hlaefdige | open rp post

She turns her back to the paddock, leaning her shoulders against the fence, and lets herself reach out to pick up Eskel's curled fist in both her hands so she can coax his fingers to spread out again.

"Eskel," she starts, looking down at his fingers, "do you know why I like you?" A beat, and then she huffs. "There are many reasons why I like you. Do you know why I would like to take you to bed?"

She looks up at him again, her hazel-green eyes meeting his golden ones boldly. "Your body appeals to me, it's true. I think you could be capable of much gentleness if you tried. But more than that, you are not intimidated by me. I do not frighten you. You do not want to dominate me, to tame me, to make me a wife and a mother. You look at me and see me as I am, not as what the world wishes me to be. I am rough, myself. I am impatient and stubborn. I speak plainly and do not consider how my words might offend until they have already left my lips.

"We all have regrets about things we have done, or left undone. I do not ask you to stay for me, to keep a home for me, to do anything more than remember me fondly in the years to come."

She tugs his hand until he extends his arm enough that she can place his palm firmly on her hip, laying her own atop it to keep it in place.

"You do not have to accept my offer. I will not be angry if you do not. But know that it is open to you tonight, or maybe the next, until our paths part again."

He's surprised that he allows her to mold his body in this way, but he does. He listens to her words very carefully. Parts of what she has said alleviate his anxiety and frustration. She doesn't mind if this is a one-off, she won't pine for him or worry about him. Hell, she'll probably leave before he does, though now he has no reason to linger, and he's going to cut it close getting home as it is. He resists the urge to fight with her about his body. Even if she was used to scars as a soldier, it was another thing to lay beside him and see them all. To see the monsterous mask his ruined face can become in firelight. To say nothing of what it looks like, so twisted in places, in the moment of--

"I'd kiss you," He says, carefully. "But it's...I don't think it's very pleasant."

If it helps his worries, her eyesight is not as good as his. In the dark, it will not matter to her how his scars catch the light, how he might grimace in pleasure, how his smile might turn closer to a snarl when he isn't so careful to monitor himself.

Besides. She can close her eyes if it's really all that bad.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that," she murmurs, lifting her face towards his.

"It's been a while." He adds as a last warning before he cups her jaw in his free hand and kisses her.

He only has partial sensation in his face, but the part of her lips he can feel are warm and about as soft as you'd reasonably expect from someone who spent most of their time out in the elements.

The hand on her hip moves to her waist, not quite pulling her closer, but not pushing her away either.

She had almost forgotten, in all the years since she grew tall enough to look down her nose at some of the riders in her éored, how it feels to be backed into a hard surface by a man larger than her; Eskel's hand on her jaw feels enormous, the grip he has on her waist firm but not bruising, and a part of Éomer thrills at the promise in that hold.

Letting her hands lift to settle on Eskel's broad shoulders, she curls her fingers in the soft linen of his shirt and lets herself be kissed, considering the unfamiliar sensation of his lips against hers, the stubble on his chin scratching pleasantly as she shifts a little against him to kiss him more firmly.

It's not unpleasant. Not by a long shot.

"Can you...feel that?" she asks, barely pulling away to murmur in the scant space between them, letting her lips brush against the torn part of his mouth where the skin did not quite heal back together again.

He's doing his best not to feel like he's cornered her, though he knows he can't help the way his larger form looms over hers like a draft horse. When the breaks the kiss, his brow furrowed. "Feel...? That side of my face? No, not really. The cuts and tearing were so extensive even magic couldn't fix it. The mage had to save my life, couldn't spare time for the cosmetics. Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

It's a bit of a shame, really, but it's alright in the long run. It's certainly not his fault. Éomer will just focus her kissing on the left side of his face instead, coaxing him into returning the gesture again so she can tease the tip of her tongue against the swell of his lower lip.

He makes a small noise, a low sound deep in his chest, his arms embracing her with ease as he returns her kisses. He holds her close, rather than pinning her against the boards of the paddock and she's so warm. She's not as soft as some women he's held, but he likes feeling the strength of her body under his broad hands, against his chest.

And she likes to be held there, at least for now. If things were different, and it weren't so clear from the beginning that this was a wholly temporary arrangement, she might chafe at being held like this, treated like some sort of delicate creature that needed careful handling, but for this one brief dalliance, it's kind of nice to pretend.

It's not often Éomer is made to feel normal.

She presses closer, letting one hand slide up and around to cup the back of the witcher's neck, her fingers delving into his exotic dark hair and curling appreciatively.

He wouldn't dare suppose to handle any woman roughly (when not half done-in by drink or fisstech, at least, as had been the case now and again in younger and more reckless days) without being told it was alright. Not even a woman as sturdy and unafraid as Éomer. He feels her fingers in his hair and growls, but it's a sound of pleasure rather than a warning.

"Shouldn't do this here." He says, when he pulls back enough to breathe.

She breaks away with a laugh, curling her fingers in his hair again just because she liked the noise he made when she did it the first time.

"You don't want to give the good people of Hjaroarholt a show?"

Disengaging reluctantly, she steps back and takes a moment to straighten out her kirtle before taking his arm again. "I think it's time you took me home, witcher."

"Don't want to give anyone any wrong ideas." He says, seriously. He takes her arm in his, gives one last fond look at the pretty barley-colored horse, and leads her back to the little cottage where he's been living. It looks only marginally lived it, as Eskel hadn't acrued many belongings and he lives pretty sparingly anyway. He closes the door and lights the hearth with a flick of Igni. He draws her closer again and his kisses are more passionate now, without the chance of someone coming upon them to think he's doing something untoward and with the spark of need that's come from how long he's deprived himself of a woman's touch (or anybody's touch, really).

Watching Eskel light the fire like that will never not send a little shiver of awe down her spine. She doesn't trust mages, soured on them as a concept by her uncle's unctuous adviser, but the raw power Eskel demonstrates with his fire trick is still terribly impressive.

Kicking the door shut behind her, she lets herself be drawn easily into Eskel's arms again, tossing her own over his shoulders and pressing herself close as they resume the kiss of before.

He settles his broad hands at the small of her waist, pulling her close enough that he can feel her pressed against the length of his torso. He likes the way she flings her arms around his shoulders, every gesture of enthusiasm assuring him that this was the right thing to do, that there would be no fear, no shame, no sense of regret.

No, Éomer is not planning on regretting any of this any time soon.

Of course, there's always the possibility that Eskel won't be gentle in bed, that maybe he'll hurt her more than she's willing to be hurt, that tonight will go badly and she'll walk away with emotional, if not physical, scars. But every encounter with a man runs the same risks, and she feels she has a good enough grasp of Eskel's character that she's not worried about that.

With her arms draped over his shoulders, she starts to gather up the back of his shirt, balling it up in her fists and yanking it up his back.

He releases her, but only to pull the shirt off over his head. He'd feel more self-conscious if she hadn't already seen everything outside of his small-clothes and under far less sexy circumstances. He pulls her close again, running his fingers through her hair, captivated by the novelty of it worn loose like this.

The firelight is kind to him, the warm flickering light lingering on the swell of his muscles, and even though Éomer has already seen all of this before, she lets herself look her fill once more as he pulls her back into his arms and plunges his fingers into her hair instead.

"Is there anywhere you don't want me to touch?"

"Just...leave that side of my face out of it, okay?" He asks, lowering his wolfish eyes. It feels so ridiculous to be self-conscious but if she's looking at it, he's thinking about it and the last thing he needs to think about is the glaring reminder of his poor choices. "The injuries from the wargs healed alright, so I'm just fine if things get a little...uh. Athletic."

"Alright." She may not understand the history behind the injury — she definitely doesn't, because that doesn't seem like something she could just ask about — and she may be under the impression that the scars don't retain much feeling, but if he doesn't want her to touch them, then she won't.

What she will do is reach up to cup the unmarred side of his face in her palm, stroking her thumb beneath his eye until he looks back at her again.

"I'm very glad to hear that."

He gives her his lopsided grin, butting his head into her palm like a great beast.

"Yeah? You heard anymore salacious rumors about witchers that suggest I might be in danger of pulling a muscle?" He rumbles. He runs his hands down her body, back to her hips (not lingering on her chest but not exactly ignoring it, either), pulling her snugly against him.

She grins at him in return, stroking her thumb over his cheek one more time before letting him distract her with his hands on her body.

"I was rather hoping to start a few salacious rumors myself, actually," she teases, arching into the press of his palms as he slides them over her body, debating whether she should undress herself or let be the one to do it for her.

At the very least, she can take off the belt slung low around her hips, unfastening the buckle and tossing the leather carelessly aside, leaving her in two loose layers that should be easy enough to dispose of.

Edited (omg what is language) 2020-09-03 02:33 (UTC)

The clothes are clean, but not so clean that he can't tell they don't belong to her. Which would make sense, what use would she have for a dress? So he doesn't tear them from her, even if he feels like that would at least amuse her. Instead, he very slowly and deliberately pulls the lacings out of the holes row by row while bowing his head to kiss her neck and shoulder.

Éomer has plenty of dresses waiting for her in Edoras, ones actually made for her measurements, one that turn her muscular body into something that might even have womanly curves, ones that emphasize the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips.

She tends to find them dreadfully uncomfortable, and vastly prefers wearing trousers and binding her breasts down to keep them from getting in the way, but there are some things to be said for how quickly she can be undressed when she's wearing a shift.

Lifting her chin, she makes room for the witcher to nestle his head in at the hollow of her throat, sighing happily as she strokes her hands over the warm skin of his shoulders while Eskel methodically undresses her.

He finishes disassembling the dress with those rough but clever fingers, pushing the straps down her arms and pulling away from her so that she's just in her shirt. He runs his hands over her again, more attentively this time, feeling her body through the thin fabric. Caressing her chest, moving down to her hips, and then her thighs. Then, with a growl of exertion, he picks her up, broad hands under her thighs, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him. "See? Arm's all better?" He informs her, with a grin.

Éomer, sadly, is not particularly careful about clothes, even ones she's borrowed from someone else. When Eskel pushes the kirtle off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, she does nothing to make sure it doesn't get trodden on, focused instead on the feel of those huge hands of his caressing her with just the thin linen shift between his palms and her body.

He hefts her up into his arms and she laughs, more than happy to wrap her legs around his waist and to squeeze him between her thighs, her arms looped around his neck.

"How marvelous."

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