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.
Oh, how he loves the way she touches his beard. Those clean-shaven fellows don't know what they're missing.
That particular thought is banished when she cranks things up unexpectedly, and a soft moan is breathed into her mouth. The feel of her Want makes him hungry in a way that's hard to explain. It mirrors in the sense of its complexity; this isn't raw lust, it's an ache for something deeper, and it burrows beneath his skin, even as it's returned in kind.
The cloth is left on the chair's arm when she scoots forward, his hand diverting to the small of her back to encourage her nearer, the other raising to cradle the back of her head so he doesn't strain it in the deepening of the kiss. Sweeney longs for the closeness he finds with her, and at the moment, her being seated in front of him just isn't close enough. He wants her laid out where they can linger together, and he can caress and dote on every inch of her. He just needs to figure out a better place for that to be.
The kiss they share becomes deeper, with a hunger that transcends something more than physical need; his touch strokes to the deepest parts of her until there's no room left for any of the lingering pains she might still be experiencing, those persistent twinges caused by the vigorousness with which she'd tried to make that performance more convincing. Yet there's one more thing she can think of that will soothe away any remaining aches, and she considers it now as she breaks the kiss to gaze up at him, hands still lightly cupping either side of his face.
"Bring me to the tub?" she suggests, a low murmur that doesn't really carry any hint of implication.
The water she'll be able to summon from the closest stream, feeling restored enough for a spell that simple, and if he feels motivated to join her in the tub, she'd welcome him there with her, even if it might be a tight squeeze for both of them to fit inside. If he's only driven to sit beside her, to remain here with her while she soaks her tired muscles, then she won't dismiss that either.
One hand drops the the bunched fabric of her robe, and with a flick of his wrist, he slings it over his shoulder. It will take him time to fill the tub, and he doesn't want her to have to wait it out naked, in the chill. Then the hand takes her gently by the wrist so he can turn his head to kiss her palm before urging it around his neck.
Further encouraging her to wrap around him, Sweeney gently guides her knee over his hip, not minding where her leg might rub against striped welts or lacerations. Tugging her flush to him, he secures her with a forearm under her hips as he pushes up to standing. Taking a moment to make sure she's comfortably balanced, he nuzzles his cheek against her temple and starts off to the bath.
When he bends low to pick her up off her feet, Yennefer instinctively reaches out to him, letting him guide her arm around his neck and then lifting herself, even if she stops shy of wrapping her legs around his waist and simply resorts to gripping either side of him with her knees. The position draws her up higher along his body, letting her look down at him for a change, and she tucks her face against his, pressing her nose to his temple in an unconscious echo of his initiating.
It's rare, for her to feel this small or even helpless, and while she knows he would never perceive her that way, she's more willing to lower her defenses in his company, to allow him to be the one who bears her weight in his arms, who carries her across the small cottage while she presses herself in close and draws in the scent of him with a soft inhale.
"I can see to filling the tub." She offers the assurance to him before they reach it, her voice soft and barely above a whisper while their faces are so close together. He'll need to put her down first, but a part of her isn't eager to insist on that just yet, though she isn't trying to distract him either, or divert him from his intended path.
There's something about the way she nuzzles him back and buries herself against him. It makes him feel the closeness inside as well as out; like she's mirroring his own primal nature, no matter how strange it might otherwise appear to someone else. It's very natural for him.
Her offer is surprising, and he's grateful that it'll be easier than expected. The tub isn't too far, but he takes a moment to ask before he gets there.
"You need anythin' for it?" There might be spell components or the like; he's not particularly familiar with how her magic works, and he doesn't want to assume.
"I'll be alright." While she has no intention of drawing on his strength to fuel her own, at least not without warning, the mere benefit of having him to lean on should she suddenly feel weakened might go without saying at this point. She doesn't stray far, not even once he eventually sets her back down on her feet, bracing herself against the strength of his body as she stretches out a hand to hover over the top of the tub.
The water she can draw on from a nearby source, not more than can be spared, so as to maintain that balance. Calling on a different source to warm it takes a different spell, but she won't embrace the forbidden fire magic, instead utilizing hotter air and merging it into the water until the surface is visibly steaming.
Then, she slumps back against him a little, giving herself the opportunity to recover her strength, but she doesn't think he'll object to being used for purchase, not when it means so much of her is pressed against so much of him.
He keeps close at hand, ready to serve if called upon, but mostly, he's left to stand and marvel at her skill. It's like Gilia's, in so much that it's the command of water, but they execute it differently. It's beautiful to watch as she works.
When she slumps, he's ready to catch her. Though he certainly enjoys the press of her, his thoughts are far from bedding her in the moment. Sweeney just wants her to feel better. Safer. Free from the acts they'd had to partake in. The ones that still have the collar buckled around his neck and welted stripes painted over his back.
"You ready?" he asks, offering a hand to assist her getting into the tub, even though the rest of him remains against her so she won't fall backwards when she does.
"Mmhmm." While words fail her in the moment, that doesn't mean she's too exhausted to summon the strength to move, and she finds herself equally compelled to remain leaning against him for a little while longer, at least until necessity and the awareness of a gradually cooling bath finally drive her to withdraw.
She will take advantage of the hand he offers to step over and into the tub, slowly sinking down into the heated water until only her head and the tops of her shoulders are clearly visible, the rest of her partially obscured by the rippling surface. When she reaches forward with a dripping arm for one of the bottles sitting on the edge, it's so she can place a few drops of scented oil into the water, until the steam itself begins to carry the scent of lilac and gooseberry.
"Shame the tub's not big enough for two," she points out, finally leaning back against the side as she surveys him above her. It's not a suggestion she offers for any reason other than sensing he might also appreciate the opportunity to soak his tired limbs.
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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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That particular thought is banished when she cranks things up unexpectedly, and a soft moan is breathed into her mouth. The feel of her Want makes him hungry in a way that's hard to explain. It mirrors in the sense of its complexity; this isn't raw lust, it's an ache for something deeper, and it burrows beneath his skin, even as it's returned in kind.
The cloth is left on the chair's arm when she scoots forward, his hand diverting to the small of her back to encourage her nearer, the other raising to cradle the back of her head so he doesn't strain it in the deepening of the kiss. Sweeney longs for the closeness he finds with her, and at the moment, her being seated in front of him just isn't close enough. He wants her laid out where they can linger together, and he can caress and dote on every inch of her. He just needs to figure out a better place for that to be.
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"Bring me to the tub?" she suggests, a low murmur that doesn't really carry any hint of implication.
The water she'll be able to summon from the closest stream, feeling restored enough for a spell that simple, and if he feels motivated to join her in the tub, she'd welcome him there with her, even if it might be a tight squeeze for both of them to fit inside. If he's only driven to sit beside her, to remain here with her while she soaks her tired muscles, then she won't dismiss that either.
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The question earns a small smile and nod.
"I will."
One hand drops the the bunched fabric of her robe, and with a flick of his wrist, he slings it over his shoulder. It will take him time to fill the tub, and he doesn't want her to have to wait it out naked, in the chill. Then the hand takes her gently by the wrist so he can turn his head to kiss her palm before urging it around his neck.
Further encouraging her to wrap around him, Sweeney gently guides her knee over his hip, not minding where her leg might rub against striped welts or lacerations. Tugging her flush to him, he secures her with a forearm under her hips as he pushes up to standing. Taking a moment to make sure she's comfortably balanced, he nuzzles his cheek against her temple and starts off to the bath.
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It's rare, for her to feel this small or even helpless, and while she knows he would never perceive her that way, she's more willing to lower her defenses in his company, to allow him to be the one who bears her weight in his arms, who carries her across the small cottage while she presses herself in close and draws in the scent of him with a soft inhale.
"I can see to filling the tub." She offers the assurance to him before they reach it, her voice soft and barely above a whisper while their faces are so close together. He'll need to put her down first, but a part of her isn't eager to insist on that just yet, though she isn't trying to distract him either, or divert him from his intended path.
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Her offer is surprising, and he's grateful that it'll be easier than expected. The tub isn't too far, but he takes a moment to ask before he gets there.
"You need anythin' for it?" There might be spell components or the like; he's not particularly familiar with how her magic works, and he doesn't want to assume.
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The water she can draw on from a nearby source, not more than can be spared, so as to maintain that balance. Calling on a different source to warm it takes a different spell, but she won't embrace the forbidden fire magic, instead utilizing hotter air and merging it into the water until the surface is visibly steaming.
Then, she slumps back against him a little, giving herself the opportunity to recover her strength, but she doesn't think he'll object to being used for purchase, not when it means so much of her is pressed against so much of him.
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When she slumps, he's ready to catch her. Though he certainly enjoys the press of her, his thoughts are far from bedding her in the moment. Sweeney just wants her to feel better. Safer. Free from the acts they'd had to partake in. The ones that still have the collar buckled around his neck and welted stripes painted over his back.
"You ready?" he asks, offering a hand to assist her getting into the tub, even though the rest of him remains against her so she won't fall backwards when she does.
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She will take advantage of the hand he offers to step over and into the tub, slowly sinking down into the heated water until only her head and the tops of her shoulders are clearly visible, the rest of her partially obscured by the rippling surface. When she reaches forward with a dripping arm for one of the bottles sitting on the edge, it's so she can place a few drops of scented oil into the water, until the steam itself begins to carry the scent of lilac and gooseberry.
"Shame the tub's not big enough for two," she points out, finally leaning back against the side as she surveys him above her. It's not a suggestion she offers for any reason other than sensing he might also appreciate the opportunity to soak his tired limbs.
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