choicely | open post;

Yennefer isn't exactly fond of this little arrangement, either — but as the only daughter of marrying age, even if the truth of her parentage is a lesser-known secret, she's the only one who could have been promised into it. As far as the rest of the kingdom is concerned, she's a legitimate heir, but what has remained hidden for the entirety of her existence is that she's the result of an affair, her mother the queen's dalliance with an elven man when she found herself unhappy in her own arranged marriage to the king. It's why Yennefer's eyes are a shade unlike any other's in the House of Vengerberg — a vivid violet that she has rarely permitted anyone close enough to examine — and why the king has very few qualms about promising a daughter not of his blood to a man she has never met, the prince of a rival kingdom.

Of course, it isn't until her wedding day that Yennefer discovers she's not going to be wedded to the young prince, but instead his uncle — the king's brother, himself a legendary warrior of renown and a man who has certainly built a reputation for being fearsome in combat. Whether it was a decision made to remove this brother as a potential threat to the crown or to foist him off into an undesired political marriage in order to spare the next in line to the throne, it matters little in the end when she is the one standing across from this tall man who wears his hair flowing long and untamed rather than the shorn style most often favored at court.

They mean to marry her to a barbarian, she thinks, as his large hand closes around hers, feeling at once as though she's been maneuvered into a glorified prison sentence as much as she has the bonds of marriage. But she refuses to let her voice waver for even an instant when she utters her vows, even if she firmly yanks her hand free of his hold the moment the ceremony ends.

She has no intention of consuming a drop of alcohol at the feast that follows — the last thing she wants is for her guard to be lowered, her judgment to be affected, by letting herself become too drunk to even stand, especially when they're meant to consummate the wedding mere hours from now. Instead, she ensures that her goblet of apple juice is kept readily filled, gripping onto it until the bones of her knuckles are tight beneath her skin.

The only words she and her new husband have uttered to each other happened within the ceremony itself, and now they've barely shared more than a handful of glances since — so when he finally addresses her, for a moment she's not even convinced he's speaking to her directly.

"It's hardly your age that's the problem," Yennefer replies, barely moving her lips enough for it to be visible to any of their guests, although she lifts her goblet closer to her face so that she can speak behind it without anyone else discerning her. "It's that I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter."

It's not as if he expected she'd volunteered for the thing. Perhaps she thought he was in a different situation. There's some logic in that assumption, he supposes; Sweeney assumes that men might be the ones to define such things in her culture as well. And given his indirect path to his native throne, he might have jumped at the opportunity to claim another.

He presses his lips and swallows.

"Nor was it mine."

Sweeney needs her to understand that, if nothing else. He's not the one inflicting this on her; he's just another pawn on the board, moved around by those who can do so without care for the feelings and opinions of those who might suffer for it. A slow breath gives him time to come up with a thought and make the effort to translate it properly.

"I'll try not ta ask anythin' more of you than I hav'ta."

It's attempted as a compromise, something to show that he's not unempathetic to her situation. It's the best he can offer. There will be expectations, of course, some of which will be tonight. Neither of them will be spared that obligation.

Edited (Word change) 2024-01-05 04:05 (UTC)

It’s unclear, even in the moment, why such a remark would elicit a response from her that feels unsettlingly close to stinging. While she’s more mollified by the revelation that he’s as trapped in this as she is, rendered helpless by duty and obligation, for a moment it sounds as though he would have preferred any choice apart from the bonds he now finds himself tied to.

Still, she keeps her gaze trained on his face unflinchingly; she wants it known that she won’t be the sort of wife who cowers, who lowers her gaze deferentially, who will be expected to submit if that’s what he’s more accustomed to.

“So you have no intention of demanding your rights as husband?”

What’s meant to transpire hours from now looms in the back of her mind, and she can’t necessarily ignore the possibility that she’ll have to embrace expectation, that she’ll need to prove the marriage has been successfully consummated. Until then, words are all that prove anything, but words won’t be sufficient enough. And he can very well assert himself in that regard, she thinks, based on his impressive size relative to her own.

'Demanding' is a strong word. At least, he thinks it is. Sweeney's still working out the nuances of the language. His lips thin; surely, she's not going to blame him for the centuries-old practices that he had no part in defining.

"We will need children." Stating the obvious, but following it up with less confidence.

"Sons?"

He isn't sure. Patriarchal lines seem to be the standard, but he is not in the direct line of succession in either court, so it's unclear if there's need for anything other than keeping the bloodline flowing downstream. Sweeney's quite for a moment, then peeks her way without turning his head. His voice drops a touch more.

"Is it such a terrible thing? The thought of lyin' with me?"

She is, after all, very pleasantly shaped, and in that, he expects no burden. But he's also aware that it is not his appearance which he is known for. If she's already so unhappy about the binding, it is likely he cannot offer the same balm as she does.

"You speak of something I only have so much say in," Yennefer replies, perhaps too matter-of-factly given the subject they're discussing, but it may also be better this way, to consider it as something more... transactional than anything that needs to adopt greater significance. She may have a tangential knowledge of what's required in order to make a child, but the most obvious component is the joining of two people, and in that regard, she's expected to accommodate him. Refusal is out of the question.

Beyond that, there's another expectation of male heirs, but it's not as though she can simply will the sex of a future child into existence either. The fact that he makes a point to mention sons in particular is all the evidence she needs that it'll be a priority regardless.

When he lowers his voice, however, it forces her to either incline herself nearer in order to decipher his words or strain to hear him, and she manages the former without positioning herself too close. Let the guests at the feast leave with the impression that they're simply using this as an opportunity to get to know each other better, rather than enduring the minutes that remain before they're meant to go upstairs.

She blinks in surprise before she can school her face into something more neutral, lips parting subtly up until the moment she can summon a response.

"I didn't say..." She trails off before she can reveal more than she's prepared to, and then steadies herself again. "Besides, both of us will be expected to perform mere hours from now."

Well, at least she didn't spit cruelty in answer. Part of him is surprised; it seems a logical opportunity to express the displeasure she feels. To punish him for the lot she's been trapped in. Even seated on display, people undoubtedly thinking about them being naked, there is a quiet defiance in her. She'll do her duty, he has no doubt, but he suspects she will not be broken, no matter how rough he is with her.

At her answer, his focus drifts forward again, finding the plate in front of him covered in several things he doesn't recognize. Sweeney presses his lips and swallows, unsure how to say the next part, in both sentiment and actual words.

"Will they be with us--I mean--in room outside bed." Ugh, his tongue struggles when he gets anxious. Sweeney takes a breath to slow and try again.

"I mean to say." He blinks as he focuses. "Will observing happen?" He knows that some cultures do. It's understandable, but also not something he'd terribly excited by the prospect of.

"Will proof be needed?"

Yennefer's own feelings about their binding aside, it wouldn't be proper for her to speak so vehemently about it at her own wedding feast, and picking a public fight with her new husband would likely not bode well in terms of successfully assuring those who need to be convinced of a strong union. So she's maintaining as careful a demeanor as possible, and if their guests conclude that they've reached an accord based on how close their heads are tucked together at the main table, she'll allow them that misconception.

It's a bit strange to discover that he initially seems to be at a loss for words — or perhaps lacking words to describe what might transpire, but she sits in patient wait for him to finally decide how he wants to pose the question.

"Will they be watching us? No." Observation is part of a much more archaic custom, and one Yennefer had vehemently refused to indulge — and it had not required much resistance for the priest to relent.

"As far as proof is concerned, though... there will likely need to be some form of evidence that consummation has occurred," she adds, reaching for the goblet of juice before her, words softening before her next sip. "I suppose the clearest would occur around nine months from now, but before that, whatever they can decipher from our bedsheets."

Sweeney nods, but is well-aware that conception is never guaranteed, and to count on such as proof in an unwise choice, whether or not he finds his luck returns. Such things can require many repetitions of the act, and he is not confident she would enjoy to do it so often. It makes for an even more complicated question; one he's not eager to broach, and he's quiet when he does.

"I...I regret I ask; I do not mean ta offend, but know I will." He forces a swallow and tucks his lips near her ear enough for her to feel his hot breath against her skin. He needs the proximity to whisper so low.

"Have you lain with a man?" Sweeney's quick to add the rest, assuring her his support. "I will prick my thumb fer you."

With that, he leans back enough to give her some space. His eyes dart up to her directly, hoping to read her face, as stoic as she is. Though he knows the odds are slight, he hopes that she might look his way in kind, that she can see his sincerity. Neither of them are fond of the situation, but he's not looking to torture or shame her, either way.

There are details Yennefer's well aware of when it comes to the act itself — she hadn't wanted to approach it with anything but open eyes, but the subject they're lingering on does beg another question, and one she's not surprised by when he gives voice to it.

No, it isn't the question itself that gives her pause, but the manner by which he utters it — his voice low, his breath close to her skin, making her helplessly aware of his presence. It's the nearest he's been to her since they stood facing one another and recited the vows that were required of them, and when she draws in a breath, she inhales his scent along with it, something strong, something undeniably masculine.

"I — " The rest of her answer dies on her tongue, when she instinctively turns, attempting to bring their faces level, but only succeeds in skimming her nose against his cheek, making her own breath catch right along with it before she recovers herself.

"I... have not." Barely a whisper, when it finally leaves her. "But I know the duty I must fulfill, and I would not ask you to participate in any deception on my behalf."

There is a sense of relief that comes with that admission. He would not shame or reject her for it if she had, but it makes things easier if she's untouched. Well, at least on one front. But not all of them.

"I...I will try ta be gentle." Sweeney wets his lip, his gaze dipping. "But I am--" He looks for words that are not too crass. Palm facing his chest, he hovers a subtle circle over his abdomen, then slides it vaguely in the direction of his lap, repeating the small motion. "The same." Meaning proportionate, which is not insignificant at 7'. "Not small." Sweeney sucks his lip and his gaze darts askew for a moment.

"It will hurt. I wish that it would not. I will try. Gentle."

That knowledge of what goes into the act itself, as well as what's required, certainly includes a sense of what parts need to go where — so in that regard, Yennefer is prepared, even if she hasn't actually laid eyes on the man she's going to be expected to lie with.

She doesn't suspect that he'll make blatant reference to his size — and the difference in stature between them is impossible to miss — but her eyes widen, an imperceptible shift that becomes easy to notice when their heads are tucked this closely together.

"I'm not afraid, if that's what you're wondering," she replies, a certain defiance accompanying the squaring of her jaw, the subtle pursing of her lips. "And I don't believe you'd hurt me any more than what might be required for me to... accommodate you."

Good. That's good, right? Not the hurting, but the rest? And there is a blessing that it seems he will not be solely responsible in educating her about the act in the moment. Sweeney swallows. He knows he should pull back and give her more space, but...there's something about the intimacy of the close conversation that, while still precarious in nature, is not as overwhelming as the whole world around him being strange. It is only her, and though they are both displeased by the arrangement, they are in the same boat together.

"No." The word is low, but certain. Sweeney has to keep the shake of his head tight so he doesn't bump against her. He does lean back enough to meet her eyes.

"Not afraid; too..." His brow crinkles as he looks for the right word, settling on one cautiously. "...full of will." He shakes his head. "Not afraid." Pressing his lips, he drops his gaze to relieve the intensity of the expression. "Just wanted ta prepare ya. As much as I'm able." Which isn't all that much, while they're sitting here.

Yennefer has the oddest feeling that, in spite of his larger size relative to her own, her new husband might be feeling somewhat intimidated by the notion of having this particular discussion with her. He doesn’t immediately boast about his prowess or skill when it comes to bedsport, doesn’t attempt to claim that his talents are above reproach. Instead, he averts his gaze from her, which somehow makes her all the more compelled to try and draw his eyes back to her again.

“Since we’re on the subject of preparation — ” and she’s very aware that he won’t be able to provide that in a more literal sense until much later in the evening, when they’re finally left alone in the same room, “ — now would be the time to tell me more about how you intend to do so, later on. What you’ll do to… ensure I’m ready for you.”

The way her tone changes, softens could be blamed on not wanting anyone seated nearby to be able to hear the particulars of what they’re discussing — rather than the real cause, the possibility that she’s asking because she wants to hear his voice low in her ear like that again.

The attempt to process takes a second too long, and creases set into his brow before his eyes jump up to hers. Sweeney's confused, no matter how much he fights to mute it. There's only so much one can do in this proximity. He understands most of the words but doesn't have the context to make them make sense, so he's back to stumbling. Not before the tips of his ears go pink though.

"What--me--ready--uh--" His focus starts flitting, as if the words might be found elsewhere. It's not her fault he misunderstands what she means about which one of them is being prepared in this scenario.

"Need no--" Fuck, how is he supposed to say that she's someone he's thought about naked, and he has no reason to think he won't be rising to the call without any additional efforts? Sweeney tries swallowing again.

"Very pretty. Havin'--" Ugh, this falls under the 'only trained to talk about war and diplomacy' thing. The latter had been helpful tonight, but this is outside the realm of it. "Skin--see face--nice--" He looks at the sliver of floor between them as he chides himself under his breath.

"Fuck."

He takes a slow breath, trying again, this time around it.

"There will be no difficulty. For me. With you."

The moment in which he struggles to string together his thoughts with any coherency is the same moment Yennefer realizes she may have successfully unseated him — or at least filled his mind with too many overwhelming thoughts for him to capably parse through them.

There's some satisfaction in that knowledge, in discovering that she can put a barbarian like him on his back heel with little more than a canny series of words. If it came down to sheer physical strength, he'd have her bested in an instant, but perhaps she has her own capabilities that can prove just as disarming.

Still, she waits for him to muster a response, looking over his features while he averts his gaze elsewhere. In spite of the thick covering of hair on his face — many of the men in her own kingdom are clean-shaven, and she's not very accustomed to seeing anyone with a beard, much less one in the shade he bears — his features are distinguishing, with that long nose and firm jawline. One might even be able to consider him handsome, if one found such traits attractive.

"I'm pleased to hear it. Though I believe there's something we need to do first, before we even cross that particular bridge."

She shifts her goblet to her opposite hand, leaving the one closest to him free so that she can lift it between them. The touch of her index finger to his jaw is light, gentle, intent on tipping his face back up to hers.

"I want you to kiss me. It need only be one, especially since most of our guests are likely staring in our direction anyway. But it will look... better, for the strength of our union, if we're seen to be enjoying each other's company."

Her touch surprises him, and it accomplishes what she wished in bringing his gaze back up to hers. Green meets purple, and he swallows as she speaks.

The request is a logical one (and with words easy to understand): something that will serve both of them, and likely assuage some concern over the potential compatibility of the match. It leaves Sweeney overthinking it for a moment. Too quick or chaste would read as perfunctory; if he lifts his hand to hold her too him, it'd make him too brazen, proving him the barbarian, one who might ravish her on the table, if given enough leeway.

So instead, Sweeney tilts his head a touch and leans to close the distance between them. The kiss is soft, even though his beard is not, and he allows himself to slowly draw the tip of his tongue over her cupid's bow when he does so. He doesn't expect the sweet taste of her, and he steals a follow-up, sucking her lip gently. When the moment passes, he breaks the kiss but lingers near, in case she wants to correct or elaborate on the gesture.

The initial impression she has is that he’s lending serious consideration to how to approach this kiss. Too aggressive, and he’ll be considered a lusty barbarian who intends to halfway bed his new bride even before they make it upstairs. Too chaste, and there’ll be whispers about whether he can perform his husbandly duties. All she can do, for the moment, is wait and see what he decides to initiate.

What she perceives first is the press of his lips against her own — warm, and gentle, even if his beard lightly scratches over her chin. The subtle flick of his tongue steals a gasp from her lungs, makes her lips part instinctively, gives him the opportunity to suck on the lower. It leaves her helplessly aware of her own tingling mouth, as he retreats — and more unexpectedly, how difficult it is for her not to immediately demand he continue.

Perhaps their guests will forgive her some boldness, she thinks, and it’s the last coherent thought she has for a moment as she inclines forward to fit her mouth to his again, kissing him deeply, her fingertips combing across his beard until her hand cups his face. There are cheers, distantly, and goblets thumped against the table, but she doesn’t pay them any heed, not when she’s learning the taste of his lips for herself, thoroughly, before she remembers where they are and carefully retreats, hand drifting away for her arm to fall on the rest of her chair.

Oh OH.

When she takes his lips more eagerly, his breath hitches and his eyes flutter wide. It only takes him half a second to catch back up, and then he's answering her with more confidence. Sweeney, however, doesn't lift his hand from his chair. It's better that she be seen as the one being more assertive, lest they slip back into barbarian territory, but it is so very nice. The taste of her is intoxicating, even without the tinge of alcohol.

As they drift apart, the sound around them becomes more apparent, and the color that had been confined to his ears starts to creep into his cheeks. It's not that Sweeney is particularly shy; he's got no compunction about pulling a bawdy lass onto his lap in a tavern, letting his mouth assure her of his wants for later on. Of course, he's not accustomed to people staring at him when he does it, either. Judging him. It's nerve-wracking. But it didn't make the kiss less pleasant. He just looks forward to doing more of it in private. When the time comes.

He swallows and faces the crowd before them, lifting his chin before bowing his head slightly, as if to acknowledge their approval. To show that he knows he's done well enough to earn her encouragement. Though he would have happily accepted that little gasp as proof enough of that. The gesture is brief, just long enough to make the point before he lowers his face and tilts it back towards her. Sweeney doesn't lean back in though.

Instead, he stretches his fingers so the back of his ring and pinkie can caress the outside of her hand where it rests on her chair. He wants to say something, but he isn't sure he should, so it takes him several seconds to debate before closes half of the previous distance between them. It should be near enough to keep his voice low.

"I hope that was not all fer show." His gaze flits up to her eyes.

"'Cause I'd very much like ta do more of it, when you'd have me."

Kissing him is... certainly less perfunctory than she'd imagined it would be, at least based on their wedding ceremony. But even then, kissing him had been the very last thing on her mind, the last thought that had concerned her, when she had been primarily focused on getting through one part of the wedding, and then the next, and then the next. Besides, kissing is still viewed by some to be a less important part of the intended wedding night, at least in comparison to the act itself.

Going back in for more would be considered somewhat tawdry, even for a new bride, which is why she ultimately restrains herself, why she refrains from immediately leaning back in to kiss him more, even if there's something surprisingly endearing about that splash of pink in his complexion, proof that he's not completely unaffected by what just transpired between them.

Retreating allows her to retrieve her cup of juice again, to take a quenching sip even if it doesn't fully dull the newer, unfamiliar pairing of him on her tongue. But then she stills, quietly, feeling the brush of his fingers against her hand, a touch that should be innocuous but becomes so much more illicit when paired with his lingering taste.

Violet eyes flick towards his face, as he leans in closer to her again, and she knows she could either give the expected answer or the honest one. In the end, she chooses the latter.

"It wasn't for anyone else save me." Specifically, sating more of her curiosity about him, and truth be told, she'd only been somewhat thinking of their guests the moment his mouth had pressed against hers that first time, and the subsequent kiss she'd initiated had been enough to drive them from her thoughts completely.

Slowly, she turns her wrist to position her hand, palm up, against the rest, letting her fingers catch and tangle with his, a subtle reciprocation. "Then perhaps we should take our leave from this feast soon."

His relief is palpable, no matter how hard he tries to mute it. Thank fuck. In the moment, he isn't sure if she means the second one or both of them, but it doesn't matter. Sweeney's doing his best not to grin or kiss her again. The shift of her hand makes his breath hitch, and his fingers twitch as his skin goes electric. It's distracting enough that it takes an extra second for her words to filter through.

Wait.

Sweeney's gaze darts from her fingers to her eyes. There's a cautious brightness, like he isn't sure he understood, or took her meaning, or...something. Surely, she didn't mean...now.

His gaze bounces from her to a few different people behind her as he tries to sort out how such a departure would need to go. Sucking his lip between his teeth, he does his best to work the path to the room, only to realize he has no idea where it is. Sweeney's focus settles back on her, darting over her features, as he looks for a hint to her feelings when he makes his whispered inquiry.

"Are ya sure?"

Now?

The more Yennefer dwells on the subject of her wedding night, the more she comes to the conclusion that she doesn’t want it to be on anyone’s terms but her own. Surely, if they were to sneak out of the feast now, while revelry is still in full sway, their absence might not even be noticed until it is already too late for anyone to eavesdrop on them. She already intends to bar the heavy door to those quarters so no one can enter save the maids come morning, when the sheets will have to undergo that mortifying inspection.

“It would be better than all of them watching us go later, and… remarking on what we’ll be doing,” she points out, with a subtle incline of her head in the direction of their guests.

“We shouldn’t leave at the same time, to avoid suspicion. I’ll go first, and you follow after a moment. The room is just down that corridor there, and then up the staircase.” She’s already making up her mind about it, leaning forward to set her goblet down and then carefully rising from her chair. There’s no clumsiness in it, since she hasn’t been drinking, but her hand briefly steadies at the back of his chair, as her eyes meet and hold his.

“Husband,” she murmurs, in an acknowledging fashion, and then slips away behind the drape of tapestries — though not so quickly that he’ll fail to notice the direction she’s heading in, slippered feet soft on the flagstones.

Okay...that's a lot. Sweeney's doing his best to keep up, but from what it sounds like, her proposal is pretty radical. Isn't the whole point that people see? That they know the two of them have gone to do their important work? Their duty? He swallows, trying to tell himself he got some part of the plan misconstrued.

But then the word 'husband' is on her lips, and he caught in a pool of warmth that threatens to melt him. She hadn't spat it between her teeth or rolled her eyes or flicked her fingers. It held invitation, and that has that freshly-warmed heart pushing hot blood downward.

Yennefer's already up and headed off before he can try to get all of the parts moving in the same direction.

"Wai--" The hurried whisper dies when it's immediately obvious that he's missed the window of opportunity to reason with her. Sweeney's left in a mild panic, looking from the tapestry to the plate in front of him, then to her empty chair. He stares at his food for a breath longer, unsure if he's trying to talk himself into or out of a particular course of action.

If she's not coming back, surely it would be worse to be noticed she had abandoned him when others come to urge them along. If he goes...then they're just eager, right? That's good?

Alright. He resolves himself and stands. His size and exotic appearance makes it far more difficult to abscond unnoticed, so when an advisor gives a quizzical look, Sweeney just gives a faint smile he hopes doesn't look too nervous, and shrugs it of with a vague gesture, like he might just be going to stretch his legs or catch his breath. He doesn't wait to see if he sold it, just ducks out the same way and hurries to follow the minimal directions given. It's probably for the best, given the fact his face is far too Honest, and in a few minutes there will most certainly be ears pressed to the door.

But before that, he finds himself at it, measuring its imposing shape like its a daunting opponent, looking for a way to best it and earn his way past to the treasure inside. In the end, he just knocks, his lips hovering near the dark wood so he can keep his voice as low as possible while still being heard.

"My lady?"

Sweeney's not convinced his has the right room, and doesn't want to barge in on anyone unexpectedly. Only more fuel for the Barbarian reputation there.

Only moments after Yennefer makes the decision to abandon her own wedding feast in favor of absconding to a more private room with her new husband, she realizes that she may have been... somewhat impulsive. But it's too late to turn back now, and she's determined to see her part of the idea through, to make her way to the room that's meant to serve as their chamber this night before she loses too much of her nerve.

There are already maids there, readying the room for their arrival; Yennefer hurriedly dismisses them, much to their surprise, uttering some remark under her breath about how their services won't be needed for what comes next, and only once they're gone does she allow herself to look around the room, to let her gaze fall on the very large bed that looms in one corner of the space. The only sound, for a long moment, apart from her own hurried breaths, is the crackling from the fire in the hearth, meant to keep the room amply warm even late into the night. Of course, Yennefer thinks idly, based on her husband's own massive size, he shouldn't have any trouble at all applying himself to the task of ensuring she doesn't catch a chill.

The knock at the door jars her, as much as she'd been... anticipating it? Hoping for it? She turns, realizing whose voice she's hearing, who remains purposeful about her allowing him into her intimacies, even now. Initial surprise gives way to something more softening across her features, even as she gathers up the skirt of her wedding gown in one hand so she can walk across the room without inadvertently tripping over the hem.

As she opens the door, that same hand reaches out to seize hold of one of his, hastily leading him inside — though there's no doubt in her mind that the maids have already begun to whisper, and word will spread of where they've gone long before the feast concludes. It doesn't matter; they're here now, where they're supposed to be, and that will be enough to allay some fears about the outcome of the wedding.

It was one thing to have kissed him in a room filled with other people. It's quite another, however, to be alone in his presence when she can still remember what the sensation of his lips felt like on hers, and her gaze unconsciously lingers on his mouth before she remembers herself and retreats further into the room, hand slipping out of his.

"I'm afraid I surprised the maids while they were attempting to prepare for us, but..." There's a small tray that's been left behind with a pitcher of what she suspects is more wine, as well as an assortment of bread and cheese and fruit — presumably, after they've worked up more of an appetite. "If everything is to your liking?"

There's a rapid succession of expressions at the opening of the door: relief he had the right room, comfort to see her in it, surprise as she grabs him, and nervousness on the other side of the door when it's closed. But for all of that, his eyes haven't left her, and they don't before she asks her question.

"Yes." Sweeney's answer is a little too fast and there's a stupid smile starting to tickle at the corners of his mouth as his eyes dance over her face, drinking her in.

After another breath, he remembers the rest of it, and anxiety starts to creep about again. He swallows and looks hurriedly around the room; everything seems basically as he would expect, given the foreign trappings on the basic staples. As he keeps turning, he glances behind them, then snaps his focus back to her with a cautious whisper. One can never be certain how close unseen ears might be.

"Is the door allowed ta be locked?"

It's definitely a preference, but he doesn't want to cause a faux pas after all of the work they'd put into things.

As inwardly pleased as she is by his smile, by the manner in which he looks over her, Yennefer wants to afford him the same opportunity she’d had to look around the room and familiarize himself with it, given that they're meant to be spending the next several hours in it together. So she lingers a short distance away, one hand still lightly gripping her skirts — it’s not as if she needs to concern herself with inadvertently wrinkling them now.

When he looks back to her, finally, his question doesn’t surprise her so much as steady her, and she nods toward the door itself, the place where the bar can easily be slid across to deny outside entry.

“I think we’re allowed to decide that now, don’t you?”

Now that it’s just the two of them here, and she pauses, gaze flickering back to his. There’s an unspoken question on her lips, though, of what they’ll do once that door is locked. She knows why she doesn’t want to be interrupted, but she wants to know why he’s asking.

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