thesunandthesea | Temper, temper.

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)

Sweet holy fuck.

When she takes him in one go, he almost chokes on his tongue, and his grip tightens instinctively.

But it's her words than undo him. Over their time together, he's become far more fluent, especially when it comes to the current topics.

"Don't stop," he breathes, his eyes rolling as he squeezes them shut. Sweeney aches to thrust, but any attempt that direction sears fire in his ribs. He has to be patient. Let her do the work. It's torturous. And sublime. His eyes flash open again, seeking hers.

"Please...please...don't stop."

He's already starting to lose words to the baser sounds that are common in their liaisons. They just happen to be getting more primally eager at the moment.

It's perfect, breathless, demanding and perfect. Careful as she must be, even if not for herself, but not to jostle him too far on his injuries. But for a moment she drinks him in, watching him lose himself, feeling how he pulsed within her where he always made her so full. Taking those seconds and the adjusting movements to savour it.

But he needs more, and so does she, and she needs to balance herself. Cannot lean on him like she usually did. Instead she lent back, her hands bracing behind her as she tucked her knees better below her, and with it could take up a proper pace. An indulgence too, where he often had to coax her to he so open, she let herself sit so exposed to his view, her breasts heavy and full as she rocked with quick breathes, rising and falling to ride him, exposing him by only an inch to sink back down, snug and hot, as she felt herself clench around him readily when he's deep as he can be. Wanting every bit of him, a hitched moan each time that bleeds when she rises up again. A seamless haze that wants as much as it gives.

The relief palatable that washed through her. They were one again. It was all a lie, and this was where they both wanted to be.

Okay, so that's worth the pain. Every bounce of it. Sweeney's used to having her forward, which allows for her mouth against his skin and the beautiful friction of their bodies. But it's not an option, so he's committed to making do. He hadn't been prepared for the sight of her though, arched back and taking him.

Tits and belly swollen, symbols both of their love and how much he delights in being inside her, his hands dart up to her breasts. She's always too much, even for his large hands, but having them cradled now, they feel heavier still as they spill amply over the edges of his touch. Sweeney isn't thinking clearly enough to worry about the potential change in sensitivity; he just squeezes and massages as she rides, rolling and pinching her nipples as he does. He can't force himself to blink; he wants to remember every glorious moment of this encounter.

Oh, oh that is too much, in all the best way. Sensitive hardly covers the feeling, intense beyond what she could describe, painful and then sweet. The sob was louder than even she even expected, ragged and shark, as her head falling back to push into his hands eagerly. Rocking, shaking, selfishly sinking deep onto him all the way down, until she was as full as she could be, everything at once, after being away from him for too long, and all the furious feelings before.

Her release takes her by surprise, sharp and sudden that makes her have to catch herself only barely unless she fell from him, and louder than she let herself be from the sheer intensity. Her legs shaking as she squeezed his hips tightly to keep him close, until it finished with her.

Breathless, laughing in the aftermath as she got her balance back. Her eyes heavy lidded as she giggled, wetting her lips, her voice husky and rasping, as she tried to get it back. "Love you," her sated giggle tinging between her words.

Holy hell, the sounds she makes. Between those and the way her cunt clings to him, it's like being lost at sea. Sweeney struggles for focus, but the sensation keeps knocking him off-kilter. It doesn't help that he can't drive. On top of that, he can't even properly tug her hips without spikes of pain. So her orgasm is a gift, but also dumps him in an unfamiliar realm of vulnerability. She's giggling, and he's aching. Desperately.

"More--please--" Then he remembers what she's actually said.

"I love you--" he adds hastily, his touch sliding down from her breasts the swell of her hips. Sweeney's eyes plead, shortly before his tongue follows suit.

"Please--I need you--" He squirms beneath her, as if it will help.

"--please."

To hear him so - how could she leave him wanting? Is this what he felt, when she pleaded for just a little more? It thrills up her back, as she gets her breathe back. But to give him what he needs, she rebalances herself, planting one hand squarely behind her, so the other can be free.

"Hold tightly," is the soft croon. Give her something to balance against, hold herself steady as she slips her fingers between her folds and parts herself, roughly swirling against her clit just to give her that echoing spasm around him.

That he liked to watch, that was clear, as she makes a show of it as thanks for all he gives her, a reason to come back every time. Lifting herself to let him slip half way up and then more slowly sink back down, inch by inch into her wet slit. She doesn't need to see that she's a mess, dripping around him from her releases, taught around him with how he always stretched her full. "Husband," she croons, all sea-song soft, "look how you fill me, filled me." As if there could be a doubt that he has, her belly growing every day. "I'm full of you, and I need more."

And she starts to roll her hips, not so forceful, smaller but quicker, short, sharp back and forth that picks up pace. But keeps herself open, that spectacle just for him. His wife, carrying his child, sinking onto him again and again. "Won't you come for me? It's tormented me while you were gone. You, filling me, claiming me, buried all the way deep inside of me, coming and flooding me, again and again, until I'm dripping below my skirts, saying my prayers, doing my stitches, with my husband leaking out from between my thighs. "

For a moment, Sweeney wonders if, perhaps, he was felled on the field, and this is what it is to see the After. Because who the fuck painted this into his wife while he was away? He doesn't think her unfaithful, just...liberated. Sweeney doesn't know if it's the baby or her fury or something else, but to hear all of that spring from her lips...sweet holy fuck.

He doesn't think of the ears that are undoubtedly pressed to the door, and have been since he dared to enter the fray. Ears that no doubt held concern for her and the baby when she had cried and moaned so loudly in the wake. No, those wicked promises are only for him, no matter who hears them.

Sweeney does his best to hold on, as directed, but she doesn't make it easy. He finds it ever more difficult to breathe as he stares at her sex; the way she touches herself and how his glistening prick disappears inside her.

He wants to tell her how he aches for her; that the thought of leaving her thighs sticky in the company of others makes him throb; but he's too busy actually doing it. As if at her command, Sweeney has no choice but to come hard, pulling at her, no matter how it accents the pleasure with pain. His voice makes the intensity of the experience obvious to anyone outside. She did this. She's the one that he can't deny. The one he gives the whole of himself to.

One might swear he'd saved all of his seed from when he'd left to this moment, given how much he twitches and throbs inside her. As he pulses, a trembling moan escapes, like he can't help but yield more to her, even after he's orgasm.

"Beautiful...beautiful..." he pants on a parched throat.

All of it was - so much, wonderful, heady, intoxicating. How often he delighted in pulling every sound from her, making her loud when she was so often too shy. Yet, now, she savoured it return, listening to her husband plead, gasp, groan in a guttural intensity as he strained for every breath he could get and she stole gleefully. Grinding her fingers against her clit, not to come again, but to make her flutter, clench and urge out every drop she could get.

And oh he felt like he had so much to give, flooding her just as she crooned to him. He felt so thick, so hot inside of her with it, each pulse making her own breath hitch as the stimulation from the echoes of her own release. Letting her head fall back as she simply enjoyed it, rolling her hips through it, every blissful moment.

Until she feels him run through at last, and holding her weight carefully still, she slowly begins to pull off of him. Much as she might want to stay, her size now, and his injuries meant she couldn't. So instead, she lingers just away, where he could see as he comes free, and with it a moment later comes the leak of his come, that she can feel rather than see as she holds herself open and smears her fingers against it.

That - remembering how he had gone wide eyed to watch her clean her fingers before, settling back, she pulled her hand up and did it again. His come smeared between them, as she lapped it clean, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked them clean. Tasting him, savouring him, this, almost.

Gilia keeps her eyes on his as she pulled them free, that content smile on her lips as she found her voice again. "I missed you, husband." Warm and husky, sated utterly. "Welcome home."

Temper, temper.

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