#eomer eadig x reader

[staplegrapes]

Mystery Guardian (Éomer Éadig x Reader)

Description: After the battle, you are wounded. You were not supposed to be here. Therefore, you would simply swipe some healing supplies and be on your way. Yet a certain newfound king would not allow it.

Word Count: 1.4k

TW: Canon-typical depictions of violence, blood and battle

A/N: Reader is written as gender neutral, but it is implied for some reason or another they were not supposed to be at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

✨Gender Neutral Reader✨

It was risky being here, you were well acquainted with that thought given that it ran through your head with every passing second. Though the battle had ended in an apparent victory much blood had been spilled. Scores of men flooded back towards the Houses of Healing and you found yourself contemplating going with them.

You weren't bleeding profusely or had any limbs hanging on by a thread, but you knew if you did not see your wounds tended to, you would likely end up quite ill. Seeing as you had managed to not perish in battle, you thought it may be of interest to not succumb to something much more easily avoided than a blade swinging at our face. Yet, there was the added difficulty of the fact you were not supposed to be in this battle. Your presence unveiled from your helmet would turn heads undoubtedly.

You had a simple plan. Keep your head down and armor on as you weave through the masses of injured and only take what you needed to avoid infection. Many more were in a state much worse than yours. As soon as possible, you make a hasty exit and find a safer spot.

You found it relatively easy to make it within the doors, many men were also still fully suited in their armor. The houses were large, yet the thralls of men easily overtook the resources. The hoards pushed you further into building. The stone archways seemed to get narrower the further you walked, more or less shuffled in further. After some time you noticed a free table with what appeared to be some clean bandages and a wound solution. Quickly, you snagged both and tried to make an exit, but the masses pushed you further forward. With some small shuffling, you finally made it out of the mainstream. Taking a breath to orient yourself you caught a glimpse of a pair of broad and familiar shoulders. Éomer was stooped over another, to which it shocked you to see the angelic face of Éowyn void of any life.

It was of no surprise to you she had also found the courage to fight despite the opposition to do so. While you did not know her plan, you knew you both had done so to protect your people. Still, she laid dead and your heart lurched having grown up with her and Éomer. Her bravery was overshadowed by the loss of her. As your gaze widened you noticed Aragon standing over her, while he was concerned he did not appear to mourn her. You saw a look of hope on Éomer's face.

Watching for several moments, you watched as Aragorn tended to her. You saw Éomer's shoulders relax and somehow you knew, she would be alright.

"Where did you get that?" a healer asked you, pointing to the healing supplies in your arms and in that moment you bolted down the hallway back towards the door. Maybe that had not been the most dignified way to deal with it, but your mind grew hazy and you began to rely on instinct rather than intuition. You hastily walked outside the walls and found yourself beginning to walk with no true direction in mind. The sparkle of a small stream down a steep slope caught your eye.

The small stream seemed to be the only place you would be able to tend to yourself safely. So that is what you did, carefully shuffling down the steep grassy slope towards the small glistening stream below. Your breath began to grow weaker as well as your vision did, the surge of battle wore off as the wear from battle grew. Taking a steadying breath, you bent down to the stream and began to dampen the cloth with the clean water.

It was a slow process, given your weakened state, but you made progress. Washing the injuries, keeping them clean with the solution and the water, wrapping them in the bandages and moving onto the next. It was quite awhile as you began to grow near the end of your needs but a voice startled you from your silent pursuit.

"You'd find better aid within the walls of Healing Houses, go there to tend to- oh."

You knew that voice anywhere and given the abrupt ending to his sentence supposedly he knew the back of your head anywhere.

Éomer.

How had you not heard him sneak up behind you?

"I shall be fine, your grace." you timidly turn towards him, ironically, given your fierce demeanor in battle not long ago.

"Whatever have you done? are you hurt badly?" His eyes were wild with concern as he quickly descended down the embankment. You watched him stumble just as you did, likely the most uncoordinated you had ever seen him be in all your years of knowing him.

"I trust Éowyn is alright?" you whisper, still deflecting his concern.

"Y-yes, Aragorn... she'll wake soon." He knelt alongside of you, "Are you hurt?"

"I'll be fine, I'm sorry about your uncle." You wince as you wrap your forearm tightly. He gently places his hand over yours.

"It is better for it to be loose."

You nodded silently as he rewrapped your arm.

A silence takes over the air between you two. It was comfortable in some odd way, given that you had both lived through the battle you were unsure of the outcome.

"It was you." he says in a breath.

"I do not know what you are talking about," you mutter through gritted teeth as you feel him start to clean another spot.

"You're the one who saved me when I had a blade to my neck." He keeps his eyes locked on your shoulder where he continues to clean.

"That could have been anyone." you shrug, looking away.

"If it was not you, then say so." You feel his eyes burning into the side of your head.

You remained silent. He sighs as he leans back on his knees.

"That tells me all." He states. "Why are you here?"

"Others needed to be attended to. I can manage myself."

"No, you that is not what I mean." He gently pulls your chin for you to face him. You sigh.

"You think I a coward?" you ask with a harsh tone much more intense than you had originally planned.

"What? No. In what tone did I-" You see him startled by your change in inflection.

"Then how shall I not defend my people as well as you?" You ask, dropping your tone to a softer, yet defending clarity.

"My job is to defend for you." He says softly, tilting his gaze.

"Well that does not sit well with me. I could not bear the thought of you dead on my account." You shake your head.

"It sits well with me." He says, "but I am most appreciative to breathe another breath granted by you, though I'd prefer it not be at the risk of your safety."

"We will have to agree to disagree on that matter." You turn back to him with a small smile. You understand his chivalry and nobility, yet you truly would never want to be the reason he didn't come home one day.

"Very well then, you feel well enough to walk? Let us return to the Healing Houses, Éowyn will wake soon."

"Will it not look strange for me to be present? Some may be opposed."

"And then they will have to answer to the King, for who is indebted to you with a life debt." he said as he helped you stand up and navigate up the bank.

It never occurred to you till now. Éomer is to be king.

"You may question that, I have more or less stolen the supplies from the houses that I used."

He chuckles, "I'm certain it can be remedied." He kept a solid and stabilizing hand along your arm as you walked back towards the Healing Houses.

"I can stay outside if that is better, give you time with Éowyn." but his grip only tightened.

"Stay by my side, I lost my uncle and nearly lost two of the dearest people in my life, I intend not to repeat that in anytime in my rule." he looked down to you with a protective look in his eye. Though it had been a grim day, you saw light beginning to shine from behind the clouds.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

[enchantedflameandflower]

Save a horse, ride a Karl

which one would you pick first? 😋

additional bonus question - which two together? 🥹

[zepskies]

AS TRADITION DICTATES

Pairing: Éomer x Reader 

Summary: Your marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark has been arranged in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor. The morning after the ceremony, your new husband continues to defy your expectations.

AN: I’ve been wanting to write something for Éomer for a while now, so here we go! Confession: this one-shot actually comes from an Éomer x OFC story I have fully outlined, called The Appeasement Bride. I adapted this snippet into a reader insert story.

Word Count: 1.7K

Originally posted on Patreon: 1/21/2025

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Spiciness, fluff, newlyweds trying to suss each other out lol.

You woke just after the dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon and filtering through the open window. Its light began to wash over your face and stir you from a deep, well-earned sleep.

Your hand slipped out from under your head and drifted over…and you frowned. Opening your eyes, you realized that your husband’s side of the bed was empty and cold. Already, it seemed, he didn’t care to be with you when you woke. Had you done something wrong?

Flashes of memory from the night before conjured in your mind; of the surprising carefulness in his calloused hands, of hot, sweat-slick skin against yours, and the rasp of his beard as his lips and deft fingers taught you more of pleasure.

A shiver ran down your spine, blooming some warmth between your legs. Surely, if you had displeased him, he would’ve told you so. Or maybe he was polite enough to withhold that from you, along with most of his other thoughts. Éomer was often so stoic, it was difficult for you to learn your husband, even before the wedding ceremony yesterday.

You had come to Rohan over a month ago, and in that time, you had been able to glean precious little about him other than the ones he seemed to value most: his sister, his cousin, his uncle, Théoden King, his country, and his horse.

Not that he told you any of these things in words. You saw it in his actions—by the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke to you and others with fairness and courtesy, not arrogance. You’d heard gossip of his infamous temper, but so far, you had not seen it.

Nor did you see him now.

Perhaps he had more pressing work to do. In these past few weeks, you saw a bit of how demanding his station could be, and you understood his duty to patrol the Riddermark as Third Marshal of these lands. However, if he could’ve just been courteous enough to wake you before he left—

The heavy door of the bed chamber opened to Éomer himself. He wore only breeches and boots, his wheat-blonde hair loose and unadorned down his back. You swallowed a surprised gasp and watched him from the bed, unconsciously bringing the fur blanket up to your shoulders.

He met you with a polite, “Good morning,” before he continued inside to stoke the fire. He held more kindling wood in his arms, and he laid it on the platform before the fireplace.

“Good morning,” you nodded, though your cheeks warmed in a blush at the sight of his bare chest (you remembered that slightly wooly patch well). The defined muscles of his shoulders and arms shifted with his movements.

You were also a little embarrassed for overthinking.

“You rose early,” you added belatedly, for lack of something better to say.

“I am accustomed to it,” he said.

He finished with the fire and stood. You couldn’t help the way he captured your gaze, his measured steps bringing him closer to the bed. You sat up to meet him, the furs draping from your body, covering only where you held the soft fabric over your breasts. His eyes were an interesting shade of green as they roamed over you.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

Somehow it was not what you were expecting, though it was perfectly agreeable. Your blush deepened.

“Very well, thank you.”

He nodded. Then, something almost hesitant passed through his gaze.

“I’ve drawn a bath for you, unless you prefer to rest longer,” he said.

You blinked. “Really?” That was a kindness you did not expect.

Éomer’s lips tugged upwards. He offered you his hand. Though you hesitated, you slipped your free hand into his. Instinctively you took the furs with you to cover yourself, your face warming down to your neck under the weight of his amused stare.

Your hair was a tangled mess along with the sheets remaining tousled on the bed, and you realized that your body was sore in places you had never felt so. He led you around a simple wooden partition to a wide bath that was built into the ground. Your eyes widened at the luxury of it.

You had noticed that Rohan largely valued comfort and efficiency over ornateness in their architecture, but it seemed they lavished some things with greater detail.

Éomer helped you step into the bath. He took the furs from you, still with that amused glint, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking note of your bare, supple form, what glimpse he was able to get before you lowered yourself into the steaming water. He had explored each and every lovely curve the night before, but you were lovelier to behold in the morning, he thought.

You looked up at him with some hesitance, but there was a question there that he thought he would like to answer.

“Have you already bathed?” you asked.

“Yes,” he nodded, “I will leave you to your leisure. Breakfast will be brought up in a little while.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you,” you said.

Was that a note of disappointment in your tone, in the downturn of your face?

Éomer paused, but he did as he set out to do, leaving you to your bath in peace. He went over to his side of the bed to continue dressing himself, slipping a long shirt over his head that he tucked into his breeches. Though he tried not to let them, his thoughts of you remained.

Meanwhile, you relished in the hot water relieving your sore muscles (and other places). You washed and hummed a little tune to yourself, forgetting that you weren’t entirely alone, despite the partition.

By the time you left the bath, dried off and dressed in a heavy robe over a thin dressing gown, your new husband was already munching on bread and fruit and other good things that were brought up from the kitchens. He welcomed you to sit with him by the fire, where two wide chairs were draped with furs to make them comfortable. You joined him, and the tray of goods rested in between your seats.

“Do you have much to do?” you asked, while buttering a slice of bread. The crust was hard and somewhat sour, but the inside was soft and delicious.

“The only business I must attend to today is to remain kept with my wife,” Éomer said. He glanced up at you, once again capturing your gaze. “As tradition dictates.”

By the Valar, was there no end to how you blushed around this man? You only couldn’t tell if being kept by you was a duty he relished in.

You almost didn’t hear him when he added, “Tomorrow we will see your family off. They ride back to Gondor.”

Belatedly, you nodded. Éomer saw the note of melancholy cross your face.

“I am sure it is…a sooner parting than you would like,” he said.

You offered him a rueful smile. “Yes, but…not as difficult a goodbye as I thought it would be.”

One of his brows rose. “Why is that?”

Drawing in a deep breath, you mustered a little courage to answer him honestly.

“I did not know what to expect when I arrived in Rohan, but its lands have beauty of its own. Its people have integrity and courage, and its noble house is noble indeed,” you said. A small, true smile brightened you when you looked at him. “It is honorable, and kind.”

Éomer blinked in surprise. On his face it was still muted, but it was there. Your words touched him. He cleared his throat, for some reason finding his face a bit warm. In his eyes, you continued to be a wonder. He too hadn’t known what to expect from a woman of Gondor. He knew what many in your country thought of the people of Rohan—simple folk at best, and horse-wild barbarians at worst. With you, he’d mostly expected a haughty, spoiled brat.

He’d never been more willing to be proven wrong. In fact, the more he learned about you, the more beautiful you became.

He reached over, almost hesitant to cover your hand with his larger one. He was suddenly very conscious of his rougher palm in contrast with your soft skin.

“Regardless of how we were entered into this arrangement, I stand by my vows,” he said. “I will honor and protect you, and do my utmost to make you comfortable here in my home.” 

You smiled. Your hand turned under his to curl your fingers around his palm.

“I will also honor and protect you in whatever way I am able. And I will do my utmost for your house, for it is now mine as well,” you replied.

Éomer brushed his thumb over the back of your hand. He rose out of his seat enough to lean over, and he kissed you. It was sincere, but all too brief. You leaned towards him after he broke away, left wanting more as your eyes slid open.

Recognizing that look of desire stirred his own, deep in the pit of his stomach. He tugged on your hand meaningfully and guided you out of your chair, over to him. You tentatively sat across his lap, uttering a laugh when you slid backwards and landed against his chest. Your hand flew there to steady yourself. Éomer clasped it against his heart and claimed you in a deeper, rougher kiss, one fueled by a craving he couldn’t name.

You held his bearded face and hummed sweetly into his mouth. You matched his fervor, your fingers slipping into his hair and instinctively tightening a stronghold. He groaned in response. His hands, large and strong, moved over your side and down your back, while the other squeezed the supple flesh of your hip through your thin gown.

Soon, it wasn’t enough. He slid his arms around your waist and under your knees before he stood with you in his arms. He smiled at your squeal of surprise. It was the first real smile you’d ever seen upon his face. It delighted you to be the one who put it there.

He carried you to back his bed. Our bed.

But still, it was only a matter of lust, if twined with mutual respect and…curiosity.

You did not love him. (Yet.)

AN: Love me some blonde, medieval cowboy Karl Urban. 😘💜

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LOTR/The Hobbit Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Eomer Tag List:

@kmc1989 @eddie-munson-stories @thebiggerbear @lamaudite

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hii I like your writings! If you're still taking requests, can you write something about Eomer and the female reader? The reader is Aragorn's older sister. A ranger and a renowned warrior. After Eomer personally meets the owner of the stories he's been hearing for years, he may begin to fall in love with her. If you write, thank you in advance, if you don't I totally understand, no problem.~

Greetings, Anon! I'm SO sorry it took me so long to get to this request. It has been sitting in my inbox for a hot minute. Thank you so much for reaching out and dropping this off. I hope you enjoy this little thing I put together.

A Sudden Spark

Éomer x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: mild suggestive themes, slight canon-divergence, fluff, yearning, crush at first sight

Word Count: 1.4k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

The Great Shadow is fading.

Evil is not gone. It is simply receding, lingering in the farthest reaches, waiting for the final blow of steel that will eventually come. There is a brightness that stretches over everything like a warm blanket draped across the shoulders. It is as if the Sun returned after a long sleep.

Éomer breathes deep, allowing the brilliance of sunshine and the floral aroma on the wind to fill his lungs. A peace settles over him, a gentleness that extinguishes all ache from the last few months. Éomer is battle-weary. He lost his uncle, and nearly lost his sister.

A few years of peace are what he and everyone needs.

Turning away from the Pelennor Fields, Éomer reenters the feast hall of Merethrond. Taking up residence beside a tall, white pillar, Éomer observes the crowd around him, drinking from his mead cup. Everyone is in a celebratory mood. As they should be.

The battle is over. Gondor has a king. And yet, there is still so much to do.

Éomer celebrates along with them. The mead is delicious if a bit strong, and he has a tender urge to experience life. A fair maiden with lovely lips and curves would surely satiate that subtle hunger.

But darkness and duty lurk in the back of his mind. The bright sunshine and fresh air only quieted it for a moment. Rohan is without a king. Éomer will take up the title. He has not officially been crowned but it will happen after all of this is done. From this point on, Éomer must serve his people in more ways than he has previously. While he has always been a ferocious fighter and a skilled rider, the politics of ruling will become a new burden.

Éowyn will support him, but for how long? She is currently tangled up in Faramir’s arms, the two of them moving across the floor in a dance that sends the bottom of her dress spinning. Her smile is wide and pure, cheeks lightly flushed from exertion and most certainly from the beginnings of love. Faramir’s smile is just as wide and bold, their gazes locked on one another as if there is no one else in the room.

No. Éomer will not always have his sister. It appears that he will lose her to another sooner rather than later. But he is not upset. If anything, he is happy for her. She deserves so much, especially after all they’ve lost.

That leaves only him. He too will need someone at his side that is more than simple counsel. Éomer will need a wife. That is the reality of things. Someone for him to love and to love him in return, to birth his children, to listen and give advice, and to assist in taking care of the realm. While it is a duty, Éomer deeply longs for companionship.

But all this responsibility subdues the celebratory mood. It slots his thoughts into all that must be done on his return to Edoras.

Éomer is happy for Aragorn. He is happy that Gondor has a king, and that Gondor will be a great ally. He is happy that Aragorn has reunited with the woman he loves, and that the lands are no longer scarred by darkness and death.

He takes a long swig of his mead, leaning harder against the pillar as he observes the dancers in the middle of the hall. The mead is strong and sinking into his bones. The buzz is sharp in his blood.

“Not joining in?” The feminine voice draws Éomer’s attention away from the dancing couples and to the end of his right shoulder.

Éomer freezes, his mead cup halfway to his mouth. The woman standing next to him smiles sweetly. Your gentle beauty is soft and inviting. As Éomer continues to stare, that sweetness morphs into amusement, and that one look sends a little shiver up his spine to slice through his heart.

When he doesn’t answer, you arch a single eyebrow, and Éomer hastily clears his throat.

“Not for me,” he admits, immediately drinking some of his mead.

“Dancing?”

Are you asking him? It feels like you are but Éomer hasn’t always been successful about understanding a woman’s signals when she’s interested. Usually, Éomer is the one approaching.

Éomer nods because he doesn’t trust his voice. He might choke on his words this time instead of a simple cough.

There is a stretch of silence before you speak again. “But you are celebrating.” You nod toward his cup. Éomer briefly glances at your empty hands.

“And you are not partaking,” he comments.

You laugh. “The Lord of the Mark is observant,” you tease, smile stretching toward your ears.

Another stretch of silence, and your eyebrows start to rise toward your hairline, head tilting slightly. Éomer blinks and then heat rushes up his cheeks.

By the Gods, he should have realized sooner.

Éomer pushes off from the pillar, straightening his shoulders and back, smoothing the front of his formal tunic. “Would you—”

“Yes,” you reply automatically, eagerly reaching for him.

Your hand is warm in his. Éomer follows, allowing you to lead, dropping his drink somewhere on a random table before entering the crowd of dancers. The music is upbeat and light. Éomer wouldn’t call himself graceful, but he did grow up learning traditional dances for this very reason.

But you continue to lead, and somehow that is comforting. Éomer is always prepared to take charge and make decisions. He does none of that now. You are smiling, clasping his hand, this stranger that has suddenly captured all his attention.

Perhaps forgetting for a bit is a good thing.

Éomer goes through two dances with you before the music slows a bit. Before, he hardly had a chance to speak, but now the two of you are close together, bodies pressed tight. He briefly glances over your shoulder and notices Arwen’s smile. She is watching him, and you. His gaze falls to the man beside her.

There is a slight frown on Aragorn’s face. Why is he frowning? Why does he appear concerned?

“You know my name but I’m afraid I do not know yours,” says Éomer, his face slightly tilted toward your own.

You give it casually and Éomer blanches. He knows that name. He knows who you are.

For the time he’s known Aragorn, Éomer has heard the stories from others, never from the man himself. He keeps you secret, not leaning into the tales told about you. You are his sister, the elder but not by much. But you are not soft and delicate, or so Éomer has been told.

You are daring. Adventurous. A fierce warrior and Ranger. You wield sword and bow with gracefulness and deadly aim. Éomer had heard that the Rangers came during the battle, but he did not see you. Then again, Éomer was far too busy trying to keep himself and his fellow Rohirrim alive.

The image he built of you in his head does not match the woman before him. The way you match his every step and how your hands feel against him, all speak to gentler things. Before him is a sweet and soft woman, but as he peers closer, Éomer notices the subtle shifts of your movements. There is a warrior’s grace to the fluidity of your body against his and with every leading step.

There is power within you along with the soft.

Éomer’s heart suddenly snags, stuttering before becoming a pounding drumbeat. When you turn your smile back to him all coherent thought leaves his brain except one.

She’d be a fierce queen.

The music swells and then melts away, and you release Éomer to step back and bow deeply. Éomer mimics the movement. When the two of you straighten, it is at the exact same time, and then you step far too close for a stranger.

“This is where we part,” you murmur, soft lips forming the words yet also sending Éomer’s brain into a foggy scramble.

You incline your head and begin to draw away. Like a lightning strike, Éomer moves into the space you just occupied, snatching your wrist to pull you close.

Your lips part in surprise, chest heaving slightly. Éomer’s gaze drops to the exposed tops of your breasts.

“This is where we part,” he repeats, gaze returning to your face. “For now.”

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @cherryofdeath @berarenado @therealbloom @ninman82 @thewulf @ferns-fics @beebeechaos

[eomereadigg]

“Now is the hour! Riders of Rohan! Oaths you have taken, now fulfill them all, to lord and land!”

[sotwk]

*Crashes into your ask box*

Please, I'm begging

The salvaged letter, wh- what happened 🥺

OOOOOH GIRL. COME SIT.

That ficlet, "A Salvaged Letter" is actually just my half of a silly game a delicious intrigue @scyllas-revenge and I cooked up. You can read "Reader's" amazing response, written by Scylla, HERE.

I do hope to continue this mysterious epic romance with another chapter or two of "Salvaged Letter" (collabing with Scylla if she's still willing), but I'm so glad you liked what you've read, and thank you so much for always being ready to Simp with me!!! <3 <3 <3

We are ALLLLL suckers for angsty, passionate Eomer. We should have fun with it!!!

[tvertimot]

Éomer x OC - Deep down chapter 8

TW: mild se*ual suggestion but i hope no one here minds it ;)

Chapter 7 | Masterlist

It has been over a month since the legation has come back to Edoras with the good news.

The whole court was working at high speed ever since - they were getting ready for the royal wedding, the related trip, as it was to take place outside of the royal city and above all for the reception of the new queen and her retinue. 

Rohan, who was still getting back to its shape after years of crisis and war, has long waited for a queen.

Éomer was lying in a bathtub next to the fireplace in his chamber. He tried to soak out the blood and dirt. He just got back from hunting - a quite successful one. He managed to shoot a mighty deer and a few foxes. From the latter he planned to have a beautiful fur made for his future bride - she will  definitely appreciate it once the rohanian winter comes.

He closed his eyes and drifted away into an intoxicating mist of memories and dreams. He recalled the first time he saw Lady Nartíhl at the coronation of King Elessar.

He saw her from a distance during the ceremony and he couldn’t turn his eyes away for the whole night. From her long locks shining in the sunlight as if they were made of a precious metal. From her delicate, symmetrical face and piercing eyes. From her gracious posture, the way she moved - Éomer almost saw flower petals floating from her lilac robe every time she moved. And however the young king was ashamed to admit - he could not look away from her round hips and breasts. The more he tried to ignore this, the more he caught himself glancing in her direction and noticing how beautifully her robe was coating her. Later during the celebration he saw her dancing with other men. Her moves were elegant and hypnotizing, but no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on other details the most of his attention was brought to her cleavage bouncing with her every jump. Later on, he managed to get a closer look at her when he had a few words with her father. 

They met during the Great War. Lord Idhoril led a very brave and skillful troop. 

They exchanged some pleasantries and made some typical military-related small talk, as you would on such occasion. Throughout the  whole conversion Éomer felt a pair of eyes stinging him from behind lord Idhoril‘s back. 

-I’m happy I was able to talk to you, Lord Idhoril, but it seems like my sister is trying to get my attention - Éomer pointed over to Éowyn waving to him on the other side of the hall. - I hope we will have a chance to speak again soon. 

He smiled and nodded his head, the older Lord mimicking this movement. 

Éomer took a step closer to Nartíhl. 

-I hope we did not bore you with the political talk, dear Lady.

He held out his hand, to which she responded placing her palm in his. 

He kissed her hand gently and looked her straight in the eyes, thinking to himself: don’t look down, don’t look down!

-Not at all, my lord. It was both an honour and a pleasure to meet you. 

Mhm this was a very nice memory. It warmed him up enough to not notice the water in the bathtub almost getting cold. He repeated her words in his head. 

-It was both an honour and a pleasure to meet you. 

Oh, a pleasure. He was about to give her pleasure, if only she would let him. 

He felt the arousal building up inside of him. He knew he was dreaming more of a fantasy than the real girl but he did not care. She was about to be his either way.

Just as he was considering following his desires, letting himself go into the fantasies and releasing a bit of this tension growing inside of him he was brought to reality by a knock  on the door. He shook his head and adjusted his position to sit more straight in the tub.

-Enter.

It was one of his servants, holding a letter. 

-Sorry to interrupt, my lord, but a  letter from lady Éowyn has arrived, I am providing it right away just as ordered.

He approached Éomer, bowed his head down trying not to stare at the naked king in front of him and handed the letter over.

-Yes, thank you. 

The king took the letter and startet to open it when he noticed the boy was still standing next to the bathtub. 

-You may go. - he said, slightly annoyed. What a man got to do these days to get properly trained servants! He shook his head and proceeded to read the letter,

Dear Brother, 

I have never been this happy for you as I am now. Please accept my and my husband's sincere congratulation on this amazing news.

However. I know you better than anyone. 

The next time we see eachother I expect a full story! 

All hail king Éomer. 

Love, 

Éowyn (Faramir sends his regards as well).

She knew him so well. She has seen right through him. As he expected. 

But it was ok. The next time they were to see each other was on the lands belonging to his future bride. Right before their wedding. 

Chapter 9

***

If you enjoyed the story please like/reblog <3

TAGLIST: @konartiste @emmanuellececchi

[eclecticqueennerd]

Masterlist

Welcome and thank you for visiting my Tumblr page. Below is a list of works that I have posted for your enjoyment. Have a swell day!

Started: 7/17/23

Last Updated: 11/23

Total Works for The Boys: 23 (some stories pending)

The Boys- Confessions

*An AU but not too far off from what we are familiar with. Becca doesn't exist and Reader has a secret that she hasn't told anyone. this is my first fanfic on Tumblr*

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Butcher Soldier Boy Y/n ending

Forge of the Heart- LOTR

*Reader is an Asgardian and joins the Fellowship. Asgardians in this AU are not as strong as they are in their respective universes (for example Thor summoning lightning, Loki teleporting/shape-shifting), but do have the power of strength, immortality, and profound fighting skills. *

*Prologue*

One Shots- The Boys

Game Night

Shark Week

Bad Dream

Bad Idea Right?

Why Me?

Headcanons- The Boys

Butcher as a Girl Dad

Soldier Boy as a Girl Dad

Homelander as a Girl Dad

Zoo Date w/ The Boys

The Boys Reimagined as Dog Breeds

The Boys- DND Edition

Baldurs Gate 3

Last updated: 7/9/24

My Tav- Emmy

Cat-tastrophe

Gale Dekarios- Wedding Bells

Gale Dekarios - Elminsters not around, might as well

Impulsive Thoughts

[dreamlandcreations]

Arranged marriage

So, about this arranged marriage thing with Éomer...

So should Reader be a softy or more on the grumpy side?

[whiskawaybelf]

Little excerpt from Chapter 7

He knocked once and heard the sounds of fabric and feet, she didn’t bother to peek through and see who knocked, she knew the only person who would bother with the new servant. 

“You’re settled comfortably?” Éomer leaned against the door. Other than her time as a princess he had never seen her in a dress. It had looked wrong when she dressed in finery, with her hair braided and jewellery glinting in the sun. Now she just looked softer, the thick dress added curve to her edges, her tight braid was loose, she was clean. It did not look wrong, this version of her, but it did not look exactly right either, it would take adjusting to. For both of them.

“I’m not sure you want a real answer to that question, I think you want an answer that would make you feel right in bringing me here.”

“It was right.”

“Then it was right,” her tone was dismissive and Éomer tried not to take it badly. He would hate to be hidden in her castle, surely a princess would have one, and servitude there would anger him. But he saved her life again, whether she would admit it or not. He tried not to feel entitled to her gratitude. 

“It will take time to adjust,” he finally said, very diplomatically. 

“I won’t be here long, that is what we decided. I don’t need to adjust, only to get through it.”

“This is not the worst of your tribulations, not even close. You might try not to hate it. For my sake if not your own.”

She nodded and took a step back, letting him into her tiny room. It felt like he barely fit, “I don’t hate it. It could be much worse.” 

“High praise indeed,” it was easier now. She was trying and that’s all he needed.

“Your people love their lord, that bodes well for you.” 

“Does it?” his frustration became amusement, it often did with her. She said the things he expect and then she surprised him, each time getting a little deeper under the skin to avoid.

“Your maids are all in love with you, that must feel nice,” her wicked grin flashed as she turned away, meaning it in every way it was possible to mean it and finding herself very funny, “Where are your wives, Éomer?”

“You have left your kindness at the forest, Little Bird, I miss it already.” 

“I don’t need to be kind to you,” she looked over her shoulder and that same grin was there, “I’m not a maid.” 

He wasn’t sure how to answer that, he didn’t need to, which was perhaps her real kindness. She came back to him with a pendant and a ring. 

“Keep this safe for me. It is my name and my title.”

“No one will steal from you here.”

“No, but still. If it is seen, it would announce me. If something should happen it would let my father know.”

“I promised you safety.” 

“Yes, but I have little sense, you’ve said it before. Perhaps servitude will be the end of me.”

Éomer grinned then, shook his head, “I should not expect gratitude from you.” 

“Don’t make me a maid,” Lothíriel said, her eyes still wicked, “Or I’ll know why you really brought me here.” 

“Goodnight, Lothíriel,” he said with a little shake of his head, “try to sleep.” 

[eclecticqueennerd]

This is fantastic! I love it and I hope there is a part 2. Keep up the great work 😃

Blue Moon

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (movies) Ship/Pairing: Eomer x Reader (one mention of reader wearing a dress) Trope: Noble x Humble worker Note: IT’S SOTWK’s FAULT. We talked about Eomer’s hands and here we are. The title « Blue Moon » is a reference to the song « Blue Moon », my favourite rendition being sung by Ella Fitzgerald. Warnings: Horses? Word count: 1 595 Tag-list: @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @fizzyxcustard @sotwk

There was something hypnotising about his hands.

The way his palm moved along the planes of the horse’s back. They were delicate. Deliberate in their care for the animal. Several times today, you had caught your gaze lingering a little too long on his slender fingers and their dexterity. Several times you had wondered what they’d feel like against your skin, in your hair weaving braids during a quiet evening. Those were fairy tales. You did not dwell on them, even when it kept you up at night; heat clinging to your skin, the chilly wind doing nothing to help your wandering mind.

It seemed to appease his uneasy nature to come here. He would go in the early hours of the day, only to come back in the middle of the morning. To the outside world, he was a leader. Someone they could trust and follow into depths unknown. Here, he was only Eomer. You considered yourself lucky to have witnessed both.

Others were concerned by his willingness to spend so much more time with you instead of them. You had dismissed them easily enough, but the thought had lingered. Why was he only asking you to help him? A bucket, water, hay, a brush for the horse’s mane. You were not willing to fathom an answer, especially if it was the wrong one. Seeing him like this it made you happy enough. You were content with this, whatever this was.

From time to time, he would ask about your day and you would always answer the same things. Fine and good. Excellent, perfect or grand. Never would you have said what you wanted to say. That it was him who made those days fine, and good and excellent and perfect and grand. Until meeting him, working with horses had been your life’s dream, and you were fulfilled by it. When he was there, you weren’t so sure anymore. It felt as if all of him was completing what you had and did not know you were missing.

“What are you thinking about?”

Barely above a whisper, his question lingered in the air between the two of you, almost as if he had not meant to ask it aloud. He was still working his fingers through the hair, looking beyond the horse’s back, away from you. If he had looked at you, you could have traced a lingering hint of a pinkish hue on his cheeks.

A chilly breeze rose, and you had to tighten the cloth around your shoulder, crossing your arms close to your chest.

“Nothing important, Sire.”

A laugh echoed through the wooden box around you.

“Then why are you boring a hole in my skull with your staring?”

Your cheek felt warmer than they had been moments ago.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sire. If you need me to go, I… — No. Stay.”

Eomer had not meant for his voice to grow this loud. Nor to turn around so abruptly. The nerves in him, electrified by your eyes, led him to act so.

It had grown almost suddenly, this affection he had for you. First, you were something to behold. Once he discovered your face, your features, the way you moved and talked, he only ever wanted you to be near him when the mask fell off. When he could be himself and not who he was supposed to be. Second, you never pressured him into talking, going silent for hours on end, just being there with him and Lia. She was not his usual horse. He preferred not to overexert Firefoot, especially after the events he had seen on the battlefields. You were the one to care for her when he could not, even before he started mounting her. The mare had a gentler temper, dark robe and larger body. She adored you and if instincts served him right, animals were always the true tellers of someone’s nature. Thirdly, and lastly, your presence calmed him like no one else could. Except when you were threatening to leave. Or when you were looking at him, behind his back. He never wanted you to stop looking at him like that. When your eyes were observing and kind on him, his weary body and his weary mind, he felt that he could take on another thousand wars just to find you here again, safe and sound, watching him. He only hoped you could say the same about him.

“As you wish, Sire.”

The goosebumps on your arms and the way you protected yourself from the cold struck him then. With the winds of winter approaching, the weather had gone incredibly cold, and you were only wearing a thin linen above your usual dress and robes. He stepped out of the box, coming closer to you as he’d ever been. He grabbed for a cover lying around. Those were used for the horses but they’d have to do. He wrapped it around you, as tight as he could. It smelled of the stables and hay. A hint of pink shattered across his cheekbones in the morning lights. Your breaths were leaving your lips in hot clouds between you. The way he settled his palms on your shoulders, securing the cloth around you, drove a whole different kind of shiver down your spine. You could feel his fingers over the fabric, his overexerted hands catching some threads, before he took them off you, gently. You could not help the sharp inhale you took when he did.

“Would not want you freezing to death on my account.”

His smile did not reach his eyes, but you felt the warmth it procured you down to your toes. At a loss for words, you smiled in return, trying to hide your face. Your arms were still secured against your chest but your heart was not as protected as you had hoped it would be.

In a thoughtless step, Eomer leaned down and brought his lips to your cheek. He could feel the burn of them under his skin. The way you looked up at him, bewildered and hopeful, brows knitted together in confusion, only made his mouth ache for more. Still, he would not do it unless you said so. He had already overstepped and behaved un-gallantly enough. Hence his surprise when he found your hands gripping at his lapel, obviously not willing to let him go. A soft curve graced his mouth, a pleasant feeling growing in him.

“Can I…?”

Your vigorous nodding let him know exactly what he wanted. Only then did he pull you closer, his hands drawing you in, the warmth you felt from his lips and the tenderness with which his fingers nestled against your jaw below your ears, enough to make you forget about the world around. Delicately, his mouth danced with yours, eager to please and swift to do so. Soon, his wide hand drew you in, pulling you at the waist. Your fingers met his heart through cloth and flesh and bones, beating in a rhythm only known to you both.

“I…”

You bit your lip while you could see him observing you through hooded eyes, his fingertips sending shivers down your arms. He was tracing the hollow of your cheek with his knuckles, leaving you breathless once more. He looked as if he had seen the most marvellous creature in the entire world. You could not believe it was you on the other end of that fantasy.

“I… do not know what to say… I… — Then you don’t need to say anything.”

His fingers found their way down the length of your throat. He looked positively charmed, yet you pulled back, hesitant. What if this had been… just a fling? Just something he could do, just because he wanted to. No other reason. No feelings involved. What if he was playing with you?

“I will. — What?”

He chuckled at your incredulous expression.

“I will say something. — Oh.”

He brought you back to him again, kissing your cheek.

“I…” He kissed your nose. “…will never…” your other cheek. “…ever…” Your fingertips now. “…let you…” This was getting on your nerves and he knew it, smirking behind your hand. “…be seen by anyone else but me, in this state.”

The last words murmured against your cheek, to the shell of your ear, elicited a burning anticipation deep in your bones.

“My King, I would never ever let anyone but me see you in this state. — I don’t think anyone had ever really seen me before you.”

His candid answer surprised you. In a tender caress, he stroked your back through the fabrics of your clothes, not thick enough to keep his touch at bay. A thumb ventured below your breast, too close to be accidental. You inhaled sharply.

“And I will never let anyone else see me like this. If you’ll have me, of course.”

His declaration hit your heart at an arrow’s speed.

“You really mean that? I’m not just a… — You’re not just anything. You are the world and beyond. You are everything. I hope to be everything to…”

Before he could finish, you pulled him down for another kiss. This one arousing and passionate; desires trapped, finally meeting in the middle.

“I will. I absolutely will.”

A heartbeat passed in his arms, trying to keep your hands to yourselves.

“You were asking me to… — … court and eventually marry you? Yes. And you said yes, you cannot take it back now.”

Your laughter rang through him as it rang through the stables, enlightening the new day ahead.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Burnt Bread

Éomer x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: fluff, physical & emotional hurt/comfort, family issues, established relationship, alcohol

Word Count: 2.4k

After being left to fend for yourself in your father's bakery, you end up making a massive mistake that earns his ire. Fleeing, you find comfort with the one person who you're utterly safe with.

A/N: Dedicated to @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

“I’m leaving. Watch the shop.”

You glance up from the sticky dough beneath your hands and find your father near the door. He sways on his feet slightly as he attempts to tug on his coat. “I’m leaving” is just another way of telling you that he’s off to drink, and by the look and smell of him, he’s already started for the day.

It wasn’t always like this, and it’s only become worse over the years. Following your mother’s death, your father’s reliance on mead has become a crutch, a vessel for his loneliness. It doesn’t matter that you are alive and here for him.

While you don’t entirely resent him for falling into this state, the frequency of it does worry you. Worse, it’s driving a wedge in your relationship with him. He’s becoming distant and detached. His frequent disappearances leave you alone to take care of the shop and everything that goes along with it. It’s not difficult, and you enjoy the work, but when the shop is busy, you can’t always keep an eye on things.

You’re starting to grow tired of this, and you don’t want to feel resentful of your father. You’ve always loved him, even on the days when he comes home stumbling.

“For how long?” you ask flatly, trying not to sound upset that he’s departing yet again. This is the fifth day in a row your father has left the shop in the morning to drink. You fail, a little indignation creeping into your tone.

Your father hears it because he scowls in your direction. “Don’t know,” he mutters, as he teeters toward the door.

There is no final goodbye or backward glance. The shop door slams shut, and tears begin to form in the lower lids of your eyes. Brushing them away with the back of your hand only dusts your cheeks with floor.

This constant distance is tiring.

Putting all your frustration into kneading the dough on the table, a little bit of that steam begins to cool. Once you’ve had enough, and your arms ache, you cut and shape the dough, setting it aside to rise.

The bell above the door rings as the first customer of the day steps inside. And then it begins.

This is why you miss your father in the mornings. Everyone loves seeing your face. They appreciate your kind smile and helpful attitude. Most days, your father is nursing a hangover and keeps to himself, leaving you to take care of everyone that walks in. But without him, you’ll need to do both.

The front of the shop quickly packs with people. You’re so busy taking orders and wrapping bundles of freshly baked bread, that at first you don’t smell the slight hint of char in the air. It’s only when you finish helping a customer that you catch a whiff of it.

The older woman’s nose crinkles in confusion, and while she says nothing, her reaction gives you pause. Inhaling, you consider the scents in the shop, grouping them into different categories. There’s sugar, butter, and—

Your eyes widen, and then you’re rushing to the large stone oven at the back of the shop. “Oh no. No no no no.” Grabbing the large, wood paddle off the wall, you hurriedly scoop up and toss the bread onto the nearby table.

Some are perfectly toasted but others, like the ones closest to the fire, are charcoal. You slide the paddle in and retrieve a loaf that is entirely on fire. In your surprise, the paddle and bread fall to the floor.

They both clatter loudly and you drop to your knees, using your apron to smother the burning bread. The tears fall easily, and the heat from the apron is hot and irritating, but you put it out. You’re so absorbed in trying to salvage what you can, that you don’t realize where the wide part of the paddle is.

Your hand goes out and connects with it. You jump back with a light cry, cradling your palm. The paddle is wood and not metal, which is some comfort, but your left hand is throbbing.

The bell above the door rings, and you glance up, eyes wide and frightened like a deer.

“What is this?” comes the sneering voice.

Your father is back, and you can smell the sourness from here. He half-sways, half-limps around the counter to where you’re kneeling. His pupils are wide, and he has to lean on the countertop for support. That yellow gaze roams over you, to the burnt bread on the floor, and then back to you again.

“You stupid girl,” he whispers. Then, much louder. “You stupid stupid girl!”

This is the part of him you dislike the most. When he’s deep in his cups, all kindness is gone.

“I’m so sorry, father. We were busy and I didn’t realize—”

“Do you know how much you’ve cost us? This is two dozen loaves.” He picks one up and throws it at your face. His aim is terrible and completely off. All you have to do is bend a bit and it sails right over your head.

“Father—”

“Do you do this to me on purpose?”

“Father. Please—”

“Every day I have to look upon your face and see your mother. A daily reminder that she is gone!”

“Please,” you beg softly, staring down at your hands.

“Get out!”

You bolt up and rush out the door, nearly knocking over an elderly woman about to walk inside. You run and run until you pass through the gates of Edoras, stopping only when you make it to the burial mounds of the kings. You fall to your knees and then onto your back, staring up into the sky.

It’s morning, but overcast, the clouds a stormy gray like they’re ready to cry and join you in your sorrow.

There is only one person who could give you comfort, but he is not here. He is gone, expected back today but you’re not sure when. Even if you were to wait for him, you’re in no state to greet him. Éomer should see you happy when he returns, not tear-stained.

No one holds vigil at the burial mounds. This will be your respite. This will be your chance to slow your racing heart and dry your eyes. Once you’re calm, once you’re no longer wishing to flee from this place, you’ll hold vigil at the gates until Éomer arrives. Going back to the shop to face your father is out of the question.

The grass is a soft bed beneath you. Closing your eyes, you press your hands against the earth, splaying your fingers wide, focusing on the individual blades of grass under your palms. This will be your anchor until you can find a bit of peace.

“What are you doing on the ground?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head to the right, meeting the amused smile of the man you love.

“Éomer,” you breathe, sitting up to grab at the front of his leather armor. It doesn’t matter that your hands sting, you pull him down onto you wanting his closeness.

His gentle laugh is perfect, and when your mouths meet, everything slips away. Éomer settles between your legs, his forearm resting by your head while his other hand reaches back to grab. He meets bare thigh, and the contact is exactly what you need.

Éomer is real and whole and with you.

The kisses that start with soft excitement quickly become deep and heated. There is a slight harsh bite to his breathing as the two of you presses closer. Your hands slide up to wrap around the back of his neck, but as they crest over the lip of his armor, the tender flesh on your palm screams out.

Hissing, you draw back, clutching at your hand.

Éomer stills and then pulls away from your lips. His head tips downward, glimpsing the burn before you can hide it from view.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone tipping toward concern.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur, as the memory of your father comes roaring back.

“It’s not nothing,” he replies firmly, his brow creasing. “Show me.”

Slowly, you unfurl your fingers, revealing your palm. Of everyone in your life, Éomer is the safest.

Éomer’s mouth forms into a deep frown as he clutches your wrist, drawing your hand closer to his face as he inspects the burn. “Did someone do this to you?”

You shake your head. “No. Just grabbed some hot bread. That’s all.”

Éomer sees right through you. “You’ve been crying.”

“It hurts.”

Éomer sighs, gently guiding your hand down to your chest. When he releases your wrist, Éomer reaches out to trace the backs of his knuckles against your cheekbone. “You can tell me if it was your father.”

When the tears start to accumulate in your eyes again, Éomer leans in and lowers his voice. “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head. “Not with his fists.”

Éomer’s exhalation is shaky, like he’s trying to calm his own anger. “You’re coming with me.”

“Éomer—”

“You are coming with me,” he repeats. “We will talk, and I will tend to these burns.” When you open your mouth to argue, Éomer shakes his head. “Don’t be stubborn.”

He slowly sits back on his heels and helps you come to sitting. Then he’s on his feet, bringing you with him. Éomer;s horse, Firefoot, grazes nearby.

Éomer’s hands lightly brush away the blades of grass that cling to your skirts. “Would you like to walk or ride back?”

You love Firefoot dearly, but you’d rather take your time arriving to Edoras’ gates. You’re still not calm, and a slow walk with Éomer at your side might just help you find some peace.

“Could we walk?”

He nods. “If that is what you wish.”

Éomer leads Firefoot by the bridle with one hand, and with the other, he clasps yours. He does not push or dig around, but instead moves at the pace you set. Éomer knows your signals without you having to say anything. Instead of inquiring about your father or what happened, he talks about his time away. It gives you a chance to shift mindsets, to focus on him and nothing else.

When the two of you are in his private room, Éomer guides you over to the hearth. He lays out a small nest of furs and gently helps you down on them, taking care not to accidentally brush against the burn. Once you’re seated, Éomer moves to a far corner of the room to remove his weapons and a few heavy pieces of armor. Then he comes back to you, sitting beside you in front of the fire.

“Show me your hands.” Reluctantly, you present them. Éomer frowns down at them. “Tell me again your father didn’t do this to you.”

“He didn’t. I promise.”

Éomer sighs heavily and his hands wrap around your wrists. He gently guides your hands closer, inspecting the burn. It’s only on your left hand, and Éomer slowly releases the one that’s fine. “I’ll have someone fetch some ointment for this and bandages.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. I’ll take care of it.”

You snort and Éomer’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Think I’m incapable?”

“A strong warrior like you capable of such tenderness?” you tease.

His smile softens. “What about all the times I’ve been tender with you?”

Your cheeks heat with the memory. “Not in that way,” you mutter, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“Would you prefer that as well?”

“Perhaps later,” you breathe, heart quickening in your chest.

Éomer lifts your wrist to his mouth, placing a kiss on the pulse point. “I’ll return shortly.”

When Éomer acquires the correct ointment and bandages, he sets to work. He cleanses his hands, scrubbing his nails and between his fingers before he begins. Then, with purposeful slowness, Éomer lifts the injured hand and begins rubbing the ointment into the surface-level burns. They likely won’t blister but they’ll sting for a week or more.

Once the ointment is applied, he unwraps the bandages, guiding it over and around your hand to keep the ointment in place. He ties off the extra and cuts it off with a clean blade, tucking the little bit left into the wrappings. Éomer is overly cautious but it’s sweet.

He is always so gentle with you.

“You spoil me,” you murmur.

“I enjoy it,” he replies, turning your hand over to double-check his work.

A soft sadness creeps in. “One day you won’t.”

Éomer glances up. “How so?”

You shrug as if the words don’t mean anything. “You’ll marry a princess. She’ll beautiful and fair. The people will love her.”

Éomer shakes his head. “Why would I ever want such a thing when I have one right here.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not.” Éomer kisses your fingers and gently guides your hand to your lap. In a move so delicate it momentarily steals your breath, Éomer cups your cheek and leans in close. “All I ever want. All I ever need. Is right here.”

Éomer stands before the back door of the shop your father owns. He’s still fuming, but not nearly as much as when he saw your hand. For some time, Éomer has wanted to give this man a piece of his mind. You are precious, and more importantly, you don’t deserve his ire.

The man is a drunk, and everyone knows it. Most show him pity because it all started with the death of his wife—your mother. But that was many years ago, and any pity Éomer felt for the man has long since evaporated.

Squaring his shoulders, Éomer pounds on the door like he’s trying to splinter the wood.

You are still in Éomer’s chambers, curled up in the pile of furs he created in front of the fire. You are sacred to him, the woman he wants above all things. One day, you will be his, and will no longer have to answer to your father.

The drunkard swings open the door. “What?” he growls before he realizes who stands before him.

His eyes widen, and he straightens up, smoothing out the rumbled apron. He fumbles over his words and Éomer holds up a single hand, silencing the man.

“I’m not interested in excuses.” Éomer takes a step into the shop, towering over the man. “If I ever see her in tears again because of you, understand that my next visit will be much less pleasant. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Éomer wants to stay more, but he draws back his rage. He nods curtly, and exits, only wanting to return to you.

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[elvish-sky]

ok first of all CONGRATUALTIONS ON 1000 FOLLOWERS 🎉🎉🎉🎈YOU DESERVE ALL OF THEM AND SO MUCH MORE!!! WE'RE SO PROUD OF YOU!!

Is it alright if I request a 💙 for Eomer x reader with the third prompt “Everyone knows you’re lying."

Ok, Wow, He’s Very Hot {Éomer x Reader}

A.N: Thank you!!! I’m so excited and grateful!!! Ok wow, writing something in ten minutes was honestly sooo much harder than I expected, but it was so much fun!! I think I’ll do this more often. I was typing sooo fast to get this to like a good conclusion, and I honestly like it so that’s good. Also, like if I can write almost 500 words in ten minutes- why does it take me so long to write fics?! Maybe I should work with a timer more… Anyways, I hope you love this!

Word Count: 436

*****

You walked down the hallway with your friend Eowyn, chatting as you made your way to the training courtyard.

It was after the War of the Ring, the crowning of Eomer as King of Rohan had opened up so many new pathways for women. Eowyn was now a healer, betrothed to Faramir of Gondor and visiting home for a few weeks, and you were training to become a soldier in the armies of Rohan.

You approached the large wooden doors, slamming your shoulder into them to heave them open.

The sight that greeted you in the courtyard was not unpleasant- although Eowyn did shudder and mutter “Ew.”

Eomer, King of Rohan, was sparring, shirtless with one of his guards. The sweat glistened on his torso as his long hair flowed down his back. You could see the muscles rippling under his skin as he went on the attack, fighting with his favorite battleax that he so rarely got to use.

You jumped as Eowyn elbowed you, startling you.

“Everyone knows you’re lying, Y/N.” She said.

You glanced at her, puzzled. “Lying about what?”

“Loving him.”

“WHAT?! I don’t love Eomer! You’re crazy,” You told her.

A smirk spread across Eowyn’s face.

“What?” you asked wildly, head twisting every which way to see the source of her amusement.

She pointed. “Seems like your little outburst drew some attention,” she said, then withdrew into the shadows.

You turned, puzzled, to see Eomer making a beeline for you.

He was still very much shirtless.

You gulped.

“Y/N, I couldn’t help but overhear you.”

“Yeah! Because she was yelling loud enough for Faramir to hear all the way in Gondor!” Eowyn called out.

Eomer glowered at her. “Not helping!!!”

She smirked again. “Ok, sorry, sorry. Carry on!”

Eomer continued, “And while you did say you didn’t love me, you denied it so vehemently that I had to suspect that you weren’t being entirely truthful.”

You shuffled your feet, even more embarrassed than you were five minutes ago.

“So, I was wondering if you might let me kiss you. Just a test,” Eomer told you.

You nodded.

He drew closer, and you were still extremely aware of the fact that he was shirtless. But hey, you weren’t complaining!

Especially not as he grabbed your waist with one hand, drawing you close to his body as his other hand rested at the back of your neck, kissing you with what seemed like years of pent-up passion.

Eowyn wolf-whistled from behind you.

You elected for a non-verbal retort, as your mouth was rather occupied, and flipped her off behind Eomer’s back.

****

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[arsenic-catnep]

Hello! Could you please write some headcanons for Aragorn, Faramir, Eomer and Frodo with a s/o whose love language is making them things? Like randomly making them art, poems, cooking and baking things for them and generally showing their love through making things for them? For instance, the only way I know how to flirt is by drawing people and showing it to them, and I love cooking and baking things for the people I love! Thank you so so much, happy holidays! Wishing you the best hun :)

I am so bad with Aragorn and Faramir's characterization so I apologize if it's bad 😅

Aragorn

Is very familiar with this type of love language. Elves use this type of love language often and being raised by them gave him the opportunity to get used to it and reciprocate the favor.

Absolutely adores the gifts he receives, whether it's art, writing, baked goods etc. He appreciates all of it and will thank his lover with words of affirmation or a kiss if they allow.

Very proud to show off what they made to everyone he can. Boasting about his beloved's skills and kindness.

Faramir

He's so appreciative of the gifts he receives. Always surprised when he gets them, but thankful nonetheless.

He will treasure his gifts and be very protective over them, they have a special place in his room.

No one is allowed to touch them, and if they ask where the gifts are from he will get a bit flustered and tell the person it's none of their business.

Eomer

He can't help but smile when he receives the homemade gifts. He knows how much time and effort goes into things like this and is very thankful.

Has a habit of returning the favor by making gifts of his own, particularly carved wooden figures or even just a bouquet of wildflowers he had picked.

Eomer holds each and every one of the gifts in high regard and proudly displays them around his home.

Frodo

Frodo has received gifts like this his whole life, though it's different when they come from his lover.

He's more appreciative, and it gives him butterflies in his tummy when he receives them. He keeps their gifts in his room, in small trunk under his bed.

He treasures these gifts and would hate to have them broken, or ruined in some way so he keeps them safe. Pulling out the gifts before bed sometimes and smiles as the familiar butterflies come back.

[sotwk]

Hey! I hope you're having a blast with your summer campfire event, it's such a cute idea!! You already wrote a very sweet love letter from Boromir for another ask, so I'll humbly request a love letter from Eomer instead! <3 (I'm an easy customer, my real-world love life is so garbage I'll be happy with anything lol) Happy birthday again!

Oooh girl. GIRRRRL. Have I got Tea to Serve.

Now I hate to be that busybody town gossip (oh who are we kidding, everyone in Edoras knows exactly what I am), but last night while I was picking up after them eored boys I saw the Marshal, yes that Marshal, toss a ripped and crumpled up sheet of paper into the fire. He'd spent the whole evening scowling and scribbling away at that thing, you'd think he'd forgotten his letters. (Personally, I didn't even think the man knew how to work a quill.)

Anyways, he must have been so frustrated and tired cause he missed his throw and you can bet I fished that lil' nugget up and stuck it in my pocket before anyone could see.

I know, I know, I could get in SO much trouble, he's the Marshal and he's probably got loads of army secrets and stuff to write about, but I could just TELL this wasn't anything business related. And OhMyBema my instincts were right, why do I ever even doubt myself?!

Anyhoo, I am just about halfway done taping the pieces back together like a Ravensburger 1,000-piece (boy was he mad at this letter!) but I can already tell it will be worth the loss of my eyesight. It's a letter FOR YOU, GIRL. AHHHH. I know. I know. And I TOLD YOU.

Once I'm done I'm gonna sneak it into your room--keep an eye on that letter box thingie you have on your desk. If you see a hot mess of a paper in it--it's not garbage! And neither is your love life because GIRL. GIRL.

I gotta go scream into a pillow now before I get back to the Scotch tape.

[tvertimot]

Éomer x OC - Deep down chapter 9

Chapter 8 | Masterlist

Nartíhl liked horseback riding but only if it was for fun. The minute she had to get somewhere far on a horse she hated every minute of it. Even though riding a carriage could get uncomfortable, she preferred it much for the longer distances. But her father insisted that they should ride all the way to the fortress on the horses’ back - it was easier, quicker and after all she was about to be crowned queen of the horse masters. 

She was riding to the land she owned, it was supposed to be her safe place and home, at least that’s how she felt until now. She felt as if she was a pig being transferred to a butcher’s place. Or a lamb that was to be sacrificed. 

Her mind was jumping between the memories of the last moments with her love and a very brief memoirs of meeting her future husband. 

One moment she recalled with every detail how she was lying on a flowery meadow with Bronandîr - sun highlighting his grey eyes looking at her with deep love.  -I will worship you until the end of the world and one day longer. 

Her heart filled with warmth. She felt loved. She felt wanted.

No, stop it! She scolded herself. You are to marry another man! You need to forget. Or at least try. 

But how was she to forget all the nights spent in his embrace? All the smiles and kisses. All the whispers, dreams and promises. 

No! She needed to forget them. It would make this easier. 

But she knew this could never be easy. Neither forgetting the men she loved, nor trying to love the men she only met once.

She tried hard to recall that one time. The coronation of the king Elesar. She did not pay much attention to the king of Rohan. She was mostly focused on the beautiful decoration inside the great hall of Minas Tirith, she was thinking about the jokes and gossip she wanted to tell her cousins and about with whom she was yet to dance. 

While her father was talking to king Éomer, she hid behind lord Idhoril. 

She was always afraid of the Rohirrims. She knew the simple folk tales were usually exaggerated and as an educated woman she should not believe them, but all the gossip and legends still had an impact on her impression of them. She felt intimidated. The man was tall, seemed strong and dangerous. She could not say he was ugly but he was different to most men she knew.  

Even though he knew the etiquette and how to behave on a social occasion she felt there was something ribald about him. On her way out the ball she passed the table where the king of Rohan sat with his people. She caught him laughing loudly at a very inappropriate joke one of his soldiers made and just a moment later he looked her straight in the eye and nodded slightly with a smirk on his face. What an impudence.

***

Éomer arrived to the place of their wedding a day before his bride. On the same day his sister and her husband have reached the destination. 

The young king was currently sitting in the window recess bench of the room he was assigned, looking at the dowry lands of his future wife. It was so much different from his land. The landscape was hilly but still so very green. Far away you could see the pale outline of the seashore. The mansion was also much different from his home. Will she like it there? What will she think of the Meduseld? 

He took a sip of his drink and leaned his head against the wall. There was no use in worrying about this now, he said to himself. 

Just a minute later he heard footsteps on the corridor and well known voices. His sister was here. 

He was on his feet, moving toward the door before they even got the chance to knock. 

He opened them, taking the guests by surprise - Faramir’s fist was in the air getting ready to knock, while Éowyn was trying to smoothen his clothes, probably rumpled in the travel cuffer. 

They both looked awkwardly at Éomer who just stared at them with amusement. Faramir straightened himself, his wife soon followed him with a chuckle.  -Well, will you let us in, brother, or do you wish to host us in the corridor?

Éomer only smiled widely at that and embraced his sister in a big hug. -I missed you too, sister. 

Faramir took this occasion to sneak into the chamber. 

Once they were all sat by the fireplace, each of them with a drink in hand, Éowyn decided it was time to end this courtesy of small talk and get to the real talk.  -I want to know EVERYTHING! 

-Well, I think you know all there is to know. I’m not sure what exactly you would like me to tell you.

Éomer shrugged and took a sip of his ale to which Faramir nodded pensively but it all just made Éowyn growl with frustration. -I know NOTHING, brother. Where did this decision come from? How did you met? Did you ask her to marry you yourself? I want to know all the details.

-Of course I did not ask her myself, I’ve only spoken to her once, on Aragorn’s coronation. 

-Hmmm. - Éowyn seemed to be taken aback by this statement. 

-Then where does it all come from? If you only spoke to her once, and from what I managed to see it was not a long nor very engaging conversation. I won’t believe it if you tell me you suddenly started to listen to your council's political advice - she gave her brother an investigating look. 

-I do listen to my council's advice. If they are wise.

-Do you mean if they fall in line with what you're already thinking? - Faramir finally decided to step into the conversation.

-As I said - if they are wise. - Éomer grinned. - But this was actually my idea that my council supported. I can’t believe you have such a bad opinion on me. This is a very good strategic move for both parties and it’s an effect of a mutual agreement. 

Éomer took one more sip of his drink and grabbed a handful of local dried fruit that was lying on a plate in front of them.

Éowyn looked like there were a hundred things on her mind that she wanted to scream out but still not a single word was able to reach her tongue. 

Faramir however seemed very amused.  -So are you trying to tell us that it is not just you being guided by your…

He hesitated with his words and raised his eyebrows. - FARAMIR! - Éowyn scolded her husband and lightly smacked his knee, but both men just chuckled at this remark. 

-Well, I cannot deny that seeing her dancing was in fact very... convincing - Éomer raised his right eyebrow. 

This statement made Éowyn grimace with a mixture of confusion and irritation which made both her husband and brother burst into laughter, more from her reaction than the inappropriate comments. 

-Oh would you two grow up! You act like a pair of youngsters. You are getting married, this is serious Éomer.

At this point the young king had to wipe a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. -My love, do not worry. A bit of laughter never hurt anybody. Besides I believe the future queen will bring enough seriousness with her. Have you seen how she was dressed?

They did all in fact saw how she was dressed when she arrived earlier today. Éomer saw that from the window of his chamber. 

Firstly it looked like dark, stormy clouds approaching them. But slowly the clouds revealed themselves to be an impressive cortege. 

They entered the gate, each horse more beautiful than the previous one, each of the armours and harnesses was a piece of art but Éomer knew straight away to whom he ought to pay his attention. 

Right after the first lines of the guards and the first pennant was the biggest horse ridden by lord Idhoril and right behind him lady Nartíhl on a beautiful black mare. Éomer did not see her face but he knew. Dressed in a long, floating dress, her head covered in a dark veil. From far away it looked black but when the sun glimpsed on her, one could notice that her dress was in fact in a deep purple hue. Just like the pennant before her - a red serpent on a purple background.  -If I did not know there was a wedding to happen in a few days I would say she was mourning - the Gondorian continued his mockery.  -Faramir! -What?! -Now you are really pushing it too far. You know well that it’s her hereditary colors. I’m sure she is just as happy as we are. Éowyn gave a warm and reassuring smile to her brother but he only managed to force himself to respond with a doubtful grimace that was supposed to resemble a smile. His previous good mood was fading away. He felt panic rising inside of him, afraid he would get exposed and judged. He was saved by a knock on the door. Chapter 10 soon

***

I hope you enjoyed. I feel a need to share that in order to get this chapter to a publishable form I had to decipher my notes that I made when I was drunk and trust me - it was a challenge! But I hope I managed ;)

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