choicely | open post;

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.

He is large — she'd felt as much when she'd put a hand on him directly. She certainly doesn't have anything to compare it to; she'd never let her curiosity earn that much of her when it came to the men she'd permitted close enough to steal a kiss or two. Until now, she's been relatively untouched, save by her own hand, and that's not the same thing either.

But he's insistent on taking his time, on seeing to her pleasure long before he tries to tend to his own or even performs the necessary portion of this bedding to its fullest. The slide of him, long and thick, over her damp, sensitive flesh earns another gasp; she presses herself up against his length with a different, keening sound. Knowing the release that can be found through her own explorations, she thinks she could reach it just like this, if he persisted enough, rubbing her clit on him until she shatters. Perhaps he means her to make her come apart before he even puts himself inside her.

Oh, now that is delicious. The shift in her Wanting, the potential for a quick detour to his pleasure, is far too tempting to ignore.

He takes to the act with more purpose; the efforts towards lubricating himself become secondary to having her writhe and whimper. Each stroke is meant with intent, though the longer they go, the more distracted he becomes. It's not like he isn't also being stimulated, both by the contact and her responses.

Sweeney groans between staggered breaths, trying to avoid losing himself before they get to the main event.

It may not be what he'd first had in mind when pressing himself against her, but neither of them is all that objecting to what's resulted, and she has to wonder if this is pleasing him too, the more persistent rubbing of his cock against her sensitive flesh resulting in less and less friction as her arousal paints his skin.

Before she can second-guess how far she's already gotten in terms of reaching that point of no return, she's shaking against him, climax rolling through her when all of the little sensations he's delivered build up and crest over. She dissolves into trembling against the bed, lips parted for increased breaths and eyes wider with surprise.

But then, instinctively, she slips a hand down between her legs, fingers trailing through that slickened mess, and while she's still quaking, she establishes a gentle hold on his cock, purposefully angling him in wordless encouragement to push inside her, to satisfy the deep ache that her release has only intensified.

Oh, that breaking is just as lovely as he'd hoped, and there's a sense of pride that he could win it from her without too great an effort. It leaves him hopeful for the rest, and that he might end up having a wife who's eager to be in his bed. With any luck, she'll be left more sensitive for the grinding that will inevitably be involved moving forward.

Sweeney starts to kiss her, softer and shorter between breaths; he's ready to let her have a brief reprieve. But apparently, she doesn't want one, and as her fingers wrap around him, his breath hitches as his eyes flicker wide. His focus snaps down, but only for a moment before it's searching her face.

Are you sure?, it says. Because he's been so for a good while. Sweeney shifts his weight a little to prepare more properly, and with her careful placement, he gently pushes in. He isn't in a rush to pierce her, no matter how his prick is screaming. It's obvious from the fluttering of his lashes that it's a feat of control to keep his rocking shallow and slow. Well, slow-er. There's only so much a fellow can do when she's already earning soft gasps from his lips.

Yennefer nods rapidly, hurriedly, in response to his wordless questioning; wouldn't it be better, she thinks, to do it now, to have him push inside her while she's still trembling with the aftershocks of her release? She's not convinced it won't hurt, that there won't be a brief pang of discomfort as he breaches her, but she can already tell how he's readied her for more. She's slick in a way she hasn't been before, not even when she's touched herself in the private dark of her own room late at night.

But then it's too late to second-guess anything; he's already entering her, blunt and thick, and she arches beneath him with a soft cry, not because it hurts but because he's so much at first, more than she thinks she might be able to bear. Yet in that moment, she feels equally resolved, determined, to see this through, and her body responds before she can think twice about it, hips tilting up to better enable him to sink into her, the place where she's been made to welcome him in.

In fact, other than that feeling of immense fullness, there's very little pain, and the rocking thrusts of his hips work her open for him slowly, making more room for his cock inside. She lifts up to meet him, mimicking the rhythm he sets, her breathing more in sync with his as they move together, as he works deeper and deeper inside.

Sweeney had worried, of course; even with all the preparation, the size issue has not changed. He wasn't sure if it was enough kindness to alter the course ahead. But that thought is banished when she tilts her hips.

Oh, how fucking sublime it is to be welcomed so. This woman who seemed so bitter against him hours prior, letting her guard down and her want out enough for them to meet on an even field of longing.

His eyes roll as he squeezes them shut, making the effort to keep himself reined, even as she urged him deeper. There's a synergy that he hadn't expected, and it makes it too easy to yield ground. Though it seemed to take forever, he's still surprised when their bodies bump flush, and in that moment, his breath catches and he stills, buried deep and throbbing. Sweeney's eyes seek hers, trying to gauge if she's alright. He hadn't sensed any protest on the journey, but, to be fair, it had also been a very distracting one.

Just when she's convinced there can't possibly be more of him, convinced she can't take any more that he has to give, one last press of hips brings him fully flush against her and her eyes go wide, lashes fluttering. Never had she imagined it could be like this, with him seemingly stretching her beyond her limits, but then she remembers to breathe, exhaling through pursed lips, and simply allows herself to feel him, pulsing within.

The longer he remains still above her, the easier it is to bear, and the more she relaxes, her body opening up to accept him. There's still that intense fullness, but now she feels oddly restless too, wanting him to move sooner rather than later. She'd thought of him as a barbarian before really having a better understanding of him, but he's done nothing but handle her with the utmost care; now, she wonders how he would respond if she told him to claim her properly.

In the interim, she's less capable of summoning any words, and as he looks over her, perhaps searching for any signs that he's hurt her, she reaches up to cup his face between both hands, fingers stroking against the softness of his beard, and then leans up to press their mouths together, further reassurance that she remains unharmed.

He isn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't her touch on his face or the tenderness of her kiss. They make him moan softly against her lips before finding them again.

It doesn't take long for his affections to get more eager, the promised land in sight. She's welcoming--practically pleading--for him to move things along, which is good, because the more they kiss, the more he starts to rock up against her. It's not an intentional thrust so much as an expression of his desire and an extension of his kiss.

But then his body starts to catch back up with him, and he has to abandon her mouth so he can dare to lengthen the motion to more proper strokes. At first, he keeps things tight and deep, not wanting to lose the ground fought so valiantly for, but once he realizes that he doesn't have to fear for it, he dares to withdraw a bit more each time, aching to press back in, time and again.

Of course, Yennefer's aware of the duty involved in this — how could she not be? — but no part of this feels like responsibility in the slightest. Had she been meant to simply lay on her back and endure all of this, without any consideration given for her own enjoyment? Perhaps, but this man — her husband — had insisted on seeing to her pleasure first, giving her more than she'd ever expected to receive.

A part of her feels as though she must be getting away with something, with Sweeney's weight warm and strong between her thighs, the slow undulation of his hips, and her own body rising to meet his in turn. Surely it's not meant to feel this good, this instinctive, and yet it's as if she's stumbled upon a secret that has made her ache for him, eager for all of the pleasure he seems more than capable of giving her.

It takes her a moment, once he begins moving with more intention, to realize that he's earning a noise from her on every thrust — soft whimpers that then become louder moans, sounds she'd be embarrassed to be making if she were thinking more clearly. Yet it's impossible for her to dwell on anything other than him, hovered over her, and the next time he withdraws nearly fully, one of her hands blindly descends to grasp at his hip, fingers digging in as she tries to urge him back inside.

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