#one day i WILL finish this i promise

[theemightypen]

👀 (fingers crossed for pea in pod)

Ask and ye shall receive, nonny! It should be noted this snippet takes place about 2 months before the story proper and is rather the...catalyst for everything, as it were. 

--

Eowyn and Faramir’s wedding is a beautiful thing. The venue is stunning, the food delicious, the happiness of the bride and groom spilling over into everything, everyone.

Well, everyone, it seems, except her.

Lothiriel idly swirls the champagne around in her glass--this marks her fifth since the reception has begun, and while she’s certainly no lightweight--Boromir had been an excellent teacher, when it came to drinking, after all--the lack of hearty food has left her a little more tipsy than she’d normally be. And she still feels blue, despite all the joy in the room. So she tips her glass back, intending to drink it all--

“Whoa there, half pint,” comes a familiar voice as an equally familiar hand plucks the glass from her fingers, “can’t have one of the bridesmaids drunk before the bouquet toss.”

“Eomer,” she complains, “I wasn’t finished with that.”

Eomer frowns down at her, as absurdly tall as ever. “But you should be. I thought the Dol Amroth sigil was a swan, not a fish.”

She rolls her eyes, turning to face him. “I don’t recall asking you to be my keeper, Eorlsson.”

“Someone has to be, apparently.”

Lothiriel frowns, sticking her tongue out at him. Eomer’s left eyebrow arches, clearly unimpressed at her childish display. They get along well, always have, but tonight she’s feeling melancholy, dammit! She’s a grown woman! If she wants to drown her sorrows in the best champagne Gondor has to offer, why shouldn’t she?

Eomer’s right eyebrow has joined his left--and it dawns on her that she’s said all of that out loud, like some kind of loon.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, “it’s just--this is the first big event I’ve been to since the whole mess with Gwordir--”

His expression morphs into one of sympathy, though mercifully, not pity. “Come on, half pint. Let’s get you some fresh air.”

He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, waving off Elphir and Boromir’s worried expressions as he leads her to the nearest balcony. She does feel a little better, with the cool night air in her lungs and Eomer’s steady presence at her side.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, straight-forward as ever.

“I don’t miss Gwordir, not really,” she admits, twisting a loose piece of hair around her finger, “but I do miss having someone to come with to these sort of things, and it feels like everyone knows that I couldn’t keep a boyfriend--”

“Gwordir is a spineless idiot,” Eomer interrupts gruffly. “I thought so before he cheated on you, and I think it even more now.” 

“Still doesn’t lessen the fact that I wasn’t enough, yeah? Even a spineless toad got tired of me--”

He interrupts her self-criticism with a crooked finger under her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Any man stupid enough to not realize how lucky he is to have a woman like you in his life isn’t worth your time, Lothiriel.” 

He calls her by her first name so rarely--it’s always ‘half pint’ or ‘princess’--that it startles her. Shocks her, even. That combined with the intense, serious way he’s looking at her and the lingering buzz of champagne is enough to...well, make her be stupid enough herself to stretch up on her tip-toes to press her mouth to his. Valar, she can’t remember the last time she kissed someone other than Gwordir, and Eomer’s lips are soft, and warm, and--

The sudden slide of his tongue along hers has heat lancing sharply through her veins, and she sinks her fingers into his absurdly long, absurdly soft hair--

“Oi, Eomer!” Comes Eothain’s familiar voice. “You out there?”

They break apart quickly, Eomer managing a hoarse, “Yes,” before his best friend can step outside to investigate further. 

“Well, hurry up!” Eothain calls. “They’re about to cut the cake!” 

Lothiriel can feel herself blushing. Oh, Valar, what had she been thinking? Eomer is her friend, Eowyn’s brother, her new cousin-in-law! She could scarcely have picked a worse person to kiss. (Though the embarrassingly strong throb between her legs makes her doubt she could have chosen a better kisser.)

“So, ah,” she says, willing herself not to talk too quickly, “sorry about that.”

She looks up and meets Eomer’s neutral--very, very neutral--expression. “Me too,” he says, though there’s something in his voice that makes her frown, and reach for his elbow.

“No harm done, then,” she says, though it sounds a little hollow even to herself. “Let’s get back inside before the bride and groom send a search party.”

That makes him snort, and the world seems to tilt back on its axis again, back to normal.

--

Or at least, she’d thought it had, until they’re both another half a bottle of champagne deep, stumbling along the carpeted hallway to their respective hotel rooms. They have to pause to laugh at each other’s disheveled hair, the heels dangling from her crooked fingers. 

She’s reaching for his long-undone tie before she can stop herself, and draws him down for a searing kiss. He’s just so...so different from Gwordir, tall where her ex had been short, broad where he’d been slender, and his mouth is infinitely more clever, sweeter, even--

But then Eomer pulls back, looking at her with serious eyes. “I don’t think this is a good idea, half pint.”

You’re right, she thinks, you’re so right, you’re one of my favorite people and that’s not worth risking for a fling--

But instead, Lothiriel finds herself curling her fingers around the button just above his collarbone, and saying, “It doesn’t have to mean anything, Eomer--isn’t this what single people do at weddings?”

He gives an exasperated laugh, running a gentle hand over her side. She thinks he probably means for it to be a soothing gesture, but given the thin fabric of her dress and the sheer amount of heat coming from his hand, it’s anything but. “Well, yeah, but I imagine this particular bride and groom might have something to say about this--”

Lothiriel kisses him again, sighing into his mouth when his arms wrap around her to hold her tighter against him. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she whispers. 

This strange, new fire between them must be affecting him as much as it is her, because his response is to press her back against the door of her room, a groan rumbling from deep in his throat--

--

“Alright, alright, I don’t want details!” Cries Amrothos, shuddering. “But Valar, Lothiriel, Eomer? Eomer as in Mr. My-Only-Two-Facial-Expressions-Are- Frowning-and-Scowling, Eomer?”

“He only scowls at you constantly because you purposefully bait him,” Lothiriel defends. “He’s a good man, Amrothos, and my friend and--”

“--the father of your child,” he finishes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who remains, as of now, ignorant of said child.”

“Yes,” she admits, twisting her hair around her finger.

Amrothos hits his head against the side of the tub a few times--dramatic as always, it isn’t as if it’s him having a baby--before hefting himself to his feet. He turns to offer her his hand. “Up and at’em, preggers,” he commands. “You and I have someone to see.”