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'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.

"They're in the drawer," I say. It's hard to think clearly when I'm squirming against his hand, the need for sex and contact drowning out everything else. Sweeney has no reason to lie and I have other precautions. A thought in the back of my head is that it's reckless and impulsive, but so is just about everything else I do.

"I'm good." Whether he gets one or not is his choice.

If she's not about to force the issue, he sure as fuck isn't going to get one out of the drawer. He lifts his hips, his cock pressing against her thigh, then reaches behind her with his free hand gets himself positioned between between her legs. His fingers thrust into her a few more times and he's rubbing his thumb across her clit, wanting her to feel good, wanting her to be wet, wanting to just fucking be there.

"Christ," he groans, arching his hips again and he finally withdraws his fingers, rubbing himself against her. "Oh, fuck."

He's not inside her, not yet, he figures he ought to give her the control over that. But Christ if she doesn't feel amazing already.

I have to bite my lip as he touches me. By now, it's all too easy to get myself keyed up, to feel the slight build and clench, and then his fingers move away and I can't suppress a sound of frustration, of need. I feel a little as if I've let him win even though we're not fighting for anything.

He moves against me but not in and I lift my head a little, pull on his hair again, a quiet demand. Even while I stare at him, I'm moving deliberately, shifting my legs, rubbing back against him. He's big, but I can feel how slick I am as I reach between us, guide him into me.

He lets out a low laugh when she tugs at his hair, curving his hands over her hips, holding onto her tight. Maybe tight enough that he'll leave a few finger shaped bruises behind, but that's a thing he doubts she'll much mind.

Then she's guiding his cock into her and the laugh turns into another moan. She's warmer and tighter around his dick than she'd been around his fingers and the way she's looking at him makes the muscles in his back and his legs tighten sharply in pleasure.

"Fuck, Tris," he mutters, rolling his hips a little. He bends his knees, digs his heels into the mattress to give himself leverage, but he lets her control the pace for the time being.

My list of partners isn't exactly long but I've done this enough times to know what I like. Seating myself on him like this, having control and being able to watch his face, gives me a faint sense of power. At any moment I could shove him down by the shoulders or climb off entirely, leaving him there. Or I can jerk my hips down, take him in a little further, with more speed and more intent.

She's in complete control. He likes that she's in control, he wants her to shove him, push him around, mark him if she wants. His feet dig into the mattress and as she takes him in further, he uses the leverage to thrust up, but only a little. Enough that she'll feel it. Feel how hard he is, how badly he wants this.

"Fuck," he grits out again, his head back against the pillows, throat exposed.

I can't help but laugh, amused that he's the one beneath me, the one who's baring his throat. Often enough, that would be me. The thought stirs inside me and the next time he moves, I move in counterpoint, pushing myself down on him. It's a little too fast, too much, but it doesn't hurt. If he's going to make a comment on that, I lean forward and bite at his exposed neck to stave off any questions.

He groans when she bites his throat, heat spiking through him, straight through to his dick. There aren't many situations where he wants to relinquish control, but in bed like this, when he's fucking someone, he doesn't really give a shit so long as it feels good for the both of them.

Sometimes feeling good means pain. And when she bites him, she gives him a good dose of that.

He uses his feet against the bed to roll his hips up again, setting a rhythm, though he's not adverse to change. He's willing to let her do whatever the hell she wants.