PROMPT: "I came to the gym to work out but holy God I can't stop watching you do one armed push-ups, that's so hot" AU

Eomer doesn't much care about working out as anything other as a way of staying in shape. Faramir and Legolas have their archery club, Eowyn still keeps up with her roller-derby team from school, and Bema knows he doesn't want to know anything more about Aragorn and Arwen's couples' workouts than he already does.

But still. He does like burning off his excess energy in a productive way, now that the racing season is over. (He's too tall to have ever made it as a jockey, but every horse racing team needs a trainer.) Eowyn has been insistent about a balanced work-out-Eomer would be happy enough with just strength training, but he's caved to her wishes. It's what has him on a bike, now, absentmindedly pedalling to cool down from his earlier lifting session.

And being on that bike has put him in the prime position to watch an incredibly attractive woman run through her own work-out. She's short, yes, but he doesn't think he's ever seen anyone-Eothain included-punch a punching bag with such force. Such determination.

In the back of his mind, he knows Eowyn would murder him for staring so openly at a woman in the gym, but-Bema. How can he look away? She's beautiful despite the flush in her cheeks, and the frankly almost terrifying way she's pummelling the punching bag, and-

He can only swear under his breath when she suddenly drops down, clearly intent on doing push-ups. He almost falls off his bike when she twists one arm behind her back-a one-armed push-up isn't something he'd ever thought of as hot before, but. Here he is. Thinking it's pretty damn hot.

"You've stopped pedaling," comes a horribly familiar voice, startling him out of his staring.

Aragorn is grinning at him, with Arwen looking similarly amused from over his shoulder.

"I-" He looks down, to find that he has, the bike having shut off in his distraction.

"Have you ever thought of taking up boxing, Eomer?" Arwen asks innocently. "I'm sure Lothiriel has room in her classes."

That makes him nearly choke on the sip of water he's just taken. It dawns on him why the woman looks so familiar: she's Faramir's cousin. He hasn't seen her in years, not since Eowyn's wedding, and the soft-spoken, smiley eighteen year old he remembers doesn't match up at all with the woman who's gone back to punching the punching bag again.

"She teaches boxing?" Is the only semi-intelligent thing he can think of to say.

"Monday, Wednesday, Friday, at 4 and 7:30," Arwen answers. "She's an excellent teacher."

"Can't hurt to mix up your work-out," Aragorn adds, still grinning in a terrifying fashion. "Since you won't take Arwen and I up on our offer to join us-"

"You need to be part of a couple to do a couples' workout," Eomer groans, relying on his usual excuse.

"Maybe after a few boxing classes-" Aragorn starts to say, only to earn a swift elbow to his stomach.

Arwen merely grins.

Feeling like an utter fool, Eomer signs up for boxing anyways.

The class is small, and mostly women, who all eye him with looks ranging from appreciation to suspicion.

Lothiriel, at least, seems to recognize him, and greets him with a smile. "Eomer Eomundson. Long time no see!"

It seems wise not to mention he'd spent the better part of twenty minutes the week before oogling her, so he just smiles, and shakes her offered hand. "Lothiriel. Eowyn didn't mention you were a teacher here."

"It's more of a side-job," she admits. "I didn't know you had any interest in boxing."

"I wanted to try something new," he says.

"Most men prefer taking Erchirion's class," Lothiriel says. "Apparently, being taught how to throw a punch by a girl is offensive to them."

"You do know who my sister is, don't you?" He asks. "I think she has a better right hook than I do."

Lothiriel's smile only widens. "Not after I'm through with you."

Eomer thinks he likes the sound of that.

As it turns out, he does enjoy boxing. It's more enjoyable than weight-lifting, takes more effort than pedaling on a bike, and more social than running with his headphones in.

Of course, the biggest bonus is getting to spend more time with Lothiriel.

She's as good a teacher as Arwen had made her out to be, but she's also funny, smart, and with just enough of the sweetness he remembers from her teenage self. She also does pack a mean punch, as he learns on more than one occasion. It's worth it though, even if his jaw does ache for three days after she'd caught him off-guard, because she'd insisted on icing his chin down herself, her fingers gentle and her eyes soft as she apologized half-a-dozen times.

"Lothiriel, I'm fine. I'm a grown man, I can handle a punch."

She'd frowned at that. "Still. Free one-on-one class, on me. To make sure this doesn't repeat itself."

He'd opened his mouth to say that wasn't necessary, only to clamp it shut. He'd have to be some kind of idiot to turn down an offer like that.

"Well," he had said, grinning at the sudden splotches of pink in her cheeks when her eyes flick over to his, "if you insist."

Eomer nearly chokes on his tongue when he opens the door to the classroom a week later. Lothiriel offers him a cheeky grin before planting her hands on her hips. She's in a sports-bra and leggings, gloves already strapped on.

It's not that he hasn't seen her in a similar outfit before, but this set is-is-well, it's green and gold, the colors of the stables he works at, and he somehow doubts that the colors are a coincidence.

"Lesson 1," she says in a sing-song voice, "don't be afraid to exploit your opponent's weaknesses."

Which Eomer takes to mean he's done much, much worse at concealing his obvious attraction to her than he'd thought. Peachy.

Still, turnabout is fair play. He doesn't think he imagines the sudden intake of breath she takes when he pulls off of his jacket. Tank-tops aren't really his thing, but the weather's been so warm lately that it made more sense to wear it. And boxing has been, in his humble opinion, not terrible on his arms.

She's still blushing when he turns to face her. "Lesson noted," he says.

"It's a good thing I already have my gloves on, so you can't see what finger I'm holding up at you right now," Lothiriel grumbles, but her smile gives away her true mood. "Alright, Eomundson. Put em' up."

They spar for a little while-he's nowhere near as good as she is, but he does have the advantage of size-both clearly trying to suss out each other's real weaknesses. His right shoulder is still somewhat tender from a fall from a horse months ago, and Lothiriel always seems to do a double-step sort of motion to give herself a minute to breathe. It ends up all going to hell when her follow-through is too thorough, sending her careening into his chest, and knocking him off his feet in surprise.

Lothiriel's legs end up on either side of his hips, her gloves pressed against his chest, and her hair hanging in messy tendrils around her face.

He doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful.

"Pinned you," she says, once they've both caught their breath.

"I'm not complaining," Eomer murmurs, the words out of his mouth before he can think better of it. Her face flushes further and he feels like an ass. "Shit, Lothiriel, I-"

She's somehow managed to get her gloves off, and presses a bare, calloused finger against his lips. "If you apologize, I really will punch you. I don't offer just anyone one-on-one lessons, you know."

He can only give a huff of laughter, cursing the glove from keeping him from feeling the curve of her hip when he slides his hand there. "No?"

"No," Lothiriel says. Her hand slips around the back of his neck to thread into his hair. "Only devastatingly handsome, funny, sweet, oblivious men named Eomer get one-on-one lessons."

Eomer tries to open his mouth to argue-what did she mean by oblivious-but finds he's unable to, because Lothiriel has pressed her mouth to hers and kisses the fight right out of him. He sits up to kiss her better, groaning appreciatively when she shifts closer to him, slanting her mouth over his to deepen the kiss.

They're both so caught up in each other that neither hears the door opening.

"Lothiriel, are you still-"

Lothiriel pulls back with a gasp. Eomer already has his eyes squeezed shut in horror, because he knows that voice.

"Well, well," says Boromir, "looks like Theodred owes me $20."

"Boromir," Lothiriel starts to say, something dangerous in her tone, "I swear to the Valar-"

The click of his phone's camera is her cousin's response. "Don't let me interrupt. Though I don't think this is what the gym had in mind when they let you start teaching private lessons, Thiri-"

Eomer's lets his head fall back-to groan? To laugh? Both?-and he can make out the sound of Lothiriel flinging her glove at him.

Boromir's laughter echoes long after the door has closed behind him.

Lothiriel groans, hiding her face away against his neck. "This is going to haunt us forever."

Eomer grins, turning his face to hers to steal another kiss. "I can think of worse things."