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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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.

I could slip out of his hold, keep from being pulled down, just like he didn't have to fall when I pushed. He let himself fall and I let myself follow, landing on top of him. His hands grip me tight, not enough to actually hurt, but there might be marks later. I don't think I'd mind.

Arching my back makes just enough room between us for me to slip my hand down his chest, to his open jeans. I press an open palm against him, over his underwear, eyes darting up to catch his reaction.

It hasn't been all that long, but he feels as if they've been building toward this for fucking hours and when he finally feels the press of her hand against his cock he exhales sharply. For a second he just lies there, his hands frozen on her, and then they're roaming across her skin again. Tugging her, dragging her against him so he can roll his hips up against the press of her palm.

His hand slides up from her hip, broad palm cupping her breast and he's a fucking brute, but he knows not to squeeze too hard. Not unless she asks him to. He does shove the material of her bra out of the way, thumb stroking across her nipple as another shudder drags through him.

He freezes and I'm startled by how much I like it. Not because I want him to stop but because I know I'm the one who did that to him. One simple touch and there was a second where his world stopped, and we're only just starting. I grasp at his cock through the boxers, adding just a little more pressure as he rolls into it. My other hand goes to the waistband but then he touches a breast I didn't know had gone sensitive and it's my turn to freeze for a second, drawing in a breath.

It's been too long.

I regain my bearings, though, to pull at his pants and boxers.

Seven hundred years is a long bloody time and Sweeney has to think if he doesn't know how to properly undo a bra by now, there's something deeply wrong. So he reaches around her back and undoes the clasp with relative ease, then pulls the straps down her arms even as she begins to tug at his jeans and his boxers.

They're close, but not close enough. He needs to get the rest of her clothes off and he tosses her bra aside, then wraps an arm around her again. Pulls her flush against him and at the same time he pushes one hand down, helping her with his jeans and trying to get her trousers undone at the same time.

Something shifts when his hand is on my skin, even though it's not as if there's been a real lack of touch. Now though, I can still feel where he touched me–barely teased, really–and I want more. I can feel the heat rising inside of me, concentrating and needing.

Sweeney pulls at my jeans and I raise my hips away from his to make it easier for him to take them off. In my eagerness, I'm not especially graceful, but I'm able to kick them away.

Neither of them are graceful, but at least the time comes when they're both rid of their clothing and he can drag her against him and feel the heat of her skin from top to bottom. He ducks his head, but it's not her mouth he's looking for this time, instead seeking out her breast. His lips brush over her nipple, then seal around it as he scrapes the sensitive skin with his teeth.

All the time, he's sliding his hand down her back, over the smooth curve of her ass before his fingers slide between her thighs from behind. She's so fucking warm, the sort of searing heat that only comes from a woman's cunt, and he muffles a groan against her breast, still just barely touching her between her legs.

It's barely a touch, barely enough, especially when he bites at already sensitive skin. If I were thinking, conscious of it, I might be embarrassed at the way I shift my hips down, grinding slightly against his hand. He's right there and the potential for more burns at me.

One of my hands makes it into his hair, tangling into it and closing into a fist so I can pull.

The way she moves her hips is all the invitation he needs and Sweeney groans again as he presses one finger inside of her, using the others to find her clit. He's a big man, he has big hands, he's not a complete asshole and so he leaves it at one finger for now, fucking into her slowly. Letting himself just enjoy it.

There's no question he enjoys fucking men, but women are unlike anything else on this earth. The way they move, the way they smell, how warm the inside of her body is against his finger."

"Fuck," he breathes against her breast.

I'd expected roughness, nothing painful, but not this. He's almost careful with me, even as I keep moving against him, seeking more of that friction. Already, I can feel a certain tautness winding inside of me, coiling like a spring. The tension feels good, especially knowing what will follow.

I pull on his hair again, simultaneously pulling his head back and craning my head down to claim another kiss.

The way she yanks his hair drags another moan out of him and he bites her lower lip as he curls his finger inside of her, then pulls it back out again. Only long enough to add a second, pressing inside of her, moving a little harder now as he pushes his own hips up without the slightest hint of self consciousness. He wants to be inside her, he wants to be fucking her, and he's breathing hard already, not even making the slightest attempt to hide it.

People hide too much shit. He's as bad as anyone else. He's not about to play fucking games when it comes to this.

"Christ, lass," he groans into her mouth.

There's more pressure now when he uses a second finger, more insistence in his touch. I jerk down against his touch, taking in a sharp breath at the change of angle. I can feel the way his hips roll behind and against me, the low rumble of his voice, nearly a growl when he speaks. Only partly aware of my own movement, I find myself nodding against him. I want this too.

"Can't get you pregnant," he says. "Can't give you anything. But you want me to use a condom, point me in the direction."

Because he sure as hell can't wait much longer. The bit about being unable to get her pregnant is just probability, too, he's almost entirely sure he can't, but he's never really stuck around to see the results. Chances are low he can be anyone's father.

And condoms just don't feel as good for anyone. It's a bullshit excuse used by assholes, he's aware of that, and he'll use one if she want, but it's still the truth.