choicely | open post;

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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