choicely | open post;

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.

Sweeney doesn't realize he's holding his breath as she works the laces loose, but without his boots, it's easy enough to tell that his toes are curling in anticipation as she gets him free of his trousers. It's simple enough to read her expression, and he's all too ready to pick up where they'd left off when it comes to kissing. His mouth is eager but not urgent; there's something bout being naked together than leaves with a sense of...apprehension? Surely it's not that, but it feels awfully like it.

But kissing is better. Not safe, per se, but more familiar than everything beyond it, and the longer it goes, the more confident he becomes. Sweeney's hand cradles her head as he curls down to meet her lips, and he find himself sucking them more often. His tongue grazes hers in intoxication. It soon has him rocking in small undulations, which in turn, unintentionally bumps his bobbing cock against her belly. There's definitely embarrassment at that part, and he straightens as his cheeks regain their pink, though he doesn't abandon his touch in her hair. Sweeney sucks the taste of her off his lips, his eyes kept low and slightly askew, so he's not staring down the offending member. After a moment, he reaches a decision and nods slightly to himself.

This time, he only takes the one hand, bringing it up to press a kiss into her palm, his eyes finding and fixing on hers. Sweeney allows himself a small breath before guiding her hand down again. No laces to offer, instead he gives of himself, softly urging her to wrap her hand around his pleading prick.

It's not just for his enjoyment; he could find that easily, buried in the warmth of her; he wants her to have a few moments to experience the thing, feel the size and weight so she can understand more fully what he'll have to ask of her.

Edited (Spelling correction) 2024-05-11 17:44 (UTC)

He claims her mouth again, in the way she's desperately been craving since the first time he did so — yes, she cries out, without the ability to voice the words directly, draping both of her arms around his neck so she can draw herself up and into him, kissing him back with equal fervor. This is what she's wanted on her wedding night — not some passionless rutting, with her husband mindlessly thrusting into her before rolling off once he's spent, but being able to feel desire behind every action, even if both of them may still have lingering nerves about what's expected of them by the time they reach the bed.

There's certainly no doubt in her mind that Sweeney is prepared to do his duty, if the hardness nudging against her lower belly is any indication, but she doesn't mind it. In fact, it leaves her increasingly curious about what she'd only been able to catch a fleeting glimpse of before he'd reached for her, and as they ease away from each other again, her lips visibly puffier and swollen from those heated kisses, she watches him a little more breathlessly as he takes her hand, first guiding it to his mouth and then to his cock.

She realizes he wants her to touch him, not merely for the sake of pleasure but so she'll know the size of him — and while his is the first she's ever directly laid eyes on, as her gaze falls, it must be significantly larger than most. Her hand doesn't even successfully encircle his cock fully, but she's not so concerned about that, not when he feels hot and heavy in her grasp, silken skin wrapped around something as hard as steel. Her eyes flick up to his face, mostly so she can study his expression as she begins to stroke him with a questioning look.

She'd never be as brazen as to ask him whether this cock belongs to her now, but the thought does briefly cross her mind — whether she'd have to share him with any other women, or if tonight means that she'll have him in her bed and hers alone for the remainder of their days together. The idea, rearing its claiming and possessive head, makes her tighten her grip on him as she strokes up and down his shaft, trying to earn more sounds from his throat.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, something logical and not totally selfish, but somehow, Sweeney hadn't predicted that she would actually start stroking him with purpose. The first firm pull steals a gasp from him, and he fights to steady as quickly as possible. He manages well enough, holding her gaze through a brief fluttering of lashes. That said, as she continues and becomes more confident, his breathing shifts.

While he doesn't come near to something as extreme as snorting, his breaths become heavy and focused, pushed through his nose like a stallion under increasingly tight rein. Sweeney makes the mistake of peeking down to watch her hand, but that only makes him rock into it. He catches himself and stills, but at the cost of shutting his eyes and swallowing. Sweeney can't seem to do it enough to clear his voice, and the words escape in a whisper.

"Tá. Le do thoil. Déan é sin le do thoil."

It wouldn't be difficult to get him rocking into her grip; she only has to keep at it a while longer, and he won't be able to help himself.

The words are foreign to Yennefer's ears, but they don't give the impression of being protesting or trying to convince her to stop. If he really wanted her to cease, she has no doubt that he'd reach for her, physically prevent her from continuing — but he doesn't. And continuing to touch Sweeney proves just as heady an experience for her in watching as it is for him being touched, no doubt. She's never been able to earn this type of reaction from a man before, and there's an inherent power in it, but there's also an intimacy in getting to see his carefully crafted composure disappear one stroke at a time.

She wonders, idly, if he'd make these same kinds of noises while he's within her, driving her into the bed; she knows enough about what happens between a man and a woman to know that what she's barely able to wrap her hand around is what he's going to put inside her, and rather than experiencing any trepidation or dread, she only feels the thrill of that understanding.

"Will you take me to bed now, husband?" she finally whispers, her hand slowing on him but not fully stopping; they're standing mere feet away from where they're meant to spend the night, at least, and she's more than ready to turn down the blankets properly and to slide beneath them together.

The request clicks something in him, and the hesitation of touching her promptly dissolves. Sweeney bends to kiss her, and he uses the opportunity to rock and get his arm under her hips. His other hand splays wide between her shoulder blades, and he sucks in a breath as he lifts her straight up.

Fuck, she's so warm against him. It makes everything more real, and Sweeney smiles in between quick kisses as he steps forward. She'll hook her legs or she won't; the trip isn't long enough for it to matter. Pressing one knee into the edge of the bed, he slides the other over the blanket as he crawls up onto it. He carries her up so he can rest her head on the pillows, not that he strays after. His kisses are eager but not desperate, but he's also distracted from pulling down the sheets so he can stain them properly.

It's not as if his strength is a foreign thing to her; she's seen the proof of it in small moments up to now, like in the quiet clasp of his hand around hers or the ripple of muscle under skin that frequently asserts itself when he makes even the slightest movement, but there's a difference between that and finding herself literally swept off her feet in an instant, eliciting a soft gasp that his mouth immediately covers over as he presses it to hers, again and again.

She doesn't even think to wrap herself around him, especially since he's already laying her down so gently against the mattress and crawling after her. The turndown of the blankets briefly earns a surprised look until she remembers the proof that will be needed to declare this marriage officially consummated, the virginal blood that the sheets have to bear come morning.

It's not that she's frightened by the thought — she's overheard enough from the maids to know that sex doesn't have to be painful or terrifying if a man knows what he's doing — but there is a flicker of apprehension across her features, one she won't be able to fully mask in time if Sweeney's paying the closest bit of attention to her.

The tension in her makes sense, especially given the suddenness of his answer to her request. Sweeney pauses and pushes up enough on his hands to straighten his elbows and buy them some room between their faces. His eyes search hers; he wants to understand the nature of the thing, but it's not difficult to deduce. Sweeney swallows, letting the moment pass so she can see the sincerity of his sentiment.

"Gentle." He hasn't forgotten what he'd promised her. "I will be. As much as I'm able." That said, his prick isn't eager at the prospect of waiting, not when she's so close and warm, all but welcoming him inside her.

Sweeney leans back in, but only halves the distance before his whispers an offering.

"Tell me what ya like. An' if there's somethin' ya don't." His inflection suggests that he doesn't expect her to already know; just that they can learn it together.

Then he continues down and kisses the corner of her jaw below her ear. That starts a soft path of his lips down her neck towards her shoulder. Nothing is rushed, but he doesn't dawdle. There's a lot of her to cover, and he'd really like to get to the 'fucking her' part. But Sweeney knows the importance of her comfort and her want; that if he does things right, she'll be slick and aching to have him buried deep in her.

"I know." And she does know it to be true, when he voices that reassurance to her. She's more surprised by the nerves she still possesses, when facing down the inevitability of the moment, and while everything they've already done together has felt good so far — so much better than it has any right to be, between two people who have only known each other for less than a day at most.

In response to his suggestion, however, that she can inform him of what she likes, all she can do is nod, wordlessly, her gaze shining with curiosity in part about what it implies — what they could discover, together, as a result of him learning her, and her guiding him further, deeper into the places that she wants him to stay in.

His kisses are both reassuring and inciting, some of the tension dissolving from the set of her shoulders as her chin lifts, as her head lolls slightly, as she bares the vulnerability of her throat to him. It feels that much more intense now that they're both stripped down to nothing in front of each other, and before she can think twice about it, she slowly sinks back against the pillows in recline, gazing up at him before she lets both of her arms fall to her sides, letting him choose where he touches her next, kisses her next, explore her next.

Fuck, her neck is long. There's so much of her to savor.

His hair leaves them in a veil of red and gold that fans over her as he starts his path down. Sweeney's mouth lingers on her collarbone for a moment, then decides he should rethink his course of approach.

He rocks back up to kiss her lips. Then he shifts his weight so he can raise one hand. With the delicate touch of two fingertips, he draws a line from her shoulder down her side, tracing her breast before following it around in a soft spiral.

Sweeney breaks the kiss just enough to leave their noses barely parted when he grazes her nipple with the pad of his thumb.

At the start, she doesn't know what he intends — whether he'll linger at her throat while he positions himself between her thighs, kissing her sweetly there as he slowly enters her — but then his head lifts from her and she can't help but wonder if he's still questioning her readiness. The press of his lips to hers doesn't necessarily provide more clarity in that regard, but then she sees his hand in her periphery before it comes down against her skin, warm and tender despite the roughness of his fingers.

She draws in a breath, soft and hitching, as he traces over her, his touch practically mapping her body, following the curves she's only given passing thought to but never possessed as deep an awareness of as she does in this moment. With his lips on hers, she has little worry about moaning into their kiss, making her pleasure plainly known.

That slight retreat gives him the ability to look directly into her eyes, and while she doesn't think she needs to offer assurance aloud, she does nod quickly, consenting to whatever he desires to do to her next, wherever he wants to place his hands. If he needs to hear it, she'll ask for more, even if she doesn't know precisely what she wants — as long as it means he won't stop.

The nod is good encouragement, and Sweeney allows his next variation to be more direct. He takes her nipple between his thumb and the side of his forefinger, applying enough pressure to slowly roll it between them without pulling it. His eyes are unblinking as he drinks in her face, looking for any flicker of want or discouragement.

Meanwhile, his prick twitches in protest. At this rate, when the fuck are they actually going to get to the main event? Sweeney swallows the aching back down, but it does nothing for how swollen and heavy his cock is against her thigh as he keeps his focus higher.

The heavy weight of him against her thigh is a reminder, all too plain, of the desire she can stoke in him — and whatever his own degree of want might be, he's still taking the time, and care, to ensure that she's adequately prepared. That speaks more to the behavior of a man, rather than a brute, regardless of what her own people might believe.

As for Yennefer, she's not shy about displaying all of her responses to his touch — pupils dilating a bit more wildly when he captures her nipple between his fingers, applying pressure, while her lips slightly part to make way for a gasp. She's mostly captivated, however, by the fact that he's not looking away from her, as though he wants to study each and every reaction his hands earn from her, learn them firsthand. It's not long, at least, before she's shifting restlessly against the mattress, rising up instinctively to meet him, desperate for more.

Well, that seems to be going better than he expected. It encourages Sweeney to push forward in his affections, and with one more soft kiss, he starts the trail back down again; jaw, neck, collarbone, but this time he doesn't still there. He continues downwards, his mouth warm and his kisses far from chaste.

Sweeney cuts a path down her sternum before his focus diverts over the curve of her breast. He sucks at her like she's a ripe stone fruit, ready for devouring but meant to be savored, and when he finally finds her nipple, his tongue works it gently while his hand provides increasing pressure on her other to attempt to spread the sensation between the two.

It's a completely novel sensation; no one has ever been in a position to touch her breasts, much less touch them like this. Certainly, Yennefer herself has put hands on them, discovered the sensations she enjoys while her other hand teases between her legs, but there's nothing that's felt quite the same as Sweeney's mouth — suckling her, tongue teasing her nipple into an even harder point.

If his aim is for her to squirm, to visibly desire more, then he'll earn that in short order; she arches up into his hand, his mouth, her hand reflexively reaching up to slide fingers into his hair so she can grip, and tug, and urge him to stay right where he is for a little while longer. The need between her thighs is growing, higher and hotter than anything she's ever been able to draw out by her own touch, and she idly wonders if that's exactly the point, if this is all meant to drive her mad with wanting until she's practically begging him to satisfy it.

Fuck, how sublime it is to have her aching so hungrily with such little effort. It inspires Sweeney ever onward, and he's happy to spend a few minutes just lavishing his attention on her breasts, his lips and tongue joined by the occasional grazing of his teeth. Midway through, his mouth and hands trade places; he's mindful that each side should have its turn to send more tingling downwards.

Eventually, his touch shifts away from her chest, but only so he can kiss her tenderly as two fingertips start their path down her. When they pass her navel, he parts from her lips so he can lean back enough to put her face in face in focus as they continue on to delicately graze the edge of her folds.

By the time he seems to have had his fill of her breasts, she already feels thoroughly ravaged, the sensitized points of her nipples aching in that way where any subsequent touch would be enough to make her writhe, keen for the slightest sensation delivered to her through his skilled effort.

Having him retreat from her chest, from her lips in order to regard her as his hand carefully descends past her waist and between the vee of her thighs should be overwhelming, and it is to be the focus of his attention, but she finds herself unable to look away from him, lashes fluttering, lips parting, suddenly at a loss for words altogether other than soft pleas for more. She's not quite prepared to spread her legs like a wanton, to grab his wrist and guide his hand further between them, but there should be no doubt left lingering that she wants him to continue.

She hasn't bucked or shied at the light touch, and that's encouraging. It lets Sweeney yield to his temptation, and he slides a finger to part her, his calloused touch riding over her clit as he rides to the gate without pushing into it.

He just wants to see if it's a good next step before moving things along. Sweeney doesn't want to overwhelm her, but he really would like to get to the part where he's fucking her.

The sound she gives voice to is a gasp, followed by a plaintive moan; his touch already feels markedly different than anything she could initiate on her own power, and not just because his fingers are longer and thicker than hers. But Yennefer's also growing impatient, as he strokes over her, building up the evidence of her wetness, making her ready.

"I know what's meant to happen," she says hurriedly, urgently, and when she finally does reach down to grasp for his hand between her legs it's so that she can draw it up, bringing it to her mouth, kissing a few of his fingertips and tasting herself on them.

"And I want you inside me, aenye rhon. I'm not sure I've ever wanted anything else as much as I do that."

He may not understand all of the words, but he knows enough of the rest. Sweeney worries that they're still far from where they probably should be if he's going to try to do this with less pain, but it's so hard to think clearly when she's pleading like that. In the end, it's the feel of her mouth on his stained fingers that does him in.

Sweeney nods tightly and starts to shift. He takes the time to kiss her while he can, as their size difference is likely to make it more difficult in a bit. Balanced on one elbow, his other hand slips between them so he can position his length to slide along her instead of penetrate. He want's to smear her arousal over his skin, and to rub invitingly against her clit as he does so.

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