#nolohini

Get insulted by... Eöl

At first he deemed the injured maiden on the ground a human woman. What else would she be? There were no other peoples here in Riddermark, and all women were of the Eorlingas. Especially these days, when the world was dark and the paths unsafe. There was no mingling, only distrust.

Éomer slid off Firefoot's back and slowly approached her prone form in the grass. She was clad in crimson, making it impossible to see whether she bled. Her long hair was dark, like nightfall spilled over the green ground. Éomer gazed into her beautiful features, distracted and enchanted for a moment, until his hazel eyes caught the tips of her ears, which were altogether far too pointy.

An elven woman.

Raising his golden head, Éomer shot his waiting men atop their horses an exasperated glance. As if they had not already far too many troubles to handle. "Fate is toying with us," Éomer murmured, crouching down on his knee. "Elves. In Riddermark."

Perhaps this may be something to be easily endured during peace time, but now the land was so riddled with discord and sickness that he could not add to it. A large hand carefully examined her throat, soft as silk, and his fingertip was greeted with a faint beating of her heart. Not dead then, but injured in a way he could not yet tell.

His movement shifted the collar of her clothes and beneath the fabric, half dried and half glistening on creamy skin, was blood. Times were strange and dire, but Éomer had still not believed there would be elven blood spilled on their green planes. This must be bad luck. Dark elven magic, intent on harming the already brittle Mark. He ought to leave her where she lay and not engage in this ill omen even more.

But he was loathe to leave someone who was injured. It was cowardice, a grave offence. Only someone lost to the darkness denied a wounded aid and forsook them the chance to take revenge on what wronged them. Man and woman alike deserved to return in strength, a sword in hand and battle cry on the lips.

Then Firefoot came close and nudged his back with his muzzle. Both rider and steed knew the truth. Éomer had already made a decision, to carry her with him and find aid wherever closest. Éomer had not even needed to declare it, Firefoot was ready to carry them both.

He lifted her easily but with care, and held her against his breast, before climbing Firefoot. Holding on to her, he returned to his men. "We have need of a healer. Turning west will lead us to whence we came. Do not speak of her. Tongues will wag and the breeze will carry our speech to Meduseld. We should not even be out here, Théoden King forbade it."

He definitely cheated.

"You fought admirably."

Annatar's smile was sharp, as if there was a jest in his words only he knew of. When the idea of a game of strength had first been raised, he refused, claiming it was unfair for a maiar of Valinor to compete with elves. But it had been easy to change his mind, and to her credit, Aredhel fought fearsome as any wolf. It was not as easy a win as he had expected.

Still, though, Annatar did not have even a hair of place, as he settled himself on top of her in a rather feline manner.

@nolohini

sluts

How interested they are in having sex with them:

Very interested. Yes please.

How much they would pay (or have to be paid) to have sex with them:

Well really he was hoping it’d be free… what if he looked at Red all cutely?? Surely that’s good enough payment. Or kisses. Or grabbing his ass

If they would rather bottom or top them:

Celegorm is flexible in this aspect

How good they think they would be:

10/10 no further elaborations

If they’d prefer kitchen counter, wall, or shower sex with them:

If they’d fuck, have sex, or make love:

Make love, then have sex, and then fuck, in that order.

If they were going to make it a threesome, the third person they’d pick:

……..Beleg lol

If they think there’s ever a possibility that it would happen:

@nolohini

Where was his favourite ceremonial tunic? The white one, adorned by filigree embroidery that depicted flowers, wheat and running horses with colourful thread? The handicraft was perfect, stitched with love and care by Éomer's favourite caretaker. She was very old by now and nearly blind, unable to stitch and embroider any longer. He cherished everything she had made for him thoughout the years.

He was worried until he found the thief. Írisse looked mischievous while wearing the tunic. It was too short for her and barely covered her abdomen, leaving her bare from the thighs on. The sight was breathtaking. He enjoyed it for a moment, relieved to have found the garment. Éomer then approached her and curled his arm around her waist, drawing her close against him. He kissed her lips and wondered what she liked about the tunic. It was elaborate enough for a man but practically plain for a lady. Far from the stunning dresses and accessories she wore, which only accented her beauty.

--- Aredhel sat wrapped in a sheet upon the bed, staring at his back in thought. She thought of his family, abandoning him so young, expectations of perfection laid upon his shoulders. The desire to hit them very strongly with a stick ever throbbed through her heart. But of herself, she was not without guilt. She too had left him. Ignorance of his love of her was no excuse, she had been blinded by her own judgment enough to lack perception to his thoughts. Now she could look and find those pieces, strewn about like treasures if she'd only search. There was more heart beneath his roughened darkness than it seemed. But had they never come back together, she never would have known either. "Perhaps it is not you, as such," she answered softly, fingers twisting at the sheets. "Perhaps it is the fault of those you love. Selfish. . . and blind. They find it easy to leave because they do not see where your heart is found, and are far too lazy to look. So they leave, and then lay all the blame at your feet." It was guilt which spoke, mingling the stories of his family and herself, for in her mind the lines had begun to blur. She sighed. "Those who leave . . . The fault is in themselves. They run from fear, or insecurity, or discontentment. They don't think of who it may hurt because either they don't care or don't believe they'll be missed." Her hands came up to rub her arms, pinching skin as she looked to the ceiling. "And so, combined with your reserved nature, we leave, and think it won't affect you. For your parents it was lack of care by the sound of it..." For herself, it was the second.

In the late hours, Eöl often became moody and contemplative. Here in bright Gondolin, he was free of the worst of his mood swings, and it was usually sadness and melancholy that came over him, rather than rage and fear. He did not withdraw himself as he once had, but he had risen from the bed to go to the window, soothed by the crisp night air and the sight of stars.

Though he did not turn around, he was listening intently to her words. They comforted him. Not his fault - he feared always that there was something wrong with him, some ancient mistake of his birth, that doomed him to ever be abandoned and forgotten, because he did not know how to offer his heart.

“I understand running. I have fled too, in the face of fear. Not in body, but in my heart - I have retreated behind walls in my mind, and shut myself out first in fear of being hurt.” he answered quietly, turning back to her. His face was lit by the moon, pale and still in the cold light, like he had been carved from it.

“I do not mean to trouble your sleep, Irissë.” he smiled, one of the soft smiles he saved for when they were alone. “Nor to accuse you - you left, but it has brought me here, to your side again. I am grateful for that twist of fate.”

Another pause, and his smile faded a touch.