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Under the Influence (R) Print

Written by sian22

12 April 2015 | 14784 words

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In the end the cup of willowbark tea Amerith brewed herself l ay abandoned on the bedside table.

There was only one emotion in these latter days that could make the redoubtable duchess cry and that was sheer, utter, helpless, frustration. She had not often been acquainted with it, far more used to knowing what she at least should do even in those times she could not do it. But this evening, as her shaking fingers spread salve across his chest (again) the tears mixed one by one with the smooth green paste. The comfrey and mint in the healing salve should ease his shallow breathing, and should the steam from the bowl of minted water placed by his side. What else could she do?? Nothing for the moment seemed to help.

She stroked gently, endlessly along his chest and back, determined to hold Faramir upright (surely that should help too?) until the healers came. Elbereth, please let it be soon, her lips murmured to his wet raven hair, until that became a litany. Elbereth, give their feet wings. Faramir’s face was now a sickly grey, lips tinged with the barest blue. Was this some fever of the wound? The red streaks across his flank, almost like a spider’s web, suggested so, but what fever made the body cool not heat? She did not understand…and now the salve ran with yet more salty drops.

What cruel irony was at work that she should be holding Faramir so very close yet he did not even know that she was there? The very thing her secret heart of hearts had desired, never spoken of, never even whispered to the dark of her own room, and now she should hold him when he might be snatched away? Away… oh Gods_…Her heart clenched again to remember the sight of him, sprawled on his stomach on the bathing room floor, chair tipped over, a golden slick of sandalwood oil running across the tile to pool under his bruised and blue tinged hip. Her first thought had been quite ludicrously: how could he suffocate in a _bath? But kneeling beside, skirts damp, her stomach in her mouth, she had felt his back rise all too shallowly and knew. Her panicked cry had brought every denizen of the house flying on the double.

As the seconds and the minutes stretched by, some traitorous, wildly careening part of her mind wondered what Faramir would make of this. His modest and reserved public self likely would be quite embarrassed at the thought of being lifted naked off the bathroom floor by her guard and youngest footman. But his private self, that she hoped would be comforted and strengthened to be held by her. What else was there now for her to do?

With Varda’s name on her lips and in her aching heart, she held him tighter, pressed the salve more firmly into his skin and willed every ounce of her hard-earned resilience to pour into him.

Elbereth, I pray thee, help him, if not for me but for the others that he loves.


Varan, normally the mildest mannered of men, uttered a heartfelt curse as he ran down the Citadel’s endless white stone steps. He had wasted precious time. The Captain had not been there and no one he had met had seemed to know exactly where he was. The guards were clearly more than loathe to disturb the Steward at whatever his important ‘work’ was this late time of night. They seemed frankly terrified. Only when he had pleaded, throwing privacy to the desperate winds, and admitted that his son’s life was in real danger had he gotten anywhere. Nera, the housekeeper, white-faced and clearly stricken at the thought, had pushed forward through the throng of anxious guards and found the courage to speak aloud, explaining which townhouse he should try.

Now as the older man raced along the empty thoroughfare toward the 6th circle he prayed he would be in time. How long had it been since Captain Faramir had been wounded? Seven hours, or likely even eight? Surely the poison had taken hold by now? Fear clutched at his heart. He remembered well his gran’s high but sure and steady voice, telling her curious grandson about the Woodwoses and their habits. A time or two they had treated their animals for them and even once one of the little men himself. She always said their famous poison was crude yet cruelly efficient on its foes. But blessed Este easy to treat if the antidote were administered soon enough. But therein lay the problem, its victims did not always realize they had been prey. The stuff had no great odor and only made a strong man feel a little ill and chilled at first. It was slow and all too insidious. Over time the body’s systems slowed, temperature first, then breathing, and finally the heart.

Clutching the antidote harder in his hand, Varan picked up his pace, ran as fast as the cobbled slope would let him go. The drizzle dragged at his sodden cape but he did not notice, intent only on the numbered doors, searching for the specific one amidst the row of elegant but identical white stone fronts. He had just reached the middle 6th when another figure appeared out of the wet and swirling mist.

“Master!” A guard in the blue and grey livery of Lebennin pulled up, panting from his run. Obviously, he recognized the healer’s grey robes. “Please come. Quickly. The Captain, he is sore ill.”

“Lead the way…”

They ran.


If the head of Duchess’s household felt any ire at the usurpation of his authority, he was of course too well trained to show it. Willen leapt at Master Varam’s detailed instructions indeed as quickly as the rest, and in minutes of his arrival the healer had no less than five of the servants running to and fro. Two guards had been dispatched back to the Houses for a litter and reinforcements, the under butler sent to the cook for boiling water, and the seneschal himself was tearing linen into fresh bandages that would be soaked. Amerith alone was left where she was, holding the Captain’s pale, shivering figure up, cradling his head against her shoulder while Varan pulled back the coverlet to examine the wound.

“My lady have you seen these streaks change any?” Gentle fingers probed carefully at the naked skin. The gash was small, no more than an inch or two, but quite inflamed and red. To Amerith it looked really such a small and unsinister thing to cause great hurt.

“No Master, not in the past half-candlemark. Thank the Valar you are here. We found him collapsed on the bathing room floor. ” Her arms shook now as much as Faramir’s though not from chill. Fear had seeped into her bones. The worry on Varan’s face was unmistakable. It did not seem possible that from such a simple wound all their efforts could come to naught. Had Faramir really endured uncomplaining years of battle and bitter words for a simple arrow graze to take him down?

Varan paused in his probing to check his patient’s pulse. It was slow but not yet unsteady for a mercy. Next the healer listened to his chest, holding him gently up and tapping several times. It was clear, the slow breathing was not infection that he could see. The last thing to gauge was the extent of temperature control. “What were his symptoms when he arrived, my lady? Was he noticeably chilled?”

Amerith shifted slightly on the bed and nodded, watched anxiously the older man’s grim but thoughtful face. “When he arrived he was already shivering, I thought it from the ride. And he had little appetite. But the shivering now is less, though he does not wake and his breathing seems more difficult. Is it a fever? But his skin is not hot to the touch? Surely that is good if at least he is less chilled?”

Varan sighed unhappily, all the telltale signs of the plant poison were present as he had feared. “Nay, lady, less is not good in this instance. This is no fever, though it might have seemed so to anyone. The shivering is less because his body is too weak but still too chilled. The wound has been poisoned.”


At her stricken exclamation, the older man hastened to explain. “I am afraid so, but I have brought an antidote. Do not fear, milady I believe I am just in time. Bide awhile and you shall see.” With that, Varan unscrewed the cap on the jar and scooped out a small handful of dark green paste. He spread some first across the wound itself and then, with a murmured word of thanks to the footman, cast the rest into the steaming bowl of water laid near to hand.

A bitter, intense, sharp smell quickly filled the room. Working hurriedly but carefully Varan soaked the strips of linen in the brew and wrapped them around Faramir’s wound and up across his chest. Next he soaked the tip of a smaller cloth and pushed it past the young man’s unresponsive lips, wringing a few drops onto his tongue.

Faramir groaned quietly and his eyelids fluttered. He was not completely unconscious yet, but neither did he swallow. If the tea tasted anything like the smell, surely it was unpleasant and would not easily go down.

“More. My lord, you must try.” Varan, long used to coaxing patients, persevered. He coated the young man’s tongue once more. Faramir jerked his head away and frowned, his hand weakly trying to bat the cloth away.

“Lord Faramir. Wake up. You must drink this down.” The healer tried harder to rouse his patient, shaking his shoulder and finally slapping him lightly on both cheeks. This time the eyelids fluttered twice and even opened for a moment. Swiftly, Varan dipped a cup and held it to his lips. Almost before he knew what he had done, Faramir had sipped and made a face. But Varan was ready, he quickly pulled the cup out of reach and laid it down before the weak protest could upend it. With the barest of gentle touches, he then stroked the young man’s throat to make sure the liquid went farther down.

Through sheer dint of repetition most of the cup got into the man. All the while, Amerith supported his lolling head against her shoulder. With her own none too steady hand she softly brushed his still wet hair from off his cheek, trying to keep it out of the mess. Each time Faramir reluctantly took a sip some of the mixture dribbled out the corner of his mouth. It soaked her bodice and trailed farther down, down his pale throat and across the finely muscled chest.

At long last, as Varan laid the cup down and rubbed vigorously across Faramir’s back, he gave the tiniest cough. Encouraged, the healer massaged his chest and back the more, willing the circulation to increase.

“How quickly will it work?” Amerith barely dared to breathe, watching each shallow rise and fall of the dark curly hairs above the bandage on his chest.

“Not long” was the reply. “It was not too late and I made the dose very strong.” Varan added a little more hot water to the basin and swirled the mixture round. The cooled strips of linen were soaked and wound again.

Never had a single half candle-mark seemed to burn so slowly.

Amerith busied herself with piling the blankets around his hips and replacing the cooled warming pan with hot bricks that Willen offered up. Slowly, after what seemed an age, the warmth and herb stilled the chills that wracked Faramir’s body and a little colour came back to his naked skin.

Amerith settled down and laced her fingers through his now warmer hand. Hope slowly seeped back in as she held him tight and whispered words of comfort.


Varan allowed himself a little smile at her exclamation. Faramir had taken several deeper breaths. Now his pulse seemed stronger and his breathing a little easier. “We must watch carefully for a while, but I am hopeful the worst is past. Then we will move him to the Houses.”

“I will come..”

“Of course.” The healer was a naturally observant man. The duchess’s hand had not unclasped Faramir’s nearly the entire time. “I had not thought that you would do otherwise”


Faramir moaned as he shifted restlessly in his half awakened state. He finally felt warm again and the world no longer spun, though the unfamiliar sharp taste in his mouth was thoroughly unpleasant. He wanted to rise and spit out the bitter leaf but found he could hardly raise his hand to wipe his mouth. His limbs were stiff and oddly wooden yet his head felt strangely light. What was wrong?

Wearily he slumped back down, gathered his strength to try again. Hesitantly he opened his eyes. A single candle burned on the beside table and a fire was lit in the grate. Amerith was fast asleep, askew in an armchair beside the hearth. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her hair was piled untidily.

As his eyes accustomed to the light he realized why the place felt wrong. This was not his room. The walls were bare and the bed was narrower. Where was he?

Faramir gathered himself to rise again and cried out softly as pain seized at his side. He slumped, defeated, back into the bed, against soft pillows and cool sheets. They were not the lavender-scented linen that he remembered and there was another, stronger, smell he could not place: intensely green and sharp. Reaching up he touched a sticky slick of something green across his chest. That must be the source. He was naked he realized, just cool damp bandages were wound about his side. The bath. He had been getting out of the bath. Morgoth’s balls, he must have got a chill after all, and now they were dosing him in the Houses. Did he have a fever? Cautiously he turned his head. He didn’t have that heavy, pounding headache that came when a fever rose.

The quiet creak of a door sounded and a voice softly called to Amerith. The brighter light from the outer hall hurt his half-closed eyes. He groaned softly and turned his face away, too tired to speak, content to simply lay and listen drowsily to the visitor speak again.

“My lady, you should lie down and take some rest. He may sleep for some hours yet, and when he wakes he will not be himself.” The voice was soft but deep, a man’s voice, calm and reassuring. It was familiar but he could not quite place it and his eyelids were too heavy to look and see. “But you said there were side effects. I would not leave him if he still feels ill.”

“He will not exactly feel ill as he has been. Just unlike himself. I will send an apprentice to watch over, you need not fear he will be alone.” From the tone it was clear the healer hesitated to explain. Faramir felt light fingers raise his wrist. They pressed gently for a moment and all was still before his hand was laid down once again.

“How so?” Amerith sounded worried even to his drowsy ears. “You said the treatment was very strong, that it was long past time the wound should have been treated. Will the side effects be worse?”

There was a longer pause. “I suspect so. That in this instance they will intensify. They are unusual, my lady, you may not wish to be present then.”

“Not present!? The duchess’s voice rose sharply but quickly lowered to an anxious whisper. “Master Varan what effects could there be that I would not want to witness? Will he be in pain?”

Now Faramir understood who was there. Varan, the chief healer of the Houses, second only to the Warden. His competence and skill were widely known. They had known each other for many years.

“No.” There was a heavy sigh. The covers were adjusted to cover more of his naked shoulder, but he did not really mind. He felt blessedly warm and quite relaxed. Nightshirt or no, it was simply good to have chased the chills away.

“The antidote acts on the brain. It lessens a person’s inhibitions. Emboldens them if you will. They will say and act in ways that they may not otherwise.”

“Truly?” Now he heard Amerith’s distinctive giggle. “Well, stars, I thought you meant something serious from your tone.”

A smile crept into Varan’s voice. “It could be quite marked, my Lady. So long as you understand. He will not be violent, you need not fear that. Normally the effect lasts a few hours, but I expect with the dose so concentrated, it will last longer still.”

From the edge of a hazy, almost dream, Faramir heard the sound of rustling skirts. A soft, perfumed hand was pressed against his cheek. He turned toward it. He wanted to part his lips and plant a kiss but his tired muscles would not obey. When you awake, said some part of his fuzzy brain and so he sighed and drifted off again, missing Amerith’s final chuckle.

“I am sure I can manage that.”


Normally Amerith was quite capable of keeping herself awake. Endless, fractious council meetings were an excellent training ground for that needed skill. But after nearly a day of constant vigilance, punctuated by the briefest of needed catnaps she had at last slept in earnest, safe in the knowledge that Varan’s young assistant would wake her the moment the Captain was awake.

The hand on her shoulder was gentle but insistent. “My Lady, wake up. I must let Master Varan know.”

Pushing upright from the cot on which she lay, the Duchess glanced anxiously toward the nearby bed. What a welcome sight! A pair of clear grey eyes gazed back at her in puzzled surprise.

“Darling!” she could not help the happy exclamation. Faramir’s handsome face was pale but it no longer held the tight pained look of yestereve.

The young apprentice bowed to them both and took his leave, murmuring that he would bring the Master back in a little while.
Amerith sat up and righted her twisted dress, momentarily embarrassed to realize her bodice was a little more revealing than she would have liked. She had clearly tossed and turned quite forcefully in her sleep.

“Faramir how do you feel?” She rose a little stiffly, not bothering to twine her long hair back into its bun. There would be time for her ablutions later. For now, she was simply too relieved to be anywhere but here with her young friend.

Faramir smiled a little, pushing upward on the bed gingerly. “Better! Warm! My side does not hurt so much and the room no longer spins. ” The tiny remaining rind of fear about her heart melted at his voice, weak and raspy though it clearly was. She had truly worried she might never hear its gentle tones again.

Having found he could move without too much protest from his tired body, the young man tried to straighten fully up. “What happened? Why am I here?” As he shifted restlessly again the sheet fell down about his waist, and Amerith moved quickly to place a restraining hand against his chest.

“No, no do not move. Just lie back and take it easy.” She pulled the sheet a little higher. Faramir did not seem chilled but after seeing him nearly blue she was not taking any chances. “The wound you took was poisoned. You were in a very bad way my dear before Varan brought the antidote.”

The clear grey eyes grew wide. The news was clearly something of a shock.

She tucked a stray, sticky black lock behind his ear and took his hand, let a teasing grin cover the remembered fear. “All will be well now. You gave us quite a fright. I will thank you to not to do that again. Most inconsiderate. There is sandalwood oil all across my marble floor.”

“I promise to be as neat as possible in the future.” A wry and welcome smile met her skeptical snort. They both knew he was habitually untidy. No promise would ever change that fact, no matter how heartfelt when it was given.

Relieved he felt well enough to banter, she searched carefully in his face for any sign of discomfort or unsettledness. His eyes were brighter and his face looked calm if a little weary. That was understandable. For the moment at least there was no sign of any ill effect.

“Do you remember anything?”

The smile grew only wider and with it came a low and teasing chuckle of his own. “No. You could have taken advantage of me and I would not know it!”

“Faramir!” Good heavens. What ever made him think of that? “Are you thirsty? Can I get you anything?”

He tried a little cough to clear his throat. “Some water, please.”

She filled a cup from the jug on the beside table and passed it over. Watching his blessedly steady fingers as he sipped carefully at the welcome liquid, she wondered if Varan had overstated the effects. Faramir seemed coherent enough and perfectly normal. What a huge relief.

The cup when she took it back was sticky about rim. Looking down, she realized his hands must have brushed his chest, it was still covered in the dried green salve she had smeared across in hope of easing his laboured breathing. Peering closer, she sniffed and realized his hair and neck were covered in shredded bits of bitter healing herb.

He noticed her attention and his eyes sparkled with a momentary mischief. “I tried the sandalwood bath oil. They say its spicy, creamy smell is the scent of a tryst in a forbidden grove and will drive a lady wild.” He looked up at her through a curtain of messy hair, lower lip jutting forlornly in an extravagant pout. “Instead I smell like some awful tonic of Aunt Ivriniel’s.”

She laughed. “We can’t have that. The horror! Let me find something to clean you up.”

Amerith searched the bureau and found a metal pan, placed it full of water on the brasier to warm. “A cup of Varan’s herbal antidote went down your front last night. I suspected it smells only half as bad as it tastes from how hard it was to get inside you.”

Faramir laid his head back upon the pillow, eyes dreamy in the torch light but watching as she worked. Amerith dipped a sponge and began to wipe the gunk away. Was he tiring again? Well at least when he was clean and seen by Varan he could sleep peacefully once more. She wondered if in him the side effect was lack of appetite and more fatigue. He had hardly eaten in two days and showed no sign of wanting anything at that point.

Gently she dipped the sticky sponge again into the warm water and wrung it out, rubbing softly in gentle circles until the herb began to loosen. The mess had dried onto the light dusting of black hair across his well-muscled chest, it took some work to finally get it off. She rubbed a little harder and one finger brushed a sticky nipple. It peaked and tiny sigh escaped his lips.

“I wonder how soft your fingers are?”

Shocked, the lady looked up from her ministrations and caught a soft, thoughtful smile on the pair of bow-shaped lips. Her insides twisted. His voice was low, with a hint of yearning in his tone, his eyes focused and intent. Was this Faramir with a seductive look?

Uninhibited. That had been the word Varan had used. She pulled back a little and tried to wipe a little more carefully, to be more stiff and clinical in her bathing. It was not easy for one naturally expressive in her actions.

Faramir was not to be put off. He leaned forward until their cheeks were almost touching.

For a moment Amerith wondered if he would kiss her but then suddenly a hand reached out for hers. She dropped the sponge. He was strong. Very strong. In a heartbeat he had her hand halfway to his hip and she had no doubt where he wished a soft touch to roam.

“Faramir, be a good boy and let me go.” The lady tried her best to sound firm and sincere. It was a little difficult to maintain when his lower lip still pouted so enticingly.

“I am not good and I am not a boy!’

The belligerent protest met with a show of healthy skepticism. An auburn eyebrow raised and she reminded herself not to laugh, not to hurt his feelings.

Reluctantly, the calloused fingers let hers go. He flopped back against the pillows. “At least not always. Bugger, I am so tired of everybody thinking so… I just hide it better than most.’

Now it was her turn to smile. An embarrassed flush crept up his chest to stain his cheeks. He looked so lovely touched by the colour, rosy pink against black, glossy locks that were still to dry after she had wiped them too. She glanced down at the now decidedly larger mound below the sheets.

He most definitely was not a boy.

She set the sponge aside and with all the dignity and grace she could muster with her traitorous heart thudding wildly in her chest, plumped the pillows behind his back and tried her customary tactic. Making light of an awkward subject worked always in a diplomatic mess.

“Really? Well then you have hidden your bad behaviour so deep it is nigh in the bowels of Moria. Being naughty and boyish is your brother’s job I should have thought.”

“Boromir!” The derisive snort was loud. She hastened to shush him, the walls here were not as thick in other parts of the sixth, nearer to the Citadel. “My dear rakehell for a brother. It never fails to amaze me how girls flock to him. They do, but only once. He’s hung like a Kine but really has no idea what to do with his tongue.”

“Faramir!” Amerith gasped. Stars, he was truly saying and thinking things she would never in an entire Age have guessed.

The young man gave a startled laugh. He had just noticed his own joke. “Well yes, yes he does but not what to say with it. Girls like to be courted, not just ploughed. Now Father….”

The sound of Linhir’s halting steps were just audible in the hall. Was he coming to check on the patient or someone else? Oh gods, she thought, Faramir would die if someone heard him speaking about the family.

In a panic at what indiscretion might come out next she stopped his mouth the only way she knew.

He had not shaved in days of course. She was startled by the rasp of beard against her cheek. It felt exciting and decidedly unlike their usual chaste kiss.

Faramir gave a low moan and then quiet chuckle tingled against her lips. “Mmmmm.”

She felt the shiver that ran through him, though this time praise Este it was not of cold. She could taste a stronger desire behind the first press of cool and steady lips, felt him part his lips and raise his hand, seeking to claim what his body hungered for. Their tongues entwined and slid together in a slow and questing dance. Nimble fingers tangled in her hair, pressed them closer still. He had strength. She had always known it was there but to feel it on her nape and in his urgent touch was heady and intoxicating.

Valar what had she done? The sound of Linhir’s slow, distinctive gait was loud now in the hall.

Faramir grinned, sleepy tongue lazily playing across her lower lip. He sighed and broke the kiss. The clear grey eyes brimmed in the torchlight, dark and wide with mounting need.

“Lock the door.”

She pulled back quickly, her lips reddened and tingling from his touch. Oh how sweet was the realization of what she had held secret in the chambers of her battered heart so long. It had been necessary torture, of course, to watch (her show of deflation not entirely an act) as the rumour of their split so long ago had run like flame through a tinder pile. As it had been to stand by and be encouraging of his tentative advances to a young widow in the months that followed. To listen while he sang the praises of the witty (hardly) and amusing (derivative) things the young lady in question said. It had mercifully (for her) not lasted very long. Neither had any had of his recent trysts, she knew he had not been a monk. There had only been a few highly discrete liasons, all doomed to fail. Sooner or later the young lady in question wanted to see more of him than a Ranger’s schedule would allow and they moved on.

Looking on his flushed skin and glowing skin she decided that to rise and shut the door was the sensible thing to do, but not for the reasons he would assume. She needed to fend him off, truly this should go no further but neither did she want the healers to hear what he might say. He was heavily in the drug’s strong grip and might regret it all when he was better. How long before sleep caught up with him again? There was a dose of willow bark tea upon the bureau. How quickly would its sedative affect take hold?

She locked the door. She could feel his lustful gaze upon her back. Was it her imagination or was it rising to her nape from the lower hooks upon her bodice. Steeling herself, Amerith picked up the pewter cup and turned, avoiding his gaze, avoiding looking anywhere about his person. She must not notice that his cock had swelled so much it was striving to raise the sheet. That his nipples were still peaked, lying reddened against the soft the dark hair. Nervously, she licked lips gone dry and proffered the tisane.

“Here, Varan said you were to have this, my dear.”

She was quite practised at lying when the need arose. He suspected nothing in his eagerness to have her near, sipped obediently and closed his eyes with pleasure as he reached out and deliberately brushed their fingertips together. She froze but did not jerk away. He must not suspect there was anything untoward.

Once done he laid his head back upon the pillow and breathed deeply, eyes shining on her with a glow of barely bridled passion. They focused on the rim of the slightly shaking cup, on her still soapy fingers.

“Do you know how many times I have been alone in a damp bedroll and imagined the touch of those gorgeous fingers?” he asked, voice low and rough with need. “Wondered what they would feel like on the skin of my cock? What they would taste of if I sucked each one into my mouth before they reached to stroke my hardened length?”

Oh gods. The movement of his lips as they formed the shocking words was mesmerizing. She nodded. She too had fantasized alone in her great carved bed. Dreamed of pale, musky skin. Tiny raven curls low about his hardened length. The soft and velvet space cradled by his hip. She felt like a small animal in a hunting trap, his words were the snare and only a surrender to his need could set her free.

She stood frozen as his callused hand darted out and caught her own. This time his grip was gentle. He brought her trembling fingers to his lips and kissed each pad in turn. His lips were soft and eager.

Emboldened by the rising need that shone in her emerald gaze, he ran his sweet and agile tongue slowly to each knuckle. He moaned with pleasure, a low and almost feral growl. Between the sound and his sensual touch a heavy, tingling heat gathered in her core.

“Gods I have wanted this for so very long. Do you know what I have imagined sitting across from you in the boring council sessions?”

She gasped and swallowed hard. Had he read her mind? Somehow she must stop this or where would it lead? But no, she was helpless to resist, she had to hear, to know that their secret dreams were truly one.

His eyes were now nearly black, the pupils so ripe and avid only the barest sliver of grey still showed. She could see the pulse beating wildly at his throat, as the naughty words spilled out.

“Barring the door to be sure we are alone. Pulling you across the table until our lips met and set a fire raging in my blood? Your skirts hiked and splayed, your skin alabaster against the gleaming wood? Your fingers practically tearing my breeches off and holding my buttocks hard as you pull me roughly into your warm and liquid depth. Valar, I think of it so often even the scent of lemon oil alone can make me hard.”

Her vision swam. How did he know? She flexed her trembling hands, imagined as she had so often the feel of leather and oilskin below her fingertips. Their delicious contrast to the warm soft skin she would find when she ran them underneath the heavy tunic? Took the laces in her teeth, striving to release him before she simply burst.

“My Lady.” A sharp knock sounded upon the door and interrupeted her scattered thoughts.

Oh shit, Varan had arrived.


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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Maricela , Franchesca

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3 Comment(s)

NB: Comments span all chapters and may contain spoilers!

Oh I’m so excited to see you’re posting this. It is way, way too good to remain hidden in a set of e-mails.

Anyone new to this who has reservations about an OC/Faramir pairing: give it a go – this is one of the hottest pieces of het you’ll get the chance to read. And if you need help to picture it, just imagine that lush, incredibly erotic opening scene of Strauss’ s Rosenkavalier, only with Faramir in place of Oktavian.

— Annafan    28 March 2015, 08:36    #

Woohoo… The hurt, comfort and more comfort bit. And Varan letting Amerith know his inibitions will be lowered: “is that all?” But my goodness – uninhibited Faramir! What a treat. I have melted into a post-coital puddle and we haven’t even got to the coitus yet.

— Annafan    12 April 2015, 20:16    #

What wonderful, wonderful smut. Can I just say that the whole “consensual bodice ripping” (well, strictly skirt-ripping bit) is my new absolute favourite trope in romantic fiction. Everything about this is great – the table, the towering thrusts, the whole lot. And I hope they are going to make good use of the replacement sandalwood oil when they get back to her townhouse.

— Annafan    12 April 2015, 20:18    #

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