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dedicated-but-delirious · 6 years

Text

Sacrifice

Pairing: Dean x Angel!Reader

Word Count: ~3,300-ish

Summary: You and Dean have finally stopped dancing around your obvious feelings for each other, but the situation is less than ideal. He thinks you screwed up a hunt; you think you saved his life. It all works out in the end, but not without a few sacrificed feathers.

Warnings: A bit of angst, but a happy ending; Nothing vivid, but talk of blood and injury(to the reader mostly); fluffy fluff; swearing; I think that’s it??? Oh, and speculated/personal opinion angel wing lore.

Your name: submit What is this?

“Hey Y/N, there’s a case about a town or two out. Feel like coming along?” Sam asked, ducking his head into the guest room you’d claimed as your own.

You knew he was only asking because the Winchesters’ resident angel, Castiel, wasn’t available at the moment. You were a back-up of sorts. An angel they knew just well enough to trust on a hunt, but not enough that you’d earned yourself a spot on their team permanently.

And yeah, that stung a bit. You prided yourself on being significantly more reliable than Cas, despite having more duties in Heaven and a higher angelic rank. You were also infinitely more in tune with human emotions. But try as you might, the brother duo never seemed to take a real liking to you. You’d patched them up (both with and without the assistance of your grace) more times than you could count. And for some confounded reason, they still prayed to Cas first.

Despite all of this, you didn’t hesitate to agree to Sam’s offer. Honestly, the more time you spent with them, the happier you were. More specifically, the longer you got to be in Dean’s company, the happier you became.

That led to sitting in the backseat of the Impala for an hour straight. Your wings, although held on a different dimensional plane, did not go well with tight spaces like cars. But if you just flew to your destination, that was an hour spent without Dean jamming to his classic rock. So you endured.

On the way, Sam informed you (by shouting over Dean’s surprisingly pleasing singing) about the hunt; just a demon, maybe two, had been raising a little hell. So you three were off to raise a little hell of your own. In all fairness, you could've had the demons roasted in two seconds flat. Angel perks, and all that.

But Dean - Dean needed to get out of the bunker and kill something, and you knew better than to interfere. You were a safe-guard, only there to step in if things got out of hand.

And when there turned out to be twelve demons instead of two, that’s exactly what you did.

Shouting at the brothers to turn away or close their eyes, you had six of the demons snagged and smote with a brilliant flash of white-blue light, their eyes smoking with the intensity of it.

The fight was fierce; these demons weren’t playing around, and they weren’t run-of-the-mill grunts either. Armed with angel blades of unknown origin, they were a bit of trouble for even you. Sam and Dean had nearly killed one each, while you grappled with the remaining four. Finally, one caught you on the arm with his angel blade and your cry caused Dean to become distracted, a fact that did not go unnoticed by his opponent.

Shit.

You didn’t have any options.

One demon slipped away from you and grabbed him from behind, locking his arms behind his back. His original quarry geared up to put a blade through his throat.

Dean froze, struggled, and finally slumped in defeat, all within a few fractions of a second. He accepted it. But you couldn’t. So without thinking you swung your wings wide and covered him.

Blood dripped to the floor, feathers falling just after.

It hurt. It hurt more than anything you’d ever felt, but Dean was safe, and that’s what really mattered.

Your grace swept through the room, expelling the rest of the demons in a matter of seconds, more as a reflex than anything else.

It was quiet.

“What the fuck, Y/N?” Dean growled after the long pause, stalking over towards your shaking form. It was hard to focus on anything but the flood of pain tearing at your nerves and making your vision fuzzy.

“What the hell was that? I had it covered!” He shouted, pushing himself into your personal space, and you vaguely remembered him telling you off several times for doing the same thing. Humans were hypocrites.

“You would’ve been killed.” You answered softly and a bit slurred. You'd never injured a wing before. Was it normal for the pain to spread all the way to your vessel?

Dean scoffed, backing away from you.

“Y’know, Y/N, maybe you shouldn’t have come with us. You turned out to be a distraction and more trouble than you’re worth. We don’t need you.”

That cut deeper than any blade. It wasn’t just the words, it was the tone he used: totally calm and a bit exasperated. It would’ve hurt less had he shouted it in anger in the heat of the moment.

Sam didn’t speak up, and you interpreted that as his silent agreement with his brother.

Your knees gave out and you hit the stained concrete floor, scuffing your knees and palms.

You had saved his life and this was the thanks you get? To be fair, you did eliminate his hunt. That didn’t justify his behaviour, but your pain-riddled mind couldn’t come up with much else.

Suddenly, you felt overwhelmed. You couldn’t be here, not now. You needed to be in the bunker, or just away from the brothers you valued so highly. You needed to get the knife out of your wing and fix whatever you could, if anything.

Lucky you, with only one of four wings down, you could still flutter your way to the bunker, if a little haphazardly. So you did.

Dean was still pacing. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling but he knew it had to do with you. You and the flickering black shadow that had been cast over him when that demon went to kill him. He wasn’t sure what exactly happened.

The brothers had called Cas, but he was taking his sweet time. The boys had no way of knowing, but he was with you, his big sister who had been reduced to a shaking, sobbing mess, on the verge of passing out from the pure agony.

So when Cas did show up, the boys were shocked at the utter rage rolling off him in waves.

“What have you done to her?”

“To Y/N? Nothing, man, she took off after the fight.” Sam answered cautiously. Cas wasn’t usually so emotional, but when he was it was a serious matter. A furious angel was an unpredictable one.

“What fight?” Dean snarled, clearly still pissed. “She took them all out before we could gank hardly any!”

That’s when Cas spotted the silvery feathers on the ground, splattered with still-wet blood. And it clicked.

Cas scooped them up in one smooth motion, thrusting them in Dean’s face.

“She sacrificed one of the most important parts of herself and you’re upset with her? Her wings are her life, Dean, and this wound could prevent her from flying properly for the rest of her existence! Most angels would die before giving up their wings.” Cas growled.

Dean blinked, his anger melting away. You had done that for him? Sure, he thought you were beautiful and funny, and your ability to joke with him made you different from most angels. But this was - this was so different. This wasn’t just you icing a nasty bruise or grace-ing away a few cuts. This was a part of you. Physical feathers and blood that, according to Cas, might never heal.

“I...” Dean trailed off, unsure how to fix his mistake. “I had no idea.”

“I’ve already tried to help her, but she won’t let me see her wings. But you - if she was willing to destroy them for you, she should be willing to let you help.” Cas speculated gruffly.

“She won’t. Not after what I said to her.” Dean plucked the feathers from Cas’s hand twirled them in his grasp. They were soft, but they places where the blood covering them had begun to dry were stiff and bristled against his palm. Your feathers were large and mostly silver; when the light hit them just right they reflected a thousand different colours. He couldn’t help but wonder what a whole wing’s worth of the colour-changing feathers would look like.

“It’s our only chance. If the wound isn’t treated it will worsen. Eventually...it could kill her. But we must hurry, she won’t be able to stand the pain for much longer and we need her conscious to bring her wings onto this plane of being.” Cas said impatiently, still acting unsettlingly emotional.

“Wait, wait, I thought humans couldn’t see an angel’s wings without their eyes getting barbecued?” Sam chimed in.

Cas shifted, appearing nervous.

“While that’s usually true, Y/N can, if she so chooses, make her wings take a more...physical form. But it will intensify her pain.” He revealed.

“Well, shit.” Dean grumbled. “Guess we gotta try though, right?”

With a terse nod, Cas flew both himself and Dean to the bunker. Sam would bring the Impala.

The minute the two arrived, screams ripped through the air, causing Dean to break into a run, looking for you and calling out as he went.

“Y/N!”

. . .

“Y/N, dammit, where are you?”

Was that - was that Dean? Calling for you? He couldn’t possibly be back yet unless - Cas! Your younger brother Castiel had pulled through and gotten Dean to come back.

Steeling yourself, you managed a weak “Library!” before the pain took your words away.

Dean’s footfalls sounded closer and closer until they came to a stop beside you.

“Y/N...” He quickly dropped to his knees beside you, but didn’t dare touch you.

You opened your mouth to say something, but another wave of pain rippled through you, your body convulsing and trembling, weak whimpers leaving you.

“Shit, you’re really hurting...” Dean murmured haltingly, seemingly unsure of what to do.

“Cas...Cas says I have to fix you, Y/N, but it’s gonna hurt worse for a while. You gotta let me see your wings, okay?” His voice was velvety soft and gentle. For a moment you almost forgot about the hurtful words he’d spat at you minutes before. Almost.

“No.” You breathed, trying and failing to pull your legs underneath you to stand. “No, I won’t.”

“Y/N, come on - “

“No, Dean! I’m not letting - “ Your words cut off with a slightly muffled scream as you accidently shifted your wing in an attempt to find balance.

“Look, what I said was shitty and uncalled for. I’m sorry, but you need to get over it and let me help you! Then you can be mad at me, alright?” Dean took a hold of your shoulders, pulling you upright, his fingertips digging in and betraying his true worry.

You stopped and thought for a moment. The intense pain had your brain swimming and it was hard to put words together, but one thing you knew for certain. Manifesting your wings would hurt like a bitch but it was the only way to save them.

Making your decision, you slowly nodded your head.

“Okay,” Dean sighed, “okay, so, uh, what now?”

Wordlessly, you placed your shaking hand over his eyes; and then braced yourself as best you could. It took only a thought and a gentle tug to pull your wings into this dimension, and the blinding flash of light was accompanied by double the pain you felt before.

You couldn’t scream. You couldn’t move. The sounds caught in your throat as the agony ripped through you. Your hand slipped away from Dean’s eyes as you collapsed, your four silvery wings going limp. Your own eyes closed and the last thing you heard was Dean’s amazed gasp.

You woke up alone.

Which was unsettling to say the least, but also a bit relieving.

Your wings were still physically present. You’d chosen Dean, and only Dean, so having anyone else in the room would be highly upsetting. Wings were an intensely private thing for angels, and not even other angels were privileged with seeing them.

But the fact that Dean wasn’t there hurt. Did he think your wings were unsightly? Maybe he thought they were downright ugly? Maybe he didn’t think they were worth fixing...

No. The pain was gone, and you could move all four wings without any discomfort. You shifted your injured wing to wrap in front of you so you could inspect it. The angel blade had clearly been removed, and the wound left behind had been cauterized. It still left a sizeable gap in your feathers, but they would grow back, along with most of the missing tissue. Most of the blood that had covered your wing and clotted its’ shiny feathers together had been gently washed away. All in all, it was a better fix than you could’ve hoped for.

But where was Dean?

You didn’t know if Sam was back yet or if Cas had stuck around. You also didn’t know if ‘vanishing’ your wings would damage the delicate skin that was trying its best to heal. You shouted for Dean a few times, but ultimately did not receive an answer.

So you did the next best thing.

Tucking your wings as close to your back as you possible could, you eased your door open, peeking both ways before slipping out into the hallway. You were mostly silent, but a small squeak escaped you when you passed under a vent and the draft rustled your sensitive feathers.

In a flash, Dean was scrambling out of the doorway in front of you: the bunker’s library.

“You’re awake! You okay?” He questioned quickly, his eyes scanning over your form frantically.

Oh, so I yell from my room and you can’t hear me, but you heard that? Makes perfect sense... You thought sarcastically.

“Yes, Dean, I’m just fine. Thanks for...you know...” You pulled your patched-up wing out from behind you, swishing it gently through the air before folding it back into place.

Dean followed the movement with his eyes distractedly and had to shake himself out of a daze to reply.

“Oh, yeah, it wasn’t, uh, it wasn’t a problem. You’re really feeling okay, though? Not hurting or anything?” He was being over-bearing but it made you feel nice. Cared for.

You noticed his eyes would not leave the few feathers that peaked over your shoulders. You weren’t quite sure what to think of that.

“Sam or Castiel here?” You questioned casually. If they were, you were hiding out in your room until your wing was healed. You were lucky enough that you hadn’t run across anyone else yet.

“No, they left. Sam got back but Cas said you would want privacy because of your, uh, your...wings.” He informed your thickly, finally tearing his gaze away from said appendages and meeting your eyes. “Cas said you couldn’t put ‘em away or anything for at least an hour or two.”

Well, it could be worse. Surely an hour or two wouldn’t kill you. You thoughtlessly shifted your weight, your wings adjusting themselves to the new position and Dean’s eyes were back on them.

“Do they bother you?” You questioned quietly, dreading his answer.

“What?”

“Do my wings bother you?”

“Oh - oh god, no, I’m sorry. Staring is probably rude, right? I’ll just - “ Dean’s gaze immediately found the floor and he stumbled back towards the library.

Wait.

Was he - was he blushing?

“Dean.”

He stopped, his body half turned away from you. He opened his mouth and then closed it repeatedly, as if he didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t mind the attention.” You began, taking a risk. “It’s flattering, really. I was afraid...well, when I woke up and you weren’t there, I was afraid you didn’t think my wings were worth fixing. I figured you didn’t like them.” You had unconsciously pulled your lower set of wings in front of you, nervously fiddling with the reflective feathers. Your larger set stayed tightly held to your back.

It took several moments for Dean to even acknowledge that you’d spoken. But when he did it made your grace buzz with warmth.

“God, Y/N, I feel like a jerk now. I thought you’d prefer the privacy. Cas kinda suggested that angels didn’t like anyone seeing their wings. Your wings are...I don’t have the words to describe them. I know that sounds really cliché but your wings are incredible. And the fact that you were willing to protect me at the cost of a part of you. I mean, seriously!” He emphasized at your incredulous look. “And then I...I got so mad. I didn’t - you gotta believe me, I didn’t realize that you’d...” He trailed off, looking conflicted.

He wasn’t mad anymore? It wasn’t exactly an apology, but it was the closest Dean Winchester got.

“Dean...”

“And then, Cas showed me the feathers that you’d lost. I just - I got so worried, and I was furious that you’d go so far for someone like me; someone you had treated you so badly so many times. When I found you on the floor, I regretted everything. I regretted not having you around more. I regretted being such an ass to the one person who had done nothing but help me. I just...dammit - “

Before you could blink, he had rushed at you and pressed his lips against yours.

At that moment, you didn’t care that he was so self-critical. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about much more than the feeling of his lips, the feeling you’d dreamt about and never thought you’d get a chance to experience.

Eventually though, he had to break away for air.

“I regretted not doing that sooner.” He was breathless and his voice had dropped an octave. It sent shivers down your spine. You could feel his fingers idly tweaking the downy feathers in the spot where your wings met the soft skin of your back.

“I’m just happy you did it at all.” You whispered back, sounding just as breathless.

“Never put yourself in danger like that ever again.”

“Well, if I get this kind of treatment...”

“I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too, Dean.”

#supernatural #dean winchester #spn #winchester #dean

5 notes · View notes

theemightypen · 6 years

Note

A 1 and B 1-3 of the trophy prompts for Eothiriel please :)

(Some of these got a bit long, but I hope y’all enjoy them! The rest are under the cut :) )

A1) I’m a cashier and you’re buying some really random products, I’m trying not to judge, but…wtf dude?

Lothiriel has been working in the markets in Minas Tirith since she was old enough to count money. Ada doesn’t like it, per se, but Naneth had started the tradition, and he was hard pressed to deny her anything that reminds her of her mother, gone the past two years.

The shopkeepers know her here, and are kind enough to indulge her for the few hours a week she can drop the role of princess and diplomat, and simply be. There are few things on this earth she loves more than flowers, the lovely smells, the way you can use them to send a message of hope, of love, of joy.

Which is something the man before her is utterly, utterly failing to do.

He is not the first suitor to know nothing of the language of flowers, but as he haphazardly chooses another bloom–hyacinths are lovely, but she sincerely doubts he means to express that whoever the bouquet is intended for brings him sorrow–Lothiriel cannot help but wince.

Mistress Alwien catches her expression and snorts. “Go on then, my lady. It would not be the first time you have aided a befuddled suitor!”

Lothiriel smiles, making her way to stand at the man’s side. He is a Rohir, that much is obvious, from both his dress and his hair. A tall man, taller than even Faramir, with all of his Numenorian height, and a handsome one, made even more apparent by the breadth of his shoulders, the grace with which he carries himself, even in confusion. She can feel the blush creep into her cheeks and berates herself; he is clearly looking for flowers for his sweetheart, and here she stands, writing odes to how handsome he is! It is not like her, and she will blame it on the giddiness surrounding the return of the King.

“Can I help you, my lord?” She asks. The man jumps, turning to offer her a near furious expression that almost immediately softens as he takes her in. “With the flowers,” she explains.

The man’s face contorts into an impressive grimace. “I assume I have done it all wrong, then?”

“There are good intentions, here,” Lothiriel answers, wanting to be gentle. They have been through so much, these men of Rohan. There is no need to embarrass him for not knowing flower-lore. “Hyacinths are lovely, but a purple one means ‘sorrow’.”

The man nearly drops the flower as if it had burned him. Definitely a suitor, then, she thinks, plucking the flower and returning it to its proper vase. “A white one, however, indicates ‘unobtrusive loveliness’.”

His sudden snort makes her smile. “That will not do either, for I have never met the lady.”

Lothiriel can feel her eyebrows hit her hairline. Arranged marriages are common amongst Gondor’s nobles, but from what she has heard from Eowyn, it is not so in Rohan. “You are making a courting bouquet for a lady you have not met?”

Now it is his turn to look shocked. “No! I–I wished to express my gratitude to someone who has been kind to someone very dear for me.” His embarrassment is palpable. “It was a foolish thought–”

“Oh, no,” she says, unable to stop herself from reaching out to grasp his elbow. “It was a lovely one. And I can still certainly offer you my help, if–,” at this she bites her lip, suddenly self-conscious. “If you would still like it?”

He smiles then, warm and sincere. “I think it is not a matter of liking, and more a matter of necessity.”

Lothiriel laughs, pleased at his wit. “We shall see. You may surprise yourself yet!”

As it turns out, he has a good eye for color, though he flinches after suggesting asphodel and she must tell him their somber message, and laughs aloud at the thought of the tansy, so bright and cheerful, declaring war on its receiver. “I did not know flowers could be so…talkative,” he says, amusement clear in his tone.

“Like so many other beautiful things, there is often more to them than just their appearance,” she agrees.

“Indeed,” he murmurs, something bright in his eyes.

Lothiriel blushes, looking down at the arrangement they’ve managed to put together. Sprigs of sweet basil, for good wishes, lavender for admiration, and finally cheerful bluebells for gratitude. It is a kind bouquet, and a respectful one. “I think this should satisfy your helpful lady.”

He smiles again, somewhat softer this time, and she gulps when his fingers brush hers as he takes the flowers from her hands. Mistress Alwien bustles over, to help bundle the arrangement for its journey. In the past, Lothiriel would have turned to other customers, or said a final farewell, but she simply feels…stuck, staring at his back as he pays for the flowers. Oh, she had not even asked his name! Nor given hers, like a foolish child–

He is suddenly in front of her, looking uncertain as he had with the flowers before she’d begun to help him. A bloom is in his hand, offered up to her. White jasmine, she realizes. A many-meaning sort of flower. Paired with others, it meant appreciation or good luck, but on its own…Carefully, she takes it, eyes on his. “I wonder if you would offer this so freely, if you knew its meaning.”

“I suppose I will have to come back again, for another lesson,” he says. He lifts her hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to its back, and grins when she flushes scarlet. “Until then, blóstm cwén.”

Mistress Ailwen chuckles as Lothiriel presses a hand to her mouth, both of them watching him leave. “Careful now, Princess. Can’t have you losing your heart to a Rider of Rohan over something as silly as a flower!”

Still, that does not stop her from tucking the bloom behind her ear, nor does it stop her from smiling the entire walk back to Faramir’s rooms. Eowyn is waiting for her, startling out of her happy daydream by nearly pouncing on her once she’s entered the doors.

“Where have you been all day?” She asks, impatiently.

“Mistress Ailwen’s flower stall,” Lothiriel says, thinking of dark eyes and surprisingly deft fingers, “oh, Eowyn, you would never believe–”

Eowyn huffs, the fond expression on her face at war with her clear impatience. “Lothiriel, I promise I will listen happily to you waxing poetic about whatever star-crossed suitor came looking for the perfect flowers today, but for now, there is someone I would very much like you to meet.”

Lothiriel’s brow furrows and then–”Oh, Valar,” she groans, “Eomer King comes today?”

“Even worse, he is already here,” Eowyn says, sounding utterly cheerful. “Faramir he knows already, and I am afraid we have both told him nothing but good things about you–”

“Eowyn!”

“–but fret not, my brother is notoriously hard-headed when it comes to first impressions–”

Thinking of how frazzled Faramir had been after meeting the man, Lothiriel can only agree–

“–but seeing as how you are a beautiful lady, and not a man intent on courting his sister, he should be somewhat more polite to you–”

“I need to change,” Lothiriel tries to interrupt, though they are already nearing the gardens and she can make out the sound of masculine laughter above Eowyn’s footsteps, “Eowyn, please–”

“Nonsense,” Eowyn insists. “You are as lovely as ever.”

And that’s how Lothiriel finds herself stepping out into the garden. Faramir grins when he spots her, standing and pulling her into a warm embrace that serves to take away a small measure of her nervousness. “You smell of fresh blooms and sunshine, cousin. Has Mistress Ailwen worked your fingers to the bone in her stall?”

“I enjoy the work, as you well know,” she answers, pinching his side in retaliation. “And you are being very rude, for being a Steward.”

Faramir winces. “You are right.” He turns, ushering her with an arm around her shoulders, saying, “You’ve met my other cousins, Eomer, but this is Imrahil’s youngest. Lothiriel, of Dol Amroth.”

But Lothiriel can only gape in, in–shock? Wonder?–as the man from the shop, the Rohir, her Rohir, stands, grinning so widely his face looks likely to split in two.

“Blóstm cwén,” he says, offering her the bouquet they’d spent the afternoon putting together, “I can think of no one else who deserves this more.”

B1) You forgot your sleeping bag, but I have mine. Surely we can figure this out.

Lothiriel is not an outdoorsy sort of woman.

Eomer knows this, her brothers know this, and Faramir and Boromir know it. So Eomer cannot fathom why–or how–they managed to convince her to join them on this camping trip of theirs. Eowyn is much more comfortable climbing rocks with a pack strapped to her back, but Lothiriel…

It is not a bad thing, merely a fact. Her face is already flushed pink from exertion, her pack looks exceedingly haphazardly jammed full, and her once-neat braid is already unravelling. They are, perhaps, two hours into the hike. And yet, she has not once complained, not asked for help from any of the men or even from Eowyn, who keeps shooting her concerned looks over her shoulder.

Were they with any other group of people, Eomer would have already offered to take her bag–he is used to this sort of physical activity, after five years in the military–but as they’re surrounded by his meddlesome sister, her over-protective brothers, and all three of their respective too-knowing cousins, he can’t.

It’s not that he wants to keep the fact that they’ve been on a handful of dates a secret–Bema knows he could do worse than Lothiriel–but their families would blow it absolutely out of proportion. Helle, they’d probably try to force them to get married on the spot.

Another two hours later, they’ve finally reached the campsite. Lothiriel all but collapses, laying comically across her pack as Amrothos laughs at her.

“I hate you. All of you,” she says faintly. “You said this was an easy trail!”

Boromir snorts. “Easy for us, little flower. It is not our fault you were always more interested in books and tea than the great outdoors–”

“I like books and tea, too,” Faramir defends, passing a now sitting-up, if still wobbly, Lothiriel his canteen. “There is nothing wrong with not liking hiking.”

“And you two,” Eowyn says, pointing accusatory fingers in Boromir and Amrothos’s directions, “could have chosen an easier path.”

“And missed the opportunity to reduce Lothiriel to a pile of mush?” Asks Amrothos. “Eowyn, it is as if you don’t know me at all!”

Eomer ventures over, pulling Lothiriel to her feet as Faramir and Eowyn do their best to help dig through her pack for her sleeping bag.

“Ugh, my legs are jelly,” she grumbles, trembling slightly in his grip.

He grins, leaning just close enough not to be overheard. “I’d offer to rub them down, but I think your brothers might have something to say about that.”

She swats him, but the pleased blush in her cheeks lets him know she’s not truly upset. “Fiend. Now that’s all I’ll be able to think about.”

It’s all he can do to keep from bending to press a kiss to the particularly sensitive patch behind her ear, brothers and cousins and sisters be damned, but then a sudden groan from Faramir calls him back to their surroundings.

“Lothiriel,” he says, sounding exasperated, “you did remember to pack a sleeping bag, didn’t you?”

Any lingering color drains out of Lothiriel’s face. “Of course I did! I put it on top this morning–”

But there had been a mad rush for all of them to pack the car and the more Eomer thinks about it, the more he thinks he remembers seeing a dark blue bundle laying on the counter as Theodred had locked the door behind him. Lothiriel’s face is ashen as Amrothos begins to laugh anew, as Erchirion sighs and passes money into Elphir’s outstretched hand, and Theodred ambles over to give her shoulder a sympathetic pat.

“Cheer up, Lothiriel,” his cousin says, kindly. “We’ve all spent a night on the ground. It won’t kill you.”

But she isn’t used to such things, though the stubborn set of her jaw tells him that she won’t complain, that she won’t say a word even if she ends up curled on around a root with dirt in her hair. She’s quiet all through dinner, though she offers Eowyn a sincere smile when she offers her an extra blanket, nestling down into it as if she’d like to disappear.

Eventually, Eowyn and Faramir disappear to stargaze–Eomer choose to believe that’s what they’re actually doing, and likes his blissful innocence–while Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos amble off for a midnight swim. Boromir is asleep already, snoring loudly from where his head is pillowed on Theodred’s thigh. Lothiriel is nearly asleep as well, leaning a chin on her hand and wavering dangerously close to the fire. Eomer frowns, coming to gently shake her shoulder.

“Lothiriel,” he says.

“Hm?” She hums, blinking sleepily up at him. Even uncomfortable, more than a little disheveled and with a smudge of dirt on her nose, he’s struck by how lovely she is, how soft.

“Take my sleeping bag,” he says.

Eomer can see Theodred grinning at him out of the corner of his eye, and he shoots his cousin a rude hand gesture out of Lothiriel’s range of vision.

“No, that’s not fair,” she protests. “It’s my fault I forgot one, I don’t want to inconvenience you–”

Knowing Theodred would be absolutely insufferable in the morning, Eomer ignores her protests, bending down and scooping her up in his arms. Her outraged squeak is equal parts hilarious and endearing. “Eomer! What are you doing!”

“If you won’t take it, I suppose we’ll have to share,” he says. He won’t lie down, for fear of what her brothers might do upon finding them spooning, but he sits, back against a nearby tree as Lothiriel adjusts herself more comfortably in his lap.

“They’re going to be merciless, you know,” she murmurs, lips brushing distractingly over his neck as she speaks.

“You are not sleeping on the ground,” he argues. “It’s damned Amrothos’s fault you weren’t well prepared.”

She lifts her head to smile at him, reaching up to lightly scratch her nails along his jaw. “Hm. I can’t say I mind, really.”

He chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead even as Theodred all but snickers from across the campfire. “Sleep, Lothiriel.”

(Amrothos’s squawk wakes the entire camp a few hours later.

“Do shut up, Amrothos,” Lothiriel grumbles, burrowing her face deeper into Eomer’s shoulder. “Aren’t you lot always going on about needing to adapt to one’s circumstances?”

“This is not what I meant!” Amrothos cries.

Eomer hides his smile in Lothiriel’s hair.)

B2) Air Mattress that keeps deflating, leaving them smushed against each other by morning

Lothiriel supposes she should have seen this coming.

It’s not as if Eowyn has been subtle about it–constantly dropping hints about how well she and Eomer get along, how nice it would be to do stuff, just the four of them–but she didn’t think she’d stoop to, well, this.

She hadn’t thought anything of it, at first. Eowyn and Faramir had just moved into their new apartment, and Valar knows that between her cousin’s…rather spartan taste and Eowyn’s strange obsession with horses, the end result would be…interesting to say the least.

“Come help us set up, we’ll break the house in with a few bottles of Harad red, and you can sleep in the guest room,” Eowyn had wheedled. “My payment for you playing interior designer for free.”

Lothiriel does love her cousin-in-law, and Faramir always manages to have the best wine in the family…it had been an easy thing, to agree.

Waltzing into their living room to find Eomer, however, had certainly not been something she’d expected. He’d looked equally dumbfounded to see her before turning an angry expression in his sister’s direction.

“Eowyn,” he growls, somehow making her name sound like a threat.

“What?” She asks innocently. “We need all the hands we can get!”

Lothiriel is a bit hurt by the reaction–she and Eomer get along, when meddling relatives aren’t trying to get them to agree to some sort of antiquated arranged marriage–and it must show on her face, because Eomer frowns even deeper at Eowyn before coming offer her an apologetic expression. “Sorry,” he mutters, “you know I can’t stand when she does things like this…”

Yes, that Lothiriel knows very well, and she can only smile back at him and ignore the stutter of her heart when chucks her under the chin at her forgiveness. “As long as you promise to never look at me like I’m as bad as Grima Wormtongue again–”

Both siblings shudder at the mention of the aptly named man.

“I promise,” Eomer agrees, looking slightly shamefaced, as Eowyn scoffs, “Really, Lothiriel, Wormtongue?”

“Well, it was far from a smile,” she counters, trying to ignore the very obvious looks Faramir and Eowyn are exchanging behind his back. She shoves him off to paint not long after, as she moves off to help Eowyn sort through the truly obscene amount of knick-knacks she and Faramir have to choose from. Hours later, they’re settled around the kitchen table, a bottle and a half of wine deep, decorating long since forgotten. It’s mostly done, anyways, and it’s the people in the room–a softly smiling Faramir, his hand in Eowyn’s as she argues something about horses Lothiriel can’t even begin to follow with Eomer–that make it homey.

Another glass later, she’s pleasantly buzzing, and leans comfortably on her hand as Faramir tells a story about Boromir. Talking about him makes her melancholy in a way nothing else does–she misses him, they all miss him, Faramir most of all–and she doesn’t realize she’s sniffling until the sudden brush of someone’s hand over hers under the table nearly makes her jump out of her skin. It’s Eomer, his hand large and calloused and grounding, bringing her out of her sudden sadness as quickly as she’d sunk into it.

Faramir, though, is just as observant as he is, and says, “Lothiriel, if you’re tired, the guest room is just down the hall.”

Eomer’s hand tightens for a second, but a strangely sharp look from Eowyn holds him silent. Murmuring her thanks (and giving his hand one last squeeze), she shuffles down the hall. The sight that greets her makes her laugh: the guest room is the one room not even close to being set up. It’s just an air mattress, with admittedly comfy sheets and a blanket piled on top, a lamp, and a number of boxes in the furthest corner. She’s too tired to care, and wrestles herself into her pajamas. Just as she gets settled, there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

But instead of Faramir’s concerned face, or Eowyn’s smiling one, it’s a nervous-looking Eomer who opens the door. He’s…also in his pajamas, looking deeply uncomfortable.

Oh, Eowyn, Lothiriel groans internally. “Let me guess. Eowyn offered you the guest room as well.”

“Subtle, my sister is not,” he says. “I can sleep on the couch–”

But they haven’t even put the curtains up yet, and the couch is almost too small for Lothiriel, who is nearly a foot shorter than Eomer’s obscenely long frame. “Don’t be stupid,” she says, sliding to one side of the mattress before patting the other. “Though I can’t promise not to kick you if you snore.”

Eomer snorts a laugh. He settles in beside her, both of them hesitating when the air mattress gives an ominous hiss. Slightly reassured when it doesn’t do it again, Eomer flicks the light off. The even rhythm of his breath is soothing, familiar when it shouldn’t be, and it doesn’t take long for her to drift towards unconsciousness–

At least, until she’s suddenly very aware that her pillow is warm, and much, much more solid than what she’s used to. And that Eomer’s hip is digging rather uncomfortably into her stomach.

“What–” She manages to blurt out. Eomer jolts–he must have actually been asleep–and then just as quickly scrambles away from her.

“The mattress,” he stutters, and she could almost swear he was blushing when he flicks the light back on. He’s right, of course–the mattress has obviously deflated. They fill it, quickly, neither looking at the other, and settle back down on their respective sides.

It takes 20 minutes, this time, until she’s rolled back towards him. This time, his arm is pinned between them, the back of his hand horribly–and frustratingly–close to her breast. Groaning, they fill the mattress again.

It only takes 10 minutes this time before they’re touching again, and it feels as if every nerve in Lothiriel’s body is alight when Eomer hesitates reaching for the light.

“Oh, for Valar’s sake,” she finally says, propping herself up on her elbow and reaching for his arm with her other hand. She tucks herself against his side, smiling slightly against his shoulder as he–inch by inch–lets his arm curve around her, his hand sliding to rest at her hip. “If this thing is going to deflate, we may as well be comfortable until it does.”

Eomer chuckles and the lowness of it makes something inside her clench–Elbereth, of all the times to realize your best friend has been right about this entire situation–and he presses his cheek to the top of her head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had designs on my person, Lothiriel.”

Maybe I do, she thinks, the sudden pang of want still echoing in her veins. “You wish, Eomundson,” she says instead, suddenly afraid that he’ll know, somehow, and that everything will have to change between them.

The sudden touch of his hand to her chin makes her heart stutter. “Maybe I do,” he murmurs, echoing her thoughts, breath ghosting hot and painfully close over her cheeks.

“Eomer–”

And then he’s kissing her, or she’s kissing him, and it’s all she can do to remind herself that they are on a rapidly deflating air-mattress, in her cousin’s apartment, and that Eowyn would be smug enough in the morning without them adding this to the mix.

“Deflated air mattress!” Lothiriel manages to gasp, when he lets her up for air. “Terrible for sleeping, even worse for–for–”

“Anything else,” Eomer agrees. He tucks her comfortably back against his side. They’re both quiet for a moment, the only noise is his heart racing under her ear, before he says, “You did have designs on my person–”

“I will smother you with a pillow, I swear to the Valar–” She starts to hiss.

Eomer kisses her until she can scarcely remember why she was so irritated in the first place. “Sleep. Then proper date, then–”

“Proper mattress?” She says, hopefully.

Eomer groans, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. If the mattress deflates again, neither of them mind.

B3) This hide-a-bed is the most uncomfortable thing in the existence of everything and now I have to share it with you.

“So it’s not ideal,” Lothiriel says, biting her lip as she looks down at the bed.

“Not ideal?” Eomer asks, incredulous. He’s not a big believer in karma, but currently he suspects he must have mortally offended one deity or another in a past life. Instead of getting to spend time with his girlfriend for the first time in weeks at the comfortable bed and breakfast he’d begged Eowyn into finding for them, they’re stuck at at a hotel he’s positive has negative stars. It’s near as old as Erkenbrand, judging from the curtains, and apparently the owners don’t believe in real beds, as the only place offered for them to sleep on is a hide-a-bed that looks vaguely like a medieval torture device.

“The roads will clear in the morning,” Lothiriel says. “It’s just one night, Eomer, how bad can it be?”

He loves her optimism, under normal circumstances, but as he sits on the bed and nearly bruises himself–it feels more like sitting on a rock than anything resembling a mattress–he can only grimace.

Dinner, at least, isn’t totally horrible; there’s one good restaurant in the tiny town they’ve ended up in and Lothiriel turns on the charm full-blast to wrangle them a table, despite the fact they haven’t made reservations and are clearly not two of the 317 locals. The food is decent, the wine more than decent, and all of it is eclipsed entirely by Lothiriel, leaning across the table to hold his hand, their feet tangled together underneath.

“I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend the first night of our vacation,” she says gently, “but I’m just happy to be with you again. Lumpy mattresses irregardless.”

Eomer smiles, lifting her hand to press a kiss to its palm.

(The bed and breakfast, by contrast, has a perfectly comfortable mattress. Eomer thinks it’s almost a pity they scarcely get to sleep on it hardly at all. Almost.)

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #my writing #prompt fills

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