hlaefdige | open rp post

He laughs between her thighs, warm and deep and self-satisfied. He opens those bright eyes and looks up at her to see the expression on her flushed face. He had thought her pretty before, but looking at her now was glorious. And painfully arousing. His belt jingles as he manages to get it undone, to unlace the flies of his trousers one-handed so he can stroke his aching cock.

He kisses the inside of her thigh, and then nips playfully there.

It takes her a minute to come back to herself, for her breathing to return to normal, for her muscles to stop trembling, a minute that she gladly waits out with Eskel's breath hot and wet against her thighs, the rumble of his laugh practically vibrating straight through her.

Tossing her head to get her sweaty hair out of her face, she looks down at him and grins, flushed and very pleased with herself as she shifts her weight a little so she's not quite so close to smothering him.

"Looks like a hundred and fifty years on this earth has some benefits..." she teases, letting go of her death-grip on his hair so she can card her fingers through it apologetically.

"Over one hundred years of practice. And if I lack anything in technique, I'm at least enthusiastic." He says, licking his lips. He's going to be smelling, tasting her for days, with his keen witcher's senses. Far from looking winded or uncomfortable, he's grinning up at her.

"You certainly are," she murmurs, removing her fingers from his hair so she can stroke them over his face instead, trailing her calloused fingertips along the ridge of his brow and down the side of his face until she can rasp her nails over the stubble that's cropped up along his jaw, the stubble that left her thighs pinked-up and sensitive.

"I'm going to make you do that again before we go," she informs him imperiously, already plotting out how many more times she can feasibly sneak away from her duties to fuck the witcher before she absolutely must return to her real life and he to his. At least once more, she thinks. Maybe twice, if she's lucky.

"I will be more than happy to oblige." He promises, tipping his head into the caress of her fingers. He's sure they'll both make the most of what little time they have. Selfishly, he wants as much as he can get, because he don't know when he'll have the nerve for such a thing again.

Clambering back away from his shoulders is a little undignified — his fault for having them be so damn broad — but she manages despite the momentary awkwardness, because she wants to shift herself far enough down his body that she can bend to kiss him again, lifting one arm to toss her hair over to one side so it's not so much in the way as she cups her palms to his damp cheeks and presses her mouth to his.

If the taste of her on his lips bothers her, she doesn't show any sign of it, biting playfully at his mouth as she gets comfortable, draped across his chest.

"Let me return the favor," she says, like he's actively stopping her and not that she's simply allowed herself to get distracted with kissing him.

"Gods, could you?" He says, in a tone that's not quite begging but certainly speaks to his terrible need for her touch. Despite the passion of the plea, it's very difficult to stop kissing her, now that he's started though. He nips at her lower lip in kind, with a playful little growl of pleasure, one broad hand grasping her backside and the other coming up to knead one of her breasts.

"With pleasure," she promises, kissing him again, sighing against his lips as he cups her breast in one huge palm. "But you'll have to let go of me, first."

Not that she really wants that, either, because the way he grips at her is only serving to fuel the burn of desire in her and she desperately wants him to continue touching her as much as possible.

She also really, really would like to get her mouth on his cock, both because he asked her so nicely, and also because she wants to feel the heft of it against her tongue, wants to taste him as he tasted her, wants to send that barrel chest of his heaving as she brings him the same kind of pleasure he brought to her.

A rumble of half-disappointment, but he lets her go. He's momentarily at a loss for want to do with his hands, settling on folding them behind his head. The last thing he wants is to pull her hair or anything, but perhaps he's being too cautious. He'd rather be too cautious, however, than exacerbate the witcher's reputations as brutes.

Besides, this gives him an unimpeded view of her pretty face.

"Oh, hush. You can paw at me as much as you like in a minute." She winks at him to take away any sting her tease might have elicited, and finally starts to shift herself backwards when he takes his hands away and tucks them behind his head.

It's difficult for a man Eskel's size to look perfectly insouciant, but he does a very good impression of it like this, and she can't help smiling at him, fond and impressed in equal measure until she gets distracted by the body between her legs and beneath her palms.

Since he didn't say anything about avoiding the scars that decorate the rest of his body, Éomer lets herself map him out with her hands and her mouth as she retreats, smoothing her palms over the cage of his ribs and raking her nails down his sides.

Finally sitting back on his thighs, her palms braced on the ridges of his hips, she lets herself get a good look at what she has to work with and grins.

"So it would appear not all the rumors about witchers are entirely unfounded..."

He doesn't mind if she touches the other scars, they don't carry the same emotional baggage. They don't experience the same pleasurable sensation, but he doesn't mind. He groans when he feels her blunt nails drag over his sides, just a little reminder of the playfulness, the fierceness, of the woman kneeling across his thighs.

He lifts his head and cocks an eyebrow at her.

"I'd like to think that's because I'm a big guy in general, not because of magic." He snorts with amusement. Indeed, he's on the larger side-- thick and rising proudly from a nest of black curls-- but not hilariously so. "But I told you it looked perfectly normal and works as expected. I'm glad you agree."

"Aren't you just." Big enough in general that Éomer has to look up at him to meet his eyes, big enough to grasp her by the waist and heft her into his arms without expending too much effort, big enough that straddling him is really rather reminiscent of throwing herself onto horseback.

Instead of making a joke about how she'd almost been worried his prick would be barbed, or knotted, or whatever ridiculous claim she's heard about witcher anatomy, she pushes all that aside and focuses instead of curling her fingers under the folded-back waistband of his trousers, getting a good grip on them and his smalls both and yanking them down past his hips, leaving him hobbled with them bunched around his thighs.

Her fingers don't touch as she wraps them around his shaft, she notes with some amusement. She won't be able to take all of him down her throat. But that's alright, she has two hands for a reason.

Bending her head, she licks a long line up his shaft, turning her attention to the task at hand.

A curse slips between his teeth as she drags that tongue up the full length of his cock, her fingers wrapped confidently around it. It's been so long it's almost embarrassing how strong his reaction is (not that he hasn't jerked off plenty in his travels, but it's just not the same as the touch of another person). His cock twitches enthusiastically in her hand, a silvery bead forming at the tip.

He might be embarrassed by it, but Éomer is delighted by the reaction she gets from him as she licks him curiously, the sound he makes and the way his prick jumps beneath her tongue.

Using her thumb to swipe the pearlescent bead of fluid from the crown of his cock, she holds him steady and follows the path of her thumb with her tongue next, drawing him into her mouth and starting a slow, methodical exploration of him. She may not have a full century of experience to draw from, may be forced to be far more celibate than she likes because of her station, but this isn't her first time sucking a man's prick, not by a long shot, and she does her best to impress.

Not that he notices any deficit in her performance, but genuine desire goes a long way. He tips his head back to enjoy these initial explorations, his breath picking up as she tastes him, a low growl stirring in his chest.

Getting comfortable, Éomer lets herself sink into the rhythm of the task at hand, quietly pleased by the low rumbling vibrating through the body beneath her as she shifts her weight enough that she can free up one hand to reach between Eskel's legs to cup his balls in her palm, stroking her thumb over the loose skin to test and see how sensitive he really is.

There's a deep intake of breath and a tension in his muscular thighs in answer and the witcher moans, hips jerking.

"Fuck, that's nice." He pants, with a little laugh at his own need.

Pretty sensitive, then. She files that information away for later, too busy right now to make any sort of comment or even to smile at him about the way he jerks beneath her. Instead, she focuses on sliding down his shaft, letting her mouth get well and truly wet as she goes to ease the friction.

She moves up and down steadily, working her tongue over the tip when she comes up, swallowing around Eskel's cock when she goes down, using the saliva that dribbles past her lips to smooth the way for her fingers wrapped around what she can't fit in her mouth.

To say he was surprised at her enthusiasm wouldn't be quite right-- he figures she's the kind of person who takes pride in being very good at whatever it is they turn their hands (or mouth, he supposes) to. But it still catches him off-guard a little in a way that makes him gasp sharply and resist the urge to rock his hips forward.

It would be rather churlish of her to accept Eskel's best effort to make her feel good and not then do her equal best to return the favor. And he's right. She does take great satisfaction out of doing a job well, and having her efforts appreciated. Eskel's response to her attention makes her feel very pleased with herself, something that should be all too obvious when she eventually pulls off, licking her lips as she looks up his body to meet his eyes as her hand continues to stroke his cock steadily.

"How many times can you go in one night?" she asks. She's already told him she's heard various rumors about witchers' sexual prowess, but she wants confirmation. If he's not feeling strong enough for more than one round, which would be understandable, then they need to move on. "I want to still feel you tomorrow when I sit in the saddle."

"Heard that one too, huh?" He laughs. Who on earth had she been talking to, that was so preoccupied with the stamina and animal passion of the unnatural witcher. "That rumor is true." He promises her. "Having already worked all day in the fields?" He considers it, though it's very hard to think with her touching his cock like that, the sure steady stroke of her swordsman's fingers. He's sure he's going to be sore himself: his freshly scarred arm already aches somewhat from the day's labors. Not that he cares in the slightest, though he does avoid promising too much: "Two, three times? And then if we have time in the morning, I'll happily send you off feeling like you've already been riding for miles." He grins his lopsided grin.

It's like he doesn't understand what soldiers talk about around the campfire with nothing else to do. Once they've run out of stories of their own to boast about, they tend to move on to speculating about other people, even people they've never met. She'll probably be asked about this dalliance eventually, though she's fairly certain she'll keep all the details to herself.

Some things are meant to be enjoyed privately.

She grins back at him and swipes her thumb firmly over the crown of his prick. "Good."

Planting her free hand on the mattress beside his hip, she levers herself up on her knees and leans forward so she can kiss the edge of his mouth, remembering at the last moment that men seem to be more squeamish about tasting themselves than women are, and reluctantly lets go of him.

"Take off your trousers. We might as well be comfortable right from the start, if it's going to take three times."

You lose a lot of squeamishness when you've been fucking for over a hundred years. He threads his fingers through her hair and kisses her hungrily for a long moment before he rolls away from her to get his boots off and then his trousers. Standing naked in the firelight, she'll be able to see the scars on his hip and thigh from the wounds she had tended, as well as a few others besides, old white welts twisting into the muscular flesh.

Standing naked in the firelight, she can certainly see all of the scars that decorate his body, but she's a little distracted by the muscles beneath those scars, the powerful shape of his body limned in gold from the light of the hearth, as well as the hard cock jutting out proudly from between his thighs.

Sitting on her heels at the edge of the mattress, she reaches out for him. "Come here, darling."

He's more than happy to return to her embrace, now that he's free of the last hindering bits of clothing. He leans in to kiss her, as if he couldn't get enough of her now that they had started.

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