onlythebranch | (no subject)

Entry tags:

rowan

(no subject)

These days, Mad Sweeney lives in a fucking cemetery.

It's for the best. Spike had found him a solution just like he'd asked, one that he hopes will hold over until his luck gets bad enough that he just up and dies, and it's not the most uncomfortable place he's ever laid his head. The mausoleum is cozy enough, fixed up from when Spike lived in the damn thing, and it means every time something goes wrong, the only people around are the dead and they're not exactly in any real danger.

He doesn't tell anyone where he is. When they text, which they do -- and ain't that a weird fucking thing -- he answers, but he doesn't give out any information. He can't. They're all important in their own ways and he can't risk their lives just because he's a lonely piece of shit. He's always been lonely, he can suffer through it for a few more weeks until the luck takes care of him.

And he's resigned to it now. His death. Used to be he feared it and then he'd fled from it, then he'd gotten in over his head with Wednesday because he thought he owed a death on a battlefield. Now it's coming for him whether he likes it or not, whether it's owed or not, and he's prepared.

Doesn't mean he's not going to go out without being able to smoke and drink right up until the end. He tries not to go out when there'll be others around, but sometimes it can't be helped, and he's creeping out of a nearby corner store, the sound of the owner's curses at his back -- seems all the glass bottles of booze had shattered only seconds after Mad Sweeney paid for his -- when he catches sight of someone familiar.

Someone, he realizes, he can't fucking kill.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's a different kind of fight than what Mad Sweeney had seen him deliver before and he likes that. Not because he thinks Rowan needs to go easy on him, but because this is what he's made for, the sort of fight he's good at, the kind that's the most fun. And it should be fun. There are times when it doesn't need to be, times when a fight is about survival, but Sweeney doesn't give a shit about that right now.

All he's looking for in this moment is a spot of fun.

He pulls back when Rowan aims for his face, but not fast enough, and the fist catches his chin and snaps his head back. He laughs again, then dives forward, curving his shoulder down so he can ram it against Rowan's chest and hopefully carry him back a little. His hand goes to Rowan's hip, hanging onto him, trying to push him back.

Because he is a little tipsy, Rowan misses the signal that Sweeney's about to thrust forward. The shoulder catches him right in the chest, forcing out a groaning whoosh of breath from his lungs. He's not so slow though that he can't slide and turn with the momentum. Sweeney's got his hand on his hip, yes, but with Rowan's hands grabbing hold of the big man's shoulders, it's relatively easy to bring them both to the ground in a roll.

Rowan fights for the upper hand, kneeing Sweeney in the gut when they fall and trying to push him back so the younger man can crawl on top of him and straddle him.

After a few spectacularly shitty weeks -- months maybe, but who's counting -- this is the best Sweeney has felt in a long damn time. He's still laughing, grappling with Rowan, letting himself get turned onto his back because at this point he thinks it might just be the easier option. He goes back with the push, grunting at the knee in his stomach and he reaches down and shoves Rowan's leg, which really only helps with the straddle.

Which sure as shit isn't something Sweeney's trying to avoid.

Instead of pushing Rowan off, he lifts both his hands between Rowan's arms and drives them hard into the crooks of his elbows, hoping to break his grip and send him crashing down right on top of Sweeney's chest.

Rowan's not really laughing, just huffing out breaths of amusement here and there as they wrestle. While not really exerted by the struggle, his heartbeat's up and he's up for the challenge. His body still feels warm and a little hazy around the edges, so the contact, the brutal contact, almost feels good.

He can see why Sweeney likes to get drunk and fight. And fuck.

Rowan grunts at the attack on his arms, falling face first onto Sweeney's chest. And, out of instinct, maybe, or something else, as he tries to push himself back up again, he bites at the crook of where Sweeney's shoulder meets his neck.

It's the bite that changes the sounds Sweeney is making from laughter to something bordering on a moan, but even so, there's amusement in the sound. Maybe it isn't fair for him to put all his need for human contact on the two people he knows he can't kill, but this is everything for him right now. His entire existence is in this fucking crypt.

And today, compared to all the rest, is a good fucking day.

"Are we biting now?" he asks, his voice hoarse as he tries to grab at Rowan's hair. He pushes and shoves and tries to get space between them, although he doesn't really want it.

Oh, that's a good sound, one that Rowan wasn't really expecting. He doesn't know what he was thinking when he bit Sweeney, but it hadn't been to get a response like that out of him. Not consciously anyway.

Neither was he expected the groan from his own throat when Sweeney tugs at his hair. It feels good with the slight tingle of numbness that the alcohol gives him. He wants more of it.

"Whatever it takes," he replies, fighting with elbows and the heels of his hands to get Sweeney's arms away from him, to pin him down again at the wrists rather than the shoulders.

Giving up a fight isn't something Sweeney does very often; in the rare instance he's outmatched, he'll still fight viciously until he's too beaten to even move, but right here, when Rowan grabs for his wrists, he lets it happen. It's not without any fight, he still resists, straining against the grip before he lets his hands drop back to the floor just above his head.

But he doesn't stop fighting entirely. Rowan is atop him and Sweeney doesn't necessarily want to unseat him, but he does want to keep him interested. So he lifts his hips, twisting them at the same time, trying to knock Rowan off balance.

Seeing if he'll even be allowed to.

The lift of his hips is very, very distracting. At first, Rowan thinks he's won -- though he knows better than to let up the pressure on Sweeney's wrists -- and then he has Sweeney's hips grinding against his. He lets out a muffled little keen, totally without his permission or conscious thought, and finds himself suddenly on his back, gazing up at Sweeney. Position totally reversed.

He fights immediately, not half a second dedicated to surprise, pushing at Sweeney's wrists and kicking his legs to try and wriggle out from under the other man.

When he ends up on top of Rowan, almost unexpectedly, Sweeney lets out another mad bray of laughter. He pushes hard against Rowan's wrists, still fighting back, then ducks his head to retaliate with a bite of his own. It's not as sharp a bite as he could manage, more a scraping of his teeth and beard against Rowan's throat, dragging his mouth over his skin on purpose.

Even with Rowan fighting back, Sweeney likes how that feels. Maybe even because Rowan is still fighting back.

"The fuck d'you think you're goin'?" he asks as Rowan tries to wriggle away, then pins him harder to the floor.

It's hard to take something like this seriously, like it's some affront to his abilities to be on his back with someone on top of him, when Sweeney laughs like that. It's loud and rough and infectious, and Rowan finds himself grinning despite himself, even as he bites his lip to try and focus on freeing himself from the big man's clutches.

He won't give up, though he does seem to pause when Sweeney bites at him. His entire body goes tense, not from fear but from wanting, his neck stretching out and his hips lifting.

"Fuck," he stutters, the shudder of his body reminding him to keep fighting. But it's practically a lost cause now, with how tightly Sweeney's grasp is on him.

There's nothing subtle about that, the stretch of Rowan's neck and the flex of the muscles around his hips, and in response Sweeney presses his own hips down. He grinds their bodies together, half a fight, half because he's hard as hell, aching in his jeans, and he has been for most of this fight already.

He'll have to try to get Rowan drunk more often, he thinks, if this is where they end up.

He releases one of Rowan's wrists and drops his hand to Rowan's waist. For just a second he pins Rowan's hip to the floor, then shoves the material of his shirt up and out of the way. At the same time he moves, faster than a man of his size should be able to, and bites the exposed skin near Rowan's ribs.

He can feel the heavy outline of Sweeney's cock through his jeans, now that they're unabashedly grinding against each other, and Rowan's own dick twitches to attention. This is spiraling out of control, from a fight to something else, and Rowan's both dizzy and hungry from the subtle shift. It blends so seamlessly from one to the other that he doesn't know when he slacks in his fighting and when it becomes a desperate attempt to push his body closer to Sweeney's.

Again, he stutters out a gasp at that sharp bite of teeth. Again, his cock twitches, growing harder in his jeans.

"Sweeney," he breathes, not sure what he's asking for, what he's saying. But his free hand does go for the man atop him. Only to grab at his shirt however and tug it as hard as he can up and over the man's head.

Shit like this, it isn't about winning or losing. That's the thing Sweeney thinks most people don't understand about a proper fight, about taking joy in the very act of it, letting it feed the fire within and rise up through fists and teeth and weapons. But Rowan gets it. At least in this moment he does. It makes a shivering sort of pleasure ripple through Sweeney's muscles and his hand tightens for a moment around Rowan's wrist.

He knows if he lets go now, he might very well get shoved off and onto his back again, but it's a risk he's willing to take. Either way, he's of the mind that Rowan will be coming with him. So he lets go of Rowan's wrist to reach down, to help with his shirt, yanking it up and over his head. Then he returns to Rowan's, wrestling the material up, alternating between biting and kissing the exposed skin of his chest, dragging the rough hair of his beard across a nipple as he goes.

He shifts and writhes beneath Sweeney, ostensibly trying to break free, but all the movement does is push him closer to the other man's lips and teeth and beard. Rowan can't think, can't strategize his next move, because he his shirt over his head and a warm body above him. His eyes are shut and he can barely do anything but pant for a few long moments.

Then he remembers himself. He remembers that his arms are free and he has training at his disposal. He suddenly lifts with his hips, hard, not enough to fully dislodge Sweeney, but enough to shake him off balance, hopefully. And enough to grind their growing erections together. Rowan bites his lip hard to keep from moaning at that, swings a fist into Sweeney's jaw and uses the momentum to roll them again.

The blow catches him hard in the jaw, then he's rolling, laughing, grasping at Rowan to drag him along as he goes. He ends up on his back again, hot pain blooming in his mouth and he turns and spits blood on the floor before he glides his tongue along the inside of his lip to find the place where his teeth have split skin.

Then he reaches up and grab Rowan by either side of his head, dragging him down for a rough kiss. One that tastes of iron and sweat, one that he all but moans into, even as he continues to laugh. Even as he brings up one leg, driving his big thigh between Rowan's.

He could make it a harder blow, he could be a prick and make it hurt, but instead he does it just hard enough for it be felt. For it to be a good, solid pressure against Rowan's dick.

He really has absolutely no idea what he's doing, but Rowan goes along with it any, trusts his gut for once and lets his cock lead him rather than his head.

He's moaning into the kiss, right along with Sweeny, insensibly licking at his lip, tasting the blood there, his handiwork, and then sliding his tongue against Sweeney's, looking for dominance.

Even so doing, though, he can't help himself and, with a groan, rolls his hips against Sweeney's thigh, revealing in the friction and the contact, already hard in his jeans and simply getting worse.

A bit of poetry he'd heard once flits through Mad Sweeney's mind as Rowan's tongue slides against his. I've got two hands and an urge to yank out your teeth. He laughs again, lets his tongue do battle for a moment before he gives in, knowing it's still not a loss and if he's the one who loses his teeth, so to speak, he doesn't fucking care. Everything is high and bright and singing, tasting of blood and filled with pressure and heat.

His hands drop from Rowan's head to his hips. Grinding their bodies together. He can feel Rowan's cock through his jeans and he wants to get his hands on warm skin. More skin. He wants to rip and tear and touch and caress and he's as lost in this as he is a fight to the death.

He's been fucked as long as he's been alive.

Shirtless and bleeding and panting, pinned to the floor by someone he can't kill. He's not sure the last time he's been this bloody happy either and as he shoves his hands between their bodies to palm Rowan's cock, he can't help but grin.

He's blatantly rutting against Sweeney's leg now, and then against his hand, moaning into his mouth with shameless abandon. He's hungry and fierce and on fire, and the only thing that he feels can satiate him is the man beneath him, his touch, both soft and hard.

Rowan bites at Sweeney's lower lip and tugs roughly before pulling away, sitting up on his knees astride Sweeney's legs. His hands move frantically for his jeans, undoing the button and the zip, shoving down both underwear and pants down over his hips, just enough to allow his cock to spring free. He grabs Sweeney's hand, so large and rough, and places it back on his dick. He's not going to take the chance of the other man teasing him, not when he wants more friction, more touch right then and there.

It's a pain in the ass with Rowan's jeans still in the way, but he's made do with worse yet, and he doesn't need Rowan to guide him, not at the sight of his cock suddenly free. There's nothing against his own dick, no hint of friction besides the jeans he's still wearing, but he ignores it for now, no matter how badly he's aching for some kind of pressure. Instead he wraps long fingers around Rowan's cock, grabs his ass with his other hand and tries to drag him closer. Up the length of his body. Closer to his mouth.

"C'mon," he's muttering without even really being aware. There's still blood in his mouth, he can taste it, but his focus is on Rowan. His hand slides over his cock, twisting roughly, no attempt being made at gentleness or trying to take things slow. "Get the fuck up here."

If these next few weeks are going to be his last, he might as well enjoy himself until the time comes.

He only has the vaguest idea what Sweeney wants him to do. No, he understands exactly what Sweeney wants him to do, and he shuffles forward on his knees, following the pull at his cock and the pressure on his ass. But once he gets to a spot where he's straddling Sweeney's chest, as close as he can get without without climbing over his broad shoulders, he's not sure what else he's up to.

He keens sharply at the rough twist of Sweeney's hand, feeling already like he's going to come out of his skin. It's time like this when it's easy to forget, and remember, just how young he is, how inexperienced. He doesn't know what Sweeney's going to do with him but he knows that he wants it more than he's wanted anything else in his life, in this moment.

It's close enough to be everything he wants.

Sweeney lifts his head off the stone floor, his fingers still wrapped around Rowan's cock, and his tongue flicks out, dragging over the head of Rowan's dick as he lets out a heady groan. His own hips rock up rather desperately, pushing himself against absolutely nothing, and then he seals his lips around Rowan's cock, pushing his head forward, sucking him deeper.

The last time they'd been here, he knows Rowan hadn't had much experience at his back, and Sweeney doesn't know what he might have done since then, and so while he's demanding, he's not pushy. He doesn't hold Rowan to him, doesn't grab his hips and drag him closer. All he does is flick his gaze up, looking at Rowan, giving him permission to do whatever the hell he wants.

He wants Rowan to let go, he wants him to fuck his mouth as hard as he wants. He still wants everything to hurt just a little bit.

There's a niggling voice in the back of Rowan's head telling him that this could be a very bad idea. That this could go off the rails very, very quickly. But he wants it to. All his control, all his discipline has been stripped away and what he wants more than anything is more of Sweeney's hot, wet mouth and rough tongue. Wants to take advantage of that welcome he sees in his eyes.

He's never even dreamed of this before let alone done it. His sexual experiences still amount to Sweeney and that's it. But he figures if anyone's going to let him get away with anything, with making mistakes and not be chastised for it, it's going to be the man who's lived through everything. Including bad sex.

So when his hips jerk forward tentatively, it only takes that one thrust for Rowan to groan and grab hold of Sweeney's hair. He makes too tempting a sight not to do it again.

For a moment Sweeney's eyes flutter shut at that first thrust, at the grip in his hair, and he groans again, low in his throat, a sound that vibrates out of him and across Rowan's skin. Both his hands slip around, first holding Rowan's hips, then curving over his ass, and Sweeney wishes he had more room, that they'd gotten completely undressed so he could get his hands and fingers anywhere he wanted them. But this is good, too. This has more of a sense of urgency, of teasing, and he presses the fingers of both his hands into the muscles of Rowan's ass, pulling at his skin, sliding his fingers along the cleft of his ass.

All the while he does everything he can to relax his throat, to take Rowan deeper. He uses his tongue as best he can at this angle, sliding it along the underside of Rowan's cock, licking and lapping and then pulling back a little to suck at the head. Mostly, though, he gives control over to Rowan. He wants to be used.

The only thing still moving regularly are his hands. They travel eagerly over Rowan's skin, his fingers pushing into the space of his undone jeans, slipping in as far as he can to stroke against Rowan's balls.

He's never done this before. Sweeney's given him a blowjob, yes, but it's nothing like this, not so rough and needy. It's not like this where Rowan is totally in control. He doesn't have the first clue what he's doing but follows the natural need of his body and the positive groans and moans from Sweeney beneath him.

Fingers pull at his ass and slide over his hole and Rowan shudders, hard. That sensation is utterly and truly new to him. He wants more, but doesn't know how to ask for it.

Leaning forward, Rowan props himself up on one hand, the other still tight in Sweeney's hand and starts to thrust, down his throat. His hips start and stutter; it's not as hard as it could be, not as demanding, but at this point Rowan's not thinking about how this must feel for Sweeney. He's thinking how good, how hot and wet it is and how he's not going to be able to last through this very long.

The shudder that goes through Rowan also goes straight to Sweeney's dick and he moans again, closing his eyes and his hand working harder to get between Rowan's thighs. He cups his balls, tugging, rolling them in his palm, then slides his fingers back along his ass again. His skin is dry and he's not a complete prick, so he doesn't do anything but tease, rubbing the pad of his finger against Rowan's hole.

His throat is as relaxed as he can get it, but even so, there's a moment when he chokes a little, gags against Rowan's cock. It's followed immediately by another low moan, by his fingers pressing harder into Rowan's skin in a desperate attempt to get more.

He fucking loves this. The little bit of edge to it all, the sense of violence. It could tip over at any second and even though he knows it won't -- he figures they both want to get off too badly for that -- there's still that sense that it might. His finger circles and teases, rubbing at Rowan's skin as his cock slides down Sweeney's throat.