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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.

Oh no.

The way her fingers grab at him puts spurs in his sides. How could they not? Soon, it's not only her yielding unbidden sounds, though he has no embarrassment attached to them. She's his wife; shouldn't he take pleasure in fucking her? He wants every ear at the door to know that they're hard at work with great determination. Well, that's a broader want. At this point, all he can think about is filling her in a proper claiming, hard and deep and His.

His strokes grow more selfish. It's not that he doesn't care if she enjoys it; he just wants his turn to be more self-indulgent. And the longer they're at it, the more he gets caught up in it.

It's not long before he could pass for the barbarian she likely expected, his shallow breath speckled with winces and moans pushed past gritted teeth. She feels so warm and welcoming. It makes him coil tighter around her, caging her with his thrusts as he arches over and buries deep inside her.

This was meant to be perfunctory, or so Yennefer thought. All the lessons she'd received about warming her future husband's bed had not spared any room for the possibility of pleasure. Yet here, as those thrusts lengthen and deepen, as he makes more and more room for himself inside her, there's a tension starting to coil low in her belly — different, from when her own hand has strayed between her legs while she'd lain restless in the middle of the night, but still familiar, and building much more.

She can tell he's chasing his own pleasure based on the way he curves over her, wrapping her up in the warmth and security of his body while his hips power harder thrusts, but that doesn't mean she isn't enjoying herself — far from it. In fact, she might be more embarrassed by the noises she's making, small squeaking whimpers buried against the brawn of his shoulder, if it didn't have the audacity to feel this good.

Soon, perhaps too soon, she feels herself beginning to tremble beneath him, thighs shaking as the tension inside her threatens to break. She doesn't know what she needs, only that she doesn't want him to stop by any means, not when he's so deep within her that she can't tell where her body ends and his begins.

Oh god, the clench of her. For a flicker, Sweeney isn't sure if the tightening of her thighs is meant to discourage him; that he'd pushed to hard. But then she's trembling, and there's naught to be done for it but steal another dozen strokes before he yields with a sharp cry that escapes through gritted teeth.

He shoves, hip to hip, for every glorious fraction of an inch. His. For a moment, all there is is the pounding of his blood and the heat that comes, pulse after pulse, filling her belly.

Only then, does he dare to breathe more deeply, though they remain shaky things, as he does so. And in that glow, something else starts to occur to him. As she is His, he is Hers, and...he doesn't mind the thought, so much. Perhaps, it's the intoxication in the wake, but it leaves him with its own sense of warmth.

Bowing his head to reach what bit he's able with them flush against each other, he rubs his cheek to her temple in tired affection.

Yennefer’s own cataclysm is an inevitability, as hard as his thrusts are — not punishing, not as if he’s selfishly trying to wring pleasure from her body without giving it, but strong in the way where she can tell he’s given up on any semblance of control as he nears his own release. It comes for both of them, in quick sequence — hers first, so intense that she squeezes her eyes shut and can still see starbursts throughout as she forms a helpless arch beneath him, and his following behind a few drives later.

When he shoves deep, bringing their bodies flush to spill every drop of seed within her, she wonders, briefly, if this is the moment it will take — if her womb will quicken, and what he’s left within her will take root. If not, the thought of trying again doesn’t seem nearly as terrible, or obligatory, as it might have before.

In the aftermath, he drops himself against her, but rather than loathing his weight, his warmth, his sweat, she finds herself eager to bask in it, fingertips idly skimming over his spine as he nuzzles against her, both of them momentarily left at a loss for words. Something more has transpired here, in their consummation, and she’s not willing to interrogate it too closely, but she turns her head to gently seek out his lips with her own, kissing him almost sweetly.

Oh--the kissing is a surprise, but a welcome one. Sweeney has to shift a little to facilitate it more properly, and even with the additional bow of his spine, he has to sacrifice an inch of depth to angle more comfortably. There's still plenty of him in her to not have to lament the cold, so he doesn't mind so much, as his prick continues to twitch in the afterglow.

Eventually, he comes up for air and leans back just enough to meet her eyes, leaving them barely in focus.

"You a'right?" he pants softly.

"I am."

She's breathless, and flushed, but there's a light in her eyes that's unmistakable from this angle — the proof of a woman thoroughly satisfied, and one who's still content to linger in his arms despite the weight of his frame or the fact that they're both lightly sweaty from their exertions.

The most damning part of all of it, she thinks, is that the thought of doing this again doesn't bother her in the slightest, doesn't feel anywhere close to the chore she initially believed it would be. There's no telling whether his seed will quicken in her womb right away, so perhaps they'll need to engage in this more than once just to ensure it, and the small, private smile that curves up the corners of her mouth is a clear indication of her thoughts in that regard.

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