choicely | open post;

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.

The helpless crinkles around his eyes answers plainly, but he offers words as well.

"I simply--I do not know yer tradition. I do not want ta do ya wrong, in havin' it as I'd want it."

Nevertheless, his hand lifts and lingers on the lock, ready to latch it, if she only but nod. If they're allowed assured privacy, that's one less stressor for what's about to happen, and he'd very much like to be getting to the next step.

Her only answer for him isn't to respond in words; instead, she crosses the room again, turning to face him as she positions herself by the door. Her eyes are on his, intently, when she stretches out her own hand to cover his with it, so that she can guide their tangled fingers in throwing the latch on the door and effectively locking them both in together.

"The only wrong you could commit now is refusing me," she whispers, and while she could very well mean it in the vein of refusing what's required of him as husband, there is the more unconscious piece of her that means it as it pertains to her, specifically.

She doesn't consider herself a woman of many doubts, or even someone weak-willed, but there is a piece that hesitates, here, about whether he really wants this.

There's a twitch in his fingers when the latch sets. She can feel it beneath hers, but Sweeney promptly moves to take her hand. It's easier to be calm, knowing that they are now two, without having to worry there might suddenly be an additional crowd. That smile starts to pick up one corner of his lips again as he leans in to whisper. They are still at the door, after all.

"That somethin' yer suspectin'? That I'd refuse you?" He's cautiously cheeky; Sweeney's still in untested waters, but at least she isn't cut sharp in contempt anymore. He'll take that win.

Yennefer fights the instinct to glance away from his face in favor of examining their tethered hands, instead letting sensation guide her on its own as he draws her away from the latch. His hold feels warm around her, with calloused fingers that graze her own — these hands have wielded weapons, she knows that much to be true, making him demonstrably different from many of the other men at court, the ones with clammy hands and limp holds.

"For some, duty isn't enough." And what does he owe her tonight, apart from the duty that's been impressed upon both of them? It's his responsibility to lie with her, but it's her responsibility to ensure that she bears that fruit afterward — that the proof of their union manifests into an heir that can unite both of their lands. She doesn't expect that he'll take much more than that into consideration when deciding whether or not to bed her.

She definitely isn't what he expected. Not that Sweeney'd been given all that much time before the wedding to be mulling over what might be, but now she's leaving her hand in his instead of snapping it away as quickly as she can manage. It gives him hope. He's not sure of what, but he's confident they can figure it out.

"They want pleasure, too?" he murmurs, lifting said hand as he bends slightly to meet it. Instead of kissing her knuckles, he turns it at the last moment to softly suck a warm kiss against her wrist. It's brief, but full of promise.

Sweeney wants to lead her back towards the bed, or at least away from the door for easier conversation, but first thing's first; he wants her to know he's committed to making the required act more than perfunctory.

Yennefer's stunned into silence, for a moment, as she watches him bend over her hand — and then turn it, carefully, in order to press his lips to the inner skin of her wrist rather than skimming a kiss over the ridges of her knuckles. Before she can think twice about it, her fingers curl slightly, a reflexive response to the warm pressure of his mouth, while her own lips instinctively part, as if she can still feel the ghost of his earlier kiss on them.

"I... suppose that would be important, yes," she finally replies, in much more of a whisper than she'd like, but she hasn't moved to tug her hand out of his hold, and instead, she makes use of the tether they've established between themselves to draw herself in closer, lifting her chin in order to keep meeting his gaze.

"Is that something you want from this? Pleasure?"

"Yes."

The answer is perhaps a touch too eager, but he feels no guilt for it. If he has to do all the rest of the shit, he'd like to enjoy fucking her. And, at the end of the day, that's a lot easier if she's onboard for the nice parts.

"Fer you, too."

Sweeney's willing to put in the effort to show her he sees her as a partner, and not just a hole and an oven; that she should be treasured for what she is, as a beautiful woman and as his wife. He wants others to see them enjoy themselves enough in public that they long to be him, blessed with a happy wife who's eager to keep his bed warm.

"If ya'll allow it," he whispers, but he's already bending to let his face come to hers. Sweeney swallows and dares a kiss. It's not demanding, but he picks up where she left off at the table, leaning in with a bit more hunger.

He's already offered more than she would have expected from him at first glance — or perhaps even at second. Some of it might be the consequence of knowing they're alone now, without anyone to witness them together, and she's not sure she should expect this level of treatment from him whenever they happen to be in public again. What reason would he have to display any clear affections toward her, especially when this is a marriage more for the sake of their lands than anything else?

But she won't allow her thoughts to travel too distantly beyond the present moment, knowing what they're in this room for, knowing what's expected of them now. She can't, when he's regarding her in the manner that he is, and closing the distance between them before she can even summon a single coherent thought in response to his promise.

In the end, all she can do is meet his mouth with her own — softly, but readily, more emboldened now that they've already shared a kiss or three, and this time, there are no other eyes on them for her to account for. Her other hand lifts between them, palm caressing over the soft hairs on his face as she instinctively curves into him, inwardly savoring the building hunger of the kiss itself.

Whatever it is that she tastes like, it makes him long to kiss her always. The way she meets him in the act only leaves her tongue that much sweeter. Part of him wishes he could be satisfied with this, but the rest knows that, even if obligation didn't hang over them, he'd still want more. Her soft thighs and hopefully softer sighs. To feel the tremble of both beneath him. But first thing's first.

Sweeney leans a bit lower into the kiss, then twists to get his forearm beneath her knees. His other wrapped around her back, he scoops her up in front of him. The kiss is a bit trickier when he carries her, but he chases after shorter follow-ups if she allows them as he makes his way towards the bed. His steps are small, both so he doesn't jostle her, but also so he doesn't have to look away from her to avoid precarious obstacles.

Once there, he doesn't put her on the bed; he sets her down carefully at the foot of it. Sweeney studies her face with a silent question trapped in the crease of his brow and lowered chin.

Are you ready?

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