"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.
His chuckle is soft and low. "Oh, I'm not sure that tub's big 'nough fer the one'a me," he pokes gently. Sweeney would fit, surely, but not without his knees bent and peaked out of the water. Which isn't to say he wouldn't enjoy a bath, especially one with her; he just knows it's impractical.
While she's adding the oil, he's looking for a sponge. If he doesn't find one, a washcloth will do, so he can kneel at her side and get his hand under the water to tend her more fully.
"No, but you still might want the opportunity to clean up when I'm done here," Yennefer points out. Just because she's been more preoccupied with letting him wash off some of the crusting remnants of her own stage performance doesn't mean that his current state hasn't escaped her notice, and she doesn't want him to neglect himself in the process of prioritizing her.
Regardless, she watches him grab the sponge, reaching for her with it, leaning forward so he can start with her back as she draws her knees up closer to her chest and wraps her arms around them.
"I know something that will clean the water once I'm through," she murmurs, propping her cheek on her knee as she gives him a sideways glance. "Unless you'd rather smell like lilac and gooseberry."
Oh yes, this is much better. Sweeney sweeps her hair over her shoulder and takes turns between dipping the sponge into the water and drawing soft circles over her back.
"There're worse things than carryin' the smell of you 'round on me," he pokes with a small, lopsided smirk." He bends to place a soft kiss on the damp skin of her shoulder.
"Though I won't protest the opportunity for fresh water, either."
Otherwise he'll just hit the banya. He certainly doesn't want to impose.
Her smile is slow, and faint, but sincere, and she might seem a bit smaller compared to her normal demeanor, dark hair long and wet and falling well past her shoulders, even though she's gathered it to the front of herself so that it doesn't interfere too much with his efforts at washing her.
Most of what had dried or crusted onto her skin had come off with the cloth before, but she can't fault him the desire for a clean bath of his own afterward.
"Anyone with heightened senses will surely be able to tell where you've been," she points out, straightening again in order to offer him access to her front. But more than giving him the opportunity to wear her scent, she wants to see him equally cleansed of anything that might still be left behind from the festival. It's one more means of leaving all of that behind. Her eyes drop to the collar he's still wearing.
Sweeney's all too content to shift his attention to the front of her, though it does lead to more thoughts of being in the tub with her and his arm wrapped around her, his fingers playing with her clit to make her slosh bathwater onto the floor.
He does his best to keep has actual focus (mostly) on a more thorough washing, although it would be a lie to say he didn't attend her breasts more than was necessary. But her question catches him off-guard, and in the moment, he stills with the ghost of innocence.
"Are you willin'?"
It's something Sweeney's craved for the sake of symbolism, as much as to have her touch on his sensitive skin, but somewhere along the way, he had abandoned his hope for it. But now it's renewed, and there is cautious desire in his eyes when they dart up to hers.
He wasn't planning to ask for it; there's too much risk for it to be something sexual, and he doesn't want to obligate her to anything, especially in the midst of their mutual exhaustion. That said, if she accepts, he's ready to present himself, twisted with his head bowed and the buckle exposed. Truth is, he doesn't need the help; he just really wants it.
To her credit, Yennefer manages not to become too affected by his strokes over her, the lingering aches in her body overriding the potential for any stoked desire, but there is more color in her cheeks by the time her question gives him pause and he stills over her, her chest rising and falling a bit more quickly than it had been before he'd begun.
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to," she murmurs, mouth curving in a bit of a lopsided smile, but she also hadn't been certain if his intent was to leave it on for some deeper reason, a motivation that wasn't clear from her perspective. Now, presented with the option to slip it off him herself, she wants to play a role in slowly stripping away any reminders of the festival, the way he had for her.
It's still gradual, her capacity for movement, but, gripping the sides of the tub, she can push herself up to kneeling out of the water more, rivulets running down her skin as she reaches out with damp fingers in wordless petition.
There's something invigorating in the act, and as she shifts, so does he. Getting up on his knees more properly, Sweeney curls deeply to expose the buckle at the back so she can easily see it. He wets his lip in the moment that hangs. It doesn't help that he's starting at a swath of her nakedness beneath the water's surface.
He longs for the sensation her fingers and lips, as well as the freedom that comes with them.
If he'd asked her to do this immediately after the stage, she might not have been able to fiddle with the buckle in the same way, her fingers cramped from so much clutching and grasping. But the heat of the water has soothed her stiffness, anything that might have had a hold on her, and she's relaxed enough to be able to accomplish the task deftly, easing the heavy collar away from his throat with a subtle scrunching of her nose at its weight in her hand.
No doubt he'll feel the relief that accompanies not having it clasped around his neck anymore, but even so, she lets it slip from her fingers to hit the floor with a dull thud and then sways forward to press her nose against his neck, breathing in the lingering scents of sweat and leather before urging a soft kiss there.
His breath trembles at the feel of her against his bared skin. It's all the more sensitive for the time trapped in confinement. He nuzzles against her softly, not looking to discourage the contact, only encourage the intimacy.
Sweeney feels the longing to serve her. Not as a submissive or a slave, but something born of raw affection; a desire to tend her as she tends him in a tandem act. It does seem funny, yet fitting, that his liberation should bring such a Want.
"Thank you," he whispers, the words sacred, even in the softness. It brings with it the image of him helping her out of the tub before drying her off, taking a knee as he does so and planting a soft kiss on the side of her ribs, near her breast but not on it.
Her lips flit over his throat, soft and tender, as though she wants to refamiliarize herself with this place of vulnerability before she places a more deliberate, sucking kiss there, the slightest flick of tongue. She isn't trying to incite him, or to necessarily spur him on to more, but with more of her strength returning, she doesn't shy away from initiating such things.
"I should be the one thanking you," she points out, and as his image plays across her mind, she moves to satisfy it, to give him her hand so that he can assist her in first stepping out of the tub and then beginning to dry her off with a clean cloth meant for that very purpose.
By the time he kneels before her, her hands are on him, fingers carding through his hair, nails lightly raking over his scalp; he presses that kiss to the side of her ribs and it's soft enough to elicit a trembling, her arms encircling his head as she draws him against the front of her body and merely holds him close, her heartbeat thudding calmly in his hearing.
His breath trembles at the sensation of her lips on his neck. In that moment, his body starts to move blood in a lower direction, and Sweeney remembers how tight his torn trousers are. But then she's standing, giving him what he wants, and he pushes the thought aside.
God, it feels so good. More than it has a right to, being as simple as it is. Just having her wrapped around him, her fingers in his hair and her skin on his face, is sublime. Sweeney takes several long breaths to savor the smell of her and the oil. His thoughts drift to lazier days where they might spend an afternoon indulging in bathing. How he would happily wash and braid her hair and--
He has to shift a little, but it doesn't help. Without pulling back, Sweeney lowers his hands to undo his trouser buttons, just to relieve the increasing pressure of his swelling flesh. Then they return to the small of her back, cradling her to him as he speckles her chest with soft kisses.
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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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While she's adding the oil, he's looking for a sponge. If he doesn't find one, a washcloth will do, so he can kneel at her side and get his hand under the water to tend her more fully.
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Regardless, she watches him grab the sponge, reaching for her with it, leaning forward so he can start with her back as she draws her knees up closer to her chest and wraps her arms around them.
"I know something that will clean the water once I'm through," she murmurs, propping her cheek on her knee as she gives him a sideways glance. "Unless you'd rather smell like lilac and gooseberry."
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"There're worse things than carryin' the smell of you 'round on me," he pokes with a small, lopsided smirk." He bends to place a soft kiss on the damp skin of her shoulder.
"Though I won't protest the opportunity for fresh water, either."
Otherwise he'll just hit the banya. He certainly doesn't want to impose.
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Most of what had dried or crusted onto her skin had come off with the cloth before, but she can't fault him the desire for a clean bath of his own afterward.
"Anyone with heightened senses will surely be able to tell where you've been," she points out, straightening again in order to offer him access to her front. But more than giving him the opportunity to wear her scent, she wants to see him equally cleansed of anything that might still be left behind from the festival. It's one more means of leaving all of that behind. Her eyes drop to the collar he's still wearing.
"Do you need help removing it?"
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He does his best to keep has actual focus (mostly) on a more thorough washing, although it would be a lie to say he didn't attend her breasts more than was necessary. But her question catches him off-guard, and in the moment, he stills with the ghost of innocence.
"Are you willin'?"
It's something Sweeney's craved for the sake of symbolism, as much as to have her touch on his sensitive skin, but somewhere along the way, he had abandoned his hope for it. But now it's renewed, and there is cautious desire in his eyes when they dart up to hers.
He wasn't planning to ask for it; there's too much risk for it to be something sexual, and he doesn't want to obligate her to anything, especially in the midst of their mutual exhaustion. That said, if she accepts, he's ready to present himself, twisted with his head bowed and the buckle exposed. Truth is, he doesn't need the help; he just really wants it.
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"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to," she murmurs, mouth curving in a bit of a lopsided smile, but she also hadn't been certain if his intent was to leave it on for some deeper reason, a motivation that wasn't clear from her perspective. Now, presented with the option to slip it off him herself, she wants to play a role in slowly stripping away any reminders of the festival, the way he had for her.
It's still gradual, her capacity for movement, but, gripping the sides of the tub, she can push herself up to kneeling out of the water more, rivulets running down her skin as she reaches out with damp fingers in wordless petition.
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He longs for the sensation her fingers and lips, as well as the freedom that comes with them.
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No doubt he'll feel the relief that accompanies not having it clasped around his neck anymore, but even so, she lets it slip from her fingers to hit the floor with a dull thud and then sways forward to press her nose against his neck, breathing in the lingering scents of sweat and leather before urging a soft kiss there.
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Sweeney feels the longing to serve her. Not as a submissive or a slave, but something born of raw affection; a desire to tend her as she tends him in a tandem act. It does seem funny, yet fitting, that his liberation should bring such a Want.
"Thank you," he whispers, the words sacred, even in the softness. It brings with it the image of him helping her out of the tub before drying her off, taking a knee as he does so and planting a soft kiss on the side of her ribs, near her breast but not on it.
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"I should be the one thanking you," she points out, and as his image plays across her mind, she moves to satisfy it, to give him her hand so that he can assist her in first stepping out of the tub and then beginning to dry her off with a clean cloth meant for that very purpose.
By the time he kneels before her, her hands are on him, fingers carding through his hair, nails lightly raking over his scalp; he presses that kiss to the side of her ribs and it's soft enough to elicit a trembling, her arms encircling his head as she draws him against the front of her body and merely holds him close, her heartbeat thudding calmly in his hearing.
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God, it feels so good. More than it has a right to, being as simple as it is. Just having her wrapped around him, her fingers in his hair and her skin on his face, is sublime. Sweeney takes several long breaths to savor the smell of her and the oil. His thoughts drift to lazier days where they might spend an afternoon indulging in bathing. How he would happily wash and braid her hair and--
He has to shift a little, but it doesn't help. Without pulling back, Sweeney lowers his hands to undo his trouser buttons, just to relieve the increasing pressure of his swelling flesh. Then they return to the small of her back, cradling her to him as he speckles her chest with soft kisses.
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