Even with the fair warning her movement has telegraphed, his breath still hitches when her fingers wrap around him. It stops completely when she pulls the tip of his cock past her lips, and Sweeney shudders.
(God, you make me feel alive.)
And that is perhaps the purest truth of the act; they've come full circle, and every stroke of her tongue on his skin only makes it more present. There's warmth in the blood that fills his flesh, promising her the truth of his vitality as it puts more strain on her jaw. This time, however, Sweeney doesn't worry about hurting her. She's giving of herself, and he's not going to dissuade her. She doesn't have to push deeper if she doesn't want to, and as such, she can pace herself.
That said, there's a tiny itch in the back of his skull that wants to grip her hair tightly and shove down. But that's a small voice swept up in the pure sensation of the act, and instead, his fingers massage her scalp encouragingly as he tries to even his breathing.
There is apology present in every line of her body, every soft sound she emits, stifled a bit more now that her mouth is wrapped more blatantly around his cock. He'll always be a size she has to relax to accommodate, pausing to ensure that there's no tension in her jaw and that she can take him even deeper as a result. Whether she feels, to an extent, that lightly kindling urge he has to shove her down further, or whether it's part of what she thinks she deserves, her fingers fumble up blindly, seekingly, until they can overlap with his across her head, curving into points of tension that urge him to be more forceful with her.
Do it.
This is her punishment, and her reward; her sentence, and her deliverance. In a way, this cleanses her too, washes away the sting of guilt with the taste of his salt, the heaviness of him in her mouth. She hunches over him, more determined now, and presses down, his shaft sliding over her tongue until he starts to reach the back of her throat. Her first instinct is to gag, to cough and splutter — she hasn't taken any man of his size this deep for as long as she can remember — but then she pushes past the panicked impulse and draws in a breath through her nose, and then another, her fingers tightening over his again.
When her hands start shifting, Sweeney assumes it's because she wants him to lift his away so she can move. He's barely caught up when her first instruction comes. No words are returned, but there is a touch of confusion as his brain begins to scan the potentials of what she means. He doesn't need long before her hands clarify, and he strains his neck so he can peek down at her.
There's instinctive concern, the one that always comes when he's in a lass's mouth, and it's all the nearer the surface because he's just reasoned that he doesn't have to worry about it.
But she's asking for it. She wants it. It takes him a second to work through the disconnect, but when the second direction comes, his body's already racing after.
His grip clenches tight in a moment, and he tugs her head back a touch. Certainly not enough to separate them, but enough for him to see her eyes and give her a second to assess the pressure and protest if it's not what she's looking for. But finding no complaint, Sweeney takes a deep breath and starts to push.
It's not sudden or sharp, but there is pressure behind it. He swallows, trying to keep his focus as encourages her further, looking for the depth she needs to tap out at. It's best to have some form of gauge before he starts to have less control in paying attention to it. That said, nothing about it is easy.
The pinpricking of tears in her eyes isn't the consequence of her weeping, now, but how thick he is in her mouth, forcing her to relax her jaw. Hunching forward over his waist proves to be an angle that offers her some more reprieve, but it also enables him to slide past her lips and over her tongue before he starts to meet the back of her throat. That gagging impulse subsides, little by little, and she remembers to keep her breath, to release it through her nose, so she doesn't start to become dizzy or faint.
He pushes, and she moans — there's no possibility of her being able to take him all the way down her throat, into that tight squeezing clutch, but that doesn't mean she isn't eager to have him fucking into her mouth, holding onto her head while he thrusts, using her in that manner until he either spills or decides he wants to claim some other part of her.
Her hand slides over his again, interlacing their fingers, and she taps once, an assurance that he isn't hurting her, that she isn't trying to get him to release her. He can go harder still, even if she recognizes his reluctance to embrace true abandon given his size relative to hers. If she has to lift her gaze to his from this position, violet eyes glassy but determined above where her lips are wrapped around his cock, then she will, before she ducks down to move over him again, head bobbing with clear intention, goading him to move.
Somewhere between the encouragement of her gaze and the insistence of her mouth, Sweeney begins to yield his restraint. Even as he tries to remember to do better, she's promising she can take it, and that makes him want it all the more.
He starts to take a more active participation, guiding her pace with a stronger grip in her hair. It makes his eyes roll beneath their lids as he does his best to keep his breath deeper. Fuck, it's heavenly. It may not be bread and oil, but it's worship in its own shape; her sacrifice given with without reservation.
His toes curl and flex as his thighs start to tighten. Keep even, not too deep, he tells himself. But the voice seems to get quieter with every pull of her tongue. Sweeney's other hand starts to slide back up her spine, lingering between her shoulder blades as he attempts to not have it jump to join the one already in her hair. If it does, he's not sure he could control himself enough to keep her safe.
His hands aren't everywhere on her, but it feels that way — fingers fisting a tight grip on the long spill of her hair, keeping most of it held up out of the way so it doesn't interfere while also allowing him to see her. Her vision is blurred, a combination of her own previous tears and fresh ones that threaten to fall in their wake, but she closes her eyes, damp lashes darkened against her cheeks, and loses herself in the rhythm he sets for them both.
The hand that isn't in her hair is warm on her skin, resting between her shoulders, and she moans, arching into it like a cat, enjoying how much of her body he can span with just the set of those five fingers, the slight friction of callouses something to savor in and of itself. What these hands have known, she might never fully grasp, but they know her now — how to touch her, what she likes, what will make her keen and gasp and cry out.
He's hitting her throat on every thrust now, and she moans again, soft but urging, trying to goad him into claiming more of his pleasure through her. Let her be the conduit of it now, since she was the one who delivered the pain before. Let her be the receptacle of all he wants to pour into her, and leave them both exhausted yet satisfied by the time they're finally through.
The more she gives, the more compelled he is to take, and it's his moans that are increasingly filling the room. Just a little bit harder, just a little bit deeper, every bump of resistance is met and answered. God, she feels so good. This is so much better than the night in the woods. She can sense the intimacy buried in increasingly rough handling. Sweeney wants to be in her in all the ways he's able. He wants her, wants this. With her.
Soon enough, it's not just him pushing down; he's rocking up into her mouth, his own lips parted in appreciative groans. Sweeney's hand continues up her spine to the back of her neck, where he uses it to support her stability as they both urge onwards.
He should stop; Sweeney knows he should. He should pause to get her up so he can suck her swollen lips as he fucks her her straddling but him riding, thrusting vigorously beneath her. But he can't seem to will himself to do it; she's so apparently hungry for this, and truth be told, he doesn't want to be left to the cold air, even for the brief moment it would take to switch positions.
The tightness at the gate of her throat stands as both challenge and temptation, and he's getting to the point where he wants to see how much she can take. How much he can have before she seeks to be free of his heat and the stretching of her jaw.
She knows he'll never think of it this way, but she also wants this to be her penance, her atonement, bathing in the salt of her own tears and the salt of his skin on her tongue, what's already dripping from the head of his cock and trickling down her throat. She also knows he'd never attempt to push her past the limits of what she can truly bear, never force her to the point of strain or discomfort, but she's going to bask in this, no matter how intensely the size of him tests her.
Sweeneydoesn't relent, and neither does she, even though she does cede control over to him, let him move rock from underneath, let him assess how deeply he can breach her. She adjusts the angle of her head above him, leans forward until her forehead skims his stomach, her hair spilling down over his body in a wild mass of dark waves, and from here it's easier for him to thrust without resistance, toward the clutch of her throat.
He's so deep, and deeper still, and she moans, a strangled sound, at him making a home for himself in her mouth; her lips are swollen around his length, her spit keeping his cock generously dripping, and she can hear the wet sounds of it when he thrusts in further. She chokes, instinctively, her eyes swimming with tears that spring up, but holds, remembering to draw in those breaths through her nose, counting to a few beats before she finally pulls off of him altogether, gasping for air, thin gossamer strands of saliva clinging between her lips and the tip of his shaft.
As she strains to take him, his breath shortens with hers. The sensation make his toes flex as Yennefer nudges him ever closer to orgasm, and when she moans, she can feel his prick throbbing against her tongue in promise.
But then she slides off him, and a gasp escapes as he sucks in a deep breath and swallows a few times. Sweeney hones his gaze on her while he steadies, and the hand cupping her neck slides around so her slick chin rests on the side of his finger as he gently wipes his thumb over her lips. So fucking beautiful. For him.
The break found anyways, Sweeney's hands dart to hook under her armpits and tug at her, suggesting that she's paid whatever price she's sought to. He doesn't yank her; if she wants to keep at what she's doing, he'll certainly make no protest, but if she rather just fuck him, he welcomes that too. The moment is about reconnection, and her enjoyment matters to him.
There's a note of frustration in her expression when she pulls off, the expectation that she would have seen this through until he finally spilled over her tongue, down her throat — but then she realizes he's reaching for her, grabbing for her, trying to draw her up. Her eyes are glassy, her mouth dewy and pliant as he drags his thumb over both upper and lower lip, spreading the remnants of that saliva across her skin.
She's breathing as roughly as if she'd already come herself, but she doesn't protest when he drags her up the length of his body, coming willingly. She's mindful of how she drapes herself atop him so she isn't simply dropping her full weight, one hand lightly braced against the mattress as she slants their mouths together again, the salt of his skin lingering on her tongue when it swirls with his.
"Fuck me," she pants, soft and ragged against his lips. "And don't be gentle about it."
He's stuck in a mixture of Want; there's relief that she's come back up, but something aches in him that he hadn't let her finish. Of course, then she says that, and it all goes straight out the window. Sweeney sucks her tongue, then punctuates his agreement with a rough bite of her lip.
His grip tightens on her ribs to secure her before he presses his heel hard into the mattress to roll them over and get her on her back. It's only half a breath before he's snatching at her wrists, scrambling to yank them up over her head and cross them so he can easily span and pin both with one hand. His other dips between them so he can align himself properly.
Sweeney's barely positioned before he shoves deep, filling her unforgivingly. His cry is barely muffled when he presses his cheek to her temple; her mouth has him so sensitive that the fresh constriction is a bit overwhelming. But oh, how he wants it. It's only a second later when he pulls back and snaps forward, sharply accenting each thrust as they start to gain momentum, his shallow pants falling in time with them.
Yennefer's already breathless, not really ever having recovered her air when he'd hauled her up to kiss her, and the sudden shift in their positions, him rolling them over to press her down into the mattress, is met with a gasp, as is his dragging her arms up over her head, pinning both of her wrists to the bed beneath one hand. Her first instinct is to buck, to struggle, to try and push back against his hold — but it would all be a facade anyway, feigned resistance, when she's been wet and aching for him since long before she was intentionally choking herself on his length.
Still, she thrashes and writhes a little, grunting in a blend of exertion and desire, as he asserts himself between the vee of her thighs, only pausing for a moment to align them before he thrusts inside her, hard. When she cries out, it's a sharp sound, eyes wide and lips forming a soft O-shape, as her body tenses beneath his, adjusting to the sensation of being so suddenly full that she can feel every inch of him as he moves.
Let there be no doubt that she wants this, though, and as he withdraws only slightly before thrusting in again, she won't repress the moan he fucks out of her too, a grateful spill of sound, hitching her knees up before loosely wrapping them around his waist so that he can sink into her at an even deeper angle. With her wrists pinned overhead, she's stretched out taut beneath him, desire written in every twitch of muscle, trust etched into her very bones, and every subsequent thrust drives a litany from her lips: yes, please, don't stop.
Sweeney can feel her ache; the one to be had in a way that's...helpless. The penance of being used without the need of her choice; him having what he wants because it's his to take. It's the Cost of his forgiveness, or at least of hers of herself. There's no protest from him. Sweeney understands the feeling, and it would be a lie to say that he doesn't find his own pleasure in the notion. Maybe he needs to force the reality into her; to prove the truth in a way that neither of them can deny.
(Ya can struggle all ya want.)
It's firm instruction, not tender acquiescence. The thoughts give way to words, growled between clenched teeth and accented with brutal thrusts.
"I'm here. With you. An' yer Mine."
He's going to take her and have her and find his pleasure in her, no matter how hard he has to fight to get it. Sweeney had walked death for her. She'd lost part of herself in forcing him to. Whatever that piece is, he intends to shove it back into her.
Each of his thrusts is punishing — she knows she'll wear the bruises from it after, the places where his fingers gripped into her skin hard enough to leave those oval-shaped reminders of his presence, but she'll find them later and admire them, stroke over their sensitivity while savoring the soreness of being well-fucked between her legs. She's already giving him her choice — or maybe even letting him take it away from her, forcing her into receiving what he has to give her until there's no room for higher thought, no space to perceive anything other than the harsh, snapping thrusts of his hips and his possessive growls.
Yes. She's given up the ability to speak, the word forming across his thoughts instead, a frisson of pleasure rippling through her body when he declares her as his, and even when she arches up into him, his pinning of her wrists forcing her into a pronounced curve, she's already tensing, clenching around him, propelled toward orgasm faster than she expected but wanting him to claim that too, be the one to drive it out of her again and again until she's convinced she can't possibly bear more, and then making her come again just for good measure.
Her lashes are wet again, dark with tears; they mimic the dampness between her thighs, the sheen of sweat that collects between her breasts. She's just a warm, wet place now for him to sink himself into, solely existing for the purpose of them earning pleasure from each other over and over again. Even now, she can tell he's not being all that selfish; he still wants to see her unravel before he finds his own release, but that doesn't mean she wants him to be kind about it.
Yours. She gasps a breath, her climax dangling tantalizingly just out of reach as her thighs reflexively press at either side of his strong, flexing hips, and bears down to create an even tighter space for him to fuck, listening to the audible sound of him gliding in and out of that slickness, of him claiming every inch of that space back.
Fuck, how one word can cut through him, even when it doesn't find its way to her tongue. It makes him swell just a touch more as he plows into her, and when he's met with fresh tightness, he throbs against it.
Each thrust takes on a rough roll of his hips at its crest, a hint of a grind against her clit before he draws back again. More weight presses her hands into the bed as he shifts so he can catch a nipple. Sweeney pinches it cruelly and pulls, stretching everything taut as he dips his mouth to lick some of the salt from her skin. He laps up her throat for her sweat and her cheek for her tears. Every bit of her is so sublime.
She's stretched thin between the precipice of pleasure and pain, receiving so much stimulation either way that it becomes difficult to parse through the two individually. When he fucks harder into the tighter clutch of her cunt, swiveling hips to grind against her clit, she moans, arching up into him, straining against his pinning of her wrists. When he pulls the taut bud of her nipple, drawing it out with a harsh pinch, she whines, writhing in his hold.
Her orgasm is an inevitability, with how long it's been building, but it still comes on slowly, gradually, beneath the onslaught of his hips, her sounds becoming desperate and more plaintive. Just when she thinks she can't possibly crest higher, she does, until she's trembling, right there on the edge, needing to succumb.
And then it finds her, that release, as she dissolves into spasming, her moans intermingling with fresh sobs, as if he's wrung it from her against her will, as if her body has betrayed the full depth of her want of him. But there's also an intense relief in it too, that she's done her penance, that she's earned absolution through the salt of her tears and her slickness on his cock. Yet it won't be complete until he comes too, whether he leaves it inside her or stains her skin.
Her crying shouldn't be sexy, part of him tells himself, but there's something in the pure catharsis, in his being able to be able to give her that, that has him throbbing inside her. Her tears mark her sincerity and her devotion, and he's drunk of the Sacrifice of it all.
When she finally clamps tightly around him, it earns her a trembling groan. She's so much in all the best ways. The sensation spurs him harder still, as if he's desperate to follow her over while he can still ride the ripples of her orgasm and feel her milk every last drop from him. There's no way he's wasting this on painting her. He's in her in more ways than one, as she is in him, now even more so, and he plans to make it so she won't forget it.
His efforts are rewarded, and with a gasp and a winced cry, he loses himself inside her with a shudder. The intensity of it makes his hand clench tighter on her wrists as he forces her up just a bit higher.
Yes. This. This is worth protecting, even if it requires sacrificing himself to do so.
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no subject
(God, you make me feel alive.)
And that is perhaps the purest truth of the act; they've come full circle, and every stroke of her tongue on his skin only makes it more present. There's warmth in the blood that fills his flesh, promising her the truth of his vitality as it puts more strain on her jaw. This time, however, Sweeney doesn't worry about hurting her. She's giving of herself, and he's not going to dissuade her. She doesn't have to push deeper if she doesn't want to, and as such, she can pace herself.
That said, there's a tiny itch in the back of his skull that wants to grip her hair tightly and shove down. But that's a small voice swept up in the pure sensation of the act, and instead, his fingers massage her scalp encouragingly as he tries to even his breathing.
no subject
Do it.
This is her punishment, and her reward; her sentence, and her deliverance. In a way, this cleanses her too, washes away the sting of guilt with the taste of his salt, the heaviness of him in her mouth. She hunches over him, more determined now, and presses down, his shaft sliding over her tongue until he starts to reach the back of her throat. Her first instinct is to gag, to cough and splutter — she hasn't taken any man of his size this deep for as long as she can remember — but then she pushes past the panicked impulse and draws in a breath through her nose, and then another, her fingers tightening over his again.
Make me take it.
no subject
There's instinctive concern, the one that always comes when he's in a lass's mouth, and it's all the nearer the surface because he's just reasoned that he doesn't have to worry about it.
But she's asking for it. She wants it. It takes him a second to work through the disconnect, but when the second direction comes, his body's already racing after.
His grip clenches tight in a moment, and he tugs her head back a touch. Certainly not enough to separate them, but enough for him to see her eyes and give her a second to assess the pressure and protest if it's not what she's looking for. But finding no complaint, Sweeney takes a deep breath and starts to push.
It's not sudden or sharp, but there is pressure behind it. He swallows, trying to keep his focus as encourages her further, looking for the depth she needs to tap out at. It's best to have some form of gauge before he starts to have less control in paying attention to it. That said, nothing about it is easy.
no subject
He pushes, and she moans — there's no possibility of her being able to take him all the way down her throat, into that tight squeezing clutch, but that doesn't mean she isn't eager to have him fucking into her mouth, holding onto her head while he thrusts, using her in that manner until he either spills or decides he wants to claim some other part of her.
Her hand slides over his again, interlacing their fingers, and she taps once, an assurance that he isn't hurting her, that she isn't trying to get him to release her. He can go harder still, even if she recognizes his reluctance to embrace true abandon given his size relative to hers. If she has to lift her gaze to his from this position, violet eyes glassy but determined above where her lips are wrapped around his cock, then she will, before she ducks down to move over him again, head bobbing with clear intention, goading him to move.
no subject
He starts to take a more active participation, guiding her pace with a stronger grip in her hair. It makes his eyes roll beneath their lids as he does his best to keep his breath deeper. Fuck, it's heavenly. It may not be bread and oil, but it's worship in its own shape; her sacrifice given with without reservation.
His toes curl and flex as his thighs start to tighten. Keep even, not too deep, he tells himself. But the voice seems to get quieter with every pull of her tongue. Sweeney's other hand starts to slide back up her spine, lingering between her shoulder blades as he attempts to not have it jump to join the one already in her hair. If it does, he's not sure he could control himself enough to keep her safe.
no subject
The hand that isn't in her hair is warm on her skin, resting between her shoulders, and she moans, arching into it like a cat, enjoying how much of her body he can span with just the set of those five fingers, the slight friction of callouses something to savor in and of itself. What these hands have known, she might never fully grasp, but they know her now — how to touch her, what she likes, what will make her keen and gasp and cry out.
He's hitting her throat on every thrust now, and she moans again, soft but urging, trying to goad him into claiming more of his pleasure through her. Let her be the conduit of it now, since she was the one who delivered the pain before. Let her be the receptacle of all he wants to pour into her, and leave them both exhausted yet satisfied by the time they're finally through.
no subject
Soon enough, it's not just him pushing down; he's rocking up into her mouth, his own lips parted in appreciative groans. Sweeney's hand continues up her spine to the back of her neck, where he uses it to support her stability as they both urge onwards.
He should stop; Sweeney knows he should. He should pause to get her up so he can suck her swollen lips as he fucks her her straddling but him riding, thrusting vigorously beneath her. But he can't seem to will himself to do it; she's so apparently hungry for this, and truth be told, he doesn't want to be left to the cold air, even for the brief moment it would take to switch positions.
The tightness at the gate of her throat stands as both challenge and temptation, and he's getting to the point where he wants to see how much she can take. How much he can have before she seeks to be free of his heat and the stretching of her jaw.
no subject
Sweeneydoesn't relent, and neither does she, even though she does cede control over to him, let him move rock from underneath, let him assess how deeply he can breach her. She adjusts the angle of her head above him, leans forward until her forehead skims his stomach, her hair spilling down over his body in a wild mass of dark waves, and from here it's easier for him to thrust without resistance, toward the clutch of her throat.
He's so deep, and deeper still, and she moans, a strangled sound, at him making a home for himself in her mouth; her lips are swollen around his length, her spit keeping his cock generously dripping, and she can hear the wet sounds of it when he thrusts in further. She chokes, instinctively, her eyes swimming with tears that spring up, but holds, remembering to draw in those breaths through her nose, counting to a few beats before she finally pulls off of him altogether, gasping for air, thin gossamer strands of saliva clinging between her lips and the tip of his shaft.
no subject
But then she slides off him, and a gasp escapes as he sucks in a deep breath and swallows a few times. Sweeney hones his gaze on her while he steadies, and the hand cupping her neck slides around so her slick chin rests on the side of his finger as he gently wipes his thumb over her lips. So fucking beautiful. For him.
The break found anyways, Sweeney's hands dart to hook under her armpits and tug at her, suggesting that she's paid whatever price she's sought to. He doesn't yank her; if she wants to keep at what she's doing, he'll certainly make no protest, but if she rather just fuck him, he welcomes that too. The moment is about reconnection, and her enjoyment matters to him.
no subject
She's breathing as roughly as if she'd already come herself, but she doesn't protest when he drags her up the length of his body, coming willingly. She's mindful of how she drapes herself atop him so she isn't simply dropping her full weight, one hand lightly braced against the mattress as she slants their mouths together again, the salt of his skin lingering on her tongue when it swirls with his.
"Fuck me," she pants, soft and ragged against his lips. "And don't be gentle about it."
no subject
His grip tightens on her ribs to secure her before he presses his heel hard into the mattress to roll them over and get her on her back. It's only half a breath before he's snatching at her wrists, scrambling to yank them up over her head and cross them so he can easily span and pin both with one hand. His other dips between them so he can align himself properly.
Sweeney's barely positioned before he shoves deep, filling her unforgivingly. His cry is barely muffled when he presses his cheek to her temple; her mouth has him so sensitive that the fresh constriction is a bit overwhelming. But oh, how he wants it. It's only a second later when he pulls back and snaps forward, sharply accenting each thrust as they start to gain momentum, his shallow pants falling in time with them.
cw: dubcon kink
Still, she thrashes and writhes a little, grunting in a blend of exertion and desire, as he asserts himself between the vee of her thighs, only pausing for a moment to align them before he thrusts inside her, hard. When she cries out, it's a sharp sound, eyes wide and lips forming a soft O-shape, as her body tenses beneath his, adjusting to the sensation of being so suddenly full that she can feel every inch of him as he moves.
Let there be no doubt that she wants this, though, and as he withdraws only slightly before thrusting in again, she won't repress the moan he fucks out of her too, a grateful spill of sound, hitching her knees up before loosely wrapping them around his waist so that he can sink into her at an even deeper angle. With her wrists pinned overhead, she's stretched out taut beneath him, desire written in every twitch of muscle, trust etched into her very bones, and every subsequent thrust drives a litany from her lips: yes, please, don't stop.
cw: dub/noncon kink
(Ya can struggle all ya want.)
It's firm instruction, not tender acquiescence. The thoughts give way to words, growled between clenched teeth and accented with brutal thrusts.
"I'm here. With you. An' yer Mine."
He's going to take her and have her and find his pleasure in her, no matter how hard he has to fight to get it. Sweeney had walked death for her. She'd lost part of herself in forcing him to. Whatever that piece is, he intends to shove it back into her.
cw: just dub/noncon kink all the way down
Yes. She's given up the ability to speak, the word forming across his thoughts instead, a frisson of pleasure rippling through her body when he declares her as his, and even when she arches up into him, his pinning of her wrists forcing her into a pronounced curve, she's already tensing, clenching around him, propelled toward orgasm faster than she expected but wanting him to claim that too, be the one to drive it out of her again and again until she's convinced she can't possibly bear more, and then making her come again just for good measure.
Her lashes are wet again, dark with tears; they mimic the dampness between her thighs, the sheen of sweat that collects between her breasts. She's just a warm, wet place now for him to sink himself into, solely existing for the purpose of them earning pleasure from each other over and over again. Even now, she can tell he's not being all that selfish; he still wants to see her unravel before he finds his own release, but that doesn't mean she wants him to be kind about it.
Yours. She gasps a breath, her climax dangling tantalizingly just out of reach as her thighs reflexively press at either side of his strong, flexing hips, and bears down to create an even tighter space for him to fuck, listening to the audible sound of him gliding in and out of that slickness, of him claiming every inch of that space back.
Re: cw: just dub/noncon kink all the way down
Each thrust takes on a rough roll of his hips at its crest, a hint of a grind against her clit before he draws back again. More weight presses her hands into the bed as he shifts so he can catch a nipple. Sweeney pinches it cruelly and pulls, stretching everything taut as he dips his mouth to lick some of the salt from her skin. He laps up her throat for her sweat and her cheek for her tears. Every bit of her is so sublime.
There's no doubt that she's worth dying for.
no subject
Her orgasm is an inevitability, with how long it's been building, but it still comes on slowly, gradually, beneath the onslaught of his hips, her sounds becoming desperate and more plaintive. Just when she thinks she can't possibly crest higher, she does, until she's trembling, right there on the edge, needing to succumb.
And then it finds her, that release, as she dissolves into spasming, her moans intermingling with fresh sobs, as if he's wrung it from her against her will, as if her body has betrayed the full depth of her want of him. But there's also an intense relief in it too, that she's done her penance, that she's earned absolution through the salt of her tears and her slickness on his cock. Yet it won't be complete until he comes too, whether he leaves it inside her or stains her skin.
no subject
When she finally clamps tightly around him, it earns her a trembling groan. She's so much in all the best ways. The sensation spurs him harder still, as if he's desperate to follow her over while he can still ride the ripples of her orgasm and feel her milk every last drop from him. There's no way he's wasting this on painting her. He's in her in more ways than one, as she is in him, now even more so, and he plans to make it so she won't forget it.
His efforts are rewarded, and with a gasp and a winced cry, he loses himself inside her with a shudder. The intensity of it makes his hand clench tighter on her wrists as he forces her up just a bit higher.
Yes. This. This is worth protecting, even if it requires sacrificing himself to do so.