choicely | open post;

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?

Suddenly, before Yennefer can fully comprehend it, she's being lifted off her feet, making a somewhat unbecoming squeak in the process when she's essentially left to dangle in his arms.

She should have known he'd be strong enough to carry her like this — the strain of his clothing across the breadth of his shoulders indicates the presence of muscle many other men lack — but it's something else entirely to be experiencing it now, and she distracts herself by returning to his mouth, by letting him return to hers, in the short time it takes him to cross the room and set her down near the foot of the bed.

There's an unspoken question in his gaze, when she finally opens her eyes to witness it, a question he's looking to her to answer, and rather than respond in so many words, she reaches to gather up the length of her dark hair, drawing it forward over her shoulder.

The reason for it will become clear, as she turns her back to him, exposing the ties that hold her dress closed running along the curve of her spine. She'll need his assistance to free her from them, to help her with the many layers that make up this wedding gown, even before they get into bed properly.

Oh.

His lips part slightly in the ghost of the shape, but his breath is caught without hope of escape to make the sound. Part of him understands that she's offering her laces; a sacrifice given to him instead of her maid or simple fighting of them herself. There's clearly no expectation that he'll just hoist her skirts. She's welcoming him to see her naked (or at least, in some state of undress), and he continues to be surprised, even with the pleasant turn of events.

Sweeney knows he should take to the work, but the freshly-exposed skin only makes her exotic complexion more stark. He swallows and lifts his hand to graze two fingertips along the curve of the gown's neckline. So delicate. Elegant. Most certainly not like the women he's accustomed to keeping company with.

He bends down to kiss the slope where her neck meets her shoulder, the act just the other side of chaste. It is perhaps less so because he leaves his mouth just above her skin to continue to repeat the gesture, slow and feather-light, as his fingers raise to tug the knot of her dress loose. The unlacing is slow, the effort somewhere between caution and care. Sweeney doesn't want to rush the thing and appear unkind, and he wants her to have the opportunity to stop him, if she wants to. But he very much hopes she doesn't.

The dress itself is of impressive but delicate construction, and yet Yennefer can think of nothing she'd prefer less than being made to keep it on in the moments she's meant to be submitting to her wedding night. It's a heavy garment, with more than one layer to remove; she'd counted all of them when her maids had first helped her into it, obligingly raising her arms as each one had been pulled overhead and adjusted to accentuate her form. Similarly, the laces down her back are tight enough to emphasize her bosom over little else; she's had to modify her breathing ever since the last of them were drawn tight.

Yet he proves to have just as much control over affecting her ability to breathe, and her chin drops slightly — first as his fingertips find the top of the neckline, low enough to expose her nape and the initial curve of her spine, and then when he inclines forward to press his lips to the juncture between neck and shoulder.

She gasps, initially, and then gives voice to a whimper before she can successfully stifle it, her hand reflexively going to press against the front of the dress once he begins to loosen her laces. The more she's released, the easier it should be to draw air — and yet her pulse races with a heightened awareness of him, breathing quickening at the thought of him putting his mouth to every new inch of skin he unveils. She finds herself instinctively stepping back into his space, especially when he reaches the bottom of the laces above the base of her spine, and the bodice of the dress is already starting to sag away from her form, revealing the sheer chemise beneath it.

When she leans back into him, Sweeney loses sight of his work, but it doesn't matter. It's open enough that the neckline is offering a peek at the sublime temptation of her breasts, even as they remain trapped by more layers.

His hands lift, and working in unison, they catch the dress at the caps of her shoulders, pulling out and down to peel it off of her. Sweeney doesn't rush the endeavor. He wants to savor the view and allow her to help liberate her arms so there's less chance that he'll snag the fabric and tangle her in it.

Her hair is so close, he can't help but nuzzle his nose into it gently, taking in the intoxicating scent of her. She's strange spices, firelight without smoke, and cool stone. It takes an act of will not to clutch her to him once the gown pools on the ground. Instead, his fingers move to the tie of an underskirt, working blindly but with no trouble when he loosens it.

The dress falls away from her at his urging, hitting the floor in a heap of heavy fabric that she'll have to step out of in order to have better range of movement — but instinctively, she doesn't at first, letting herself stay trapped in its drape around her ankles, especially since his hands are already reaching for the ties keeping her underskirt around her waist.

That, too, is a simple thing to remove, to allow to fall away and join her dress on the floor, and the chemise feels more akin to a whisper against her skin, a very inconsequential covering that she knows will cease to exist in its own right once he gets his hands on her properly.

That knowledge finally drives her to step out of the puddle of her own clothes, to turn and face him directly, her gaze unflinching as she presents herself for his eyes — and then, very deliberately, reaches up for the ties keeping the chemise closed and slowly pulls them loose, shrugging her shoulders to let that garment, too, slide off of her body completely. It isn't enough to have a say in how much she removes in front of him — she wants him to see all of her bared, as is his right as husband.

For a moment when she turns, Sweeney assumes that to mean that the chemise will be staying on; after all, its removal certainly isn't required. His eyes search hers for some hint as to what she wants as far as the next step; if she wants more kissing before they lay down or--

OH.

She is very naked. He was not prepared, even for all the undressing he'd done. Sweeney's lips part with a small uptick of air, and he finds himself incapable of blinking, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn't; he just wants to drink in every inch of her. Everything about her is so...new. She looks so different than the women of his land, and for all of his previous experience, he finds himself in foreign waters.

After another, fuller, breath, he starts to raise his hand, facing it towards himself in preparation of running the back of his fingers over the slope of her breast. But before he touches her, he catches more meaningful sight of his cuff and realizes how dressed he still is.

His gaze dips to his hands as he tries to rectify the situation, more hurriedly and also more awkwardly, given the long row of foreign clasps. Sweeney feels like he's keeping her waiting, now that she's stuck standing there nude.

Edited (Word change) 2024-04-18 04:29 (UTC)

He reaches for her, and a part of Yennefer veers even closer to steeling herself, though not out of any sense of dread — instead, it's anticipation that nearly compels her to respond more to what he might do before he even initiates the action itself.

But then, it's as if a different realization dawns on him, one that pertains more to the state of his own dress, and when he moves to start unbuttoning the shirt he's wearing instead of touching her, her first instinct is to smile, the corners of her mouth helplessly lifting, especially while he's so focused on the task currently at hand.

"Would you like some assistance?" she murmurs, finally reaching out between them to place her hands on some of the fastenings he hasn't touched yet — but her gaze lingers on his, making it clear that she won't be offended if he insists on seeing to it himself.

Her touch distracts him, even though it's not on his skin. The soft pressure is still plenty to bring his attention to her offer.

"Yes." Perhaps that is too curt, but part of him has been thinking of the very thing since she whispered the word 'husband' at him. Sweeney does his best to walk things back a little, so it doesn't get misconstrued as a command or something like one. He is most certainly not doing that.

"If want you have," he whispers. No, wait. That's not right. His brow crinkles as he stares at her hands. "If you want to." Yes, that sounds better.

"I would like. Very much. If you did." Uh-- "Do. Would." One of those is correct, right?

At least he only has the buttoned doublet and tied-collar shirt to contend with. It's probably in line with his barbaric reputation that he didn't bother with those underpinnings for his trousers either. The pants alone are uncomfortable enough. Beneath the few layers of fabric is a patchwork of scars that stand as silent testament to dozens of tales of what he'd been before he became a man in a room about to fuck the woman that is now his wife.

The amusing part is that if she didn't want to, she wouldn't have offered; one thing he'll find to be undeniably true about Yennefer, if he hasn't observed it already, is that she rarely pursues anything out of obligation or expectation, and always seeks to perform by way of her own choice.

But judging by the reaction she's earned, it seems that making the undressing of her new husband a shared task is something that he would enjoy, and so she begins to apply herself to the effort, first reaching for the buttons on his doublet to finish where he left off, her gaze occasionally drifting up to his face throughout so that she can offer a small smile of reassurance.

There's no fear in her expression over what she'll find, not even apprehension; if anything, divesting herself of her own layers, as well as him of his, feels like the first moment they've been given to become true equals, stripped of all pretense and title, and can simply be a man and a woman who desire one another. She believes it to be desire, at any rate; she's far from convinced this has anything to do with the emotion of love.

Once the doublet is peeled away, she starts to loosen his collar, drawing the ties out slowly and methodically, though the first sight of his scarred skin beneath prompts a catch in her breathing, and she pauses to briefly run her fingers over the closest one, her touch light and mapping.

The more her fingers work the fasteners loose, the shorter his breaths become. Sweeney's gaze keeps jumping between her hands and her face, and each time he catches her smile, he can't help be answer it. His own hands are left hovering, careful to stay out of her way, but prepared to assist, should she wish it. When the time comes, he rolls his shoulders to slide the doublet off, letting it fall to the floor without notice.

It's the hitch in her breath that strikes him and pulls him from the reverie. Sweeney catches her hand gently in his, meaning to deter her from continuing without actually grabbing her. His lashes flutter as his gaze falls to the side.

"You do not have to--" He wets his lips, trying to put the words in the right order.

"I will leave it. On. During. I do not want to..." Fuck. His eyes dart up, as if the words might be on the ceiling.

"There are many. Ugly. Do not want to..." 'Upset' isn't the word he's looking for. Sweeney drops his focus to her eyes.

"Disturb?" He's looking for some level of confirmation as to if that makes sense.

Sweeney's hand flying to hers is finally what deters Yennefer from her current task — one that she is deciding to be single-minded about, even though the smiles he's wielding in her direction are proving to be more distracting than she would have expected. Yet it's unclear why he's made a move to stop her from proceeding until he manages to offer an explanation, one that prompts a questioning look from her in exchange.

"I'm not afraid of them," she murmurs, pressing her hand forward, her fingers returning to the place where she was originally stroking over that visible scar tissue, mottled and rehealed and evidence of whatever he initially sustained to earn it. As far as she's concerned, they're reminders of his skill on the battlefield, proof of the reputation he's earned, and she's not a meek woman who will instantly swoon at the sight of scars, either.

"Will you let me continue?"

Still, she won't press on without his assent, even as she takes one of his hands in hers and brings it to the side of her face, encouraging him to cup her cheek.

"I would... see all of you."

Of course she's not afraid. He has no doubt that one like her would not shy from a severed limb, and of all the marks he bears, at least all of those are intact. She just shouldn't have to see it. But if she truly wants it, he has no valid reason to not allow it.

The way she brings his hand to her face helps, and it encourages his eyes to hers. Sweeney resolves himself, rocking his jaw before drawing a breath and offering a nod. His thumb grazes her cheekbone before his hand lowers to give her room. Watching her delicate fingers move builds an anticipation in him that he had not expected.

Sweeney helps her get the shirt up and over, dropping it on the floor near the doublet. He shifts a touch, as if suddenly unsure where he should be looking, other than 'not her face'.

It's the strangest thing; he's never felt so naked, especially with his pants still on.

He doesn’t need to be looking at her. In fact, it may be better that he isn’t. By the time his shirt comes off over his head, Yennefer’s gaze has fallen to the scars that adorn him, many of which are well within her reach from her height relative to his taller stature. She can reach the ones above her with her hands, fingertips caressing their shapes, but there’s one above his chest that seems to have been caused by a blade of some kind, and her gaze lingers on it.

Before she can think to question the act, she leans forward, gently pressing her lips to the scar, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath it. If he doesn’t stop her, she’ll do it again, another kiss pressed to a different scar lower on his torso, and then shift to put her lips to his chest again, a place where the flesh is unmarred.

The scent of him is stronger when she has her nose buried against his skin, a masculine sort of spice that fills her senses, and she experiences the thrill of being allowed to touch him like this, to explore him at her liking. She doesn’t roam too far on him just yet, partly because she’s waiting for him to stop her again, but if he doesn’t, she’s going to take that as tacit permission to move elsewhere, and lower.

There is a difference between her looking and her touching, and he inhales sharply when her fingertips find skin. Sweeney's lashes flutter as his gaze darts to the ceiling, looking for some comfort as she examines him like a bull, gauging his worth.

But then her mouth is on him, and he almost chokes on his tongue. Touching hadn't been expected, but it was certainly a possibility; this, he had no way to predict would be a situation they'd find themselves in. His focus snaps down to her, and he catches her elbows. It's a panicked motion more than intentionally stopping her, and it doesn't actually move them anywhere when his abdomen constricts. It draws back a few inches as he tries to process the situation.

After a moment, he lowers his hands and takes a slow breath to straighten, creating the sense of both his acceptance and presentation for further study. Sweeney swallows and blinks a few times, as if to steel himself. It's simply a new sensation, and one he hadn't been prepared for tonight. But that doesn't mean he doesn't want it. Then more she gives, the more he craves; a trembling moan escaping him unbidden as she continues.

When his hands fly to her elbows, Yennefer pauses, wariness in her gaze as it ventures up to his face, searching for any signs that he's firmly objecting to her more impulsive decision.

It's not as though she'd planned to do it when she'd coaxed him into removing his shirt, but he'd been so concerned about her viewing them that she supposes she'd merely wanted to emphasize that she isn't afraid of him. In truth, the scars might make him a more fearsome man, but they also represent the evidence of a warrior capable of defending what's his — and she can't help but think that, now, that extends to her.

But she does relent on using her mouth, at least for now, straightening up from him with a subtle curve of her lips, and with his hands dropping from her, she delivers a slightly more coy look in the direction of his trousers before her eyes rise to his face again, wordlessly indicating that he still has some layers to divest himself of if he wants to catch up to her nakedness. Whether that involves her using her hands to do it or watching him in silent appreciation as he attends to the task, it matters little; she just wants to lay eyes on all of him, as she emphasized before.

There's a flicker of...well, not guilt. Disappointment, maybe? Sweeney hadn't meant to reject her; it just caught him off-guard. His brain is working on a way to rectify the miscommunication when he realizes she's glancing lower than his map of violence. Even without his trousers tailored and fastened, there's no pretense that he's anything other than very erect and aching. But her blatant-yet-coy glance has his ears pinker, and he swallows, looking to regain some control in the situation. Not of her, but of himself.

Sweeney's hands shift towards the laces, but before they get there, he realizes that she's probably going to want him completely undressed. Truth be told, he doesn't normally bother taking his pants off for sex, but this is an anything but normal situation. He meets her eyes with a small tip of his head, as if asking her brief pardon.

He doesn't take a full step back, just enough to hook the heel of his boot with the toe of the other, then he bends forward to pull the thing off. Sweeney means to repeat the process, but when he looks up, he finds himself eye-level with the sweet swell of her breasts. His jaw goes slack as his mind stutters, losing the task halfway through. He starts to lean in, intoxicated by the smell of her skin and the desire to get his face on it. But only a forced breath touches it before he catches himself, and with another swallow and a nod to resolve himself, he sets to removing the other boot.

This time, he knows better and averts his eyes as he rises. Sweeney's sure that if he doesn't, his mouth will be on her tits and he'll shove her on the bed and fall into hasty having; trousers still on. So, he straightens fully and moves his hands down again, but this time when they pause, it's to take both of hers and guide them gently to him, encouraging her to unlace them herself. Sweeney won't force her; if she's resistant, he'll do it himself. It's just...it would be nicer if she did it. His gaze darts over her, hungrily seeking any hint as to how she's feeling or what she wants.

There's something about this entire process that starts to strike Yennefer as increasingly amusing. Perhaps it's the fact that she's standing in front of her new husband completely naked, without a stitch of clothing on, and yet doesn't feel the slightest ounce of shame about it. Perhaps it's that they've taken their time with this, deliberately stripping away every article they're wearing, instead of tumbling into bed and pawing at each other like eager adolescents.

Judging by the manner in which he's been eyeing her, his gaze lingering on her breasts in particular, there's no doubt in her mind that he wants to touch her, would gladly put his hands and mouth and anything else on her if she so much as reached for him now. Even when he sways forward after bending over to tug off his boots, his head newly leveled with her breasts, her first instinct is to reach out and slide her fingers into his hair, to guide him against her, to encourage him to do whatever he wants.

That thought provokes a hitch in her breathing, but for wholly different reasons than surprise, and when his hands, warm and big, cover hers and bring them in against him once more, she finds his eyes with hers in response, stepping forward to close the space he'd taken to remove his boots. She won't need to be encouraged twice to assist in undressing him, her fingers deftly working to unfasten the laces, knuckles lightly skimming against the hard plane of his abdomen. She doesn't think she could be any clearer about wanting him; Gods help her, she does, even as she wills him to kiss her through her gaze alone, wills him to take her mouth as he had before, and then take her to bed properly right after.

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