and then away. I probably shouldn't enjoy the tiny thrill of power that it gives me when I'm with a man like this and I know that I'm the cause of his arousal. Probably, it's not a very seemly trait, but I love it and I press down harder, trying to provoke him a little.

As I shift up, the cab driver slams the breaks and I almost fall backward off Sweeney's lap. Fixing the screen with a dirty look, I can glance out the window to see the Bramford in through it.

"We're here."

When Tris nearly tumbles backward off his lap, Sweeney's arm tightens hard around her and he doubts it's enough to hurt, but it's instinct. A way to keep her exactly where she is. The driver doesn't seem to be all that thrilled with their behaviour, but Sweeney doesn't much give a fuck, and when the screen rolls back down, he shoves his hand into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulls out a fistful of coins.

"The hell am I supposed to do with this?" the driver asks as Mad Sweeney dumps the coins in the passenger seat.

"You'll figure it out, lad," he answers and then he's shoving the door open, half stumbling out of the cab, half dragging Tris with him. It's her place, she'll have to lead now, but he's happy to follow.

It's not like I had a wealth of knowledge before this on leprechauns but I've seen that trick of his before and I smirk over my shoulder at the cab driver. Under pretense of moving out of his arm's way, I press closer into his hold, enjoying the way he'd kept me in place from strength alone. It seems like the kind of thing worth taking advantage of later.

Or now. I do my best to move out of the cab but he's the one doing the real share of it and I try not to laugh. This doesn't feel like the time to be giddy.

"Ninth floor," I tell him. I grab his wrist more than his hand and tug him toward the elevator. Hopefully it's moving faster today.

The cab driver is still muttering to himself when Sweeney slams the door, cutting him off mid-sentence. They're in a hurry now, he doesn't have time to deal with stupid shit like that, not with Tris pulling him toward the elevator like she is. There's a distinct sense of urgency, one he's perfectly happy to fulfill.

When the elevator doors slide open, they're barely inside before he's slapping the button for her floor, then the button to close the doors, then reaching for her again. His arm slides around her, nearly lifting her off her feet again as he pins her to the wall of the elevator and kisses her again. Harder. More impatient.

The doors are barely closed before he turns and uses all that strength on me. In this tiny a space, with his advantages in height and weight, with someone else my instinct would be to fight back. Now I lean back against the wall, barely standing on the tips of my toes with his body pressed against mine. His kisses are hungrier now. Mine are too.

The elevator rattles on up and I dig my fingertips into his shoulder, pulling myself up against him a little.

Sweeney knows what she's like, he's fought her before, he knows she could use all those muscles and fucking climb him if she wanted to and he sure as hell wouldn't stop her. Her fingers are pressing hard into his shoulder and he groans in encouragement, wanting her to do whatever the hell she wants to him. Wanting her to use him, if that's what she's here for. He's a romantic at heart, but all that's ever done is gotten him fucked up and broken, and he's no longer in the mood for anything of the sort.

Darrow has been good to him in that regard. He doesn't have to think or worry.

He breathes out hard into her mouth, his teeth on her lower lip, and behind them the elevator doors slide open again, but he doesn't notice at first.

It's a little bit like fighting. The adrenaline is the same but the push and pull is a little different. We could hurt each other–I don't think either of us is averse to mixing in that kind of thing with sex–but that's not the goal. He bites my lip and I dig my fingers in a little harder, bending one of my knees so I can hook an ankle behind his calf and push him closer.

The elevator lurches but this time I keep my balance.

When the elevator lurches, he realizes the door is open and Sweeney takes a few steps back, still holding onto Tris, and he's halfway convinced they're going to end up on the floor, but his goal is to get them into her apartment first. Then he doesn't give a fuck. Then the floor is just fine by him.

"Which door?" he asks, breaking the kiss long enough to spit out the words. His hand glides up her thigh, over her ass, holding her against him as best he can. "Unless you want me to strip you down right fuckin' here."

It's a real possibility, especially as he starts to push his hands up under her shirt.

This keyed up in the empty hallway, I'm halfway to letting him. Luckily, my door is in sight and I nod roughly in its direction. I use his grip as leverage, pulling myself up enough kiss him again before I change direction and bite at his jaw and then neck, following sharp bite with a softer kiss. I can't pretend that I've got Sweeney figured out but I've gotten pretty good at finding what provokes him.

"Key's hanging off my jeans," I say. He's in a much better position to get at them than I am at the moment.

"Fuck," he groans out roughly as she alternates between her teeth and her lips and he's so fucking hard in his jeans right now that it's a goddamn triumph that he doesn't have his hands on himself already. Instead he gropes for the key she's talking about, getting a good handful of her ass before he finds it and practically yanks it off.

He's not even sure how they're moving at this point, how they're not stumbling all over themselves and he half drags her to the door she'd indicated, then shoves the key into the lock. He twists it roughly and shoves the door in, stumbling past and into her apartment.

I think I'm going to have to repair these jeans later but I can't really be irritated, not when he practically carries me into my own apartment. As we pass through the door, I spare a sideways glance to Élan, who's asleep in her hutch.

"That door," I say, nodding to my bedroom. I hear the main door slam shut and I pull him down for another kiss, stepping backward through the living room. I might be small but I can pull a man along just as well.

He follows without question, moving toward the door Tris has indicated. Reaching out with one hand, he bangs it open, groaning into the kiss as he tugs her against him once more. Wherever the bed is, they'll get to it, but what he wants now is skin. Warmth. He wants her hands and her mouth, he wants to touch her.

The only time he pulls away from her he does so with his hands alone. And only to pull open the shirt he's wearing over his undershirt and suspenders. The buttons are the kind that snap into place and he yanks it open without a thought, drops it on the floor and returns his hands to her again, all without breaking their kiss.

If I had much by way of personal items in my bedroom, I think they'd all clatter from the force of him opening the door. Sweeney pulls me closer and I make an attempt at being contrary by stepping backward in the direction of my bed, making up some space when he throws aside his shirt.

I saw it the first time we met and it's true now. He's made of muscle, broad and ready for a fight. Now, I get to run my hands up his chest and get an idea of how he feels beneath my hand when I'm not starting a fight.

She's small, but she's strong, stronger than most. He gets his hands up under her shirt again, lets them wander across her back, fingers pressing into long, lithe muscles and he knows bodies like this are the reasons women have odes written to them. He's been alive for too long to fool himself into believing they're all really about love, he knows what men really mean when they write their poems and he can feel the lust rising in him, urging him on.

There's a bed somewhere. He'll trip over it in a minute or two, he thinks, but he's only got one arm out of his suspenders when he reaches for the waist of her jeans with the other hand. She's moving toward the bed and he's moving with her, using the hold he has on her to drag himself along with her rather than pull her in his direction.

I have no doubt that he knows exactly what he feels when his fingers graze scars, the raised whorls where I've cut bullets out of myself. Sweeney's old enough, I think, to piece together what's been made of me.

And I hope we don't have to talk about it.

Intending to keep him focused elsewhere, I tilt my head to bite his jaw again, idly wondering how hard I'd have to bite to leave a mark. I hope he at least takes a little time to heal.

I grab the straps of his suspenders and pull them down, dragging my nails down along his skin as I do.

He feels the scars, doesn't say a word of them, because none of that fucking matters. His own scars are few and far between, older than most, all except the bite marks on his throat, but even those have faded significantly. He doesn't scar like he used to, doesn't know why, has never bothered to work it out.

Doesn't fucking matter. Especially right now.

"C'mon, c'mon," he breathes, grabbing at her shirt, pulling it up. Her nails on his skin send a trembling roll of pleasure through him, like little trails of fire left behind and he responds by pressing himself against her, his hips to her belly.

I raise my hands for just long enough to get my shirt off from over my shoulders and toss it aside before shoving myself back into his space, letting him grind against me. I feel the way his breath shifts, enforced again by the hard arousal pressed against my bare skin through his trousers. Still dragging my nails along his skin, I put just a little space between us, just enough room to start working the buttons and zippers open.

I'm not actually strong enough to shove him over but I hope he plays along when I shove him on the chest, pushing him down into the mattress.

She shoves him and maybe he could resist, but he doesn't see the fucking point, not when what he wants is the bed and her and more of all of this. So when she shoves, he drops down, sprawling onto his back, hooking an arm around her and trying to yank her with him.

It's not like it is with Cassius or Spike. It's not all about violence, he doubts there'll be any blood, but it's not gentle. He figures neither of them are looking for that and his fingers press hard into her sides as he drags her toward him again. On top of him. Just closer in every way he can manage.