faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

Her laughter was of course the goal, and Faramir considers himself well rewarded as he listens to it, grinning at her as he takes the shirt and trousers and pulls them on, not bothering to do up the laces beyond what's needful. He raises an eyebrow at her choice. "I should perhaps mention that I too intend to be greedy and possessive where you are concerned, so mind that you tie that well. There will be consequences if it comes undone while we are on this adventure."

From the tone of his voice, those consequences would not be terribly unfortunate. Except perhaps for anyone who happened across them.

She nods slowly, accepting this. She will ask her own people for the names, later; will visit the wounded as soon as she may to offer what strength and comfort she can. "I thank you for your efforts, Lord Caranthir," she says, her Sindarin stiff and stilted but otherwise good. Her voice is still low-pitched but has a more musical tone to it now that she is no longer choked with exhaustion and spent battle-lust. "And I thank you also for the loan of--I assume--your sleeping quarters. Which you now seem greatly to need, so I return them to you, and suggest you make use of them before you fall over like a felled tree."

Haleth, clearly, is not a woman to mince words or waste time.

Edited 2018-11-01 23:04 (UTC)

He tries to kiss her back, arching against her hands despite his best efforts to hold still.

"Beloved." He gasps, groans. "Love you."

"Also very true." He agrees with a soft laugh, nibbling on an ear.

"Alas for the need to divest ourselves of clothes!" He could keep going, of course, but it really IS one of his favourite skirts on her, and to tear things simply for passion is wasteful. So he sighs mock begrudgingly and sits up, helping her up himself.

"Although it does allow me the privilege of seeing what is denied to others!"

"You needed it more than I." He nods brusquely, but her next comment makes him smile, although it looks more like a smirk, something sharp about it.

"Hah! And if I should be too tired to rise? The ground here seems fair enough a bed."

Also, his patients might need him, yet.

She cannot deny that, little as though she likes it. His sharp smile only makes her raise an eyebrow; she is too blunt for such pointedness to affect her. "Then I shall assist you, as you have assisted I and mine. Unless the lords of the Firstborn are too proud to accept such assistance or you prefer cold dirt to a warm bed, in which case I would deem you a fool. You will be no help to your patients if you add yourself to their number."

And after all, if she can humble herself to accept aid, so can he.

He could work around the skirts, hike them up around her waist, and there is a thrill to that. But that would deny him full access to her chest, which would be a pity. And they are quite full skirts.

So she lets him help her up, smiling as he reaches for her laces, helping him to undo them. "It does." She leans forward to kiss him, which hinders the unlacing process somewhat. She chuckles against his mouth, remembering. "So do you mean to wed me, Man of Gondor, as the First Elves did, under the sky in Eru's name?"

How have they reached this point so quickly? Eowyn does not know. He is not the only one affected; her skin is hot, and she aches with wanting, with remembering his mouth on her chest earlier, with an emptiness that longs to be filled. She had not realized how quickly this play might overwhelm.

She regrets none of it. She will regret none of it, she is sure, whatever happens. Quite the contrary.

She stretches out alongside him, sometimes watching his face, sometimes watching her hand stroking the hard length of him, now firm and quick and rhythmic, sometimes kissing his face or shoulder. "Do not hold back," she says, her voice low but encouraging. "Oh, my love, do not hold back...!" For she would see him lose control, she would give him all the pleasure she may, would see what he looks like when overcome with bliss.

"Oh, indeed?" She arches a brow right back at him, a somewhat sly smile curving at her lips as she meticulously closes the robe about her body and ties the sash. "Every warning of yours only tempts me more, you realize..."

And they really, very much do, but she has no desire to make a public spectacle of them. In private, though? Now, that's a whole different issue. "Perhaps you could unbar the door for us?" The sooner they get this done, the sooner they may return... and turn their attention to other things, after sating their hunger-- for food, that is.

Éowyn is breathing just as heavily, a quiver running through her at his roughened voice, her heavy-lidded gaze drawn down to his mouth helplessly. She pushes against him even as he crushes her to him, smothering a tiny noise of excitement against his lips that morphs into a full-on moan as they kiss with hunger and ferocity. Her arms wrap about his neck, and she realizes belatedly that she is clinging to him quite wantonly; and not caring one whit if she does.

She jumps a little in his arms at the sudden interruption of the shout, caught off guard-- it acts like a bucket full of cold water poured down her back, bringing some sense back into her head so overtaken by searing passion. But none of that makes her feel content, for like Faramir, she is equally reluctant for this moment to end; though she knows it must, soon. It all passes wordlessly between their gazes, before she smiles wanly, dropping her forehead against his shoulder and sighing. Just a moment longer before they have to part again.

Edited 2018-11-02 13:02 (UTC)

Éowyn feels a tiny stab of chagrin at catching on to the issue so late, followed closely by a small flare of frustration. These unwritten rules of propriety! She thinks it all a little foolish, this prevalent assumption that a man and a woman alone in any space must always be up to something untoward. Or at the very least, planning something of the sort. None would think twice of two women or two men -- friends, just like herself and Faramir -- in the same situation. But it is what it is, foolish and annoying or not; she certainly does not wish any trouble on Faramir over something so silly.

Whether or not there could be some truth to such assumptions -- were they both not still convalescing -- she refuses to even entertain. For several reasons.

"As you say," she merely agrees with a small nod of acknowledgement, keeping her thoughts to herself. With a hint of humor edging her tone, she goes on, "Then, I suppose there is nothing to it. You shall have to prepare yourself for the risk of possibly having to drink more of that tea in the near future..."

He blinks, derailed by her snap back, and eyes her with new interest.

"You speak sense." He nods. "Very well. Although I think I am a little too tall for you to carry."

He's not the tallest of his brothers, but he's not the shortest either.

"Eowyn!" He mock grumbles as she kisses him. "If you keep distracting me I will never get these laces undone." He hums, pleased, as he manages.

That makes him laugh, kissing her soundly.

"If it pleases my lady, I do." He smiles at her, eyes bright in memory. "Although I believe you had the better of me, that time!"

"Close." He groans, breathless as he kisses her, reaching up to drag her close, needing to touch.

"So close. Eowyn, beloved...!"

A gasp, and cry, and he tips over the edge, unable and unwilling to hold back with her urging him on.

He sighs a little with regret as the robe covers her body, already missing her skin. It is more than a little tempting to instead push her against the wall and give in to all this temptation, to push these hastily donned clothes out of the way just for a few moments...it would not need long...

But his stomach growls again, so he behaves himself for now, removing the chair he placed in the way last night and unbarring the door as she asked. He opens it quietly, listens to hear if anyone else is stirring abroad, then turns to bow her through. "If you will lead, my lady, seeing as this is your house..." For the sooner one hunger is sated, the sooner they may indulge the other.

He too sighs, raising a hand to cradle her head as it rests against his chest, bending so that he can rest his face against her hair. They have pulled apart a little, enough that she is no longer a clinging vine against him (and oh, how he already misses that!), and that his own reaction to her is a little less...blatant. Though he will still need to wait some few minutes before he can safely rejoin the company. Possibly several minutes. In fact he should possibly ask if there is a lake nearby that he might jump into. A very cold one.

He sighs again and kisses her head, murmuring, "If we were anyone but who we are, I would ask if we might find a priest--or whoever performs your ceremonies here--and be wed this moment. The past months were hard, but I forsee the ones ahead being more difficult yet."

It is a good thing she cannot peer into the minds of others and see what he thinks; they would not be going anywhere otherwise, hunger be damned!

"Then do follow me, my husband," she grins, grabbing Faramir's hand and entwining their fingers as she tugs him out the door and into the silent hallways of Meduseld. The pale light of early dawn is pouring in through the windows in the great hall, but not a soul besides Faramir and Éowyn seem to be stirring yet. Here and there among the detritus of a wedding feast -- the maids would rise soon enough to tidy up -- lay a snoring Rider, too wearied by the celebration and copious amounts of drink to take to their own beds. Hardly an unusual sight, but coupled with the fact that Faramir and Éowyn are sneaking into the kitchens like a pair of naughty children, the absurdity of it all causes mirth to bubble up within her, and she presses her fingers against her mouth to stifle a sudden giggle, quickening her pace a little as she leads them the rest of the way to the kitchen and its laden larders.

"Quick!" she urges with laughter in her tone and eyes both as they finally reach their destination. "Helga, the cook, is a force more fearsome than all the éored put together-- we do not want to be caught red-handed here by her." It sounds like she's speaking from experience on this.

She turns her head so it's resting more comfortably against his chest, closing her eyes for a moment to take in the utter sense of contentment and rightness that fills her; this right here, this is where she belongs.

"You do not know how badly I wish that were possible, my love," she whispers back, her tone wistful and her hold on him tightening a little as if to keep him right where he is. "I do not even want to think about being separated from you again. The thought alone breaks my heart already."

In truth Faramir thinks it all a little foolish as well, but he knows the dangers of rumor too well to disregard them. And some rumors are likely already flying through the city. He is the Steward, and she slew the Witch-king. Whether they like it or not, anything they do is of note, and being enclosed here is only some protection--and that protection mostly in that few of the rumors will be repeated in his ears, or hers.

He makes a mental note to ask Húrin about that, on the morrow. For now..."Is there a plant in your chamber in need of watering?" he asks hopefully. "Or if the window looks East, perhaps that might be made useful..."

Faramir too has difficulty holding back laughter. Whenever their eyes meet--which is often--he grins broadly, and when they come across one of his own Rangers sprawled on a table next to one of the Riders, both of them obviously having defeated themselves in the drinking contest they were having last night, he shakes with silent mirth. Anborin will be wanting a new head when he wakes, that is certain...

And over it all is the delicious feeling that he and Éowyn are getting away with something in this clandestine spree. He remembers sneaking into kitchens more than once with Boromir, when they were but boys, or even as young men...the thought brings no sorrow, only fond affection, and pleasure at knowing how Boromir would have been delighted by his brother's marriage. By his brother's happiness.

He grins again at Éowyn, carefree and boyish, and once they do reach the kitchens he has to stop and lean against the wall for a moment, smothering his laughter, before he can join her in finding a tray and filling it with various footstuff to take bake to their room. "I have met such cooks," he says, keeping his voice low. Whispering is probably not necessary, but the secretive air of this endeavor requires it. "They are more fierce than generals when on their home ground, it is true! Shall we earn her wrath with this? I would not be limited to bread and gruel for the rest of our stay."

He jests, but works quickly; slicing bread and meat and cheese, appropriating a few apples from a nearby barrel. All at once he chuckles and leaves these tasks for Éowyn to finish, instead seizing a mug and filling it half with vinegar, half water, adding thin slices of ginger, then seasoning the result with liberal amounts of salt and pepper. "Ranger hangover cure," he explains, smirking. "Or most of it. Anborin will wonder if I somehow magicked it there."

"I do know," he answers, his eyes closed as he breathes in the scent of her. "For I dislike the thought of being parted from you for even a few minutes, foolish as that may be. It has been a long and lonely time without you, my Elbereth, my Éowyn..." He kisses her head again, strokes the long waterfall of her hair for several moments.

But then he chuckles, if ruefully. "But truly, I am foolish. I am but new arrived, and will be remaining for some weeks. Why do we speak of parting so soon, with such joy returned to us?" He pulls away a little, just enough that he can look down at her. His expression is open and tender, and he caresses her face before kissing her again, this time light and sweet and comforting.

Entirely unrepentant, she continues to kiss him, laughter vibrating through her as she does, as she tries to tug his shirt over his arms. A task made difficult by his determination to not be distracted from undoing her laces.

Her smile back at him is just as bright and fond, for it is a memory they both cherish. "Only at first, beloved. You soon had your revenge, as I recall!"

Until the end of her days she will remember this, she thinks dizzily. The way he clings to her, his breath hot in her ear, the feel of his hips jerking into her hand. And then he cries out and arches, going still all at once, and then...

Well. Eowyn is a maid, but until now she would have described herself as no innocent. Still, she does not really expect the result. There's so much of it, for one thing. She waits until he subsides, until he stops shaking, then curiously reaches out and touches it. Sticky, definitely sticky. Bema, cleaning this up may be a problem...she hopes they both have plenty of hankerchiefs, or some other cloth...

But for the moment she lookes back down at her lord, softly caressing his face. "Faramir?"

That wasn't a snap, merely a statement of fact. If she ever snaps at him, he will know.

She snorts, for this is obvious. "I am no fool either, Lord Caranthir." Even without taking into account the fact that she's only just risen from her bed, she could never carry him. Not far, at least, and not without parts of him dangling onto the ground. His hair, for certain. Probably his whole head, and his feet as well.

...what an odd mental image. She must still be tired. Haleth shakes this off and steps forward, offering him a hand and using it to pull him to his feet. Once he is there she offers her shoulders to lean on. She may have no basis of comparison for how tall he is compared to others of his kind, but no matter; whether he is tall or short, she can be there to lean against.

They truly are like a pair of adolescents, giggling at their own brashness and cunning; Éowyn would not trade away this moment for anything, warmed by the boyish grin on Faramir's face.

"Worry not. She never holds onto her ire for that long," Éowyn chuckles as she clearly hunts for some specific item whilst Faramir tends to the bread and meat. "A saving grace of my youth in particular, as Helga makes the most irresistible honeycakes. Speaking of..."

With a victorious aha!, she extracts a tray of perfect little sponge cakes out of the pantry with a gleeful smile. "Bless her heart-- and predictability." She makes quick work of wrapping a few of the golden cakes into a soft cloth before replacing the tray in the pantry, sucking sticky, honey-flavored crumbs from her thumb even as she arches a brow at the concoction Faramir is preparing for Anborin. Wrinkling her nose, she teases fondly through a quiet laugh, "Béma! Is the poor man supposed to feel better after downing that?"

Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

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<3 Also sorry, I actually forgot about this for a few days!

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<3 <3 that's ok~

Haleth is pissed at me for forgetting though. How dare I. ;)

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She knows what she wants! Caranthir likes that about her!

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The contrast between this scene and the other two is just hilarious to me.

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sorry/not sorry the sad truth is that while sex is awesome it's also inherently absurd

It's less knowing what she wants and more knowing what she doesn't want! More difficult, really.

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