Fewer clothes is definitely the way to proceed, at least with more immediacy, but she doesn't have much of an opportunity to do more than let him pluck at the front ties on the bodice of her dress before he's also moving to pick her up off her feet, drawing her up against him. She seizes advantage of her new proximity to rake her fingers through his hair, the rounds of her nails lightly scratching across the back of his scalp, gripping the reddish strands in a blatant clutch.
She hasn't stopped kissing him since they started, and the interior of the cottage is more familiar to her now — less of a chance of bumping into things, as he steers them, as he leads her over not to the adjacent bedroom but to the kitchen table, which she realizes as soon as they lightly knock into it.
He won't be the only one making a concerted effort to undress her — her hands drop to the hem of his shirt, lifting it up with the clear aim of getting him to tug it up the rest of the way and off, so she can map him with her eyes as well as her mouth.
God, the feel of her fingers tangling in his hair sets him tingling, and he leans his head back just long enough to get in a lustful snarl before pressing forward, hoping she'll hold her handful taut. Either way, he's coming for her lips; they're in need of devouring.
Once her ass is on the table, his fingers are on his vest buttons, making quick work of them. Shedding it, he shucks his braces, stealing fervored kisses before yanking his shirt up and over.
Sweeney turns his attention to bunching up her skirts, hastily trying to get under them. She doesn't have to be naked; she's plenty warm even if he can't see her. He eagerly grabs at her hips, trying to get her closer to the edge of the table. There a sense of urgency, like he's too swept up in the moment to be able to decide what order he should be doing the tasks in, so he just jumps between them, as if he could somehow do them simultaneously.
She's the fortunate one, getting to be on the receiving end of watching his muscles bunch and ripple beneath skin as he goes through the motions required to peel off his vest, to slip the underlying braces down his shoulders and then tug his shirt up over his head. It's a view she wants to savor, reaching out to span her fingers across the new exposure of his abdomen, stroking over the parts of him she's essentially been given free rein to touch.
But she hasn't forgotten the reaction she'd earned when she'd fisted that grip in his hair, and she's reminded of it again now when he starts trying to hoist her skirts up, the state of her at home meaning that her legs are bare instead of covered up to mid-thigh by stockings.
Her hand flies up to his hair again, clutching at the back and tugging once, hard, to direct his face up to hers so she can slant her mouth across his — wordless in her claiming. She's told him to prove that she's his, but that doesn't mean she isn't prepared to offer evidence that he's hers, too, her tongue hungrily swirling against his as she lifts her hips enough for him to expose her practically up to the waist when he gets her skirts up that high, spilling out behind her on the table instead of hiding her from view.
Oh, how her hands stoke the fire in him; the smooth slide against his chest and the firm grip in his hair has him moaning into her mouth when she claims his.
One hand darts to cradle the back of her head so he can better anchor the kiss as the other slides up over her thigh, seeking slick flesh. When he finds it, he isn't tender; there's only a quick nudge to the first knuckle before he buries his middle two fingers deep in her. The force comes with a soft hiss as he tips his head back so he can watch her face as he takes her, savoring the sensation of proxied promise to come.
His fingers drive a moan out of her, sudden and sharp, one that she has to peel her mouth away from the kiss to give voice to as the sound ripples out of her. She’s already unmistakably wet for him — he has the ability to incite her to that degree with relative ease — but his fingers are also longer, thicker than hers, and it means experiencing that stretch when he pushes them into her all at once.
But her face is tight with pleasure, even as she chooses not to slip a hand between her legs so she can massage her clit to conjure more slick to ease the way for him. She wants his fingers to earn that from her, and they do, as her hand stays clutching tight on his hair and her gaze remains locked to his, letting him see every shift in her expression while he starts to take her like this. She isn’t holding back, either, not attempting to repress her responses, sounds freely spilling past her parted lips as he churns his big fingers deep inside her, wringing more arousal from her to coat those digits.
It's so easy to imagine his prick in her; she's so warm and wet and tight; but instead, his thumb takes up perch over her clit so he rub soft patterns as he works his fingers. The motion of them is more rocking that thrusting; absent the long vigorous strokes. Most of the sensation comes from the alternating curl and flex of his fingers inside her as he pumps.
Sweeney leans in to kiss her, sucking her tongue and nipping her lip while straining against the tension she has in his hair. There's a definite sense that edges on roughness without cruelty. He isn't trying to subdue her; he's welcoming her to return the affections in kind.
The added stimulation helps, makes her that much more capable of accommodating him, and the pairing of Sweeney's thumb alongside the penetration of his other fingers means that she's well on her way to soaking his hand if he keeps this up long enough. A deep rhythm like the one he's setting succeeds at finding those innermost places, elusive in some instances but readily discovered with something as long as his fingers are, or his cock is.
Yennefer doesn't relent her grip on his hair, either, since he seems to like the tension that's created when he tries to lean closer to her, initiating that tugging closer to his scalp. She's certainly not strong enough to keep him from getting to her, not if he's truly motivated, but every once in a while she tugs on his hair hard enough to break their kiss, letting them breathe one another's breaths as he steadily works his hand between her legs, biting at his lower lip before sweeping her tongue over that same spot to soothe. She's encouraging that roughness from him, responding to it with a measure of the same, using it to goad him on into giving her more.
He has no intention of going anywhere until he feels those delicious convulsions tight around his fingers. Sweeney wants to prove he doesn't need his cock to claim her. That said, he plans a proper follow up to show that it works just as well.
As she becomes slicker, his strokes become longer, not sharp, but eager in a way that shows how hungry he is for her climax; to prove his worth so he can have her.
Yennefer's willingness and want to return the rough handling in kind only spurs him onward, and his devouring kisses divert down her throat. The hand in her hair shifts forward so he can hook his thumb under her jaw and urge it up and to the side enough to expose more of her neck to his mouth.
The sounds between them become harsher, more obvious, the slickness of skin sliding against skin as he adjusts the rhythm of his fingers inside her, taking advantage of her rising arousal to initiate firmer strokes.
She's panting, too, breaths that quicken the higher he drives her need, and it's as simple as an afterthought for her to tip her head back at his urging, let his mouth traverse the column of her throat. She's always been more sensitive there, a truth he'll be reminded of as soon as she reflexively tightens around his fingers, a shiver that signals the inevitability of a more intense release.
But she keeps him clutched to her throughout, her hold in his hair allowing her to urge him to her throat, the tension in her body rising, small whimpers punctuating every breath.
Somewhere between the pain in his scalp and the clench around his fingers, a trembling groan is pressed against her skin. Sweeney is committed to pushing her through the wake, but his prick is impatient, not even free of his accursed buttons.
When her trembling has mostly ebbed, he slips from her to said binding, slick fingers hurrying to rectify the trouble. Sweeney sucks a quick breath as he works the sensitive flesh free. Selfishly, he dips the same fingertips to steal more of her arousal to coat his cock in a familiar U-shaped slide.
Sweeney turns her face slightly that he can kiss her when he aligns himself. Even stretched and primed, he grants two middling strokes before thrusting all the way in. The sensation makes him whimper into her mouth. It doesn't matter how many times he fucks her, it's still sublime. He doesn't know if it's the joining of their magic or simply the shape of her, but it's welcoming in a way that lingers in the exotic, even when it's familiar. He takes a couple of breaths just savoring her warmth wrapped around him before starting into long strokes.
He doesn't withdraw from her to leave her to clench around nothing; the lingering, residual pleasure comes from still having his fingers inside her while she rides the waves of her climax, but she can tell from a brief glance in his direction that he's also on the edge of succumbing to his own need.
In the interim, while he separates from her to fiddle with the front of his trousers, it allows her to catch her breath, to soak in the anticipation of whatever's next, to let her gaze drop as she takes in the sight of him pulling his cock free and rubbing glossy fingers over the shaft to ready himself as much as her.
Even with the previous orgasm, he's still something for her to adjust to, his size working her open with those initiating thrusts before he slides deeper still, and her hands fly to him, bracing on his shoulders, her thighs squeezing reflexively on either side of his hips as she draws him in against her. Each push and pull of their bodies is too much and not enough; she can feel herself lowering the shields of her chaos, the way she did when he'd come to her with a different need. This time, she wants to feel his magic stroking up against hers, entwining, merging while he's inside her, and the more he moves, the further she invites his power to enter her too.
"Please," she whispers, turning her face to his, nuzzling against his jaw. "Let me feel you."
There's a flicker at her request; he's unsure if she wants him to still and pulse inside her, or if she's encouraging him to keep going. But in that faint pause, he can feel it. It's a tingling against his skin at the start, which isn't uncommon when he's with someone bearing magic. However, it becomes increasingly obvious that this is not the same. It's something familiar that he just can't place.
Then realization comes.
The field. The forest. The two of them inside each other deeper than anyone has the right to be. It had been overwhelmingly intense, enough to steal the air from him. But this is not like that; it's more like sinking into a warm bath than being kicked off a cliff into the sea. Her magic both reaches out to him and makes space for his to fill. It's not completely intuitive as to how to do so, but once Sweeney stops trying to overthink it, the path becomes natural.
Golden tendrils wrap and pool in violet, whether or not its seen. The length of his stroke is shallow, even though he's still deep in her; it's more of a nudging as his magic works in concert to share the same. For a few breaths, he presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed so he can dwell in the newness of the feeling. He both aches and belongs, and it's intoxicating as fuck.
It doesn't take him long to discern the true meaning behind her request, what she's all but begged him for. There's a pause, almost the span of a breath or two, and then she can feel him, his magic, slowly sliding up against her own. It isn't like his cock, that unmistakable stretch, but something deeper than that nudging in and taking root. She can't see it visibly, by way of the naked eye, but it's palpably felt, as intense as the day when they'd stood outside this house and she'd allowed him in.
She gasps, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she arches against him; the gradual penetration of his magic ensures she's being filled by him in more than one sense, and that overwhelming sensation intensifies their physical connection until he can't move a mere inch without her feeling it in every cell of her body.
The more they move together, the more his magic permeates her, and the more she urges her magic into him in return, filling in the spaces that are left behind until no part of them is still empty. Through him, she tastes the wild, the sun, the harvest, and surrounds them with the essence of her power, the elements, raw and untamed energies that she can harness to her will. Just as it was in the caves, she embraces him, incapable of voicing anything save the thoughts that whisper across his mind.
They're still fucking, but this feels so much more. More than the Baron's magic. More than the Backstage. She's in him and on him and tangled so tight there's no resistance at all. Where his Wild is still bound in the Laws of Nature, hers is raw potential, and tasting it makes everything feel so much bigger.
She makes him glow in a way that coats his lips with the oil and salt of Gilia's bread; a sacred Offering to the god within. Yennefer's magic feeds his and it leaves him bountiful in answer, wanting to give as much as he receives. To keep the scales balanced and find the equilibrium where they both are as they are and are with each other.
Sweeney's breath trembles against her lips between kisses. They've grown more shallow as the experience has shifted towards a different focus. He doesn't need them for the intimacy; he feels, in the moment, that he could be outside and still sense he's in her, even separated by the wall.
The movement of their bodies enables a deeper union — the more he pushes against her, into her, the more she feels his magic penetrating her defenses, the walls she's made such an effort to maintain now disappeared in the wake of all they'd divulged to each other. The last time she'd felt his power, it had been new and unfamiliar, almost too overwhelming for her to endure for any longer than she had to. Now, with all she knows, all she understands, it's the simplest means she has of being as close to him as possible.
In his arms, she can feel every part of this place — the sun spilling through the windows, bathing certain patches of the floor in warmth. The slightest breeze ghosting through the trees, stirring branches. A stream flowing in the distance, running over rocks. Somewhere, someone has started a fire, flames licking, wood cracking. Her pleasure is his, belongs to him solely in this moment, and yet she experiences his rising in tandem with her, one connection intensifying the other.
She wraps her arms around his neck, drawing herself in, her legs lashing around his waist as she rocks up to meet him, no longer kissing him so much as letting her mouth deliriously brush against his, taking indulgent sips, and his words caress her from within, conjuring a breathless chuckle as she opens her eyes to regard him from a closer proximity.
Yours. It's a soft promise, far from the kraken's harsh demands uttered in the cave, as tender as she means it. From this day forward.
Sweeney can't promise all the days forward; there're simply too many ahead. Well, hopefully. It's hard to tell here. But his body's trained to assume some variation of Forever, with a lot of forgetting in between. That doesn't mean he doesn't want it. That doesn't mean it isn't true for him, in this moment. Everything is swirling and blending, and he isn't sure where the edges are anymore.
(In me. In you. In me. Together.)
It's so strange to feel so much of what she feels, especially when a good chunk of it is what he's feeling. It's a loop that sinks them deeper; coats her skin in gold and infuses his veins with a glow of purple. Her Chaos burns in him with forbidden fire, and it pulses through him as he throbs in her.
His toes curl tightly in his boot as his thrusts urge longer and more forceful. The pace is pushed as he tries to nip at her lips, but mostly he just winces between short, shallow breaths as his mouth hovers against hers.
It's so much.
Sweeney isn't sure if there's another way to describe it. There certainly isn't now, not when words are yielding to image and sensation. They're in her bed and on the grass. Cold stone and hot embers and lost in the depths of the sea. He wants her with him anywhere that he is. That he can be. The safety of home in the perilous Unknown, every inch of him on edge, even as she soothes it with her tender promises.
There is the truth to consider — that their days here may yet be limited, especially with the knowledge that the Void can simply seize any one of them at a moment's notice, never to allow them to return. Whether they're trapped in some unknown sphere or sent back to the one they first came from is still difficult to determine, but neither of them, in this moment, can promise eternity.
Yet the connection they share removes her from an ability to perceive time all that closely — every minute seems to stretch on forever, limitless in scope and possibility. She's been hovering on the precipice of climax for simultaneously mere seconds and years, trapped in that state but basking in it too.
Her pleasure and his overlap, bleed together, and it becomes near-impossible to determine what she's feeling versus what he perceives. While her chaos is so often difficult to see clearly, an invisible force that can be funneled into whatever spell she wishes, she swears that she can see it threading through his veins as his power pushes into her, makes her glow from within until it's spilling out of her fingertips, her toes, the ends of her hair. It swirls around them, braiding together in a twining that encircles them, cocoons them in safety, blocks out the rest of the world and leaves nothing but them remaining.
She'll never be able to feel him differently after this — a part of her will always be open to him, easily sensed even across a physical distance, to an even deeper degree than anything that might have lingered behind after the first time. The difference is that she isn't going to look for a means of shedding his power, or immediately trying to purge it from her.
Her eyes flutter open as she braces herself back on one hand, wanting the view of his face as she undulates against him, rides him with harder rolls of her hips. They're moving in unison now, anticipating the build within them both, chasing it. Instead of attempting to draw the energies out of him, she's letting them course through her before sending them right back into him, that circuit swelling. There'll be no going back after this, not for her, not when she's given him that piece that's already his.
He's trying so hard to wait her out, to know he's given unto her before he takes, but there comes a moment of crystal clarity: she's waiting him out too. Not because she means to, but because they're so bound that they're existing in the pleasure of each other, denying themselves in the efforts to please the other.
Well, fuck that.
Sweeney forgives himself, and lets go. The orgasm is so much richer in the fact that it's selfish, but there's no guilt in being so. His cry is sharp, and it slides to a moan and then a whimper as he loses himself inside her. It's like falling only to be caught and held in the after. The climax is raw, but the wake is exotic; his skin is on fire, but it's all glowing coals instead of flame. She accepts his Offering, and he is grateful.
Even after, it takes him several pumps to slow and still, and he leans against her so he doesn't have to sacrifice a fraction of an inch. Sweeney's mouth seeks hers in thankful kisses, prayers for her lips while he tries to simultaneously nuzzle her nose in primal affection. When he's with her, he's both. She's both. They're both, together.
What proves more of a surprise isn't that he finishes before her, but that his climax triggers her own, that she's so attuned to him that her own release effectively sneaks up on her until she's coming right alongside him, his pleasure assuring hers as they press their bodies flush and he fills her, and she in turn ensures that no drop goes unspilled.
Even if it would be impossible for her to get with child — that choice was removed from her years ago — there's a small, visceral urge she possesses to keep as much of him inside her as she can, right alongside the power that already tethers them. They may not have outwardly confessed such a thought to each other, but perhaps they don't have to; perhaps her thoughts are his, and vice versa, and any thought she has is one he's already harbored ten times over.
She basks in the warmth of his affection, the contented groan that leaves her edging closer to a purr as he nuzzles her, mutually participating in that lazy exchange of kisses while they're still physically connected too. She's not necessarily eager to have him withdraw from her any time soon, and she'll take what she can get before he finally moves to.
It had been her challenge, after all; to prove she's his. As if there's any denying it in the here and now, her so properly filled. But more importantly, the bond had been tied when they shared so freely, a sacrifice given and received. What a beautiful and sacred thing, here with her. On the kitchen table. An altar, if crude one, it does seem fitting somehow. Then again, maybe Sweeney just likes to fuck in kitchens.
He lingers, pressed against her, deep and twitching as he savors her tight warmth. If he had the choice, Sweeney would stay inside her until he could swell again to start all over, but there's something else he wants to give her before then. Just...not yet. First, there are more kisses and nuzzling and naked affection.
"Mm?" Yennefer's response is a soft, inquiring hum rather than anything that requires active thought to form words, especially when she's regarding him with a slightly dazed expression.
Then, of course, realization dawns, and she glances at him anew, clarity dawning across her features before her mouth curves into a broad, amused smile. Then, she laughs, an unguarded sound, happiness brimming over through their connection in a way he can feel as well as perceive with their power entangled so much more definitively. Unless she chooses to sever their tether, or he does, the link will maintain itself, allowing her to sense him, and vice versa, despite a potential physical distance.
"You did," she murmurs, that laugh spilling over her words somewhat, as she tips their foreheads together, a playful nudge, before retreating slightly to study him, lifting a hand to rake fingers through his reddish hair. "Without question."
That laugh and the smile that goes with it--that nakedness puts a prickling in his chest that spreads warmth through him. There's a reverence in it, even when it's playful. Familiar. Safe.
(Good.)
Sweeney wets his lip, and with a quick swallow to find a clearer voice, he makes a soft confession. "I got somethin' ta give ya--somethin' else ta give ya--" Something that isn't his dick. He laughs softly as his eyes slip beneath their lids in quiet amusement.
"But it's in my vest." It's a lamentation, to be sure.
The pile of it is much too far to reach without parting from her, and there's the sense that he isn't any more eager to do that than she is for him to do it. So instead, he lifts his hand to sink his fingers into her dark locks in tandem. Leaning in, he kisses her with a gentle insistence that, while free of primal urgency, is anything but chaste.
"Something else?" Her echo of his words is more teasing, feigning incredulity — even though she has a difficult time imagining what else he could gift her beyond what he already has, the willingness to surrender himself, to link his power with hers. Compared to that, she wouldn't expect anything else, but she understands his reluctance to completely extricate himself from her, even though they're still mostly dressed between the two of them.
Before she can encourage him to withdraw from her and retrieve whatever he's referring to, the threading of his fingers through her hair elicits a soft moan, one he immediately stifles by slanting his mouth against hers.
There's no intent to devour him anew as she kisses him back, but it's certainly not soft, nor innocent, but closer to mutually claiming, a natural extension of everything they've shared. She drinks him in, slowly, indulgently, and then finally breaks the kiss herself to murmur softly over his lips. "Show me."
For a second, Sweeney thinks he'll be able to get a second bite at that particular apple; her kiss meeting his like that; but then she makes her soft request. He sighs the rest of his breath and gives a quick flick of her cupid's bow with the tip of his tongue.
Leaning back, first with his head, he pauses for his eyes to narrow playfully, as if to make a note that she owes him for the sacrifice he's about to make. Then the rest of him follows suit. Sweeney winces silently as he slips from her, waiting a moment before shifting himself around enough to get a couple of buttons done for support to keep from bobbing about.
Taking the extra step, he crouches at the pile of clothes and digs through the pockets to find a flat box, about 4" square. Then he returns, stepping between her thighs but not leaning against her. A flicker of hesitation proceeds him holding it before her in temporary illustration.
"Ya know there's ta be a tournament, an'..." How strange it is, that after all they've just done, he can't shake a touch of shyness.
"Well, I was hopin'...things go well an' all, that you might--" He urges it towards her gently.
"That you might consider bein' mine." His cheeks go pink, and he stutters slightly.
"My Queen. Fer--the tournament." And all the days after.
Inside the box is a neatly-folded green sash, bearing an embroidered spearhead crowned with rays. On top of it is nestled a necklace, it's pendant a swirl of metal around a smooth amethyst stone.
Her own sound, as he slips free of her, is a soft inhale, before she reaches down to adjust the drape of her skirts across her thighs. Whatever she's still aware of in terms of the mess he's left there isn't enough to distract her from watching him, pull away, but it's also a pleasant reminder for her to wordlessly bask in, another piece of himself he's left behind in her.
The smile on her face lingers, faint and reflective, as he crouches to retrieve what he's been referencing from the pile of clothes that they'd quickly dispensed of in reaching for each other, even if both of them are still mostly dressed by comparison.
The announcement of the tourney hadn't escaped her notice, chiefly because it's being hosted by the Targaryens, and seems to stem mostly from a desire to affect positive relations with the Duchess and the village at large. Yennefer herself has every intention of attending, at least long before she's presented with the box, and her smile only widens, becoming more incredulous before she opens what he's gifted her, wordlessly marveling over its contents.
"Is this what you came here to ask me from the beginning?" she finally asks, brushing her fingertips over the necklace's smooth amethyst stone.
"You know you didn't have to lavish me with gifts to secure my acceptance." But that doesn't mean she isn't interested in keeping them as she reaches up to unclasp her own obsidian pendant, setting it down beside her on the table, and then moves to don his gift in its place.
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She hasn't stopped kissing him since they started, and the interior of the cottage is more familiar to her now — less of a chance of bumping into things, as he steers them, as he leads her over not to the adjacent bedroom but to the kitchen table, which she realizes as soon as they lightly knock into it.
He won't be the only one making a concerted effort to undress her — her hands drop to the hem of his shirt, lifting it up with the clear aim of getting him to tug it up the rest of the way and off, so she can map him with her eyes as well as her mouth.
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Once her ass is on the table, his fingers are on his vest buttons, making quick work of them. Shedding it, he shucks his braces, stealing fervored kisses before yanking his shirt up and over.
Sweeney turns his attention to bunching up her skirts, hastily trying to get under them. She doesn't have to be naked; she's plenty warm even if he can't see her. He eagerly grabs at her hips, trying to get her closer to the edge of the table. There a sense of urgency, like he's too swept up in the moment to be able to decide what order he should be doing the tasks in, so he just jumps between them, as if he could somehow do them simultaneously.
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But she hasn't forgotten the reaction she'd earned when she'd fisted that grip in his hair, and she's reminded of it again now when he starts trying to hoist her skirts up, the state of her at home meaning that her legs are bare instead of covered up to mid-thigh by stockings.
Her hand flies up to his hair again, clutching at the back and tugging once, hard, to direct his face up to hers so she can slant her mouth across his — wordless in her claiming. She's told him to prove that she's his, but that doesn't mean she isn't prepared to offer evidence that he's hers, too, her tongue hungrily swirling against his as she lifts her hips enough for him to expose her practically up to the waist when he gets her skirts up that high, spilling out behind her on the table instead of hiding her from view.
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One hand darts to cradle the back of her head so he can better anchor the kiss as the other slides up over her thigh, seeking slick flesh. When he finds it, he isn't tender; there's only a quick nudge to the first knuckle before he buries his middle two fingers deep in her. The force comes with a soft hiss as he tips his head back so he can watch her face as he takes her, savoring the sensation of proxied promise to come.
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But her face is tight with pleasure, even as she chooses not to slip a hand between her legs so she can massage her clit to conjure more slick to ease the way for him. She wants his fingers to earn that from her, and they do, as her hand stays clutching tight on his hair and her gaze remains locked to his, letting him see every shift in her expression while he starts to take her like this. She isn’t holding back, either, not attempting to repress her responses, sounds freely spilling past her parted lips as he churns his big fingers deep inside her, wringing more arousal from her to coat those digits.
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Sweeney leans in to kiss her, sucking her tongue and nipping her lip while straining against the tension she has in his hair. There's a definite sense that edges on roughness without cruelty. He isn't trying to subdue her; he's welcoming her to return the affections in kind.
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Yennefer doesn't relent her grip on his hair, either, since he seems to like the tension that's created when he tries to lean closer to her, initiating that tugging closer to his scalp. She's certainly not strong enough to keep him from getting to her, not if he's truly motivated, but every once in a while she tugs on his hair hard enough to break their kiss, letting them breathe one another's breaths as he steadily works his hand between her legs, biting at his lower lip before sweeping her tongue over that same spot to soothe. She's encouraging that roughness from him, responding to it with a measure of the same, using it to goad him on into giving her more.
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As she becomes slicker, his strokes become longer, not sharp, but eager in a way that shows how hungry he is for her climax; to prove his worth so he can have her.
Yennefer's willingness and want to return the rough handling in kind only spurs him onward, and his devouring kisses divert down her throat. The hand in her hair shifts forward so he can hook his thumb under her jaw and urge it up and to the side enough to expose more of her neck to his mouth.
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She's panting, too, breaths that quicken the higher he drives her need, and it's as simple as an afterthought for her to tip her head back at his urging, let his mouth traverse the column of her throat. She's always been more sensitive there, a truth he'll be reminded of as soon as she reflexively tightens around his fingers, a shiver that signals the inevitability of a more intense release.
But she keeps him clutched to her throughout, her hold in his hair allowing her to urge him to her throat, the tension in her body rising, small whimpers punctuating every breath.
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When her trembling has mostly ebbed, he slips from her to said binding, slick fingers hurrying to rectify the trouble. Sweeney sucks a quick breath as he works the sensitive flesh free. Selfishly, he dips the same fingertips to steal more of her arousal to coat his cock in a familiar U-shaped slide.
Sweeney turns her face slightly that he can kiss her when he aligns himself. Even stretched and primed, he grants two middling strokes before thrusting all the way in. The sensation makes him whimper into her mouth. It doesn't matter how many times he fucks her, it's still sublime. He doesn't know if it's the joining of their magic or simply the shape of her, but it's welcoming in a way that lingers in the exotic, even when it's familiar. He takes a couple of breaths just savoring her warmth wrapped around him before starting into long strokes.
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In the interim, while he separates from her to fiddle with the front of his trousers, it allows her to catch her breath, to soak in the anticipation of whatever's next, to let her gaze drop as she takes in the sight of him pulling his cock free and rubbing glossy fingers over the shaft to ready himself as much as her.
Even with the previous orgasm, he's still something for her to adjust to, his size working her open with those initiating thrusts before he slides deeper still, and her hands fly to him, bracing on his shoulders, her thighs squeezing reflexively on either side of his hips as she draws him in against her. Each push and pull of their bodies is too much and not enough; she can feel herself lowering the shields of her chaos, the way she did when he'd come to her with a different need. This time, she wants to feel his magic stroking up against hers, entwining, merging while he's inside her, and the more he moves, the further she invites his power to enter her too.
"Please," she whispers, turning her face to his, nuzzling against his jaw. "Let me feel you."
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Then realization comes.
The field. The forest. The two of them inside each other deeper than anyone has the right to be. It had been overwhelmingly intense, enough to steal the air from him. But this is not like that; it's more like sinking into a warm bath than being kicked off a cliff into the sea. Her magic both reaches out to him and makes space for his to fill. It's not completely intuitive as to how to do so, but once Sweeney stops trying to overthink it, the path becomes natural.
Golden tendrils wrap and pool in violet, whether or not its seen. The length of his stroke is shallow, even though he's still deep in her; it's more of a nudging as his magic works in concert to share the same. For a few breaths, he presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed so he can dwell in the newness of the feeling. He both aches and belongs, and it's intoxicating as fuck.
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She gasps, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she arches against him; the gradual penetration of his magic ensures she's being filled by him in more than one sense, and that overwhelming sensation intensifies their physical connection until he can't move a mere inch without her feeling it in every cell of her body.
The more they move together, the more his magic permeates her, and the more she urges her magic into him in return, filling in the spaces that are left behind until no part of them is still empty. Through him, she tastes the wild, the sun, the harvest, and surrounds them with the essence of her power, the elements, raw and untamed energies that she can harness to her will. Just as it was in the caves, she embraces him, incapable of voicing anything save the thoughts that whisper across his mind.
Be with me always. Your power in mine.
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She makes him glow in a way that coats his lips with the oil and salt of Gilia's bread; a sacred Offering to the god within. Yennefer's magic feeds his and it leaves him bountiful in answer, wanting to give as much as he receives. To keep the scales balanced and find the equilibrium where they both are as they are and are with each other.
Sweeney's breath trembles against her lips between kisses. They've grown more shallow as the experience has shifted towards a different focus. He doesn't need them for the intimacy; he feels, in the moment, that he could be outside and still sense he's in her, even separated by the wall.
(Mine. Yours. Together.)
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In his arms, she can feel every part of this place — the sun spilling through the windows, bathing certain patches of the floor in warmth. The slightest breeze ghosting through the trees, stirring branches. A stream flowing in the distance, running over rocks. Somewhere, someone has started a fire, flames licking, wood cracking. Her pleasure is his, belongs to him solely in this moment, and yet she experiences his rising in tandem with her, one connection intensifying the other.
She wraps her arms around his neck, drawing herself in, her legs lashing around his waist as she rocks up to meet him, no longer kissing him so much as letting her mouth deliriously brush against his, taking indulgent sips, and his words caress her from within, conjuring a breathless chuckle as she opens her eyes to regard him from a closer proximity.
Yours. It's a soft promise, far from the kraken's harsh demands uttered in the cave, as tender as she means it. From this day forward.
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(In me. In you. In me. Together.)
It's so strange to feel so much of what she feels, especially when a good chunk of it is what he's feeling. It's a loop that sinks them deeper; coats her skin in gold and infuses his veins with a glow of purple. Her Chaos burns in him with forbidden fire, and it pulses through him as he throbs in her.
His toes curl tightly in his boot as his thrusts urge longer and more forceful. The pace is pushed as he tries to nip at her lips, but mostly he just winces between short, shallow breaths as his mouth hovers against hers.
It's so much.
Sweeney isn't sure if there's another way to describe it. There certainly isn't now, not when words are yielding to image and sensation. They're in her bed and on the grass. Cold stone and hot embers and lost in the depths of the sea. He wants her with him anywhere that he is. That he can be. The safety of home in the perilous Unknown, every inch of him on edge, even as she soothes it with her tender promises.
So. Fucking. Much.
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Yet the connection they share removes her from an ability to perceive time all that closely — every minute seems to stretch on forever, limitless in scope and possibility. She's been hovering on the precipice of climax for simultaneously mere seconds and years, trapped in that state but basking in it too.
Her pleasure and his overlap, bleed together, and it becomes near-impossible to determine what she's feeling versus what he perceives. While her chaos is so often difficult to see clearly, an invisible force that can be funneled into whatever spell she wishes, she swears that she can see it threading through his veins as his power pushes into her, makes her glow from within until it's spilling out of her fingertips, her toes, the ends of her hair. It swirls around them, braiding together in a twining that encircles them, cocoons them in safety, blocks out the rest of the world and leaves nothing but them remaining.
She'll never be able to feel him differently after this — a part of her will always be open to him, easily sensed even across a physical distance, to an even deeper degree than anything that might have lingered behind after the first time. The difference is that she isn't going to look for a means of shedding his power, or immediately trying to purge it from her.
Her eyes flutter open as she braces herself back on one hand, wanting the view of his face as she undulates against him, rides him with harder rolls of her hips. They're moving in unison now, anticipating the build within them both, chasing it. Instead of attempting to draw the energies out of him, she's letting them course through her before sending them right back into him, that circuit swelling. There'll be no going back after this, not for her, not when she's given him that piece that's already his.
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Well, fuck that.
Sweeney forgives himself, and lets go. The orgasm is so much richer in the fact that it's selfish, but there's no guilt in being so. His cry is sharp, and it slides to a moan and then a whimper as he loses himself inside her. It's like falling only to be caught and held in the after. The climax is raw, but the wake is exotic; his skin is on fire, but it's all glowing coals instead of flame. She accepts his Offering, and he is grateful.
Even after, it takes him several pumps to slow and still, and he leans against her so he doesn't have to sacrifice a fraction of an inch. Sweeney's mouth seeks hers in thankful kisses, prayers for her lips while he tries to simultaneously nuzzle her nose in primal affection. When he's with her, he's both. She's both. They're both, together.
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Even if it would be impossible for her to get with child — that choice was removed from her years ago — there's a small, visceral urge she possesses to keep as much of him inside her as she can, right alongside the power that already tethers them. They may not have outwardly confessed such a thought to each other, but perhaps they don't have to; perhaps her thoughts are his, and vice versa, and any thought she has is one he's already harbored ten times over.
She basks in the warmth of his affection, the contented groan that leaves her edging closer to a purr as he nuzzles her, mutually participating in that lazy exchange of kisses while they're still physically connected too. She's not necessarily eager to have him withdraw from her any time soon, and she'll take what she can get before he finally moves to.
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It had been her challenge, after all; to prove she's his. As if there's any denying it in the here and now, her so properly filled. But more importantly, the bond had been tied when they shared so freely, a sacrifice given and received. What a beautiful and sacred thing, here with her. On the kitchen table. An altar, if crude one, it does seem fitting somehow. Then again, maybe Sweeney just likes to fuck in kitchens.
He lingers, pressed against her, deep and twitching as he savors her tight warmth. If he had the choice, Sweeney would stay inside her until he could swell again to start all over, but there's something else he wants to give her before then. Just...not yet. First, there are more kisses and nuzzling and naked affection.
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Then, of course, realization dawns, and she glances at him anew, clarity dawning across her features before her mouth curves into a broad, amused smile. Then, she laughs, an unguarded sound, happiness brimming over through their connection in a way he can feel as well as perceive with their power entangled so much more definitively. Unless she chooses to sever their tether, or he does, the link will maintain itself, allowing her to sense him, and vice versa, despite a potential physical distance.
"You did," she murmurs, that laugh spilling over her words somewhat, as she tips their foreheads together, a playful nudge, before retreating slightly to study him, lifting a hand to rake fingers through his reddish hair. "Without question."
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(Good.)
Sweeney wets his lip, and with a quick swallow to find a clearer voice, he makes a soft confession. "I got somethin' ta give ya--somethin' else ta give ya--" Something that isn't his dick. He laughs softly as his eyes slip beneath their lids in quiet amusement.
"But it's in my vest." It's a lamentation, to be sure.
The pile of it is much too far to reach without parting from her, and there's the sense that he isn't any more eager to do that than she is for him to do it. So instead, he lifts his hand to sink his fingers into her dark locks in tandem. Leaning in, he kisses her with a gentle insistence that, while free of primal urgency, is anything but chaste.
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Before she can encourage him to withdraw from her and retrieve whatever he's referring to, the threading of his fingers through her hair elicits a soft moan, one he immediately stifles by slanting his mouth against hers.
There's no intent to devour him anew as she kisses him back, but it's certainly not soft, nor innocent, but closer to mutually claiming, a natural extension of everything they've shared. She drinks him in, slowly, indulgently, and then finally breaks the kiss herself to murmur softly over his lips. "Show me."
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Leaning back, first with his head, he pauses for his eyes to narrow playfully, as if to make a note that she owes him for the sacrifice he's about to make. Then the rest of him follows suit. Sweeney winces silently as he slips from her, waiting a moment before shifting himself around enough to get a couple of buttons done for support to keep from bobbing about.
Taking the extra step, he crouches at the pile of clothes and digs through the pockets to find a flat box, about 4" square. Then he returns, stepping between her thighs but not leaning against her. A flicker of hesitation proceeds him holding it before her in temporary illustration.
"Ya know there's ta be a tournament, an'..." How strange it is, that after all they've just done, he can't shake a touch of shyness.
"Well, I was hopin'...things go well an' all, that you might--" He urges it towards her gently.
"That you might consider bein' mine." His cheeks go pink, and he stutters slightly.
"My Queen. Fer--the tournament." And all the days after.
Inside the box is a neatly-folded green sash, bearing an embroidered spearhead crowned with rays. On top of it is nestled a necklace, it's pendant a swirl of metal around a smooth amethyst stone.
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The smile on her face lingers, faint and reflective, as he crouches to retrieve what he's been referencing from the pile of clothes that they'd quickly dispensed of in reaching for each other, even if both of them are still mostly dressed by comparison.
The announcement of the tourney hadn't escaped her notice, chiefly because it's being hosted by the Targaryens, and seems to stem mostly from a desire to affect positive relations with the Duchess and the village at large. Yennefer herself has every intention of attending, at least long before she's presented with the box, and her smile only widens, becoming more incredulous before she opens what he's gifted her, wordlessly marveling over its contents.
"Is this what you came here to ask me from the beginning?" she finally asks, brushing her fingertips over the necklace's smooth amethyst stone.
"You know you didn't have to lavish me with gifts to secure my acceptance." But that doesn't mean she isn't interested in keeping them as she reaches up to unclasp her own obsidian pendant, setting it down beside her on the table, and then moves to don his gift in its place.
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