With only his initial inquiry into her well-being to lean on, Yennefer hadn't expected to be confronted with the proof of Sweeney's own endurance along similar lines, and that surprise is rendered clear in the brief widening of her gaze, the press of her lips into a firm line as she takes in the view of him up close. The injuries he's sustained aren't even close to fully healed, clothes stained dark with drying blood and likely ruined for future wear.
"I could ask you the same thing," she says, more pointedly, her hand rising for fingers to curl around one bruised wrist, guiding it down from her face — not because she wants him to stop touching her, but because she's drawing his attention to her awareness of his wounds.
"We must make a pretty sight, the two of us."
But she lets his other hand sweep the halves of her robe open, the belt loose enough that the knot doesn't require much effort to be undone, and a slow shrug of her shoulders sends that layer to the floor in a whisper of fabric, puddling around her ankles and baring her completely to his gaze.
The claw marks are the worst of it — small pinpricks where they'd dug in and held, bigger scratches where she'd deliberately thrashed around to make it seem as though she was resisting. But there are bite marks too, across her neck and lower, and bruises from digits pushed deep into her flesh, adorning her throughout. The collar, at least, hadn't chafed her overmuch, but there are still faint indentations left behind from its design, and her thighs, her backside, are still tender with the sting of repeated impact.
"He would've stopped at any point, if I'd asked him to." But she hadn't, and they'd been in communication the entire time, playing their respective roles to such a degree that the audience would find no fault with the performance. What she hadn't anticipated was the realization that what had transpired wasn't... completely unbearable for her.
There's no way not to stare, and his eyes wander her body as he notes the various wounding, planning for ways he might easy her pain. He doesn't protest her moving his hand, though Sweeney doesn't seem to be concerned by it. This is nothing particularly new. His body is abused, such is the way of life. Or...whatever this is.
"But...you didn't?"
He can't help but lick his lip at the sight of bites near her collar. They start to stir something in his that he wishes they didn't. It's unfortunate the the trousers were designed to accentuate his assets, not conceal them. The blood's not rushing, but it is moving.
"That 'cause ya felt like ya shouldn't?" Sweeney's eyes dart up to hers.
"Or 'cause ya enjoy it?"
There's no judgement; in truth there's cautious interest. It's not as if she isn't aware of what lives in him, both his monster and the simple, primal shape of his want. Sweeney reins himself, even subconsciously, out of respect and to protect her from him and the damage he can do.
If there was a possibility of her taking issue with his gaze on her like this, she wouldn't have slipped the robe off to begin with — but she has, and even if his attention pulls her own awareness back in the direction of each and every one of these lingering scrapes and bites, at least none of those sensitive areas are chafing against the fabric anymore.
"I didn't, because it was better to go up on that stage with someone who owed me a favor." A favor Khoriya had extended to her after she'd healed him, and a favor she'd readily called on when confronted with the possibility of having to playact her way through one of these little performances.
Sweeney's gaze drops below her face, and she already knows what he can see — the places where she can still feel the hot swipe of a tongue over her skin, the sensation of a snout pushing into her hair and breathing in her scent. She isn't pricked anew by any kind of arousal, but she understands the question he's asking.
"... but I did enjoy it," she finally murmurs, a hushed confession into the diminished space between them, while there are only his ears to hear it. "More than I had any right to."
A favor. That's something Sweeney understands, all too well. And in that, he knows he should be grateful. No, he is grateful. He just can't fully banish the image of the wolf over her, how it reminds him of his own shape when he loses himself. About how she likes it. Apparently. He swallows, fighting the urge to dip his fingers to see what the other had left.
No.
Sweeney pushes the impulse away, bending a little to look over the rest of her. His touch is delicate as he grazes her skin, and he's mindful to give berth to the worst of it. Darting his gaze up to hers, his brow lifts in question.
"You gotta basin? I'll see ya cleaned up."
His smile is faint, but warm and supportive. Sweeney wants to take care of her, to heal her hurt and prove his affection.
Her first instinct is to assure him that she doesn't need his assistance, that she's more than capable of bathing herself, but even as she turns to verify the placement of the washbowl and any clean cloths he'll need for the task, the movement alerts her to the places where she's still tender, prompting a subtle indraw of breath, a quiet hissing sound.
It'll go easier, she thinks, if she has someone to help her with reaching what may already be difficult on her own, and in that sense she can relent, ceding authority over to him for this particular moment even if it conflicts with her natural impulse to handle it herself.
"Over there," she finally concedes, with a subtle slump of shoulders, nodding to where the basin sits on a small table in the corner of the room.
An ease finds him at her concession. This is something he can do. Sweeney kisses her softly, then nudges her nose with his.
"Just get a chair near the fire," he murmurs. He'll do the rest. Crouching, he collects her robe, pausing to kiss her thigh before standing and offering it to her.
Sweeney moves to collect the basin, cloths, and pitcher of water. Crossing to the hearth, he pours some water in the kettle and gets it over a low flame. When it's warmed, he'll put it in the basin and refill it. Warm water isn't required, but can be such a comfort, for being so little additional effort. She's worth it, and he wants to take his time. No good to have her shivering.
Yennefer gathers the robe against herself, but doesn't shift to do more by way of donning it again. If his intent is to help her wash herself, to clean the places where dirt and sweat no doubt still cling to her, to rinse away dried blood, then she's only going to have to peel it off again. Better to simply settle herself in that chair by the fire, as he's directed, while keeping the fabric clutched against the front of her frame.
The fire in itself affords her opportunity to become somewhat lulled — its flickering flames, that idle crackling sound it makes, and his movement around her isn't startling, but rather something she's become inwardly accustomed to. If she dared to close her eyes, she'd know exactly where he's standing within the cabin simply based on the sound of his clothing rustling, his footsteps over the floor.
"If chaos were an option, I would have healed myself by now," she finally murmurs, even as her gaze doesn't shift away from the hearth. "But drawing on power for ourselves, using it to repair what's in us... the effects can be as damaging as attempting to channel fire."
Her words give him pause, and he sets down the plate he's precariously balanced his supplies on. Having been crouched, he simply swivels on his toes and takes a few steps on his knees to put himself in front of her. Sweeney's sigh is soft when he leans in to kiss her forehead before resting his own against it.
"It's a'right, luv." He smiles gently, even if she can't see it.
"We'll do it the old-fashioned way."
While he's not eager to admit it (or discourage magic healing in general), there's something nice about being able to tend her; to offer comfort when she's in need. Sweeney's still looking for a niche to fill in a corner of her life. He wants to matter to her. To be wanted without the risk of becoming redundant. That particular feeling is one he's dealt with often over the years, and he's willing to put in the work to avoid it with her.
Having been staring off at a distant point, she doesn't fully perceive his shift in position until he's already kneeling in front of her, his descent paired with the height advantage he normally has over her meaning that they're closer to eye level now. There's no chance of hiding anything now, not even the smallest change in her expression when he can see it all plainly, but something in the way he simply presses his lips to her forehead threatens to unravel her as her eyes flutter shut.
"Don't think that leaves you immune," she warns, in an effort to regain her composure before it slips away to a place she can't retrieve it from. Her voice is less stern than she aims for it to be, but the unspoken intention is there — for her to use her magic to tend to his wounds, if he'll let her, once she's regained a bit more of her strength.
But she lets the robe she's been clutching to her front drop, both as a means of giving him unguarded access to tend to her and so that she can bring her empty hands up to cup the sides of his face, keeping their foreheads nudged together as she breathes out a quiet sigh and her fingers gently stroke the hairs of his beard.
"Would you stay, tonight?" She doesn't phrase it as a demand, or an order, but an ask, a request, something that borders on a plea. The most damning part of all of it is that fucking him is the furthest thing from her mind right now, but what she wants from him here is greater, deeper than that.
Her touch is welcome, as is the baring of her skin, even marred as it is. Sweeney rests a hand over hers.
"Course, I will, luv." As if there was a question. She'd have to fight to kick him out. Well, not actually fight. But he'd make a firm protest before he'd concede.
He nuzzles her nose with his before leaning back and turning to kiss her palm. Sweeney cracks a lopsided smirk.
"You think I'm gonna pass up a chance ta have yer hands all o'er me?" he pokes cheekily. One more quick kiss, and he twists back to the plate. Sweeney strains to reach it, but manages to collect it without tumbling everything onto the floor. Next, he tips some warm water into a bowl and leaves the kettle back by the fire.
Cloth dipped and squeezed, he looks up at her, surveying where he might start. Sweeney swallows, trying not too think too hard on the image of snout and teeth against her skin as he brings the rag to her throat. He keeps his gaze focused on his work while he speaks, his voice soft.
"Was it bad?"
Obviously, it wasn't great, but there's bad and then there's Bad.
Yennefer's shoulders sag slightly, more of the tension she'd been keeping there fleeing at the assurance of Sweeney's words, and her gaze drifts over him, studying the intricacies of his features as he turns his head to drop a kiss into the center of her palm, the ticklish quality of his beard making her fingers curl reflexively.
At this point, her responsibility is simply to sit as still as possible and allow him to tend to her — he'll be able to clean the places she can't necessarily reach on her own, or see the wounds that might have escaped her notice when she was in the height of things on stage.
The injuries on her throat are clear bite marks, places where fangs clearly sank into the skin and then dragged somewhat — but only because she'd moved beneath Khoriya's firm hold, turning them into longer scratches than smaller punctures. The sensation of the warm, damp cloth against them is equally soothing and stinging, and Yennefer closes her eyes briefly, waiting until the initial smarting has passed.
"No. It wasn't bad. Whatever — whatever it was you saw between us, we were speaking to each other about it throughout. Telepathically. He made no move without verifying it with me first, and I, in turn, encouraged him to make it look more... convincing for everyone watching." Up to and including the moment where Khoriya had pretended to fuck her without any actual penetration, but they'd certainly simulated the act effectively enough if her very real climax had been any indication. She doesn't outwardly reference it now, but depending on the portion of the performance Sweeney had witnessed, it likely hadn't failed to escape his notice.
Tension slows his hand for a moment at her answer. Sweeney isn't sure if that's better or worse. Better, he knows, and yet. That she not only submitted but encouraged him, he doesn't know how to feel about it. He knows how he should feel; that he's grateful she wasn't actively violated for the crowd's entertainment. He swallows and forces himself to loosen and get back to his work.
Sweeney does his best not to think about it. About the way her moans and cries were far too believable; how he'd heard the same pressed against him in the moments they've savored together. About how someone else had earned the same, so blatant and publicly.
"It was convincin'," he assures her, both his voice and eyes low. Sweeney works his way over her shoulder and down her arm, intermittently wringing out fresh water as he goes.
"I'm glad he was..." What's a good word for it? "...respectful."
She won't pretend to ignore his hesitation at her words, as the cloth briefly pauses against her skin — and while she can understand his attempts to comprehend it, she also knows that their efforts on stage had been entirely designed to make it seem as though she was being forced into that predicament. To learn that it had all been a ruse forces a reconciliation of memory, of juxtaposing what he'd been witness to against the truth.
"He wouldn't have been in that position if I hadn't asked him to be," Yennefer finally murmurs, turning her head towards his as he resumes his efforts with the cloth, lifting her arm obligingly as he runs it down toward her hand.
"He owed me a favor, of sorts. And I wanted the option to... perform opposite someone I was already familiar with rather than a complete stranger." And she certainly hadn't given Khoriya much opportunity to refuse, either, determined to be able to choose her partner if little else.
The more information she gives, the easier it is to take. A Favor. Sweeney understands those well enough. He also understands having to do things one would not choose to do without obligation. The blood and welts on his skin stand testament to that.
"It is better--" Of that, at least, he is certain. "--that it was someone ya know." And more importantly: "By yer choice." There's no hesitation found there. That said, he doesn't hate the idea that the pair of them are even now; outstanding debt is a complicated topic of his, just due to his own baggage.
When he finishes with her hand, he moves it enough to kiss her fingertips. It's a quick act, a punctuation before he shifts to her other arm and starts again.
"That 'nough fer you?" Sweeney leans back enough to look her in the eyes.
"Performin', I mean. Or do ya plan ta go back fer more?" There's no judgement; he just wants to know.
Yennefer doesn't outwardly remark on his assessment as he gives it, but it seems that now, at least, he understands more of her perspective, more about what had driven her to that particular decision — the desire to endure the experience alongside someone she already had a sense of, as well as calling on them for the favor she'd been owed.
For the moment, she simply allows Sweeney to maneuver her, her arms relaxed as he adjusts her to run the cloth over her skin, gaze soft until he poses a certain question to her.
"More of...? No. No, nothing like that," she murmurs, insistence bleeding into her tone as she shakes her head. "If I don't have to be up on a stage like that, I won't be." Of course, she's taking into account the possibility that she might be forced into another performance in the future, but that's a wholly separate issue in her mind. Still, she peers at him more carefully — not warily, but letting her gaze rove over him with a directness.
The answer is simple enough, even if its ripples are more complicated.
"I don't want ya ta hav'ta hurt more." Sweeney doesn't want that for either of them. But there are certain things that would be more concerning for possible future engagements.
"'specially if yer outta favors. If..." His gaze shifts askew for a moment, but he busies his hands with his work. "If they would be crueler to ya." He licks his lip before sucking it between his teeth, trapping it long enough to try to share a thought before raising his eyes to give it.
"It's hard. Watchin' you be..." Violated. But had she been? If it was of her own request? The idea is confusing when he tries to balance it between his head and his heart. It would be easier if he could just...not be so close. But that seems increasingly less plausible, as far as solutions go. "...used."
Sweeney's aware it's not his place, and his focus shifts down just to the dip of her throat. He can already hear the counter, and he answers it preemptively.
"I know. I don't hav'ta watch. If it bothers me." A faint shrug finds his shoulder.
"But it's worse. Not knowin'." That alone brings up a complication he had not considered.
"I hope it dunn't bother you. That I did." Sweeney isn't sure if it's too weird, like he's trying to claim her or something. He's not. He just...worries.
If he has to ask whether she'd been harmed against her will, or he's not certain whether she even had been, perhaps she's a better actress than she would have initially given herself credit for. The claw marks and bites on her skin are evidence that Khoriya may have gotten a little overzealous, but at the same time, how much of that is simply a product of his size relative to hers, and the fact that she'd essentially encouraged him to make it as convincing as possible? She can't fault him, then, for doing exactly what she'd asked him to do.
"On the contrary, I imagine playing by their rules is something they'd be more inclined to reward for," Yennefer points out lowly. It's why she's made a show of participating in these performances, why she's made it seem as though she's gone into it willingly — leaving them with little reason to find fault with her, and ensuring she's earned some level of good standing herself should she ever need to request a favor of her own.
The way she looks at him now, her gaze steady if somewhat worn around the edges, should be all the indication he needs to know that this is part of her greater plan — giving some to get more in exchange.
"It doesn't. Bother me," she finally adds, ducking her chin slightly until their eyes can meet again. "If I'd known you were there... perhaps it would have made the whole thing more bearable."
That's a sentiment that Sweeney shares; planting the seeds of compliance to gain more favor (or at least comfort) in the future. The last comment leaves him pensive for a moment.
No words are offered; he just leans in and kisses her softly. It's not chaste, but it's tender, an act of connection more than longing.
"I'll try ta catch yer eye, should we find ourselves in such a situation in the future." Sweeney would like to think it was improbable, but he knows the odds are not in their favor. He rests his forehead against hers, his eyes still seeking her own, even though focus is impossible.
"Or maybe ya'll just hear me knockin'," he suggests with the subtle sweetness of play.
"There are better ways of attracting my attention," Yennefer points out, a subtle reminder of the fact that he can reach for the telepathic link that seems to be shared through the entirety of the Void-touched. It's something that she considers a privilege on its own, since she so often keeps her mind shielded from the thoughts of others — all the better to preserve her own sanity so she isn't privy to what she considers nonsensical, undisciplined rambling.
What she's saying, in so many words, is that his mind can reach out to hers to let her know his presence is near if they're incapable of physically laying eyes on each other. Even if she had been distracted by what was occurring on stage with Khoriya, she would have noticed if Sweeney had been trying to establish that connection.
But when she sighs, it's a reassured sound, rather than anything plaintive or wistful. She's comforted, and not merely because she no longer has so much dried blood flaking on her skin. Her forehead shifts against his, her gaze tired when she lifts her chin to better regard him but still eased.
"There will be more like that. I have no doubt of that." Whether she enters into it willingly or finds herself more compelled to engage is a different matter entirely, but here, at least he can understand her motivation behind it, as well as why she'd employed who she had.
"I know." There's nothing defensive in the statement, only a shared sense of resignation. But then he inhales slowly and nuzzles her nose with his before grazing her lips in a passing kiss.
"When the time comes, if I'm able ta be there with ya, e'en confined ta such companionship, I want that. With you." Perhaps something holds a touch too long, and he forces his gaze down, turning his efforts to washing her thighs and calves with diligent attention.
"And if it required more than a simple connection of minds?" What if he were the one in the position of having to wield some implement against her on that stage, make it seem as if she's been overpowered and at his mercy? Or, in a turn of fate, she were the one who had to make him kneel to her, to perform to her satisfaction?
Part of her doesn't want him to be forced into any role where they have to play-act their way through it for the pleasure of an audience; it's a scenario she'd seek to keep him from if such a decision were left up to her.
But she still needs to know, if such a thing were to happen, if he would be willing to enter into it with her.
Sweeney leans back to get her eyes in focus so she can see his conviction.
"When it does, I'll give what I can ta make it easier on you. On both of us." He knows well enough that there's no 'if' here, at the end of the day. It's only a matter of time.
"I just hope you'll forgive me." If it's a sin against her.
He worries what it might be. There have been so many obligations already; this had just been the trickiest to date. But that hardly means there aren't far greater burdens that might be required to be born. His is still shackled around his neck.
In a scenario where they both recognize what they have to do in order to satisfy some determined requirement, even if it's something they'd prefer to avoid, she wouldn't hold that against him — the same way she imagines he wouldn't harbor a grudge if she were forced into superiority over him.
For the moment, all seems quiet and settled, but there have already been several festivals consisting of these public performances. She has every reason to believe that today won't be the last of them.
"I don't need to forgive you," she repeats, "because I'd rather it be you than anyone else here."
There's relief in her assurance. Sweeney tries to tell himself that they can get through just about anything if they can do it together and she won't hate him for it after. His gaze had started to go distant in the thought, but those last words snap his eyes up to hers with a lining of surprise, like he isn't sure he's heard her correctly. But after a moment of quick review, he can find no fault in his understanding.
All of the rest starts to fall away; his worry and territorial defensiveness of the wolf curled over her melts in her choice. She'd choose him to share her suffering. It sounds fucked up, but there's so much in that sentiment. Sweeney leans in to kiss her. It's nothing hungry or claiming, nor is it chaste. The connection is one of tender promise. He accepts her sentiment and returns it in kind; there's the sense that the kiss is meant to tell her that he wants the same, that he would entrust himself to her, whenever that inevitability comes.
His mouth lingers, as if to write her a wordless poem with the graze of his lips and tongue. Sweeney urges forward slightly, pressing the cloth into the arm of the chair as he braces both hands on them to keep his weight off of her.
There's no avoiding it, no sugarcoating the truth — they may be forced to do things they don't enjoy with one another, things they'd rather not do to each other, but Yennefer's far from the type of woman who would begrudge him whatever he might have to do in order to make her convincingly kneel for him. In fact, the trust inherent between them, something unspoken but still intensely felt, is precisely why she'd rather he be the one to do it over any other choice she could make.
She leans into his kiss, tilting her head back as he shifts to hover over her, his hands braced on the arms of the chair she's seated in, and her hand rises for her to tease fingertips over his beard, stroking the reddish-brown hair, as soft and assuring as it is a gentle entreaty for more.
It's not that she necessarily wants him to fuck her — the lingering ache in her body might reduce that possibility — but the notion of being close to him, particularly in this moment, is too tempting to resist, and she surges up to meet him more directly, perching on the edge of her seat, both hands cupping his face between them now as her mouth moves deeply against his.
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"I could ask you the same thing," she says, more pointedly, her hand rising for fingers to curl around one bruised wrist, guiding it down from her face — not because she wants him to stop touching her, but because she's drawing his attention to her awareness of his wounds.
"We must make a pretty sight, the two of us."
But she lets his other hand sweep the halves of her robe open, the belt loose enough that the knot doesn't require much effort to be undone, and a slow shrug of her shoulders sends that layer to the floor in a whisper of fabric, puddling around her ankles and baring her completely to his gaze.
The claw marks are the worst of it — small pinpricks where they'd dug in and held, bigger scratches where she'd deliberately thrashed around to make it seem as though she was resisting. But there are bite marks too, across her neck and lower, and bruises from digits pushed deep into her flesh, adorning her throughout. The collar, at least, hadn't chafed her overmuch, but there are still faint indentations left behind from its design, and her thighs, her backside, are still tender with the sting of repeated impact.
"He would've stopped at any point, if I'd asked him to." But she hadn't, and they'd been in communication the entire time, playing their respective roles to such a degree that the audience would find no fault with the performance. What she hadn't anticipated was the realization that what had transpired wasn't... completely unbearable for her.
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"But...you didn't?"
He can't help but lick his lip at the sight of bites near her collar. They start to stir something in his that he wishes they didn't. It's unfortunate the the trousers were designed to accentuate his assets, not conceal them. The blood's not rushing, but it is moving.
"That 'cause ya felt like ya shouldn't?" Sweeney's eyes dart up to hers.
"Or 'cause ya enjoy it?"
There's no judgement; in truth there's cautious interest. It's not as if she isn't aware of what lives in him, both his monster and the simple, primal shape of his want. Sweeney reins himself, even subconsciously, out of respect and to protect her from him and the damage he can do.
But if she's into it...
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"I didn't, because it was better to go up on that stage with someone who owed me a favor." A favor Khoriya had extended to her after she'd healed him, and a favor she'd readily called on when confronted with the possibility of having to playact her way through one of these little performances.
Sweeney's gaze drops below her face, and she already knows what he can see — the places where she can still feel the hot swipe of a tongue over her skin, the sensation of a snout pushing into her hair and breathing in her scent. She isn't pricked anew by any kind of arousal, but she understands the question he's asking.
"... but I did enjoy it," she finally murmurs, a hushed confession into the diminished space between them, while there are only his ears to hear it. "More than I had any right to."
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No.
Sweeney pushes the impulse away, bending a little to look over the rest of her. His touch is delicate as he grazes her skin, and he's mindful to give berth to the worst of it. Darting his gaze up to hers, his brow lifts in question.
"You gotta basin? I'll see ya cleaned up."
His smile is faint, but warm and supportive. Sweeney wants to take care of her, to heal her hurt and prove his affection.
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Her first instinct is to assure him that she doesn't need his assistance, that she's more than capable of bathing herself, but even as she turns to verify the placement of the washbowl and any clean cloths he'll need for the task, the movement alerts her to the places where she's still tender, prompting a subtle indraw of breath, a quiet hissing sound.
It'll go easier, she thinks, if she has someone to help her with reaching what may already be difficult on her own, and in that sense she can relent, ceding authority over to him for this particular moment even if it conflicts with her natural impulse to handle it herself.
"Over there," she finally concedes, with a subtle slump of shoulders, nodding to where the basin sits on a small table in the corner of the room.
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"Just get a chair near the fire," he murmurs. He'll do the rest. Crouching, he collects her robe, pausing to kiss her thigh before standing and offering it to her.
Sweeney moves to collect the basin, cloths, and pitcher of water. Crossing to the hearth, he pours some water in the kettle and gets it over a low flame. When it's warmed, he'll put it in the basin and refill it. Warm water isn't required, but can be such a comfort, for being so little additional effort. She's worth it, and he wants to take his time. No good to have her shivering.
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The fire in itself affords her opportunity to become somewhat lulled — its flickering flames, that idle crackling sound it makes, and his movement around her isn't startling, but rather something she's become inwardly accustomed to. If she dared to close her eyes, she'd know exactly where he's standing within the cabin simply based on the sound of his clothing rustling, his footsteps over the floor.
"If chaos were an option, I would have healed myself by now," she finally murmurs, even as her gaze doesn't shift away from the hearth. "But drawing on power for ourselves, using it to repair what's in us... the effects can be as damaging as attempting to channel fire."
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"It's a'right, luv." He smiles gently, even if she can't see it.
"We'll do it the old-fashioned way."
While he's not eager to admit it (or discourage magic healing in general), there's something nice about being able to tend her; to offer comfort when she's in need. Sweeney's still looking for a niche to fill in a corner of her life. He wants to matter to her. To be wanted without the risk of becoming redundant. That particular feeling is one he's dealt with often over the years, and he's willing to put in the work to avoid it with her.
He just wants to do things that make him worthy.
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"Don't think that leaves you immune," she warns, in an effort to regain her composure before it slips away to a place she can't retrieve it from. Her voice is less stern than she aims for it to be, but the unspoken intention is there — for her to use her magic to tend to his wounds, if he'll let her, once she's regained a bit more of her strength.
But she lets the robe she's been clutching to her front drop, both as a means of giving him unguarded access to tend to her and so that she can bring her empty hands up to cup the sides of his face, keeping their foreheads nudged together as she breathes out a quiet sigh and her fingers gently stroke the hairs of his beard.
"Would you stay, tonight?" She doesn't phrase it as a demand, or an order, but an ask, a request, something that borders on a plea. The most damning part of all of it is that fucking him is the furthest thing from her mind right now, but what she wants from him here is greater, deeper than that.
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"Course, I will, luv." As if there was a question. She'd have to fight to kick him out. Well, not actually fight. But he'd make a firm protest before he'd concede.
He nuzzles her nose with his before leaning back and turning to kiss her palm. Sweeney cracks a lopsided smirk.
"You think I'm gonna pass up a chance ta have yer hands all o'er me?" he pokes cheekily. One more quick kiss, and he twists back to the plate. Sweeney strains to reach it, but manages to collect it without tumbling everything onto the floor. Next, he tips some warm water into a bowl and leaves the kettle back by the fire.
Cloth dipped and squeezed, he looks up at her, surveying where he might start. Sweeney swallows, trying not too think too hard on the image of snout and teeth against her skin as he brings the rag to her throat. He keeps his gaze focused on his work while he speaks, his voice soft.
"Was it bad?"
Obviously, it wasn't great, but there's bad and then there's Bad.
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At this point, her responsibility is simply to sit as still as possible and allow him to tend to her — he'll be able to clean the places she can't necessarily reach on her own, or see the wounds that might have escaped her notice when she was in the height of things on stage.
The injuries on her throat are clear bite marks, places where fangs clearly sank into the skin and then dragged somewhat — but only because she'd moved beneath Khoriya's firm hold, turning them into longer scratches than smaller punctures. The sensation of the warm, damp cloth against them is equally soothing and stinging, and Yennefer closes her eyes briefly, waiting until the initial smarting has passed.
"No. It wasn't bad. Whatever — whatever it was you saw between us, we were speaking to each other about it throughout. Telepathically. He made no move without verifying it with me first, and I, in turn, encouraged him to make it look more... convincing for everyone watching." Up to and including the moment where Khoriya had pretended to fuck her without any actual penetration, but they'd certainly simulated the act effectively enough if her very real climax had been any indication. She doesn't outwardly reference it now, but depending on the portion of the performance Sweeney had witnessed, it likely hadn't failed to escape his notice.
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Sweeney does his best not to think about it. About the way her moans and cries were far too believable; how he'd heard the same pressed against him in the moments they've savored together. About how someone else had earned the same, so blatant and publicly.
"It was convincin'," he assures her, both his voice and eyes low. Sweeney works his way over her shoulder and down her arm, intermittently wringing out fresh water as he goes.
"I'm glad he was..." What's a good word for it? "...respectful."
Yeah, that's close enough.
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"He wouldn't have been in that position if I hadn't asked him to be," Yennefer finally murmurs, turning her head towards his as he resumes his efforts with the cloth, lifting her arm obligingly as he runs it down toward her hand.
"He owed me a favor, of sorts. And I wanted the option to... perform opposite someone I was already familiar with rather than a complete stranger." And she certainly hadn't given Khoriya much opportunity to refuse, either, determined to be able to choose her partner if little else.
"Anyway, he and I are even now."
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"It is better--" Of that, at least, he is certain. "--that it was someone ya know." And more importantly: "By yer choice." There's no hesitation found there. That said, he doesn't hate the idea that the pair of them are even now; outstanding debt is a complicated topic of his, just due to his own baggage.
When he finishes with her hand, he moves it enough to kiss her fingertips. It's a quick act, a punctuation before he shifts to her other arm and starts again.
"That 'nough fer you?" Sweeney leans back enough to look her in the eyes.
"Performin', I mean. Or do ya plan ta go back fer more?" There's no judgement; he just wants to know.
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For the moment, she simply allows Sweeney to maneuver her, her arms relaxed as he adjusts her to run the cloth over her skin, gaze soft until he poses a certain question to her.
"More of...? No. No, nothing like that," she murmurs, insistence bleeding into her tone as she shakes her head. "If I don't have to be up on a stage like that, I won't be." Of course, she's taking into account the possibility that she might be forced into another performance in the future, but that's a wholly separate issue in her mind. Still, she peers at him more carefully — not warily, but letting her gaze rove over him with a directness.
"Why do you ask?"
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"I don't want ya ta hav'ta hurt more." Sweeney doesn't want that for either of them. But there are certain things that would be more concerning for possible future engagements.
"'specially if yer outta favors. If..." His gaze shifts askew for a moment, but he busies his hands with his work. "If they would be crueler to ya." He licks his lip before sucking it between his teeth, trapping it long enough to try to share a thought before raising his eyes to give it.
"It's hard. Watchin' you be..." Violated. But had she been? If it was of her own request? The idea is confusing when he tries to balance it between his head and his heart. It would be easier if he could just...not be so close. But that seems increasingly less plausible, as far as solutions go. "...used."
Sweeney's aware it's not his place, and his focus shifts down just to the dip of her throat. He can already hear the counter, and he answers it preemptively.
"I know. I don't hav'ta watch. If it bothers me." A faint shrug finds his shoulder.
"But it's worse. Not knowin'." That alone brings up a complication he had not considered.
"I hope it dunn't bother you. That I did." Sweeney isn't sure if it's too weird, like he's trying to claim her or something. He's not. He just...worries.
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"On the contrary, I imagine playing by their rules is something they'd be more inclined to reward for," Yennefer points out lowly. It's why she's made a show of participating in these performances, why she's made it seem as though she's gone into it willingly — leaving them with little reason to find fault with her, and ensuring she's earned some level of good standing herself should she ever need to request a favor of her own.
The way she looks at him now, her gaze steady if somewhat worn around the edges, should be all the indication he needs to know that this is part of her greater plan — giving some to get more in exchange.
"It doesn't. Bother me," she finally adds, ducking her chin slightly until their eyes can meet again. "If I'd known you were there... perhaps it would have made the whole thing more bearable."
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No words are offered; he just leans in and kisses her softly. It's not chaste, but it's tender, an act of connection more than longing.
"I'll try ta catch yer eye, should we find ourselves in such a situation in the future." Sweeney would like to think it was improbable, but he knows the odds are not in their favor. He rests his forehead against hers, his eyes still seeking her own, even though focus is impossible.
"Or maybe ya'll just hear me knockin'," he suggests with the subtle sweetness of play.
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What she's saying, in so many words, is that his mind can reach out to hers to let her know his presence is near if they're incapable of physically laying eyes on each other. Even if she had been distracted by what was occurring on stage with Khoriya, she would have noticed if Sweeney had been trying to establish that connection.
But when she sighs, it's a reassured sound, rather than anything plaintive or wistful. She's comforted, and not merely because she no longer has so much dried blood flaking on her skin. Her forehead shifts against his, her gaze tired when she lifts her chin to better regard him but still eased.
"There will be more like that. I have no doubt of that." Whether she enters into it willingly or finds herself more compelled to engage is a different matter entirely, but here, at least he can understand her motivation behind it, as well as why she'd employed who she had.
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"When the time comes, if I'm able ta be there with ya, e'en confined ta such companionship, I want that. With you." Perhaps something holds a touch too long, and he forces his gaze down, turning his efforts to washing her thighs and calves with diligent attention.
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Part of her doesn't want him to be forced into any role where they have to play-act their way through it for the pleasure of an audience; it's a scenario she'd seek to keep him from if such a decision were left up to her.
But she still needs to know, if such a thing were to happen, if he would be willing to enter into it with her.
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"When it does, I'll give what I can ta make it easier on you. On both of us." He knows well enough that there's no 'if' here, at the end of the day. It's only a matter of time.
"I just hope you'll forgive me." If it's a sin against her.
He worries what it might be. There have been so many obligations already; this had just been the trickiest to date. But that hardly means there aren't far greater burdens that might be required to be born. His is still shackled around his neck.
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In a scenario where they both recognize what they have to do in order to satisfy some determined requirement, even if it's something they'd prefer to avoid, she wouldn't hold that against him — the same way she imagines he wouldn't harbor a grudge if she were forced into superiority over him.
For the moment, all seems quiet and settled, but there have already been several festivals consisting of these public performances. She has every reason to believe that today won't be the last of them.
"I don't need to forgive you," she repeats, "because I'd rather it be you than anyone else here."
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All of the rest starts to fall away; his worry and territorial defensiveness of the wolf curled over her melts in her choice. She'd choose him to share her suffering. It sounds fucked up, but there's so much in that sentiment. Sweeney leans in to kiss her. It's nothing hungry or claiming, nor is it chaste. The connection is one of tender promise. He accepts her sentiment and returns it in kind; there's the sense that the kiss is meant to tell her that he wants the same, that he would entrust himself to her, whenever that inevitability comes.
His mouth lingers, as if to write her a wordless poem with the graze of his lips and tongue. Sweeney urges forward slightly, pressing the cloth into the arm of the chair as he braces both hands on them to keep his weight off of her.
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She leans into his kiss, tilting her head back as he shifts to hover over her, his hands braced on the arms of the chair she's seated in, and her hand rises for her to tease fingertips over his beard, stroking the reddish-brown hair, as soft and assuring as it is a gentle entreaty for more.
It's not that she necessarily wants him to fuck her — the lingering ache in her body might reduce that possibility — but the notion of being close to him, particularly in this moment, is too tempting to resist, and she surges up to meet him more directly, perching on the edge of her seat, both hands cupping his face between them now as her mouth moves deeply against his.
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