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.
Each of his thrusts is punishing — she knows she'll wear the bruises from it after, the places where his fingers gripped into her skin hard enough to leave those oval-shaped reminders of his presence, but she'll find them later and admire them, stroke over their sensitivity while savoring the soreness of being well-fucked between her legs. She's already giving him her choice — or maybe even letting him take it away from her, forcing her into receiving what he has to give her until there's no room for higher thought, no space to perceive anything other than the harsh, snapping thrusts of his hips and his possessive growls.
Yes. She's given up the ability to speak, the word forming across his thoughts instead, a frisson of pleasure rippling through her body when he declares her as his, and even when she arches up into him, his pinning of her wrists forcing her into a pronounced curve, she's already tensing, clenching around him, propelled toward orgasm faster than she expected but wanting him to claim that too, be the one to drive it out of her again and again until she's convinced she can't possibly bear more, and then making her come again just for good measure.
Her lashes are wet again, dark with tears; they mimic the dampness between her thighs, the sheen of sweat that collects between her breasts. She's just a warm, wet place now for him to sink himself into, solely existing for the purpose of them earning pleasure from each other over and over again. Even now, she can tell he's not being all that selfish; he still wants to see her unravel before he finds his own release, but that doesn't mean she wants him to be kind about it.
Yours. She gasps a breath, her climax dangling tantalizingly just out of reach as her thighs reflexively press at either side of his strong, flexing hips, and bears down to create an even tighter space for him to fuck, listening to the audible sound of him gliding in and out of that slickness, of him claiming every inch of that space back.
Fuck, how one word can cut through him, even when it doesn't find its way to her tongue. It makes him swell just a touch more as he plows into her, and when he's met with fresh tightness, he throbs against it.
Each thrust takes on a rough roll of his hips at its crest, a hint of a grind against her clit before he draws back again. More weight presses her hands into the bed as he shifts so he can catch a nipple. Sweeney pinches it cruelly and pulls, stretching everything taut as he dips his mouth to lick some of the salt from her skin. He laps up her throat for her sweat and her cheek for her tears. Every bit of her is so sublime.
She's stretched thin between the precipice of pleasure and pain, receiving so much stimulation either way that it becomes difficult to parse through the two individually. When he fucks harder into the tighter clutch of her cunt, swiveling hips to grind against her clit, she moans, arching up into him, straining against his pinning of her wrists. When he pulls the taut bud of her nipple, drawing it out with a harsh pinch, she whines, writhing in his hold.
Her orgasm is an inevitability, with how long it's been building, but it still comes on slowly, gradually, beneath the onslaught of his hips, her sounds becoming desperate and more plaintive. Just when she thinks she can't possibly crest higher, she does, until she's trembling, right there on the edge, needing to succumb.
And then it finds her, that release, as she dissolves into spasming, her moans intermingling with fresh sobs, as if he's wrung it from her against her will, as if her body has betrayed the full depth of her want of him. But there's also an intense relief in it too, that she's done her penance, that she's earned absolution through the salt of her tears and her slickness on his cock. Yet it won't be complete until he comes too, whether he leaves it inside her or stains her skin.
Her crying shouldn't be sexy, part of him tells himself, but there's something in the pure catharsis, in his being able to be able to give her that, that has him throbbing inside her. Her tears mark her sincerity and her devotion, and he's drunk of the Sacrifice of it all.
When she finally clamps tightly around him, it earns her a trembling groan. She's so much in all the best ways. The sensation spurs him harder still, as if he's desperate to follow her over while he can still ride the ripples of her orgasm and feel her milk every last drop from him. There's no way he's wasting this on painting her. He's in her in more ways than one, as she is in him, now even more so, and he plans to make it so she won't forget it.
His efforts are rewarded, and with a gasp and a winced cry, he loses himself inside her with a shudder. The intensity of it makes his hand clench tighter on her wrists as he forces her up just a bit higher.
Yes. This. This is worth protecting, even if it requires sacrificing himself to do so.
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no subject
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
Yes. She's given up the ability to speak, the word forming across his thoughts instead, a frisson of pleasure rippling through her body when he declares her as his, and even when she arches up into him, his pinning of her wrists forcing her into a pronounced curve, she's already tensing, clenching around him, propelled toward orgasm faster than she expected but wanting him to claim that too, be the one to drive it out of her again and again until she's convinced she can't possibly bear more, and then making her come again just for good measure.
Her lashes are wet again, dark with tears; they mimic the dampness between her thighs, the sheen of sweat that collects between her breasts. She's just a warm, wet place now for him to sink himself into, solely existing for the purpose of them earning pleasure from each other over and over again. Even now, she can tell he's not being all that selfish; he still wants to see her unravel before he finds his own release, but that doesn't mean she wants him to be kind about it.
Yours. She gasps a breath, her climax dangling tantalizingly just out of reach as her thighs reflexively press at either side of his strong, flexing hips, and bears down to create an even tighter space for him to fuck, listening to the audible sound of him gliding in and out of that slickness, of him claiming every inch of that space back.
Re: cw: just dub/noncon kink all the way down
Each thrust takes on a rough roll of his hips at its crest, a hint of a grind against her clit before he draws back again. More weight presses her hands into the bed as he shifts so he can catch a nipple. Sweeney pinches it cruelly and pulls, stretching everything taut as he dips his mouth to lick some of the salt from her skin. He laps up her throat for her sweat and her cheek for her tears. Every bit of her is so sublime.
There's no doubt that she's worth dying for.
no subject
Her orgasm is an inevitability, with how long it's been building, but it still comes on slowly, gradually, beneath the onslaught of his hips, her sounds becoming desperate and more plaintive. Just when she thinks she can't possibly crest higher, she does, until she's trembling, right there on the edge, needing to succumb.
And then it finds her, that release, as she dissolves into spasming, her moans intermingling with fresh sobs, as if he's wrung it from her against her will, as if her body has betrayed the full depth of her want of him. But there's also an intense relief in it too, that she's done her penance, that she's earned absolution through the salt of her tears and her slickness on his cock. Yet it won't be complete until he comes too, whether he leaves it inside her or stains her skin.
no subject
When she finally clamps tightly around him, it earns her a trembling groan. She's so much in all the best ways. The sensation spurs him harder still, as if he's desperate to follow her over while he can still ride the ripples of her orgasm and feel her milk every last drop from him. There's no way he's wasting this on painting her. He's in her in more ways than one, as she is in him, now even more so, and he plans to make it so she won't forget it.
His efforts are rewarded, and with a gasp and a winced cry, he loses himself inside her with a shudder. The intensity of it makes his hand clench tighter on her wrists as he forces her up just a bit higher.
Yes. This. This is worth protecting, even if it requires sacrificing himself to do so.