A Subtle Invitation
Pairing: Éomer x Fem!Reader
Summary: “You needn’t be so formal,” Éomer said. His lips moved against the shell of your ear. “I am Éomer, especially when we are alone.”
Another short episode in your arranged marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark, in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor.
AN: Here's a little sequel to As Tradition Dictates, essentially an arranged marriage AU for Éomer!
Posted on Patreon: 6/13/2025
Word Count: 2.6K
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. A bit of jealousy, angst, fluff, sharing a bath, smut (v. fingering)
The second morning after your wedding day, you bid your family goodbye. It was a bittersweet parting, and you hugged your mother and brother with all your might.
It would take them a week’s ride to travel back to Dol Amroth, the Gondorian city by the sea. Ruled by Prince Imrahil, it was a small, beautiful coastal palace, but ever did it live in the shade of Minas Tirith.
The wish to renew the friendship between Gondor and Rohan began in the mind of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. But of course he wouldn't deign to send either of his sons to marry Éowyn.
No, the responsibility fell on Prince Imrahil to send a suitable match from his household. He had felt his only daughter Lothíriel was yet too young to marry Théodred Prince, a grown man of forty-one years to her mere sixteen. So Imrahil called upon your family, upon you, his next closest relation.
You were meant to be...an appeasement bride, of sorts.
Lothíriel was promised to wed Théodred in two years’ time. And so, you had been sent to wed Éomer in the interim. The king's first nephew, Third Marshal of the Mark; his standing was still far above yours. You felt the match was unequal in that respect, but you also secretly hoped that he did not see it that way.
After finishing well wishes with your family, you were approached by Amrothos, the third son of Prince Imrahil, who had also accompanied your party to Rohan. He had been your friend along with Lothíriel since you all were children. You three were the closest in age and so had gotten into many hijinks together, for which your older brother too often needed to get you out of.
Today, Amrothos was more serious than you had ever seen him when he kissed your hand in parting.
“My dear lady,” he said, “I wish you every happiness.”
You caught a hint of grief and longing hidden behind his eyes. You knew why he suffered, but even with sadness throbbing in your chest, your heart could only love him as a friend. And so, that was how you must say goodbye.
“And I you, my friend,” you said. “Please give my best to Elphir and Erchirion, and tell Lothíriel I will write to her soon.”
“Of course,” Amrothos said. He bid you a final farewell with a deep nod of respect. He hesitated, but finally let go of your hand and stepped away from you. Incidentally, he met eyes with the Third Marshal as he returned to your brother’s side.
Éomer watched Amrothos go while standing behind you in the large hall, with his armor-laden arms clasped before him. His face was almost unreadable…but not entirely. Éowyn noticed the path of her brother’s gaze, so firmly trained on Amrothos as the entire party took their leaving. She hid a smile.
However, it soon dropped when she also noticed you being approached by Grima, the King’s advisor.
“Even in sadness, you retain your bridal glow, my lady,” Grima remarked.
You turned to him with a thin smile, trying to be polite. You could not place it, but there was something about the man that unsettled you. His voice slipped about like an eel, leaving a proverbial film of grease in its wake.
Éomer tensed, but Éowyn sent him a pacifying look that said, Leave it to me.
She slipped between you and Grima. Giving him a polite excuse, she led you away by your arm to ask if you would help her tend the garden of Meduseld.
“My mother started it long ago, but admittedly, I myself have no hand for growing things,” she confessed with a laugh. You smiled along with her. “However, I thought you might be up to the task.”
Before you and Éowyn left the great hall, you gave your husband a parting smile as well as a nod of respect. He did the same for you, though he left without a word. You noticed the sharper eye he gave to Grima before he took his leave.
You wondered if Éomer too disliked the man, but you had no time to contemplate it just then. Éowyn’s steps were brisk and you needed to keep up with her.
The truth was, your heart swelled at the opportunity to tend the garden. Éowyn had caught you there more than once, touching the dry, deadened leaves with a frown. You remembered your own modest garden by the sea at Dol Amroth, full of lilies and lemongrass, wildflowers and white roses. It had been painful to leave your hard work behind in coming to Rohan.
“Yes, I would be honored, my lady,” you replied. “It is a pastime that brings me great joy.”
“Good,” said Éowyn, with a bright charm in her blue eyes. She squeezed your arm congenially as she led you through the long and cavernous halls of the keep. “Except you must call me Éowyn.”
You began with clearing the wild and overrun weeds and dead plants from the pit that once was a garden. It lied in a quiet room made of stone, so different from the pointed wooden walls that made up most of Meduseld. But high above, there was a wide, square gap in the ceiling that let in the sun, the rain, and the heavens shining down.
You evaluated the soil and what flowers and plants would bloom in time, using Éowyn’s knowledge of what grew here in Rohan. Éowyn and one of her ladies helped you clear the debris, even though you told her that she needn’t do so. She was the Lady of Meduseld, after all.
She waved away your concern and told you that she would rather help you than waste her day idling. By the time the sun began to set beyond the horizon, bathing the room in a dimmer golden glow, the three of you had accomplished quite a lot.
Also, you were now in dire need of a bath. When you took your leave, more eyes followed you than usual. No doubt they were noting your disheveled hair, the dirt staining your clothes and under your nails. The keep’s other maids and attendants whispered to each other, likely scandalized that you, the so-called noble lady of Gondor, had done the work yourself.
Good, you could not help but think in satisfaction. This would give them something better to gossip about. You had heard the whispers from the start.
The lady looks as if she is made of glass. Can she even move her head?
How complicated she wears her hair. Is that the style in Gondor?
She will never last a Rohirric winter.
How haughty is the tilt of her chin. No doubt she thinks us a bunch of wild savages. The Marshal will have his work cut out with her.
Surely, he wishes he could have chosen a bride for himself.
Those thoughts fell heavier upon your shoulders as you made the trek back to Éomer’s chamber…the one you now shared with him. You tried to keep your shoulders straight, your chin parallel with the floor. You did as your mother had always impressed upon you to do. Keep your true thoughts from your face, and show only what you wanted others to see.
However, that expression of aloofness fell the moment you fully entered the bedchamber. You heard the mild splashing of water before you realized—before you saw Éomer washing himself in the bath. The luxurious marble tub built deep into the ground, over in the far corner of the room. The fireplace crackled warmth into the room along with the water’s steam, enveloping you with a comforting air.
You knew your husband had been out on patrol today after leaving you this morning. No doubt he had ridden long and hard throughout the West Mark, perhaps alongside Théodred Prince.
Éomer looked up when the heavy door closed itself. You forgot to grab it so that it shut more softly. He turned to you, his eyes widening a fraction.
“My lord,” you greeted with a quick bow of your head. Your cheeks warmed in a blush. “I am sorry, I do not wish to disturb you.”
“You are not,” he replied, as he eyed you. A subtle invitation, perhaps.
He picked up the soap once more and continued to scrub along his arm. You were drawn to him, and to the sight of wet-slick muscle. Your gaze roamed up the length of his broad arm and shoulders, his chest and collarbone, his damp blonde hair clinging to his skin.
Quickly, your eyes rose and fell on his bearded face. His lips began to twitch upward, but it became hidden from you as he twisted to try and reach his back.
Your blush deepened as you stepped closer. “May I help you?”
He hesitated, glancing at you over his shoulder.
“If you wish.”
You knelt down at the edge of the stone tub. You took the bar of soap from him to help wash his back, though you noticed the more serious veneer that fell over his features.
“Am I doing something wrong?” you asked.
Éomer seemed to return to himself. He blinked up at you and lightened up a touch.
“No…no, thank you,” he said, taking the soap from you. Besides the softness of your touch, he was thinking of his patrol this afternoon. His Eored noticed signs of orcs west of Meduseld. He already informed his cousin Théodred, but tomorrow Éomer would ride out again and hunt them down. He would not trouble you with that, however.
While his back was turned, you saw a scattering of scars you had only glimpsed yesterday in the dim of candlelight. You touched him between the shoulder blades, and his muscles twitched. Your face warmed, but you were gentle in tracing the marks. Éomer paused, allowing it for the moment.
“Do all men in your Eored possess such scars?” you asked quietly.
“Many do,” he said. “The hazards of our occupation, and our duty.”
He turned and grasped your hand to keep you from dwelling on those thoughts, or from fretting over him. Your eyes met his, and his lips curved. His free hand came up to brush some dirt from your cheek. "What's this?"
“Gardening,” you supplied with a blush.
“I see,” he said, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Care to join me then? The water is still warm.”
Your breath caught in your throat. He could tell that he’d caught you contemplating the very idea.
“It would conserve water,” you replied.
It succeeded in making him smile. That was something he had noticed about you.
Always concealing her desires behind practicality, he thought.
He tugged you closer by your hand to help you out of your clothes, but you cinched up the soft violet gown yourself. Éomer watched as you raised it over your head, the hem of it catching in your hair. Anew he took in your every curve with pleasure to his eyes.
You were beautiful. Beautiful and kind. Again, he was reminded of how easily your match may not have come to pass.
Rather than cursed, as he may have felt months ago, he now felt mostly lucky to look upon his bride with the certainty that you were his alone. For him, it was worth the price of being yours in return, even if all that ever grew between you both was friendship and fondness.
He helped you into the bath, and the water rose to meet you when you settled in. Flashing him a somewhat shy smile, you reached up to loosen the complicated twists from your hair, taking out pins and unraveling the strands.
It was a delicate thing you did, and Éomer found himself attracted to the way your nimble hands did it…even though he preferred your hair as it was now: unbound and trailing damp between his fingers.
He led you into a seat beside him on the ledge, submerged by the water. He washed your back, your glistening shoulders, and your arms, moving the soap over your skin in a gentle, but delicious pressure.
When he reached your neck, he slipped the smooth bar over your shoulder and more gently along your collarbone, dipping slowly between your breasts. You could feel his warm, solid chest against your back.
You breathed out a sigh, grateful, contented, and aroused in equal measure. His free hand found the curve of your waist under the water, and you felt the brush of his thumb along your skin. His hand slid higher, skimming the underside of your breast. A shiver ran down your spine.
“Thank you, my lord,” your voice escaped in a whisper.
“You needn’t be so formal,” Éomer said. His lips moved against the shell of your ear. “I am Éomer, especially when we are alone.”
He set down the soap and rose to sit on the edge of the tub. He drew you up with him by your hips, guiding you to sit in his lap. You felt every firm ridge of him against you, including his hard, heavy manhood kissing the cleft of your rear. His strong thighs underneath you were your foundation, his arms your unshakable support.
You sucked in a subtle breath, holding onto his left arm for balance, especially when his right hand dipped below your belly, brushing your skin, traveling down and down to cup your mound.
“Éomer,” you breathed, just as two of his fingers sought what they wished between your legs. A gasp caught in your throat. Your thighs, already shaking, opened up for him.
Calloused finger pads slipped through your folds and found delicious friction, rolling the swelling bud above your entrance until you began to whimper and writhe against him.
His lips trailed rough kisses along your neck, your chin, soft bites along your jaw. Then those same fingers plunged into you, deeply, finding slick familiarity in your sensitive channel.
Amidst the sounds of quiet splashing, your toes curling in the water around your ankles, your breathing shallowed. Desperation mounted. You reached back and scrapped for purchase, raking your nails through the wet darkened strands of his hair.
He held to him with an arm like an iron band. His hand molded to your breast, rolling the achingly hard nipple between his fingers. All the while, his sword-wielding hand worked you over, those thick digits sliding back and forth inside your quivering walls.
Until finally, a choked cry escaped you. Your core muscles clenched and spasmed around his hand, down to the knuckles. Still, he stroked inside you until you fell back against him with a shudder. Self-satisfied at bringing you pleasure, yet painfully aroused, he watched your breasts rise and fall with your breaths.
“Well done,” he murmured, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth.
You giggled softly, tightening your hand around his. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught his smile.
He guided you by your hips to turn around. You were all too willing to do so, straddling his lap with a slow ease. Maybe a tinge of lingering modesty had your face warming in a blush, but you smiled back at him.
Your hands slipped up his arms as he gathered you against his chest, until merely a whisper lied between his lips and yours. The air began to chill your wet skin, but you were warm wherever he touched you.
“Perhaps we could dry ourselves and move to the bed, where I might return the favor,” you suggested.
Éomer rose a brow, but the idea pleased him, as did your boldness when your hand disappeared between your bodies to stroke his aching cock. A grunt fell from his lips, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your hips.
“You are learning quickly,” he uttered.
He earned your sweeter laugh. Then you welcomed him into a devouring kiss.
At least we are compatible in this, you thought, before you weren’t able to think of much else.
AN: There we go, another little snapshot of these two! 💜
I'd like to do a few more of these at various points in their marriage (eventually). I guess you could consider that a kind of series, since it was meant to be from an actual Éomer x OFC series. 😆
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