"Indeed you did." Her smile mimics his as she watches him scoot himself closer to the wall, pleased that he really meant what he said and wasn't just making pillowtalk before. "I still thought it fair to ask first."
Plaiting her hair messily over her shoulder so it won't get so much in the way, she turns and lies down beside him, shifting closer and closer until she can feel the warm press of his skin against her back. Reaching behind her, fumbling around until she finds his wrist and can drag his arm over her side, she settles down with a contented sigh, warm and pinned in place by the heavy weight slung across her waist.
And then... "...unless you wanted to be the little spoon?"
"My shoulders don't really allow for it." He says. Even with men-- not that he sleeps with them often, vastly preferring the company of women-- he's usually the broader party, much more suited to wrapping his bulky form around the other person just like this.
"I could still try," she promises with a chuckle, enjoying the mental image of tucking herself up against his broad back, slipping her arm over his waist and pressing her face to the divot between his shoulder blades.
This is better though, she thinks. It certainly allows her to indulge in a comfort she hasn't felt in a long time, the comfort of a man holding her close and secure against his chest.
Threading her own large, blunt fingers through Eskel's, she admires the way his huge hand dwarfs hers. "Have you ridden through the Riddermark before?" she asks eventually, stroking her thumb over one of the callouses on his finger.
"Through? Not for a long time. The work's been good on the outskirts, so I had little cause to ride straight through. Glad I did this time though." He squeezes her hand. He likes how strong her hands are, a reminder that she's a strong warrior. He wonders what it would be like to see her in action. He knows by reputation that the soldiers she leads are highly skilled, and as their commander she must be something to behold.
Smiling to herself, she squeezes his fingers through her own. "Even after you decided to wrestle with the wargs?"
She's been riding in an éored since she was sixteen, pledged to live a soldier's life at the same age many of her peers were setting their caps at soldiers themselves. She's killed more orcs and wargs than she can count, and her fair share of men, too. She still likes to be told she's pretty by a handsome man, that he's glad to have met her.
"Okay, admittedly, that part sucked." His rueful laugh is a soft rumble against her back. "But I was rescued by the prettiest rider among the horsemen of Rohan. Prettiest and the one with the most balls: not many people, not even grown men carrying swords, would come to the aid of a witcher."
She rumbles a quiet laugh of her own, flattered even though she was expecting it.
"Most people are idiots," she points out. "Also, in the interest of full honesty, I did not know you were a witcher when I found you bleeding to death in the middle of a pile of dead wargs." It was fairly obvious once she got close enough to actually look at him, but he could have been just a simple farmer caught in the crossfire of a warg attack. Not that it would have made much of a difference to her. She would have still stopped to try and staunch his wounds if he were a peasant, even though she knew it would probably be a wasted effort.
"Still. Glad you didn't leave me there." He says, kissing the back of her neck. He curls his body more securely around her and heaves a pleasantly exhausted sigh.
"As am I," she agrees after a moment's silence, hugging his arm across her middle. His sigh ruffles the hair that still sticks to her neck, causing a shiver to trip its way down her spine, making her curl into him and huff out a quiet breath through her nose.
"If ever you come through the Mark again," she starts, trailing her fingers across the back of his hand up to the hard bones of his wrist, "I would not find it presumptuous to be called upon."
"Yeah?" It's impossible to hide the grin in his voice. "I think I'd like to call on you. If nothing else, I owe you for the horse. But I can think of plenty of other reasons." He turns his hand to playfully squeeze one of her breasts. "If our paths cross again, I'd gladly share and ale and a bed with you."
She can hear that grin of his as easily as if she were looking right at him, and it makes her smile in return. It's easy to lean back against his chest, to let her hand slide down to cover his on her breast, keeping it in place as she turns her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye.
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Plaiting her hair messily over her shoulder so it won't get so much in the way, she turns and lies down beside him, shifting closer and closer until she can feel the warm press of his skin against her back. Reaching behind her, fumbling around until she finds his wrist and can drag his arm over her side, she settles down with a contented sigh, warm and pinned in place by the heavy weight slung across her waist.
And then... "...unless you wanted to be the little spoon?"
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"My shoulders don't really allow for it." He says. Even with men-- not that he sleeps with them often, vastly preferring the company of women-- he's usually the broader party, much more suited to wrapping his bulky form around the other person just like this.
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This is better though, she thinks. It certainly allows her to indulge in a comfort she hasn't felt in a long time, the comfort of a man holding her close and secure against his chest.
Threading her own large, blunt fingers through Eskel's, she admires the way his huge hand dwarfs hers. "Have you ridden through the Riddermark before?" she asks eventually, stroking her thumb over one of the callouses on his finger.
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She's been riding in an éored since she was sixteen, pledged to live a soldier's life at the same age many of her peers were setting their caps at soldiers themselves. She's killed more orcs and wargs than she can count, and her fair share of men, too. She still likes to be told she's pretty by a handsome man, that he's glad to have met her.
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"Most people are idiots," she points out. "Also, in the interest of full honesty, I did not know you were a witcher when I found you bleeding to death in the middle of a pile of dead wargs." It was fairly obvious once she got close enough to actually look at him, but he could have been just a simple farmer caught in the crossfire of a warg attack. Not that it would have made much of a difference to her. She would have still stopped to try and staunch his wounds if he were a peasant, even though she knew it would probably be a wasted effort.
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"If ever you come through the Mark again," she starts, trailing her fingers across the back of his hand up to the hard bones of his wrist, "I would not find it presumptuous to be called upon."
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"Good. I will look forward to it."