thesunandthesea | Temper, temper.

She cups his head as he kneels in front of her, and the tears that sting now are different. A happy, loving well that bubbles up as quickly as the rage had. Washing it away with that warm reverence for the babe growing more and more, day by day.

"He is well. Stronger by every day." She cards back red strands of hair from his brow. "He started moving a week ago, and has not stopped since. I am not getting much sleep. I told him you would be home soon, and not to be impatient, but..."

He looks up to her with a knowing smirk.

"...he takes after his mother," Sweeney teases, finishing the thought. With one more kiss, he comes to a decision and stands. Brushing her hair over her shoulder, he lets his eyes wander down the length of her.

"I wanna see you."

The thought isn't out before his fingers are plucking at her clothes. One hand plays for show along the gown's neckline while the other slips to a more functional role, tugging at the lacing beneath her arm.

It doesn't matter that he's still dressed for riding in the rain; the same that still clings to the fur of his heavy cloak; his focus is on getting her naked in short order.

Edited (Punctuation) 2025-06-18 06:55 (UTC)

"You just came home!"

The protest would probably be more believable if she in anyway stopped him, and in fact, did not go to help him. Hooking her fingers to her other side, and begin to loosen the ties that held her dress snugly to her.

Turning her face up, she takes a hungry kiss as readily, tear-salt on her lips still bleeds between them, washed away between each one. "You should rest." And another kiss follows it, as the dress loosens to start falling over her shoulders, catching only when her arms wind around him, wanting another and another.

Sweeney's all too ready to bend down and make the kiss more comfortable for both of them. It stutters a little because it keeps cracking when he smiles too much, but it's still a good thirty seconds before he breaks enough to answer.

"So should you."

He leans back to let his eyes drink in her features as his lips curl wickedly.

"But here we are."

The sentiment is punctuated by a light tug of the fabric, more of a request than a demand.

That he's all too right, comes when she finally relents enough to let the dress fall off her. Pooling at her feet and baring her to her stays and shift that she begins to hastily untie just as she had her dress.

"I need you." The shameful admission falls from her lips all too readily. "I try to - to -" the blush picks up on her cheeks as she admits it, but yet she cannot help herself. "But it's not the same. Not your hands, your lips."

And she steps in again, grasping for him as her stays come loose, slipping them down and off.

Wait a second. The words start to catch up with him, but then he loses the thought again when her stays loosen. Fuck, her breasts look even bigger. What's a Fellow supposed to do about that?

But then things come back around, and he finds his breath shortening.

"You try to..."

The way it hangs makes it obvious that he's nudging her to say the words. If there's one thing she's learned in their time together, it's that her giving her Wants their full name makes him harder than a broomstick.

He still likes them? She worried, in the way that everything felt awful at the moment - that she was getting too round, too full. Her breath rises and falls in hitched movements. His prompting though makes her bite her lip. It still takes her a minute to work past her nerves, her shy want to hide away from herself.

But oh he craves her saying it, watching his eyes hunger as he looks over.

"Put... put my hands on my skin.. over... over my... breasts. Between my... my thighs. Into my... myself." Her cheeks were burning, as much as the rest of herself. "I cry your name and twist about and try to imagine it's you... but..."

It's not him, not him driving into her, biting into her skin.

God, there will never be a day he doesn't delight in her flush. Sweeney sucks his lip slowly, trying to paint the picture in his mind. Then it occurs to him that there may be another option. His expression softens, even as his temptation grows more wicked.

"Will you show me?"

Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.

It is certainly nothing she would have thought of, and perhaps normally she'd be terribly embarrassed - but... given she had just yelled at him horribly, she could brave it this once when he looks so excited by the idea.

Even if it takes all her courage.

"If you like..." she giggles in nerves, unsure. "... but only if you undress as I do. I want to touch you everywhere."

And to make it all the sweeter, she leans in, pressing her body into his, where her breasts would be pressing into his chest to feel, if his riding gear was not in the way.

He can't help but fall for that blend of shy indulgence. If she's willing, shedding his clothes is an easy price to pay. Especially when they're between him and those exquisite pale tits.

Sweeney's hands raise to hurriedly unfasten his cloak so it can fall to the floor. Unless otherwise deterred or assisted, he's looking to make short work of the task. His eyes are keenly focused and unblinking as he keeps his mischievous smile tightly reined. After the cloak, his fingers take to the buttons of his doublet.

She is distracted momentarily as he starts to undress. Her hurt and tears replaced with a guilty giggle she bites her lip to smother, though she can't stop smiling.

But - right. Her part of the deal. With more giggles, she scurried away to the bed. Climbing onto it, and then rolling onto her back as she nestled into the pillows and blankets. Needing as she started to grow bigger to have support behind her back. Then propped her legs up, and yet more giggling, soft and sweeter and still guilty at the indulgence, she began to shift her knees apart with her hands sliding up the inside of her thighs to part them.

There she settled one hand between her folds, gently, carefully parting them to slide her fingers against where she started to grow warm and wet with a faint sheen of slick. The sigh falls from her lips as she let her eyes fall, letting herself relax. Not as easy as it was for one problem - having to curve around the new swell that started to fill out her belly. Sooner rather than later, she wouldn't be able to reach herself at all, but for right now, she could still begin to take slow, thrumming strokes over her clit with a little breathy hum.

Shucking his doublet, he's quick to move to the foot of the bed when she crawls up on it. He wants the best view. And that view is fucking exquisite. For a moment, he gets stuck in it, just staring with a slack jaw. God...and she's his wife. His Beautiful Wife. How did he get so fucking lucky?

Sweeney bends awkwardly, trying to yank his boots off without completely abandoning the sight of her. It is not the most graceful execution, but he manages to get both of them free and cast safely aside where he's not at risk of tripping over them. Next order of business is his trousers, which are much easier to handle. In the meantime, his grin is renewed, wide and hungry. Tugged off, they're tossed somewhere near his boots.

Without thinking, Sweeney raises his arms to pull his shirt over his head, but then there's unexpected fire, and it makes his hurry stutter as he has to take a more careful path to get the garment off. He's successful though, and he sees that it caps the pile of clothing.

His smile is weaker, but he pushes it through for her. Somewhere along the way of his wanting to see her, he'd forgotten that it would mean she'd also see him, and well...the campaign has been eventful.

Sweeney's scarred flesh is freshly colored; bruises and cuts over many areas of him. Most are par for the course, battle being unkind by nature, but he has a wide bandage around his trunk. It's stained, but not bleeding through. The more noteworthy part is the dark purple that creeps out from its edges. The blow had been brutal, but it hadn't bested him, and he'd made it home to his precious son and his utterly delicious wife. That's what matters.

She cannot help but eye him with worry as those injuries with concern. Running over him in as much appreciation. Well, it settled the idea anyway. Both to make up for being so furious when he had just come home - and to make sure he did nothing to hurt himself further.

And she knew when he got going, he could be too eager and forget himself. She was going to make sure he had everything he needed and not strain himself too much.

Her hand began to move again, more smooth with her arousal, and for his eyes on her, despite everything. How he drank her in like a man desperate. It made her body thrum to life in a way that was more than just her own touches. She felt - more than beautiful. Wanted, desired, consumed so readily and that he had to have more.

Her eyes find his, as she slowly brings her fingers back up, and timidly licks them clean. Then parts her legs further, opening herself completely under his gaze and bring them back down to press in the two digits. Little by little, inch by inch, until - it was enough to make her head fall back, her chest arch and the long moan fall from her throat with a ready sigh.

That on the edge of a breathe comes his name, bled out like she did when she was alone. The wet noise clear as she hooked her fingers and began to pulse them in and out of herself as best she could.

Hell, why hadn't he asked to watch this before? Sweeney subconsciously wraps his hand around his cock, but tilting it downward, with the back of his hand mostly obscuring the increasingly swelling flesh. It's not out of modesty; it allows him to more idly massage the blood in, instead of actual stroking.

The sight is utterly hypnotic, and he--OH NOW HER FINGERS ARE IN HER MOUTH. Sweeney stills and goes bright red. That? That he had not expected. He barely has time to think before those fingers are back in her, and she's got his name on her tongue.

Fuck. She's going to be the death of him.

The act makes him sacrifice his vantage to crawl up on the bed, aiming to get himself between her legs as he smooths his palms up them, starting at her ankles.

She couldn't account for what came over her, with him. Perhaps it was the pregnancy, making everything more intense - or maybe it was just his attention, his wanting that made her own so acute. Like something finally allowed, to be free and wanting and hungry all her own.

She stretches one long leg into his touch, flexing her muscles taught in his hold, and let her other knee fall further apart. Still her fingers twist, thrust into herself, quicker as he moved closer, her arousal starting to more freely drip around her fingers. With it the longer, clearer moan creeps out of her, driving her fingers in deeper that time.

Until the angle, and the bump she has to curve with, won't let her do more. There she stops, whines, a replication of her previous efforts she described. Only so deep she could get.

"Sweeney," comes the name again, but more in frustrated whine, breath hitched, trying to move quicker to make up for the lack of depth. That as he gets closer, sees for himself, she slips a third finger in.

What a fucking vision. Like an angel. Who is also a whore. And is so perfectly his. It makes Sweeney's skin tingle.

He continues his way up, but keeps more upright than he might normally; both for the sake of the view and his aching side. The way she says his name makes his prick bob, unsupported, and Sweeney can't resist sliding his touch higher.

His fingertips graze the back on her hand, silently requesting that she take it out of her cunt for him. Ideally, he wants to get it pinched between his thumb and fingers so hers are pointed up when he leans forward and brings them to his lips.

She watches transfixed as he guides it, his lips soft and warm as they part around her fingers. Pliant in all the way she knew his mouth could curve. Yet so utterly intense for being there. His breath tickles where he settles between her thighs, warm against warm, brushing intimately.

That between the two, her soft whimper is nothing less than pleading. Spirits, she needs him, she needs him so much it hurts. Her core clenching on nothing but want of the one that made her this way.

"I need you, please-" Her fingers catching on his lip as she gently pulled them back, slowly.

He doesn't suck her fingers clean, but the act leaves the taste of her on his lips. When she draws back, Sweeney happily brings his freed hand to her sex, allowing the tips of his two middle fingers to slide smoothly over her skin, slicking them without penetrating her deeper than the first knuckle.

She's fucking radiant, and he knows he can't leave her wanting. Bending to kiss her, he presses deeper into her, stroking slowly as he works his way in. Sweeney makes sure to cup her at an angle to keep his thumb over her clit so she can wriggle against it.

Warm and tight, the feel of her only reminds him of all that he's missed. The image that kept him company in his time away doesn't start to do her justice, any more than his hand does when it offers proxy to the clench of her cunt. There's nothing like the real thing.

She missed him, missed so much more than the direct action of his hands on her body, coaxing the heat between her thighs, the sighs from her lips. What she feared most, was losing that moment that he reached for her - she reached back, and how the connection turned bright and living. Finding his lips in the hungry open mouthed kisses he had taught to crave so much, her hands settling on his shoulders as he fingers rode up high and lovely inside of her. Grinding into his palm, the whimper bleeding in relief to chase the relief, the intimacy she desperately sought.

In a minute, in a minute she'd roll him over, but for now? She savoured being back in his arms, writhing below him. Alive and whole and in love.

She broke from him, eyes wet with the sting of that knowledge. "I love you," she breathed into him. "I love you, I couldn't bare this without you."

The profession of her love warms him, and his stroke slows long enough for him to tilt his head back and meet her eyes.

"My love fer you is what brings me home; puts my spurs in my mare's side; knowin' that every hoofbeat brings me a moment closer ta bein' in yer arms again. This is where I wanna be." Not sharing a bed with someone else. Sweeney leans to kiss her again, deep but not lingering, so he's able to whisper against her lips.

"With you, my love." He sneaks another kiss before he smiles, not straying from her skin.

"My beautiful, beautiful wife."

It had been one of the first words he'd learned, and even with all they've grown and shared since, he refuses to let it go. It keeps their love fresh in his heart and in his loins, and he has no plans to sacrifice that, just because the word is simple.

The ache in her breathes goes beyond just that immediate desire - for all she has and all she wants, this utterly shatters those fears that plagued her, he washes them away. Tends wounds that were so long left open she did not know could be stitched closed. Thought so often that she should be one of those women who loved and loved and loved and never a place to put it.

But he presses it into her skin, and it's more consuming than his kisses, his coaxing fingers, his scorching gaze. It shatters beyond just the hurt and jealousy of now - maybe not for always, but it feels like something mending than being broken. Of the times being mocked and laughed at and never taken seriously or being brushed off in her fears and desires.

It shatters her more utterly than just the fingers coaxing the hums from her lips. Yet it builds with inevitably, more intensely for each word he gives, reassures her. He loves her, he loves her. It's more intense, more demanding, for that utter revelation - shaking her apart like metal under forging hammers. She twists, grinding into his palm, onto his fingers, until it does break her to pieces, eyes stinging in love more than hurt, her back arching - her cry soundless yet deafening as it wrung her through. Taught around his fingers, finally sated beyond just his touch.

When she falls back, drunkenly, she reaches for him. Wanting to catch his mouth, and any other part she could. His neck, his shoulders, love-drunk as she felt only the lingering jealousy to fuel something new, yet utterly right. Biting between her kisses like he so often did her. Nipping and sucking, marking him with that raw heady contentment more potent than drink.

Edited 2025-07-05 16:55 (UTC)

Sweeney hadn't been sure how hard it would be to get her off, in her current state, but there's relief and satisfaction that he's still properly armed for the task. He rides her though, slowing but not abandoning her.

Her kiss is met when open indulgence; he loves when she breathes the ripples of her ecstasy past his lips. The biting catches him off-guard, but it's only a moment before he's welcoming that, too, and he's ready to match the affections. But then she's pulling him down more insistently, and something starts to cut through his haze of lust.

"Luv..." He moans the words against her mouth.

"The baby."

Sweeney's worried about putting too much weight against her. That said, it doesn't seem to deter him from the rest of the activity, and between his teeth and tongue, it's obvious that his neglected cock is going to need some sort of attention in the near future.

It takes a good minute for his words to filter through. Too hungry, too ready for more, for what he so effortlessly sparks in her. Especially of late, in this state. At first there was just a frustrated moan into his mouth that he slows himself down, doesn't follow through on what they both want.

Then it finally gets the rest of the way through, and where words feel so sluggish and slow, she quickly makes up her mind on what will suit them best. He is worried, of course he is, why would he not be? Even when sometimes she knows he doesn't need to.

"Up, up -" she breathes into his mouth, pushing gently for just enough enough leverage.

To roll him flat onto his back with a hasty roll, going with him, to land herself squarely on top of him. Damn them, their rumours, he is hers, she thinks in triumph, as she pulls upright, raking her long braid back off her shoulder, adjusting her weight to get a hand below herself. To grasp his cock with warm, attentive fingers and align him against her slit, and smears the dripping mess from her release along his length.

"Better, now?" Her eyes are lowered, hazy in their shared heat.

It takes him a moment to match the word with the encouragement of her hands, but soon enough, Sweeney's following her direction onto his back. A wince heralds a hiss as the pain in his side flares; luckily, her balm is readily available. His hands find her hips, but it's only to anchor him; he doesn't make any attempt to steer her.

"Yes--yes--" he breathes, muscles taut in anticipation. The slick and the promise of warmth has his twitching in her hand.

"Fuck, yes."

Neither of them can stand the tease of it too long, her body aching for him, wanting him in equal amounts it felt, to the days without him. The burning fury of earlier that gives way to impatient desire. Her own sighs tumbling between his, as she lingers only enough to get him slippery, make it so that when she can't bare it any longer - a fumble, twisting herself to the angle just right -

Her hips can sink down on him in a single stroke. A happy, full cry tearing out of her that she doesn't hide for once. Let them hear, let them lean at the door and hear how her husband sates her. The babble in her own language where she forgets herself, praising him, missing him and having him when her hips fall flush and she begins to move, small circles of her hips in eagerness to finally have him again.

Edited 2025-07-06 09:21 (UTC)

Temper, temper.

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