Reader and Mad Sweeney have always had a flirty relationship, but it's never crossed the line. Fed up and frustrated the reader decides to give him a lap dance (for whatever celebratory reason) and smuttiness ensues. 🙈🙊
Hello there! So um…while there is some implied smuttiness and all….this ficlet sort of turned into over 1800 words before I’d actually gotten to the actual sex so…. I decided to leave it here, unless people ask for a part two or whatever cos otherwise it’d never get finished, haha.
I made no reference to whether reader was a God or not, and there are no gender terms used within to describe the reader, though the reader has a female body starting from the lap dance scene~
Warning: both characters have had a bit to drink in this fic, so you know…
Anyway, I wasn’t sure what type of reader I was writing for so have a flirty, self-confident reader who has lots of booze at their house for some reason.
You were brooding in your kitchen over a cup of wine.
It wasn’t sad if it was wine. You weren’t a pathetic person if you were having a cup or two of wine after dinner. You were a sophisticated person. You should be congratulated, honestly.
You practically oozed poise and perfection.
You were also onto your second bottle of wine somehow, so maybe the whole eliteness of it had worn off after the sixth or so cup.
Besides, alcohol rarely affected you. You stared morosely into your cup. Maybe you should move onto something stronger. Something that would…actually affect you.
Not that alcohol would cure your problems.
But before you could rehash your problems over another cup, your apartment door swung open, a loud slam accompanying the way it hit against the wall as if thrown by Hercules himself.
Your eyes fixate on the man sauntering through half-drunk, a self-satisfied grin on his face. Close enough. You lean your elbows on the kitchen bench. “Sweeney,” you enunciate, trying to keep the smile from your face, trying to act as if your wall was more important than the man who probably just broke a hole through it. It really, really wasn’t.
“Hello love,” he said easily and your stomach rolled in protest. You had moved into cute nicknames a few months earlier, his Irish lilt making each new name he tossed at you something special, something to be cherished. Maybe. If you weren’t reading too much into this. After all, what did years of flirtations mean, really? When it all came down to it. He dropped a bottle on the bench. “Another one, dear, and pour one for yourself too.”
You roll your eyes and flick him on the head, right between the eyes. “I’m not a bar.”
He grinned and leant closer to you, his breath reeking of alcohol, with that hint of something…meadows maybe. “I know that,” he protested. Your eyes dart down to his lips, so tantalisingly close. In a second you could press yours against him, steal the whiskey from his tongue and find out just what a leprechaun tasted like.
He pulled away sharply. “Besides,” he announced to your empty kitchen. “I’m celebrating.”
You raise an eyebrow, ignoring the disappointment that came with his subtle rejection. “And what are you celebrating, my King?” you ask as you pull out the good liquor you’d been studiously avoiding all night.
He shrugged and rested his back against the counter. “Oh some cunt or other thought he could take me down.” He looked around smugly and you finally noticed the bruise on his cheek. “Didn’t even get one hit in.”
“Looks like he got a hit in,” you commented dryly as you place the alcohol on the bench and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. You press the ice against his cheek and he winces in return.
“Forgot about tha’ one,” he said, his accent all the more pronounced with the disappointment in being caught out. You roll your eyes, and take the opportunity to trail your eyes along his face, letting your fingers run across his beard.
“Of course you did,” you agreed. Your free hand reached up to trace a cut on his forehead. “And this one too I suppose.” You grinned up at him. “I should probably ask….you didn’t get a concussion and just forgot all the times this guy hit you, right?”
He stuck out his tongue at you, his hand grabbing the one on his forehead. “I came here to celebrate,” he reminded you, pulling you close in a single move. The breath left your body as you were pressed up against the solid wall of muscle that was your Leprechaun.
There was a moment of silence as the two of you looked into each other’s eyes. Do it. The words were in your head, on your lips, a hairbreadth away from shouting them at him. Let’s stop with the games, start with the fucking.
And then, because he always did, he pulled away. “I asked for booze,” he reminded you with a slur, reaching across the bench for the alcohol you’d laid out.
You let out your breath in a huff. “Well,” you said, not quite sure where the idea had come from, half-certain you’d somehow gotten drunk off his breath, “if we’re celebrating.” Then again, it could be all those cups of wine. You took his arm and led him to the couch. You pushed him down and grabbed the bottle from his hands, taking a big swig of it. Then you dropped yourself down onto his lap.
His eyes widened in mild shock, his hands fluttering wildly around your hips as if torn between cupping them and pushing you off. It was cute, seeing those walls of his break down.
You bite your lip in your most seductive manner, glad to have chosen a very short skirt for your wine binge.
He narrowed his eyes at you in return. “You’re drunk,” he accused.
You tilted your head and rolled your neck, enjoying every click as you bared your neck to him. “Have you ever known me to get drunk?” Before he could answer, you moved on. “We’re celebrating, remember? Some cunt tried to fight me,” you repeated in a fake Irish accent.
His nose wrinkled. “That’s offensive,” he told you, his voice getting as frustrated as it did whenever anyone mocked the Irish. Apparently all those years of being demonised as pathetic drunks hadn’t exactly endeared the Irish Stereotype to the leprechaun. Maybe he was just upset everyone thought he was short. Hard to tell with him, honestly.
You leant in and pressed your forehead to his. “I’ve always wondered,” you admit slyly.
His breath catches in his throat. “Wondered what?” he finally manages to choke out.
Your lips are hovering against his again, but if you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be the one to finally push those barriers the whole way, you’re damn sure going to make him work for it.
And, you know, make sure he actually wants it.
“What it’s like to give a lap dance,” you finish, raising your ass off his lap and grinding it back down against his thighs.
The strangled noise he made in return was not human. You smirked back at him in satisfaction.
“Can I?” you ask in mock innocence.
Mad Sweeney swears at you before nodding vigorously. “Fuck, yes.” His hands finally come down on your hips and he gives them an experimental squeeze. He even leans in, maybe for a kiss, but you turn your head to look down at his hand and instead his lips brush your neck. He chuckles darkly against your skin, maybe noticing the mood you’re in, figuring out how you want this to go.
“Finally,” he mutters and your head darts up to face him, a glare forming.
“Me, finally?” you demand in voice that was close to a screech. “Why do I have to do all the work?”
He blinks at you before slouching back casually on your couch, hands leaving your hips to sling over the couch’s back, an evil grin forming on his face. “Maybe I like being chased,” he tells you and you growl back in response.
You let yourself slid forward on his lap further, your breasts pressing against his chest, hips pressed against his. Sweeney was trapped now, between you and the couch and you were going to wipe that smirk off his face and make him beg with every ounce of his body, and then maybe, finally, you might just let him get what he wanted. Maybe.
You ground your hips down against him slowly, making sure he could feel every inch of your ass as it trailed from the top of his knees all the way down to where that bulge in his pants was forming.
You feel a flush of heat yourself, all too suddenly becoming real to you, you were straddling Sweeney.
You looked into his eyes then, needing to make sure that this was alright.
He smiled at you, the heat between you fizzling out for that second. Something genuine touching his eyes. His hand reached up to cup your face and he pulled you closer to him.
“Perhaps we should start with a chaser,” he commented, before pulling you in for that long-craved kiss.
You probably could’ve written an ode to what he tasted like, all those different beverages clashing in his mouth with the dusty taste of tobacco, but you were too busy trying to memorise this moment. When you pulled away panting, resting your forehead back against his, noting distantly that this was the first time you’d even seen the top of that red mountain of hair of his, the first time you’d ever been taller than him.
“A chaser comes after the main drink,” you point out finally. “To ‘chase away’ the bad taste.” You glare at him again, with no heat, hoping to convey the joke that he was critising your amazing dancing skills. You get distracted by the pinkness of his face, the way his lips have swelled ever so slightly under your administrations. The way he was trying to hide how he was just as desperate for breath as you were, both of you having pushed your limits just to keep tasting each other.
He shrugged and you could feel it, feel the way his face scrunched slightly with the movement, the way his whole body adjusted to that small movement, and warmth pooled through your body. You were in control now. You had him right where you wanted him. Your leprechaun was literally between your legs as he said, “I’m non-traditional like that.”
You laugh and your hands clutch at his suspenders. How could your leprechaun, red haired and muscular, wear such disgusting clothing out in public? You intertwine your fingers in them. “I’m afraid I don’t know many lap dance moves,” you whisper into his ear.
He was too busy nibbling at your neck to notice, his hands back on your waist, fingers trying to slide up under your top while simultaneously pulling you back onto his chest.
Oh no, you were not going to let him take this moment away from you. You’d let him trick you out your prized kiss, you weren’t going to let him change the dynamic too.
You pushed him away with one hand, flipping your head forward and then quickly back to let your hair arc into place before running a hand through it to make sure it was adequately sex-strewn already. You lean in and bit his ear before whispering, “I thought you liked being chased.” You steal the words of retort from his lips with another kiss. He tasted more like you now, the wine from your lips mingling pleasantly with his taste. “My turn.”
~Send me American Gods prompts, headcanons, or even just a ship name and I’ll write you a little something~
