That long moment hangs, mirrored as his gaze dances over her, as if he isn't sure she's really here or if he's stuck in the afterlife he'd been destined to on the tip of Gungnir. It's only half a breath before Sweeney decides he doesn't care.
He catches her face with both hands and kisses her. It's intense but not lustful; it echoes in desperate relief. Everything is truer when he tastes it on her skin. Sweeney can't help but nudge her back half a step in his eagerness, crossing her threshold without thought or reservation. She's here and whole and warm, in her house where he's himself when he's with her. She's his beacon, the flicker of light in the dark.
Yennefer's first noise against him is a keening, desperate thing, almost more like a whimper than a sigh. His hands are warm on her skin, cupping her face between them in a manner that feels so much more tender than she's earned. His lips taste the same, an aspect that somehow cuts through the overwhelm of emotion that swells up until she realizes she's tasting the salt of her own tears, too, freely falling from underneath shuttered lashes.
She kisses him back slowly, as if she's yearning for the very person standing right in front of her but unconvinced she deserves to be given something so tangible and real, a balm to soothe the ache his absence had left behind.
Wolf-mate. Even her words across his mind are a tremor, but still relieved, and little by little, she curves herself more against him, finally wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing herself up until she's practically on tiptoe, kissing him in between gasping sobs.
Her tears make his heart ache, but perhaps that's part of the point for both of them. There's too much in the act that's brought them to this moment for that energy to not go somewhere, much like it had to when it leveled the trees in the field.
(Yours. Still Yours.)
He needs her to know; to feel it in her bones that nothing so great has changed. That whatever has happened, they're in it together, and that he would not want it any other way. He's not angry. He doesn't resent her. And he most certainly isn't leaving.
The more she pulls herself up, the more he bends down to meet her, but Sweeney quickly realizes this isn't the right place to work through the rest of this. His hand diverts down her side until he can get a forearm under her hips. With a hint of a rock, he lifts her straight up, his other hand sinking its fingers through her hair and cradling her head. Sweeney keeps her secure in the kiss as he steps in further and kicks the door shut behind him.
It's his intention to carry her to bed, not to fuck her but to be with her without the strain that comes with the difference of their sizes.
It still feels too easy, too much of a good thing she hasn't merited, for him to forgive her so readily. He would have forgiven her already, though, even when the light had initially left his eyes, but she still needs to find that absolution for herself. Perhaps it can be here, in the kisses that he presses to her lips, both of their faces damp from her tears.
As he crouches lower to lift her, she moves with him, bracing her arms on his shoulders while he draws her up against his body, and the halves of her robe part when she ultimately lashes her legs around his waist, baring more of her uncovered body beneath, more bared and tanned skin, but she's too heedless, too wrapped up in him to notice.
What she does notice is where he's carrying her, which room he's bringing her to; the cottage isn't so big that she doesn't recognize the layout even when her eyes are closed, but eventually, she does break the kiss, wet lashes blinking open again as she regards him with a pairing of wonder and tenderness. His taking her to the bed, in this moment, feels right; she needs him against her, without any barriers between them, needs him covering her with his weight and warmth as every other layer falls away.
He barely notices her naked skin, save for the vague warmth of it through his clothes. Sweeney's focus on her is more than just a want to savor her soft curves and tight sex. There's a sense that he needs to be inside her, but in a way that doesn't require loosening his trouser buttons. That said, he certainly wouldn't protest less fabric between them, and then...who knows? Well, they may not know, but can probably assume. But that is something not yet manifested in his thoughts.
When she leans back enough to look at him, his eyes are tender, and a faint smile threatens. The tiny nod speaks a sentiment he dare not put into words. It will be alright. He'll make it be alright. Sweeney can't Promise, but he wishes he could. He can't Promise, but he does Believe.
His shins touch the edge of the bed, and he slides up onto it, crawling on his knees while still supporting her. Making it to the top, he rests her back on the pillows, and curls down to kiss her, as if to assure her his absence will be brief. Then he sits back enough to shuck his braces and pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before stealing her lips again.
Her gaze rakes over him as he proceeds to divest himself of his shirt, not with a hunger but a need nevertheless, one entirely defined by the desire to map him with her eyes, her hands all over again. She never considered what it would feel like to mourn him afterward, the kind of ache that would persist when she only had the memory of his body to lean on. Now, rewarded by the view of muscle shifting beneath skin, his sheer breadth hovering over her without towering, she intends on covering every inch of him with her fingertips, her mouth.
As he rears back on his knees, the removal of his shirt exposes the scar that was left behind by her knife — stark, and ugly, mottled tissue standing out amidst so much else that's smooth. Before he can lean forward to claim her lips again, she presses her fingers to his, bidding him to rise back up again as she also does, not all the way to her knees but sitting up so that his chest, his torso is closer to her eye level.
Her fingers find the mark first, tracing over it, mapping its shape, as her head tips back and her eyes meet his. There's hurt reflected in her gaze, and regret, and sorrow, that such a reminder has lingered behind — but she needs it to, needs to see the proof of what she'd done, needs to see it so that she'll never let it get to that point between them again.
And then she leans forward, pressing a kiss to that very scar, once and then again, lips parting for a deeper lavishing, turning her shame into an act of reverence. This mark is a part of him now, and she'll worship it the same way she would any other part of his body, mouth moving over the raised, darker tissue as if she could soothe away the injury itself.
Confusion crinkles his brow for a moment when she presses her finger between their lips, but he dutifully pauses, and as she urges him back, he follows her lead.
The first touch catches him off-guard. Not because he didn't expect her to do so; she hadn't masked her intentions; but the actual sensation is something he couldn't have prepared for. Sweeney sucks in his breath instinctively. The feeling is sharp, but acute instead of painful, and it makes him shudder. It doesn't lessen as she increases her affections on his skin.
Sweeney hadn't been actively thinking about sex. The temptation is an ever-present ambience between them, if only for the mystical bond of intimacy, but the feel of her mouth puts kindling on the spark, and the warmth of it starts to spread. His fingers sink into her hair so he can hold her to him as his other arm cradles around her shoulders. Sweeney doesn't trap of squeeze her; it's more like he's anchoring himself to her so he doesn't get lost in the sensation.
The headiness of it leaves him in a bit of a swoon, and in his thoughts he finds an image of resting on his back so she can be above him with more control to do as she wishes. That way, if he falls, it'll only be into the moment, and that sounds far more pleasant.
Yennefer needs to do this — in part to confront what she's done, the palpable reminder of the fatal wound inflicted on him, and in part to assure him that she doesn't intend to ignore it, to pretend it doesn't exist simply for the sake of resolution. Sweeney's indraw of breath briefly concerns her, makes her suspect that she might have overstepped in drawing attention to the wound in the first place, but then his arms wrap around her, his fingers threading in dark strands to keep her anchored in place against him, and she whimpers softly, that subtle tension at her scalp creating a tingling sensation that travels down the length of her spine.
She isn't actively seeking sex, isn't demanding that he pin her down and fuck her, but in more than one sense, she wants to be close to him again, to feel him against her, to have the flesh-and-blood proof of his return beneath her lips and hands until she's recommitted every piece of him anew to her memory.
She doesn't know who moves first, whether he's the one who rolls them over so she can settle on top of him or if they both shift simultaneously, bidden by the thought he'd held that had formed across her mind too. With their connection being what it is, sometimes it's difficult to discern who thought what first — but here, she wants his thoughts too, projected in her head as strongly as if she had held them originally.
By the time she's reared up over him, her robe is half-slipped off, one sleeve drooping down her shoulder, her hair wild and tangled from sleeping on it damp from the bath, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Her fingers go to his scar again, stroking the marbled flesh, and then her gaze finds his again, and she bends low to cover his mouth with hers, her hair falling forward to shroud their faces.
Yes, being on his back is better. Sweeney's grateful she acquiesced without his even having to ask. He savors the weight of her on his hips, and it steadies him in the present. She's radiant. Even tear-stained and swollen from crying; such things can't dull her light.
Then her fingers are back on his marred skin, and it sets his breath trembling as she closes the distance between them. His hand sneaks its way to rest over hers, urging her to keep her touch against the scar.
"Please," he whispers against her lips.
(Don't stop.)
It's addictive, the sensation of the New. Perhaps it's the connection of the act, it's Sacrifice bringing them closer; what can be more intimate than sharing each other like that? His eyes flutter closed while he delights in her kiss, trying hard not to dwell on the thought of her mouth making its way back down, and how it would feel to have the warmth of her lips and tongue over his chest.
Stripping away any layers that are still covering, albeit haphazardly, isn't even about inviting Sweeney to see her naked; she wants to tug at anything that could be considered a barrier, a form of protection, until she's rendered truly helpless and vulnerable before him now, all her weakest places fully exposed. The kiss only lasts so long so that she can see to that personally, reaching up with both hands, if only momentarily, to pull back the slipping halves of the robe and let the fabric flutter away from her body, leaving her bared and open in her straddle above him.
There's nothing to stop him from retaliating, if he wanted to, nothing she could do to prevent a similar blade from sliding deep into her chest until the light in her eyes is gone, but in many ways, the pain of seeing his scar, the scar she created, is as acute as if she'd felt the knife go in for real.
She can't retreat from it, but she wouldn't dream of doing so anyway — so the only thing she can do now is embrace it, and let the pain of sacrifice melt away in the face of true, unabashed worship. He's all but begged her for it, and she doesn't find herself capable of denying him anything, particularly now.
Thus, when she bends low over him again, it's her mouth that finds the scar, lavishing it with attention, open kisses that occasionally offer a slow glide of tongue, ensuring that no part of it remains untouched, her long hair spilling over his chest as she digs a clutch into him with her fingers, anchoring him both to the bed and against her in the same breath. If more tears fall to dampen his skin, she licks them away, salt kisses both cleansing and repentant.
Sweeney's touch grazes down her when she sits back, free of the fabric. It's nothing purposeful, so much as him simply enjoying the shape of her. His hand glides down her side, his thumb swinging wide to detour over her nipple, but as she lowers, he gives her the space to work unimpeded. At least, until her mouth finds his skin.
Fuck, it's more heavenly than he imagined, and his sharp gasp melts into an unapologetic moan in short order. His fingers sink into her hair as his other hand slides, flat-palmed, down her spine. It's like having his prick sucked but not, in a way that's hard to explain. That said, his dick does take notice that she was on her way down, but then stopped halfway, and it protests beneath the fabric of his trousers. Sweeney doesn't care; he's too caught up in the rest of the thing. He inhales deeply, both proving he's alive and urging his chest against her lips.
He'd swear he can feel the focus of her magic left in the scar; it's so similar to the pendant he'd returned to her for safe keeping. Perhaps it's something she'd pressed into him with the blade, or perhaps it's just the ghost of longing to feel her token back around his neck.
Even Yennefer doesn't know, for certain, when the contact between them shifts, evolves from kisses of apology and reverence to rising heat and need. Perhaps it's the fact that she can feel his cock swelling, twitching where the weight of her is pressed against the lower half of his body, making it impossible to deny, or it's the soft moans he gives voice to, paired with the threading of his fingers in her hair, hand stroking warm down the curve of her back.
Whatever the cause, it means that as her kisses over him deepen and linger, her fingers find the front of his trousers, deftly loosening the fastenings and then drawing the fabric away just enough to free his cock to the air, so that she can stroke her hand over him directly. It isn't enough to lavish that puckered, mottled scar tissue with attention; she's not going to stop until every other part of him is worshipped, too.
Sweeney's hand is still in her hair, so he could easily stop her if he wanted to with a tightening grip, but she doesn't think he will, not even as a few more tears fall from beneath damp lashes to spatter against his skin, not even when she curves herself over his hips to wrap her lips around his cock, not even when she begins to suck him with slow, purposeful intent, soft whimpers notching in the back of her throat as the taste of his skin merges with the persistent salt of those tears.
Even with the fair warning her movement has telegraphed, his breath still hitches when her fingers wrap around him. It stops completely when she pulls the tip of his cock past her lips, and Sweeney shudders.
(God, you make me feel alive.)
And that is perhaps the purest truth of the act; they've come full circle, and every stroke of her tongue on his skin only makes it more present. There's warmth in the blood that fills his flesh, promising her the truth of his vitality as it puts more strain on her jaw. This time, however, Sweeney doesn't worry about hurting her. She's giving of herself, and he's not going to dissuade her. She doesn't have to push deeper if she doesn't want to, and as such, she can pace herself.
That said, there's a tiny itch in the back of his skull that wants to grip her hair tightly and shove down. But that's a small voice swept up in the pure sensation of the act, and instead, his fingers massage her scalp encouragingly as he tries to even his breathing.
There is apology present in every line of her body, every soft sound she emits, stifled a bit more now that her mouth is wrapped more blatantly around his cock. He'll always be a size she has to relax to accommodate, pausing to ensure that there's no tension in her jaw and that she can take him even deeper as a result. Whether she feels, to an extent, that lightly kindling urge he has to shove her down further, or whether it's part of what she thinks she deserves, her fingers fumble up blindly, seekingly, until they can overlap with his across her head, curving into points of tension that urge him to be more forceful with her.
Do it.
This is her punishment, and her reward; her sentence, and her deliverance. In a way, this cleanses her too, washes away the sting of guilt with the taste of his salt, the heaviness of him in her mouth. She hunches over him, more determined now, and presses down, his shaft sliding over her tongue until he starts to reach the back of her throat. Her first instinct is to gag, to cough and splutter — she hasn't taken any man of his size this deep for as long as she can remember — but then she pushes past the panicked impulse and draws in a breath through her nose, and then another, her fingers tightening over his again.
When her hands start shifting, Sweeney assumes it's because she wants him to lift his away so she can move. He's barely caught up when her first instruction comes. No words are returned, but there is a touch of confusion as his brain begins to scan the potentials of what she means. He doesn't need long before her hands clarify, and he strains his neck so he can peek down at her.
There's instinctive concern, the one that always comes when he's in a lass's mouth, and it's all the nearer the surface because he's just reasoned that he doesn't have to worry about it.
But she's asking for it. She wants it. It takes him a second to work through the disconnect, but when the second direction comes, his body's already racing after.
His grip clenches tight in a moment, and he tugs her head back a touch. Certainly not enough to separate them, but enough for him to see her eyes and give her a second to assess the pressure and protest if it's not what she's looking for. But finding no complaint, Sweeney takes a deep breath and starts to push.
It's not sudden or sharp, but there is pressure behind it. He swallows, trying to keep his focus as encourages her further, looking for the depth she needs to tap out at. It's best to have some form of gauge before he starts to have less control in paying attention to it. That said, nothing about it is easy.
The pinpricking of tears in her eyes isn't the consequence of her weeping, now, but how thick he is in her mouth, forcing her to relax her jaw. Hunching forward over his waist proves to be an angle that offers her some more reprieve, but it also enables him to slide past her lips and over her tongue before he starts to meet the back of her throat. That gagging impulse subsides, little by little, and she remembers to keep her breath, to release it through her nose, so she doesn't start to become dizzy or faint.
He pushes, and she moans — there's no possibility of her being able to take him all the way down her throat, into that tight squeezing clutch, but that doesn't mean she isn't eager to have him fucking into her mouth, holding onto her head while he thrusts, using her in that manner until he either spills or decides he wants to claim some other part of her.
Her hand slides over his again, interlacing their fingers, and she taps once, an assurance that he isn't hurting her, that she isn't trying to get him to release her. He can go harder still, even if she recognizes his reluctance to embrace true abandon given his size relative to hers. If she has to lift her gaze to his from this position, violet eyes glassy but determined above where her lips are wrapped around his cock, then she will, before she ducks down to move over him again, head bobbing with clear intention, goading him to move.
Somewhere between the encouragement of her gaze and the insistence of her mouth, Sweeney begins to yield his restraint. Even as he tries to remember to do better, she's promising she can take it, and that makes him want it all the more.
He starts to take a more active participation, guiding her pace with a stronger grip in her hair. It makes his eyes roll beneath their lids as he does his best to keep his breath deeper. Fuck, it's heavenly. It may not be bread and oil, but it's worship in its own shape; her sacrifice given with without reservation.
His toes curl and flex as his thighs start to tighten. Keep even, not too deep, he tells himself. But the voice seems to get quieter with every pull of her tongue. Sweeney's other hand starts to slide back up her spine, lingering between her shoulder blades as he attempts to not have it jump to join the one already in her hair. If it does, he's not sure he could control himself enough to keep her safe.
His hands aren't everywhere on her, but it feels that way — fingers fisting a tight grip on the long spill of her hair, keeping most of it held up out of the way so it doesn't interfere while also allowing him to see her. Her vision is blurred, a combination of her own previous tears and fresh ones that threaten to fall in their wake, but she closes her eyes, damp lashes darkened against her cheeks, and loses herself in the rhythm he sets for them both.
The hand that isn't in her hair is warm on her skin, resting between her shoulders, and she moans, arching into it like a cat, enjoying how much of her body he can span with just the set of those five fingers, the slight friction of callouses something to savor in and of itself. What these hands have known, she might never fully grasp, but they know her now — how to touch her, what she likes, what will make her keen and gasp and cry out.
He's hitting her throat on every thrust now, and she moans again, soft but urging, trying to goad him into claiming more of his pleasure through her. Let her be the conduit of it now, since she was the one who delivered the pain before. Let her be the receptacle of all he wants to pour into her, and leave them both exhausted yet satisfied by the time they're finally through.
The more she gives, the more compelled he is to take, and it's his moans that are increasingly filling the room. Just a little bit harder, just a little bit deeper, every bump of resistance is met and answered. God, she feels so good. This is so much better than the night in the woods. She can sense the intimacy buried in increasingly rough handling. Sweeney wants to be in her in all the ways he's able. He wants her, wants this. With her.
Soon enough, it's not just him pushing down; he's rocking up into her mouth, his own lips parted in appreciative groans. Sweeney's hand continues up her spine to the back of her neck, where he uses it to support her stability as they both urge onwards.
He should stop; Sweeney knows he should. He should pause to get her up so he can suck her swollen lips as he fucks her her straddling but him riding, thrusting vigorously beneath her. But he can't seem to will himself to do it; she's so apparently hungry for this, and truth be told, he doesn't want to be left to the cold air, even for the brief moment it would take to switch positions.
The tightness at the gate of her throat stands as both challenge and temptation, and he's getting to the point where he wants to see how much she can take. How much he can have before she seeks to be free of his heat and the stretching of her jaw.
She knows he'll never think of it this way, but she also wants this to be her penance, her atonement, bathing in the salt of her own tears and the salt of his skin on her tongue, what's already dripping from the head of his cock and trickling down her throat. She also knows he'd never attempt to push her past the limits of what she can truly bear, never force her to the point of strain or discomfort, but she's going to bask in this, no matter how intensely the size of him tests her.
Sweeneydoesn't relent, and neither does she, even though she does cede control over to him, let him move rock from underneath, let him assess how deeply he can breach her. She adjusts the angle of her head above him, leans forward until her forehead skims his stomach, her hair spilling down over his body in a wild mass of dark waves, and from here it's easier for him to thrust without resistance, toward the clutch of her throat.
He's so deep, and deeper still, and she moans, a strangled sound, at him making a home for himself in her mouth; her lips are swollen around his length, her spit keeping his cock generously dripping, and she can hear the wet sounds of it when he thrusts in further. She chokes, instinctively, her eyes swimming with tears that spring up, but holds, remembering to draw in those breaths through her nose, counting to a few beats before she finally pulls off of him altogether, gasping for air, thin gossamer strands of saliva clinging between her lips and the tip of his shaft.
As she strains to take him, his breath shortens with hers. The sensation make his toes flex as Yennefer nudges him ever closer to orgasm, and when she moans, she can feel his prick throbbing against her tongue in promise.
But then she slides off him, and a gasp escapes as he sucks in a deep breath and swallows a few times. Sweeney hones his gaze on her while he steadies, and the hand cupping her neck slides around so her slick chin rests on the side of his finger as he gently wipes his thumb over her lips. So fucking beautiful. For him.
The break found anyways, Sweeney's hands dart to hook under her armpits and tug at her, suggesting that she's paid whatever price she's sought to. He doesn't yank her; if she wants to keep at what she's doing, he'll certainly make no protest, but if she rather just fuck him, he welcomes that too. The moment is about reconnection, and her enjoyment matters to him.
There's a note of frustration in her expression when she pulls off, the expectation that she would have seen this through until he finally spilled over her tongue, down her throat — but then she realizes he's reaching for her, grabbing for her, trying to draw her up. Her eyes are glassy, her mouth dewy and pliant as he drags his thumb over both upper and lower lip, spreading the remnants of that saliva across her skin.
She's breathing as roughly as if she'd already come herself, but she doesn't protest when he drags her up the length of his body, coming willingly. She's mindful of how she drapes herself atop him so she isn't simply dropping her full weight, one hand lightly braced against the mattress as she slants their mouths together again, the salt of his skin lingering on her tongue when it swirls with his.
"Fuck me," she pants, soft and ragged against his lips. "And don't be gentle about it."
He's stuck in a mixture of Want; there's relief that she's come back up, but something aches in him that he hadn't let her finish. Of course, then she says that, and it all goes straight out the window. Sweeney sucks her tongue, then punctuates his agreement with a rough bite of her lip.
His grip tightens on her ribs to secure her before he presses his heel hard into the mattress to roll them over and get her on her back. It's only half a breath before he's snatching at her wrists, scrambling to yank them up over her head and cross them so he can easily span and pin both with one hand. His other dips between them so he can align himself properly.
Sweeney's barely positioned before he shoves deep, filling her unforgivingly. His cry is barely muffled when he presses his cheek to her temple; her mouth has him so sensitive that the fresh constriction is a bit overwhelming. But oh, how he wants it. It's only a second later when he pulls back and snaps forward, sharply accenting each thrust as they start to gain momentum, his shallow pants falling in time with them.
Yennefer's already breathless, not really ever having recovered her air when he'd hauled her up to kiss her, and the sudden shift in their positions, him rolling them over to press her down into the mattress, is met with a gasp, as is his dragging her arms up over her head, pinning both of her wrists to the bed beneath one hand. Her first instinct is to buck, to struggle, to try and push back against his hold — but it would all be a facade anyway, feigned resistance, when she's been wet and aching for him since long before she was intentionally choking herself on his length.
Still, she thrashes and writhes a little, grunting in a blend of exertion and desire, as he asserts himself between the vee of her thighs, only pausing for a moment to align them before he thrusts inside her, hard. When she cries out, it's a sharp sound, eyes wide and lips forming a soft O-shape, as her body tenses beneath his, adjusting to the sensation of being so suddenly full that she can feel every inch of him as he moves.
Let there be no doubt that she wants this, though, and as he withdraws only slightly before thrusting in again, she won't repress the moan he fucks out of her too, a grateful spill of sound, hitching her knees up before loosely wrapping them around his waist so that he can sink into her at an even deeper angle. With her wrists pinned overhead, she's stretched out taut beneath him, desire written in every twitch of muscle, trust etched into her very bones, and every subsequent thrust drives a litany from her lips: yes, please, don't stop.
Sweeney can feel her ache; the one to be had in a way that's...helpless. The penance of being used without the need of her choice; him having what he wants because it's his to take. It's the Cost of his forgiveness, or at least of hers of herself. There's no protest from him. Sweeney understands the feeling, and it would be a lie to say that he doesn't find his own pleasure in the notion. Maybe he needs to force the reality into her; to prove the truth in a way that neither of them can deny.
(Ya can struggle all ya want.)
It's firm instruction, not tender acquiescence. The thoughts give way to words, growled between clenched teeth and accented with brutal thrusts.
"I'm here. With you. An' yer Mine."
He's going to take her and have her and find his pleasure in her, no matter how hard he has to fight to get it. Sweeney had walked death for her. She'd lost part of herself in forcing him to. Whatever that piece is, he intends to shove it back into her.
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He catches her face with both hands and kisses her. It's intense but not lustful; it echoes in desperate relief. Everything is truer when he tastes it on her skin. Sweeney can't help but nudge her back half a step in his eagerness, crossing her threshold without thought or reservation. She's here and whole and warm, in her house where he's himself when he's with her. She's his beacon, the flicker of light in the dark.
(Ember-mine.)
no subject
She kisses him back slowly, as if she's yearning for the very person standing right in front of her but unconvinced she deserves to be given something so tangible and real, a balm to soothe the ache his absence had left behind.
Wolf-mate. Even her words across his mind are a tremor, but still relieved, and little by little, she curves herself more against him, finally wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing herself up until she's practically on tiptoe, kissing him in between gasping sobs.
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(Yours. Still Yours.)
He needs her to know; to feel it in her bones that nothing so great has changed. That whatever has happened, they're in it together, and that he would not want it any other way. He's not angry. He doesn't resent her. And he most certainly isn't leaving.
The more she pulls herself up, the more he bends down to meet her, but Sweeney quickly realizes this isn't the right place to work through the rest of this. His hand diverts down her side until he can get a forearm under her hips. With a hint of a rock, he lifts her straight up, his other hand sinking its fingers through her hair and cradling her head. Sweeney keeps her secure in the kiss as he steps in further and kicks the door shut behind him.
It's his intention to carry her to bed, not to fuck her but to be with her without the strain that comes with the difference of their sizes.
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As he crouches lower to lift her, she moves with him, bracing her arms on his shoulders while he draws her up against his body, and the halves of her robe part when she ultimately lashes her legs around his waist, baring more of her uncovered body beneath, more bared and tanned skin, but she's too heedless, too wrapped up in him to notice.
What she does notice is where he's carrying her, which room he's bringing her to; the cottage isn't so big that she doesn't recognize the layout even when her eyes are closed, but eventually, she does break the kiss, wet lashes blinking open again as she regards him with a pairing of wonder and tenderness. His taking her to the bed, in this moment, feels right; she needs him against her, without any barriers between them, needs him covering her with his weight and warmth as every other layer falls away.
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When she leans back enough to look at him, his eyes are tender, and a faint smile threatens. The tiny nod speaks a sentiment he dare not put into words. It will be alright. He'll make it be alright. Sweeney can't Promise, but he wishes he could. He can't Promise, but he does Believe.
His shins touch the edge of the bed, and he slides up onto it, crawling on his knees while still supporting her. Making it to the top, he rests her back on the pillows, and curls down to kiss her, as if to assure her his absence will be brief. Then he sits back enough to shuck his braces and pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before stealing her lips again.
(With you. I'm with you. Where I want to be.)
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As he rears back on his knees, the removal of his shirt exposes the scar that was left behind by her knife — stark, and ugly, mottled tissue standing out amidst so much else that's smooth. Before he can lean forward to claim her lips again, she presses her fingers to his, bidding him to rise back up again as she also does, not all the way to her knees but sitting up so that his chest, his torso is closer to her eye level.
Her fingers find the mark first, tracing over it, mapping its shape, as her head tips back and her eyes meet his. There's hurt reflected in her gaze, and regret, and sorrow, that such a reminder has lingered behind — but she needs it to, needs to see the proof of what she'd done, needs to see it so that she'll never let it get to that point between them again.
And then she leans forward, pressing a kiss to that very scar, once and then again, lips parting for a deeper lavishing, turning her shame into an act of reverence. This mark is a part of him now, and she'll worship it the same way she would any other part of his body, mouth moving over the raised, darker tissue as if she could soothe away the injury itself.
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The first touch catches him off-guard. Not because he didn't expect her to do so; she hadn't masked her intentions; but the actual sensation is something he couldn't have prepared for. Sweeney sucks in his breath instinctively. The feeling is sharp, but acute instead of painful, and it makes him shudder. It doesn't lessen as she increases her affections on his skin.
Sweeney hadn't been actively thinking about sex. The temptation is an ever-present ambience between them, if only for the mystical bond of intimacy, but the feel of her mouth puts kindling on the spark, and the warmth of it starts to spread. His fingers sink into her hair so he can hold her to him as his other arm cradles around her shoulders. Sweeney doesn't trap of squeeze her; it's more like he's anchoring himself to her so he doesn't get lost in the sensation.
The headiness of it leaves him in a bit of a swoon, and in his thoughts he finds an image of resting on his back so she can be above him with more control to do as she wishes. That way, if he falls, it'll only be into the moment, and that sounds far more pleasant.
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She isn't actively seeking sex, isn't demanding that he pin her down and fuck her, but in more than one sense, she wants to be close to him again, to feel him against her, to have the flesh-and-blood proof of his return beneath her lips and hands until she's recommitted every piece of him anew to her memory.
She doesn't know who moves first, whether he's the one who rolls them over so she can settle on top of him or if they both shift simultaneously, bidden by the thought he'd held that had formed across her mind too. With their connection being what it is, sometimes it's difficult to discern who thought what first — but here, she wants his thoughts too, projected in her head as strongly as if she had held them originally.
By the time she's reared up over him, her robe is half-slipped off, one sleeve drooping down her shoulder, her hair wild and tangled from sleeping on it damp from the bath, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Her fingers go to his scar again, stroking the marbled flesh, and then her gaze finds his again, and she bends low to cover his mouth with hers, her hair falling forward to shroud their faces.
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Then her fingers are back on his marred skin, and it sets his breath trembling as she closes the distance between them. His hand sneaks its way to rest over hers, urging her to keep her touch against the scar.
"Please," he whispers against her lips.
(Don't stop.)
It's addictive, the sensation of the New. Perhaps it's the connection of the act, it's Sacrifice bringing them closer; what can be more intimate than sharing each other like that? His eyes flutter closed while he delights in her kiss, trying hard not to dwell on the thought of her mouth making its way back down, and how it would feel to have the warmth of her lips and tongue over his chest.
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There's nothing to stop him from retaliating, if he wanted to, nothing she could do to prevent a similar blade from sliding deep into her chest until the light in her eyes is gone, but in many ways, the pain of seeing his scar, the scar she created, is as acute as if she'd felt the knife go in for real.
She can't retreat from it, but she wouldn't dream of doing so anyway — so the only thing she can do now is embrace it, and let the pain of sacrifice melt away in the face of true, unabashed worship. He's all but begged her for it, and she doesn't find herself capable of denying him anything, particularly now.
Thus, when she bends low over him again, it's her mouth that finds the scar, lavishing it with attention, open kisses that occasionally offer a slow glide of tongue, ensuring that no part of it remains untouched, her long hair spilling over his chest as she digs a clutch into him with her fingers, anchoring him both to the bed and against her in the same breath. If more tears fall to dampen his skin, she licks them away, salt kisses both cleansing and repentant.
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Fuck, it's more heavenly than he imagined, and his sharp gasp melts into an unapologetic moan in short order. His fingers sink into her hair as his other hand slides, flat-palmed, down her spine. It's like having his prick sucked but not, in a way that's hard to explain. That said, his dick does take notice that she was on her way down, but then stopped halfway, and it protests beneath the fabric of his trousers. Sweeney doesn't care; he's too caught up in the rest of the thing. He inhales deeply, both proving he's alive and urging his chest against her lips.
He'd swear he can feel the focus of her magic left in the scar; it's so similar to the pendant he'd returned to her for safe keeping. Perhaps it's something she'd pressed into him with the blade, or perhaps it's just the ghost of longing to feel her token back around his neck.
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Whatever the cause, it means that as her kisses over him deepen and linger, her fingers find the front of his trousers, deftly loosening the fastenings and then drawing the fabric away just enough to free his cock to the air, so that she can stroke her hand over him directly. It isn't enough to lavish that puckered, mottled scar tissue with attention; she's not going to stop until every other part of him is worshipped, too.
Sweeney's hand is still in her hair, so he could easily stop her if he wanted to with a tightening grip, but she doesn't think he will, not even as a few more tears fall from beneath damp lashes to spatter against his skin, not even when she curves herself over his hips to wrap her lips around his cock, not even when she begins to suck him with slow, purposeful intent, soft whimpers notching in the back of her throat as the taste of his skin merges with the persistent salt of those tears.
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(God, you make me feel alive.)
And that is perhaps the purest truth of the act; they've come full circle, and every stroke of her tongue on his skin only makes it more present. There's warmth in the blood that fills his flesh, promising her the truth of his vitality as it puts more strain on her jaw. This time, however, Sweeney doesn't worry about hurting her. She's giving of herself, and he's not going to dissuade her. She doesn't have to push deeper if she doesn't want to, and as such, she can pace herself.
That said, there's a tiny itch in the back of his skull that wants to grip her hair tightly and shove down. But that's a small voice swept up in the pure sensation of the act, and instead, his fingers massage her scalp encouragingly as he tries to even his breathing.
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Do it.
This is her punishment, and her reward; her sentence, and her deliverance. In a way, this cleanses her too, washes away the sting of guilt with the taste of his salt, the heaviness of him in her mouth. She hunches over him, more determined now, and presses down, his shaft sliding over her tongue until he starts to reach the back of her throat. Her first instinct is to gag, to cough and splutter — she hasn't taken any man of his size this deep for as long as she can remember — but then she pushes past the panicked impulse and draws in a breath through her nose, and then another, her fingers tightening over his again.
Make me take it.
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There's instinctive concern, the one that always comes when he's in a lass's mouth, and it's all the nearer the surface because he's just reasoned that he doesn't have to worry about it.
But she's asking for it. She wants it. It takes him a second to work through the disconnect, but when the second direction comes, his body's already racing after.
His grip clenches tight in a moment, and he tugs her head back a touch. Certainly not enough to separate them, but enough for him to see her eyes and give her a second to assess the pressure and protest if it's not what she's looking for. But finding no complaint, Sweeney takes a deep breath and starts to push.
It's not sudden or sharp, but there is pressure behind it. He swallows, trying to keep his focus as encourages her further, looking for the depth she needs to tap out at. It's best to have some form of gauge before he starts to have less control in paying attention to it. That said, nothing about it is easy.
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He pushes, and she moans — there's no possibility of her being able to take him all the way down her throat, into that tight squeezing clutch, but that doesn't mean she isn't eager to have him fucking into her mouth, holding onto her head while he thrusts, using her in that manner until he either spills or decides he wants to claim some other part of her.
Her hand slides over his again, interlacing their fingers, and she taps once, an assurance that he isn't hurting her, that she isn't trying to get him to release her. He can go harder still, even if she recognizes his reluctance to embrace true abandon given his size relative to hers. If she has to lift her gaze to his from this position, violet eyes glassy but determined above where her lips are wrapped around his cock, then she will, before she ducks down to move over him again, head bobbing with clear intention, goading him to move.
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He starts to take a more active participation, guiding her pace with a stronger grip in her hair. It makes his eyes roll beneath their lids as he does his best to keep his breath deeper. Fuck, it's heavenly. It may not be bread and oil, but it's worship in its own shape; her sacrifice given with without reservation.
His toes curl and flex as his thighs start to tighten. Keep even, not too deep, he tells himself. But the voice seems to get quieter with every pull of her tongue. Sweeney's other hand starts to slide back up her spine, lingering between her shoulder blades as he attempts to not have it jump to join the one already in her hair. If it does, he's not sure he could control himself enough to keep her safe.
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The hand that isn't in her hair is warm on her skin, resting between her shoulders, and she moans, arching into it like a cat, enjoying how much of her body he can span with just the set of those five fingers, the slight friction of callouses something to savor in and of itself. What these hands have known, she might never fully grasp, but they know her now — how to touch her, what she likes, what will make her keen and gasp and cry out.
He's hitting her throat on every thrust now, and she moans again, soft but urging, trying to goad him into claiming more of his pleasure through her. Let her be the conduit of it now, since she was the one who delivered the pain before. Let her be the receptacle of all he wants to pour into her, and leave them both exhausted yet satisfied by the time they're finally through.
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Soon enough, it's not just him pushing down; he's rocking up into her mouth, his own lips parted in appreciative groans. Sweeney's hand continues up her spine to the back of her neck, where he uses it to support her stability as they both urge onwards.
He should stop; Sweeney knows he should. He should pause to get her up so he can suck her swollen lips as he fucks her her straddling but him riding, thrusting vigorously beneath her. But he can't seem to will himself to do it; she's so apparently hungry for this, and truth be told, he doesn't want to be left to the cold air, even for the brief moment it would take to switch positions.
The tightness at the gate of her throat stands as both challenge and temptation, and he's getting to the point where he wants to see how much she can take. How much he can have before she seeks to be free of his heat and the stretching of her jaw.
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Sweeneydoesn't relent, and neither does she, even though she does cede control over to him, let him move rock from underneath, let him assess how deeply he can breach her. She adjusts the angle of her head above him, leans forward until her forehead skims his stomach, her hair spilling down over his body in a wild mass of dark waves, and from here it's easier for him to thrust without resistance, toward the clutch of her throat.
He's so deep, and deeper still, and she moans, a strangled sound, at him making a home for himself in her mouth; her lips are swollen around his length, her spit keeping his cock generously dripping, and she can hear the wet sounds of it when he thrusts in further. She chokes, instinctively, her eyes swimming with tears that spring up, but holds, remembering to draw in those breaths through her nose, counting to a few beats before she finally pulls off of him altogether, gasping for air, thin gossamer strands of saliva clinging between her lips and the tip of his shaft.
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But then she slides off him, and a gasp escapes as he sucks in a deep breath and swallows a few times. Sweeney hones his gaze on her while he steadies, and the hand cupping her neck slides around so her slick chin rests on the side of his finger as he gently wipes his thumb over her lips. So fucking beautiful. For him.
The break found anyways, Sweeney's hands dart to hook under her armpits and tug at her, suggesting that she's paid whatever price she's sought to. He doesn't yank her; if she wants to keep at what she's doing, he'll certainly make no protest, but if she rather just fuck him, he welcomes that too. The moment is about reconnection, and her enjoyment matters to him.
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She's breathing as roughly as if she'd already come herself, but she doesn't protest when he drags her up the length of his body, coming willingly. She's mindful of how she drapes herself atop him so she isn't simply dropping her full weight, one hand lightly braced against the mattress as she slants their mouths together again, the salt of his skin lingering on her tongue when it swirls with his.
"Fuck me," she pants, soft and ragged against his lips. "And don't be gentle about it."
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His grip tightens on her ribs to secure her before he presses his heel hard into the mattress to roll them over and get her on her back. It's only half a breath before he's snatching at her wrists, scrambling to yank them up over her head and cross them so he can easily span and pin both with one hand. His other dips between them so he can align himself properly.
Sweeney's barely positioned before he shoves deep, filling her unforgivingly. His cry is barely muffled when he presses his cheek to her temple; her mouth has him so sensitive that the fresh constriction is a bit overwhelming. But oh, how he wants it. It's only a second later when he pulls back and snaps forward, sharply accenting each thrust as they start to gain momentum, his shallow pants falling in time with them.
cw: dubcon kink
Still, she thrashes and writhes a little, grunting in a blend of exertion and desire, as he asserts himself between the vee of her thighs, only pausing for a moment to align them before he thrusts inside her, hard. When she cries out, it's a sharp sound, eyes wide and lips forming a soft O-shape, as her body tenses beneath his, adjusting to the sensation of being so suddenly full that she can feel every inch of him as he moves.
Let there be no doubt that she wants this, though, and as he withdraws only slightly before thrusting in again, she won't repress the moan he fucks out of her too, a grateful spill of sound, hitching her knees up before loosely wrapping them around his waist so that he can sink into her at an even deeper angle. With her wrists pinned overhead, she's stretched out taut beneath him, desire written in every twitch of muscle, trust etched into her very bones, and every subsequent thrust drives a litany from her lips: yes, please, don't stop.
cw: dub/noncon kink
(Ya can struggle all ya want.)
It's firm instruction, not tender acquiescence. The thoughts give way to words, growled between clenched teeth and accented with brutal thrusts.
"I'm here. With you. An' yer Mine."
He's going to take her and have her and find his pleasure in her, no matter how hard he has to fight to get it. Sweeney had walked death for her. She'd lost part of herself in forcing him to. Whatever that piece is, he intends to shove it back into her.
cw: just dub/noncon kink all the way down
Re: cw: just dub/noncon kink all the way down
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