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.
"Please," he whispers, a touch too hastily as he lifts his hands in hopes of taking the necklace from her. Even in the quiet, mundane setting, there's a weight to the word that clings, especially through the magic on which it hangs; one of the most sacred faerie phrases, only to be used with reverence and clear intent. 'Please.' 'Thank you.' 'I'm sorry.'
It's important now, and there's no hesitation when it crosses his lips. His focus darts from her eyes to her fingers.
"Will ya allow me?"
To put it on. To mark her as His in a way that isn't secret. One that she doesn't have to be ashamed to show.
At first, she's not sure what he's asking her for, something unspoken in his gaze, before her own tracks downward and finds his hands extended outward in a clear request to collect the necklace from her. Wordlessly, she holds it out to him until the pendant drops heavy into his palm, so he can secure a better grip on it.
It leaves her hands free, an advantageous thing when she needs to use both of them to gather up the thick mass of her hair, longer than she's ever let it become in the past, and draw it to one side over her shoulder so it'll prove easier for him to put the necklace on her himself.
If it's important for him to do this, something that matters, a part of the ask that seals it more definitively, then she'll cede it to him, her head bowed in such a way that should enable him to be the one who first clasps the pendant around her throat.
Fuck, she has such a beautiful neck. The temptation of it bared has him wanting to put his mouth back on it, as if they hadn't just ravished each other thoroughly. Instead, he wets his lips and carefully shifts the chain so he can manage the delicate clasp with his large fingers.
Sweeney leans in more than he needs to to fasten the thing, and he runs two fingers beneath the chain, the back of his knuckles sliding over her chest as he sees it settled in place.
"I don't have the words ta tell ya how much it means ta me, havin' it against yer skin." A part of him, left near her heart. And her sublime tits. He nuzzles a kiss against her cheek before leaning his head back enough to put her eyes into focus.
"You acceptin' me as yers." Sweeney's gaze dips to the gem just long enough to confirm it's really there, before his attention darts back up to her face.
"You agreein' ta be mine."
There's no subterfuge; the necklace isn't just for tournament wear. He wants it to be hers in the way that he is, precious and shown off as often as she'd have it so. He will always treasure having her on his arm. Being seen with her. Being Chosen by her.
The moment does have more significance to it than her simply donning the necklace; it represents her embracing what she's already wordlessly promised him — a part of her, if not necessarily the whole. Still, she certainly doesn't open herself and her power up to many, and he's the first who has even come close to earning a connection like the one she's just established with him. It's likely that he can sense her more intimately now, the joining of her magic and his intensifying even the smallest, subtlest touch tenfold.
As a consequence, her neck arches slightly, chin lifting, as he arranges the necklace around her throat, sliding his fingers along the chain to graze against her skin, before letting it drop so that she can feel the gem's heavier weight resting over her sternum.
"Then don't say anything," she murmurs, not attempting to quiet him altogether but only reassuring him that she doesn't need him to have the right words. He's still hovering close enough to her for her fingers to comb across his beard, nails lightly grazing along the thicker hair, before she cups her face in his palm and leads him in for another soft kiss.
In the immediate aftermath, she nudges their foreheads together again, sighing lightly, almost more of a hum while her eyes remain closed, until the whisper leaves her.
"Yes." There's a reverence in the way he breathes the word. A moment later, he licks his lip and makes an amendment.
"If you wish to."
Sweeney can't be sure; just because he would choose to doesn't mean she's comfortable with the same, and there are still some complications about the blanket term of 'mine'. But they both understood each other's feelings on that front, and they are in a similar enough situation that he trusts her to mean the same as him in saying it. He leaves his head pressed to hers.
"Is..." There's a flicker of hesitation where he isn't sure he wants to know, in case the answer is no. But the words are already shaped, and if he doesn't say them, she'll hear them in his mind anyways, so...fuck it.
Yennefer retreats enough to be able to regard him directly, the softness of her gaze not lessening the certainty in it. The notion that she can't hold sole rights over him is something she's already well aware of, and not just because she has a cursory awareness of the connections he's established with others here. She has her own ties, ones strong enough to keep her from promising exclusivity, but that doesn't negate the very real fact that she's tethered herself to Sweeney now, established a link that she doesn't share with anyone else present.
But she also doesn't believe she needs to restate what's already been asserted, what they're both aware of — he has a piece of her that's exclusive to him alone, and all she wants in return is the assurance that she can claim a piece of him for herself. She doesn't need to have the whole when that much will more than suffice.
"And I haven't changed my mind." Her fingers stroke over the back of his head, bracing at his nape, as she levels him with a look.
When she pulls him into focus, he meets her eyes without reservation. He has nothing to hide as he stands in offering to her. Her words sink a quiet relief into his affect, and Sweeney leans in to kiss her softly. His hand cradles her neck as he parts enough to insure the clarity of his words.
"Then it would be both my honor an' my pleasure, that you should name me yers." He nuzzles his forehead to hers.
"Good." Yennefer pulls back again with an amused flicker in her gaze, her lips pursing slightly to mask a broader smile.
"I don't subscribe to the notion of anyone being able to claim me unless I get to assert my own claim on them right back."
She's teasing, of course, but even those words betray a deeper sentiment, the fact that she wouldn't settle for just being owned by someone without some kind of reciprocal attachment. Her fingers lightly rub against his nape, as she looks over him, expression softening.
"One of these days we might even make it to a bed."
Her warmth is easy to mirror, and though small, his smile is a touch playful.
"Pfft." Sweeney rolls his eyes up, as if to consider something before giving his answer.
"There's so much between here an' there," he sighs in mock lamentation.
"The chair by the hearth...bunch'a walls...the floor..." Sweeney will happily have her on any of them that she'll let him. He's eager to savor every flavor she has to offer.
"The chair," Yennefer muses aloud, casting a glance in the direction of that particular piece of furniture.
As she does, the briefest impression of her thoughts will be easy to discern, her naked body in a kneeling straddle across his as she grips the back of said chair for purchase and rides him slowly, eagerly, both of their bodies lathered in sweat thanks to the heat from the crackling fire nearby.
"That'd be one way to spend an afternoon," she teases, her smile lingering, though judging by the lightness in her voice it's not exactly a complaint. "Ensuring all the remaining surfaces in this cottage have been properly defiled."
"You should," she whispers, while their faces are still hovering inches apart, close enough for her lips to brush against his with nearly every syllable she utters.
And then she seals her mouth over his, and it might be clear, even in the moment, that she'd hardly protest if he wanted to take her again, this time while the amethyst he gave her is nestled at her throat.
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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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It's important now, and there's no hesitation when it crosses his lips. His focus darts from her eyes to her fingers.
"Will ya allow me?"
To put it on. To mark her as His in a way that isn't secret. One that she doesn't have to be ashamed to show.
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It leaves her hands free, an advantageous thing when she needs to use both of them to gather up the thick mass of her hair, longer than she's ever let it become in the past, and draw it to one side over her shoulder so it'll prove easier for him to put the necklace on her himself.
If it's important for him to do this, something that matters, a part of the ask that seals it more definitively, then she'll cede it to him, her head bowed in such a way that should enable him to be the one who first clasps the pendant around her throat.
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Sweeney leans in more than he needs to to fasten the thing, and he runs two fingers beneath the chain, the back of his knuckles sliding over her chest as he sees it settled in place.
"I don't have the words ta tell ya how much it means ta me, havin' it against yer skin." A part of him, left near her heart. And her sublime tits. He nuzzles a kiss against her cheek before leaning his head back enough to put her eyes into focus.
"You acceptin' me as yers." Sweeney's gaze dips to the gem just long enough to confirm it's really there, before his attention darts back up to her face.
"You agreein' ta be mine."
There's no subterfuge; the necklace isn't just for tournament wear. He wants it to be hers in the way that he is, precious and shown off as often as she'd have it so. He will always treasure having her on his arm. Being seen with her. Being Chosen by her.
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As a consequence, her neck arches slightly, chin lifting, as he arranges the necklace around her throat, sliding his fingers along the chain to graze against her skin, before letting it drop so that she can feel the gem's heavier weight resting over her sternum.
"Then don't say anything," she murmurs, not attempting to quiet him altogether but only reassuring him that she doesn't need him to have the right words. He's still hovering close enough to her for her fingers to comb across his beard, nails lightly grazing along the thicker hair, before she cups her face in his palm and leads him in for another soft kiss.
In the immediate aftermath, she nudges their foreheads together again, sighing lightly, almost more of a hum while her eyes remain closed, until the whisper leaves her.
"Does this mean I get to call you mine, too?"
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"If you wish to."
Sweeney can't be sure; just because he would choose to doesn't mean she's comfortable with the same, and there are still some complications about the blanket term of 'mine'. But they both understood each other's feelings on that front, and they are in a similar enough situation that he trusts her to mean the same as him in saying it. He leaves his head pressed to hers.
"Is..." There's a flicker of hesitation where he isn't sure he wants to know, in case the answer is no. But the words are already shaped, and if he doesn't say them, she'll hear them in his mind anyways, so...fuck it.
"Is that somethin' you want?"
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Yennefer retreats enough to be able to regard him directly, the softness of her gaze not lessening the certainty in it. The notion that she can't hold sole rights over him is something she's already well aware of, and not just because she has a cursory awareness of the connections he's established with others here. She has her own ties, ones strong enough to keep her from promising exclusivity, but that doesn't negate the very real fact that she's tethered herself to Sweeney now, established a link that she doesn't share with anyone else present.
But she also doesn't believe she needs to restate what's already been asserted, what they're both aware of — he has a piece of her that's exclusive to him alone, and all she wants in return is the assurance that she can claim a piece of him for herself. She doesn't need to have the whole when that much will more than suffice.
"And I haven't changed my mind." Her fingers stroke over the back of his head, bracing at his nape, as she levels him with a look.
"I want you, in whatever way I get to have you."
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"Then it would be both my honor an' my pleasure, that you should name me yers." He nuzzles his forehead to hers.
"Whene'er it pleases you ta do so."
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"I don't subscribe to the notion of anyone being able to claim me unless I get to assert my own claim on them right back."
She's teasing, of course, but even those words betray a deeper sentiment, the fact that she wouldn't settle for just being owned by someone without some kind of reciprocal attachment. Her fingers lightly rub against his nape, as she looks over him, expression softening.
"One of these days we might even make it to a bed."
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"Pfft." Sweeney rolls his eyes up, as if to consider something before giving his answer.
"There's so much between here an' there," he sighs in mock lamentation.
"The chair by the hearth...bunch'a walls...the floor..." Sweeney will happily have her on any of them that she'll let him. He's eager to savor every flavor she has to offer.
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As she does, the briefest impression of her thoughts will be easy to discern, her naked body in a kneeling straddle across his as she grips the back of said chair for purchase and rides him slowly, eagerly, both of their bodies lathered in sweat thanks to the heat from the crackling fire nearby.
"That'd be one way to spend an afternoon," she teases, her smile lingering, though judging by the lightness in her voice it's not exactly a complaint. "Ensuring all the remaining surfaces in this cottage have been properly defiled."
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"Careful, lest I take that as a challenge." Sweeney nuzzles her nose softly with his.
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And then she seals her mouth over his, and it might be clear, even in the moment, that she'd hardly protest if he wanted to take her again, this time while the amethyst he gave her is nestled at her throat.