choicely | open post;

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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