Title: Decent Fellows  
Author: Berlynn Wohl (bobtherobot@hotmail.com) 
Rating: NC-17  
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn, Frodo/Faramir  
Summary: The hobbits must find out if what they’ve heard 
about Men is true.  
Keywords: Romance, humor, first-time, interspecies, PWP, 
post-ROTK  
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know  
Feedback: Of course. bobtherobot @ hotmail.com  
Disclaimer: Even if I did own these characters, I would 
have pawned them for tuition money a long time ago.  
Warning: Everybody do the Post-ROTK cheer! Gimme an “S!” 
Gimme a “POILERS!” What does that spell!?  
 
 
 
ONE  
 
It was a rare evening when the hobbits found themselves all 
together in their fair house. The days were so busy and 
there were so many comings and goings. But when they 
managed to gather themselves together, they had scores of 
tales ready for one another, for Minas Tirith was a busy 
city, and full of interesting people. The hobbits were 
always ready to compare notes, as it were, about quirky 
folk and strange goings-on. These conversations nearly 
always turned bawdy, as these were days of levity, and 
Minas Tirith was the first place they’d lingered long 
enough to get an idea about the customs of Men, who to 
their eyes were even more peculiar than the Elves.  
 
“I heard the most interesting thing in the inn on 
Lampwright’s Street,” said Sam. “I went in for a pint and 
two of the lasses who serve there were having a talk.”  
 
“Eavesdropper!” Pippin said. Sam went red but continued.  
 
“They were quite loud, I couldn’t help but overhear, really 
I couldn’t! So one of these lasses is complaining to the 
other. She...well, she’d had a tumble with someone the 
night before, I suppose, and she said...If I’m remembering 
correctly, she said, ‘A man’s not good for anything; he 
won’t even hold you after he’s tupped you.’”  
 
This may seem like a simple, obvious accusation, except it 
was downright unheard of among hobbits, who are champion 
cuddlers, lads and lasses alike, and never refuse the 
opportunity to do so, before, during, or after relations.  
 
“Why wouldn’t he want to do that?” Merry said. “Do you 
think she meant men as in Men, or as in lads of all kinds?”  
 
“Well she can’t have been speaking of hobbits, because we 
always want to have a snuggle afterwards.”  
 
“Actually, Sam,” Frodo said, “I have to assume that she 
wasn’t speaking of hobbits because she’s surely never 
bedded one! Unless one of you lot has been up to 
something.”  
 
A quick series of exchanged glances assured that none of 
them had been offered the favors of the Women of Minas 
Tirith.  
 
“I just don’t understand,” Sam said. “Why would anyone deny 
a lass a nice cuddle?”  
 
“It can’t be, it simply can’t,” Merry lamented. “Perhaps 
she was just unlucky, and found herself a fool who knows no 
better. Certainly all Men cannot be so unenlightened. Can 
they?”  
 
Frodo frowned. He was disappointed that the conversation 
had turned coarse yet again, but this new revelation 
saddened him. “Before I met Strider...er, Aragorn...er, the 
King Elessar...wait, is he Elessar or Estel now? Well 
anyway, you know who I’m talking about. The scruffy one. 
Before I met him, I always thought Men were rather stupid. 
Meeting him certainly changed my mind, but I guess I was 
right all along.”  
 
“But how can we know for certain?” said Sam. “I really 
would like to know that Men are not so discourteous to 
their mates.”  
 
There was a silence, while each pondered this question. It 
would be impolite to go about questioning the people of 
Minas Tirith, who were hosting them so graciously. And 
there was, of course, no opportunity to watch a tumble 
taking place, so mere observation was out of the question. 
There was really only one way, and Pippin, who was after 
all the most mischievous, spoke up first.  
 
“One of us will have to find out. One of us has to seduce a 
Man.”  
 
The others did not even pretend to be shocked at the 
suggestion, for the thought had entered their minds as 
well. They looked round at one another, searching for signs 
of eagerness on anyone’s face., but the common expression 
seemed to be one of trepidation.  
 
“How are we supposed to do that?”  
 
“Oh, it would be quite easy,” Pippin said. “If it’s true, 
what I’ve heard, it’s no task at all to get a Man to tup 
you, even if you’re not so much to look at.”  
 
“Ah, so even you could do it then, Pip!” Merry said, and 
then looked to Frodo and Sam to make sure they’d heard what 
a clever joke he’d made at Pippin’s expense.  
 
“But they’re Men!” Sam said, horrified. “They’re quite 
oversized. How are we supposed to find out if they like to 
cuddle after relations, when there’s a very good chance we 
might not survive ‘til the end!”  
 
Pippin shrugged. “That’s a risk I’m willing to let one of 
you take.”  
 
“Ah, but that’s just the problem,” Merry said. “Which one 
of us should do it? And to whom?”  
 
“It should be Strider,” said Pippin. “He’s the perfect 
choice. Here he is, all settled into his new place, big 
bed, warm fireplace, and the Lady Arwen isn’t due to arrive 
for weeks. I’ll bet he’s desperate for a poke.”  
 
“What an awful thing to say!” Frodo cried. “And about the 
King, no less!”  
 
“I hate to agree with him, Mister Frodo,” Sam murmured, 
“but he’s right. And there’s no Man in this city we know 
better than Strider. But he’s fondest of you, I’m sure.”  
 
“You’re not suggesting...”  
 
“Frodo, you’d be perfect for the job!” Merry beamed.  
 
“What do you mean, perfect? I’ve got...very little 
experience in those matters. I wouldn’t know how to seduce 
him.”  
 
“That’s why you’d be so perfect! You’re so innocent! Men 
love to put their mark all over virgin territory, and 
you’ve got more virgin territory than the rest of us 
combined!” Merry grinned; he was on a roll tonight. Frodo 
had colored up to his eyes. He was trying to think of a way 
to get out of this, though he got the impression that any 
effort he might made just be putting off the inevitable. 
“Maybe we should, I don’t know, draw straws or something.”  
 
Merry nodded. “Fair enough. Except we haven’t got any 
straws. Hmm.” He had a look about the room. There was some 
parchment on the writing desk. He tore four pieces off a 
corner of one sheet, and with the nearby quill drew an “X” 
on one of them. “I’m going to put these in this bowl,” he 
explained, and with all the authority of a herald he 
announced, “Whoever draws the one with the X on it has to 
seduce the King.”  
 
Pippin drew first; he reached above his head and into the 
bowl, fishing around a bit before plucking a piece of the 
parchment. He unfolded it and displayed that it was blank. 
Sam went next. Merry lowered the bowl a bit, as he was much 
taller than Sam now. Sam fished out a scrap and unfolded 
it. No “X.”  
 
Frodo reached into the bowl with his eyes squeezed shut. 
When he retrieved a scrap, he unfolded it, and did not 
bother to look at it; the reaction of the others told him 
which it was.  
 
“Congratulations!” Merry slapped Frodo on the back. “You’ll 
do great, I just know it.”  
 
Frodo sighed. “I have to do EVERYTHING.”  
 
Sam came up and put an arm around his master. “I’d help you 
if I could, Mister Frodo, but I think Strider prefers 
Elvish types, anyway.”  
 
 
TWO  
 
The first grievance that Aragorn had as King was that the 
throne was too comfortable. He had taught himself to fall 
asleep leaning against sharp rocks, in the cold and damp, 
or amid deafening noise. Now he was spending his days in a 
great soft cushioned chair, engaged in boring chatter. As 
each afternoon drew to an end, it was hard to keep his 
eyelids up.  
 
"Whoever is the next to see me," he told the guard, "let 
him be the last one for today."  
 
The guard opened the door and admitted Frodo. "Well, 
hello," Aragorn said, suddenly lifted from his drowsy 
stupor. "What can I do for you, Frodo?"  
 
"I just wanted you to know," Frodo said meekly, "that 
Gandalf is still waiting for you in the banquet room. You 
promised to dine with him this evening. He wants to know 
where you are."  
 
"That's right," Aragorn said. He was not known for being 
late. "These new days have been so strange, I have lost 
track of time. I thought I was retiring early, but in 
fact..." He went to the window and looked to the sun's 
position in the sky. "...it would seem I've labored quite 
late. If you can call this labor. I feel restless. Would 
you like to walk with me to the banquet room? We'll go the 
long way; Gandalf can wait a few minutes more."  
 
Frodo joined Aragorn in wandering the winding corridors of 
the Citadel. He asked Aragorn what matters of import he'd 
been faced with that day. Aragorn answered with no 
enthusiasm. “But how have you been faring?” he asked. The 
first thing that came to Frodo’s mind was that he was 
homesick. But a little voice in his head, a voice that 
sounded remarkably like Pippin’s, told him, Don’t just say 
it, silly! Get close to him and whisper it, like it’s a 
secret. Frodo had no choice but to obey, and he tugged at 
Aragorn’s sleeve to get him to lean down, and whispered in 
his ear, “I’m very homesick.”  
 
When Aragorn felt the rush of hot breath over his ear and 
neck, he shivered, and his lips parted. But he maintained 
his composure, and still leaning down, turned to look at 
Frodo. “I understand completely. I think I may be a little 
homesick myself.”  
 
They continued walking. “But you are home,” Frodo said, 
then realized that he should have whispered it, so he 
lowered his voice, and repeated, “You are home. How can you 
pine for it?”  
 
“For years I have wandered Middle Earth, occasionally 
having fixed abodes but knowing that my true home was in 
Gondor, even if I might never find myself welcomed there. I 
have dreamed of these days, and thought that only when they 
arrived could I be satisfied. But I am here, and I realize 
now that now my duties will keep me occupied, and I will 
not have as many opportunities for travel as I would like. 
Now I must face the fact that my blood and my sword may 
belong here, but my heart belongs to all of Middle Earth. 
And so I will ever be homesick, for I cannot reside in one 
place and truly call it home.”  
 
Pippin’s voice in Frodo’s head made a wry comment about 
where certain other parts of Aragorn’s body belonged, but 
Frodo was quiet. They had arrived at the banquet room. "We 
must meet again this evening to continue our conversation,” 
Aragorn said, suddenly formal. “But for now Gandalf wishes 
to counsel me in confidence. He's being very close, as 
usual."  
 
"Where shall I find you, and when?"  
 
"You may wait for me in my quarters, if you wish. There is 
a library there," he smirked, "assuming you are in the mood 
to read musty old tales of the bygone days of Men."  
 
"As a matter of fact, I am very interested in Men right 
now," Frodo said. "I see big things happening for them in 
the years to come."  
 
"All good, I hope, according to your foresight. Now, if 
you'll excuse me, Gandalf awaits." Aragorn left Frodo 
standing in the corridor. Frodo had no idea how to get to 
Aragorn's quarters from where he was. He asked a passing 
guard, who acted like he would have gladly led Frodo to the 
counting house and handed him a sack. "Right this way, 
Master Baggins. It's an honor to assist you. Is there 
anything else I can do for you? Have you supped? Let me 
bring you something."  
 
"Whatever's handy," said Frodo. "And an ale, as well, if 
you please." He was sure he would benefit from being a 
little besotted when Aragorn returned and the moment of 
truth arrived.  
 
The antechamber of Aragorn’s quarters was enormous, and it 
had doorways going off in all directions. Frodo found books 
stacked and shelved in a sitting-room, but when the food 
was brought he carried it, and a few books, into the 
bedchamber. He climbed up on the bed and leaned on a 
pillow, lolling about and nibbling a slice of bread while 
he perused a volume of Numenorian history. Reading tales of 
the Numenorians’ alliances with legendary Elves like Gil-
Galad made Frodo sad, for it reminded him that the days of 
Elves in Middle Earth were numbered; soon they would have 
no more to teach mortals, and would not come to their aid 
in battle.  
 
When Frodo heard Aragorn open the antechamber door, he 
panicked. He'd gotten crumbs all over the bed, and probably 
in the pages of the books, as well. He did his best to 
clean up in ten seconds, and then Aragorn entered.  
 
"Ah, I was afraid you would tire of waiting for me, and 
leave."  
 
"Quite the contrary," Frodo said sheepishly. "I lost track 
of time. These books, they're very interesting."  
 
"Oh? What have you been reading?"  
 
Frodo told him what he'd been studying and thinking about, 
the Elves and all. Aragorn told Frodo not to mourn, not for 
Elves nor for mortals. Both had glorious days ahead of 
them.  
 
Frodo stood up and walked to the window. "You have a much 
better view of the stars than I do in my little room," he 
said. "But I guess that's only proper." There was a long 
silk couch before the window, and Frodo sat there, 
gingerly, afraid he would be forbidden. But Aragorn moved 
to join him.  
 
"No one," he said, "deserves a better view of the stars 
than anyone else. They belong to all of us, while they are 
here."  
 
"But Men do not love the stars. They love the sun," Frodo 
murmured.  
 
"That is true. The Valar do not favor Men the way they do 
the Elves."  
 
Frodo leaned against Aragorn and closed his eyes. "Tell me 
about the awakening of the Elves. You know so much Elf 
lore." Frodo knew the story very well himself, but it was 
one of his favorites, and he wished to hear it in Aragorn's 
voice. So Aragorn put an arm round him and told the tale of 
how Iluvatar awakened the Elves at Cuivienen, and how the 
first things the Children of Iluvatar looked upon were 
Elbereth's stars, and so fell in love with them, and with 
her.  
 
"Has an Elf ever wed a Vala?" Frodo asked.  
 
"As a matter of fact, one Elf took a Maia to wife. Her name 
was Melian. She has long left our shores, but still a drop 
of her blood flows in my veins, and so she remains here in 
part."  
 
"You are a descendant of Valar AND Elf-kind? Oh, I should 
have guessed. You are so much more than an ordinary Man." 
Aragorn did not reply. Frodo was afraid that he had already 
crossed a line, and that Aragorn would reject him. "Have I 
spoken out of turn?" he said.  
 
"Not at all. It pleases me to speak of aught besides 
judgments and decrees."  
 
"Do you already grow weary of being King?"  
 
“No,” Aragorn shook his head. "All my life I have waited 
and labored for this. I am ready to be King, for all my 
days remaining."  
 
Frodo sat up. "But what about the nights? I had hoped to 
spend tonight with my old friend Strider."  
 
"Very well. Tonight I will be whomever you want me to be."  
 
“Then I will confess,” Frodo said. “Tonight I want you to 
be my lover.” Aragorn was speechless, and so Frodo took the 
silence as an opportunity. He got his knees under him so 
they could sit eye to eye, and then he leaned forward, and 
they were lip to lip. Already Frodo felt overwhelmed, even 
though he was the aggressor. There was so much of Aragorn 
to seduce, and his own lips and hands seemed very small at 
that moment.  
 
It was Aragorn who stopped it, after quite while, and held 
Frodo’s face in his hands to take a good look at him.  
 
Frodo’s eyes widened. "You're not going to say no, are 
you?" He pouted for dramatic effect.  
 
"Oh, Frodo, there is nothing I could deny you, after all 
you have done." Aragorn caressed that protruding lower lip 
with tenderness.  
 
"Then," Frodo said, and looked deeply into Aragorn's eyes, 
"you would allow me to rule Gondor and Arnor at your side?"  
 
Aragorn started at this, and Frodo laughed. "No, but I 
jest. You can just tup me and we'll call it even."  
 
It has already been noted that Frodo is a hobbit of little 
experience. And so whatever Aragorn did, Frodo accepted it, 
and enjoyed it. He assumed that Aragorn knew what was best 
for him, and trusted the Man to show him how things were 
done. He let Aragorn take his clothes off, and when A 
gestured to him to return the favor, he did the best he 
could. When a moment passed and Aragorn did not seem to be 
directing him, he would use the moment to explore, seeing 
what kinds of reactions he could get by kissing different 
places on the Man’s body, watching the flesh tremble, the 
tiny hairs stand on end. And when Aragorn guided him to do 
things, he did them, like lying on his back and bringing 
his knees up. Frodo had only the most rudimentary knowledge 
of what two lads did together in bed, and left it to 
Aragorn to teach him. He assumed there would be some sort 
of rubbing together of parts, but he was shocked at the 
excited way Aragorn did it, and wondered if he wasn’t going 
to rub their parts right off. They were both breathing 
hard, but when Aragorn breathed hard it was to Frodo like a 
tempest. Aragorn was grinding against him, or rather, he 
was holding Frodo fast and grinding Frodo against himself. 
Frodo was sure now that he would not survive the night, and 
then suddenly Aragorn stopped. He was looking for a clay 
jar, which, according to his mumblings, apparently 
contained some kind of salve. When he found it he quickly 
put his fingers in it, and Frodo became a bit concerned, as 
he had no idea what Aragorn was doing or why he felt it 
necessary to stop now. But he started to really worry when 
Aragorn grasped his buttocks and ran his fingers up and 
down the cleft between. He was pushing with one finger like 
he was trying to get inside. "What are you doing?" Frodo 
said, but Aragorn shushed him. He pushed against the 
opening again, but it did not yield to him.  
 
"Let me inside, Frodo," he said, "and you will discover an 
exquisite pleasure."  
 
Frodo tried to relax, only because he trusted Aragorn above 
all other Men, and slowly Aragorn was able to press inside. 
When his finger touched that little spot within, a place so 
secret even Frodo did not know about it. Frodo's wide eyes 
went glassy. "You are a sorcerer! What have you put inside 
me?"  
 
"Nothing at all; you've had it all along." Aragorn pushed 
again with his finger and Frodo shuddered. With his free 
hand Aragorn fondled Frodo's hard member. Frodo wriggled 
this way and that, trying to find a way to move to make it 
feel even better.  
 
“Ooh, yes, that’s very nice...” It was only after a few 
minutes that Frodo realized that there was only one ending 
to what he’d begun, and it was between Aragorn's legs. "I 
suppose," he whispered, "that you have ambitions for my 
body beyond that finger."  
 
Aragorn shrugged and began to withdraw. "Only if you want 
to..."  
 
"Wait." Frodo stayed Aragorn's hand. "Do it once more. To 
give me courage."  
 
Aragorn resumed, this time stroking Frodo’s thighs while 
massaging his sweet spot. "Alright, I'm ready now," Frodo 
said unconvincingly, and sat up. Aragorn let Frodo push him 
down onto the bed and climb on top of him. "I'm ready," 
Frodo chanted, "I'm ready," trying to make himself believe.  
 
"Use the salve," Aragorn said, and Frodo leaned over him to 
retrieve it. Aragorn couldn't resist, as Frodo was so 
close, and pulled him down to give him reassuring kisses. 
He gripped Frodo's shoulders, to bring him near, then 
tugged at his nipples with rough fingertips, then slid his 
hands down Frodo's sides to finally grasp his soft rump. 
Frodo giggled and reached again for the salve. It felt 
cold, and he rubbed it between his palms before applying it 
to Aragorn's erection. He spent a rather long time doing 
this, as he was nervous and had no other way to delay the 
unavoidable. Aragorn enjoyed Frodo's attentions at first, 
but urged him to get on with it, or else he might spill 
into Frodo's hands. This gave Frodo ideas, but he didn't 
want to make Aragorn unhappy, so he swung one leg over the 
Man's thighs and held his member with one hand so as to 
guide it into himself. He found the right place with 
certainty, for it was already a little sore from Aragorn's 
large finger. As he lowered himself, Frodo thought, If only 
I can get it to press against that place inside me, I could 
feel a pleasure that might overcome the pain.  
 
And sure enough, when he had pushed down just a little ways 
onto Aragorn, he felt that same delicious sensation inside 
him, and wriggled to try and prolong it. It was an ache as 
well, but a good one, and it spread through his whole body, 
even down his limbs. He pulled up and pushed down again, 
and again, and the blunt tip of Aragorn's member squarely 
hit Frodo's sweet spot. Now he felt some measure of 
gratification. But to Aragorn, Frodo had taken him in only 
a little, and his thrusts were short, barely perceptible. 
He seized Frodo's rump with both hands and tried to push 
him down, to lengthen the strokes, but Frodo resisted him. 
He took Aragorn's hands off his behind and moved them to 
where they could be of more use: his erection. Due to his 
overlarge hands, Aragorn's strokes were just as truncated 
as Frodo's. But once their rhythms were synchronized, Frodo 
felt something start to build in him, something so 
devastating he feared to continue, but Aragorn was 
murmuring and egging him on, and so he let it happen. It 
felt so good, and it hurt; his muscles tightened around 
Aragorn, and he cried out, and spilled onto Aragorn's 
belly, and he wasn't sure when it was all over, but now 
Aragorn was making high noises, and he held Frodo's hips so 
tight and thrust so hard, Frodo thought Aragorn might crush 
his little body from within and from without. Aragorn was 
completely still, and did not draw breath, while his seed 
was emptied into Frodo, but when he finished he opened his 
eyes and gasped and looked around, as if he feared someone 
had seen.  
 
Frodo let Aragorn's softened member slide out of him as he 
leaned aside to fall on the cool sheets. He was 
exhilarated; his flesh tingled and his pulse raced. He 
feared to move, lest his heart burst within his chest. His 
only desire was for Aragorn to comfort him; to wrap those 
long, powerful arms round him and ease his devastation. But 
he could not speak, and so instead gave him a powerful, 
imploring look. Aragorn gazed back, his eyes roaming over 
Frodo’s body, but did not touch him. He pulled the sheets 
up over Frodo to cover his trembling nakedness, and then 
extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Frodo could 
feel his body heat close by, could smell the fresh sweat on 
his skin, but did not feel his touch in the darkness, and 
so wondered if he was sharing this bed with a specter, a 
dream.  
 
 
 
THREE  
 
“It is sad but true,” said Frodo. “The King did not take me 
in his arms after he had me.”  
 
“And here I thought he was a decent fellow,” Sam lamented. 
They smoked their pipes thoughtfully for a moment, and 
pondered this tragedy of Men.  
 
“But we don’t know,” Merry finally picked up the 
conversation. “I mean, Strider is not a typical Man in 
general. Very aloof, he is. Now that I think of it, why 
should we suppose that he would be affectionate after he’s 
taken his pleasure?”  
 
“Frodo, you should try someone else,” Pippin said. “Someone 
more typical, like Faramir.”  
 
“Faramir is typical?” Sam said.  
 
“You’re asking me to have another go?” Frodo went pale. 
“I’m still exhausted from the last time! Men are very 
demanding, you know. Or rather, you DON’T know, because I’m 
the one that had to find out! Men don’t just put their arms 
around you, like decent folk. They find parts of you they 
like, and have a grab at those. You feel like you’re being 
pulled a thousand ways. It’s very tiring.”  
 
“Well it should be!” Merry laughed. “If having a tumble 
didn’t make you tired, how would hobbits get to sleep at 
night?”  
 
 
 
 
FOUR  
 
Frodo’s knock was timid, but Faramir heard it. “Enter,” he 
said. It sounded like it came from farther away than just 
the other side of the door. The antechamber was dark; warm 
light came from the bedroom. The sound of sloshing water 
could be heard. Frodo padded toward the light.  
 
Faramir was bathing in a brass tub. Firelight reflected off 
it and lit the bedchamber in gold and ginger. Frodo stood 
in the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, not 
meaning to whisper but doing so anyway.  
 
Faramir turned to see who his visitor was. “Ah, Master 
Baggins, it is good to see you.” (Frodo almost answered, 
instinctively, “It’s good to see you, too,” but stopped 
himself.) “You’re not disturbing me at all. Please come 
in.”  
 
“I can return later if you wish, when you’re not 
so...engaged.”  
 
“Don’t be silly,” Faramir said. “It’s not often I have the 
chance to relax with a good friend, and I’m just finishing 
up, anyway.” He stood up in the bath and stretched, 
heedless of Frodo’s wide eyes. “I am not a homebody, but I 
must confess, it feels good to be in my own quarters.” He 
stepped out of the tub and walked, wet and naked, to sit in 
front of the stone fireplace, where a stack of luxurious 
red bath towels awaited him. He sat with one beneath him, 
wrapped one round his shoulders, and dried himself with a 
third. “Don’t get me wrong, Minas Tirith has the finest 
Houses of Healing in all of Middle Earth. And of course now 
that I have been discharged from them, I should be eager to 
get back to my duties.” He rubbed the towel up and down his 
long limbs, and around the places where those limbs 
converged with his body, and the firelight fluttered on his 
damp skin. “But I have much toil behind me, and there is 
much more that lies ahead, so I do not think it is too 
indulgent to take one evening for a fine private supper and 
a bath. Do you?”  
 
He gestured to the table near the bed, where there were 
dishes piled, and also a couple of glass jars sitting open, 
and a bottle of wine, which Frodo could see was half-empty. 
Frodo had entered Faramir’s quarters expecting that the 
seduction of this noble gentleman would be long and drawn 
out: a few pleasantries, some talk of the brave and dearly-
missed Boromir. Faramir would grow melancholy, thinking 
about his beloved brother, and Frodo would need to comfort 
him with an embrace, which would become a bit of light 
fondling, which would be come a it of not-so-light 
fondling, and so on. But now, Frodo suspected that seducing 
Faramir was going to be only slightly more difficult than 
NOT seducing him.  
 
Rangers were peculiar, when it came to being unclothed. 
They paid no mind to it; Frodo had discovered this in his 
travels with Aragorn. It was seldom that they found a place 
suitable for bathing on their quest, but when they did, 
they would set up camp and Aragorn would just strip off his 
clothes and leap into the water without so much as a “You 
might want to look the other way.” Not that hobbits were 
necessarily ashamed to undress, but they tried not to do it 
in mixed company.  
 
When Faramir had dried himself, he asked Frodo to bring him 
the dressing gown, which had been laid on the bed. Frodo 
picked it up; it was quite heavy, a thick red velvet that 
matched the towels, embroidered, almost floor length, with 
overlong sleeves. In it Faramir looked very princely 
indeed.  
 
“Rarely do I have a chance to indulge in such finery,” he 
said. “Since I came of age my duties have ever called me 
from the comforts of home. But I do go on, don’t I? Tell 
me, dear Frodo, how do you fare?”  
 
Frodo was sure that nothing would kill the mood faster than 
if he told Faramir how he truly had been feeling of late, 
the whole depth and breadth of his emotion, so instead he 
said simply, “In your fair city, I have found naught but 
kindness and hospitality. Never have I known such 
gratitude.” Faramir sat down on the enormous, sumptuous 
bed, and gestured to Frodo to sit net to him. Alright, 
Frodo thought, hurry up and get to the seducing before he 
beats you to it. He climbed up on the bed. “And yet,” he 
continued, “I yet feel...unfulfilled.” Which was not a lie.  
 
“Is that so,” said Faramir. “You know I would do anything 
to satisfy any desire that you might have.”  
 
“Is that so,” said Frodo. And gulped. Faramir was a nice 
Man. A VERY nice Man. But Frodo wasn’t sure he was ready to 
have his desires fulfilled again. He was still walking 
funny from the last time. Ah well, time to take one for the 
team, he thought.  
 
Faramir was dimly backlit, almost silhouetted in the 
lamplight, but shining in that soft glow was a strand of 
his damp golden hair, which was caught at the corner of his 
mouth. He hadn’t seemed to notice. “Oh,” said Frodo, “you 
have a...” He reached out to sweep it back into place, and 
his finger brushed across Faramir’s cheekbone. “Sorry,” he 
said, and laughed nervously, but didn’t take his hand away. 
He slid the fingertip back, and for no good reason gently 
pressed it to the sensitive corner of Faramir’s lips. 
Faramir smiled against it and took Frodo’s hand in his own 
so he could kiss the fingertip and guide it into his mouth. 
Frodo could feel Faramir’s inner lip, then his teeth, then 
his tongue as they caressed him, played with him. Faramir 
did not seem to mind that the adjacent finger was missing; 
he continued his ministrations over Frodo’s entire hand, 
kissing where it would best be kissed, and gently sucking 
or licking where it was best to do so. There seemed to be 
something in Frodo’s hand that was directly linked to what 
went on between his legs, and suddenly he felt silly that a 
minute ago he had been the seducer, and now he was being 
reduced to goo and Faramir was barely touching him. Frodo 
wished to apologize for thinking himself a Lothario, and 
pretending that this Steward and Prince was as easily 
ensnared as a lamb, but when he opened his mouth all that 
came out was “Ungh...”  
 
Faramir didn’t wait and he didn’t ask. He sat up so that he 
had one knee on the mattress and one foot on the floor, for 
leverage, and lifted Frodo to lay him down properly in the 
middle of the bed. Then, with long, skilled hands he 
unfastened every button Frodo had. When his skin was bared 
Frodo shivered, though the fire and Faramir’s close heat 
were more than enough to keep him warm. But nothing was as 
hot as Faramir’s mouth around him, and Frodo whimpered as 
he was again kissed, or licked, or sucked, as was deemed 
appropriate.  
 
He delighted in this new pleasure, for unlike the others it 
was not bound up in pain. He begged Faramir never to stop, 
and then, more reasonably, asked him to slow down a bit, 
for he feared the pleasure would be all to brief if it 
continued at such a pace. Frodo became light-headed, as it 
seemed all his blood and his nerves were gathering at the 
base of his spine, and in his belly. Then there was a deep 
feeling, not of release, but of something rushing through 
him, and when he finished he marveled that he could feel so 
filled and so emptied at the same time. Faramir sat up to 
look at Frodo stretching and sighing. “Oh, Faramir, that 
was so much better...”  
 
“Better than what?” Faramir asked.  
 
“Oh.” Frodo cursed his loosened tongue and wondered how he 
could at this point NOT reveal that just the night before 
he’d had a roll with Faramir’s successor. “Better 
than...being by myself, you know.” He tried to fake a 
blush, but found he couldn’t, which was a disappointment 
considering how well and regularly he did it on an 
involuntary basis. “A very lonely hobbit, I am.”  
 
“Well, I shall keep you company as long as you dwell in my 
city.”  
 
“You are very kind,” Frodo said, and smiled. “How can I 
ever repay you?” Frodo then saw that Faramir’s dressing 
gown was open, and he was dreadfully aroused. “Oh. Yes. 
THAT way.” He cleared his throat.  
 
“You would prefer cleaning the stables? Or perhaps 
polishing my weaponry?”  
 
Frodo wrapped both hands around Faramir’s erection. “I 
thought that’s what I was about to do.”  
 
He prompted Faramir to lie back and take his place on the 
bed, and then crawled on top of him and eyed his erection. 
Oh dear, he thought, this affair of difference in size is 
getting me into a lot of binds. Faramir touched the head of 
his hard member to Frodo’s lips, but Frodo did not open up. 
“Oh, a tease, you are,” said Faramir, and gently stroked 
Frodo’s neck. “Come on now, don’t be shy. Just the tip, if 
you like. I won’t force it on you.”  
 
Frodo looked up into Faramir’s eyes with not a little 
trepidation, but also curiosity. He closed his eyes and 
opened his mouth, just enough so that Faramir could press 
the tip between his soft parted lips. Just then a little of 
his seed came out, and Frodo tasted it an drew back. It was 
bitter.  
 
“What’s wrong?” Faramir asked, and Frodo covered his mouth 
with two fingers while he eyed Faramir’s member with 
suspicion. “Oh, you don’t like the taste. That is a common 
grievance.”  
 
At that Frodo wrinkled his brow, disappointed that he of 
all hobbits was daunted by a “common grievance.” He looked 
back at Faramir with grim determination, and as he did so 
took the devious member again in his mouth. With a few 
well-placed swirls of the tongue he had Faramir whimpering, 
but he did not continue long. He simply could not abide 
that taste in his mouth. But Faramir was in no mood to 
stop. He thought for a moment of some way to coax Frodo 
into continuing. “What if,” he said, glancing at the nearby 
table “I put something on it? Something that tasted good?” 
He gathered his dressing gown around him and went to the 
table, from whence he retrieved a jar. He handed it to 
Frodo, who put a finger in and had a taste. It was honey. 
Frodo nodded and handed the jar back to Faramir, who used 
his finger as a dripper to anoint the head of his member. 
Frodo dropped his head down and lapped the honey away. 
Immediately when he finished he looked up to implore 
Faramir, and Faramir dripped some more. This time the honey 
droplets trickled down his length, and Frodo’s tongue 
darted this way and that to catch them. Each time Faramir 
applied more sweetness, Frodo lingered longer after it was 
gone. He was becoming accustomed to the act, and Faramir’s 
little cries of pleasure were more delicious than the 
honey.  
 
Then something awful happened. Faramir hit his peak, and he 
made a beautiful noise, and Frodo’s mouth filled up with 
his seed. Frodo flung himself back as if wounded. He tried 
to swallow it without tasting it, like unsavory medicine, 
but gagged anyway. Faramir was instantly attentive. He and 
handed Frodo the towel he’d cast aside, so Frodo could 
spit. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have warned you 
when I was going to do that.” He stroked Frodo’s back for a 
moment, and was about to hold him, to comfort him, but 
seeing the bottle of wine on the table he got an idea. 
Taking up a glass, he poured Frodo some. “Have a sip of 
this, it will rid your mouth of the taste.” Frodo held the 
glass in both hands and drank deeply. Faramir leaned back 
against the headboard and watched Frodo until he was sure 
the hobbit was soothed. He really was sorry to cause Frodo 
so much distress, but truth be told he was very drowsy, and 
nodded off while Frodo poured himself another glass. Frodo 
sat cross-legged on the bed and drank it and listened to 
Faramir’s breathing as it slowed. He was still upset, but 
now that the taste was out of his mouth he said to himself 
that it hadn’t really been SO bad, and it was nice to make 
Faramir happy. Frodo could not deny that it excited him to 
see and hear a Man in the heat of his passion. He thought 
about having one more glass, but he was already light-
headed and sleepy, so he set the glass on the floor beside 
the bed and curled up next to Faramir, who mumbled but did 
not wake.  
 
 
 
FIVE  
 
Frodo had hoped to catch up with Aragorn and Faramir the 
next day, but not at the same time. A guard told him that 
Aragorn was taking a short afternoon retreat just outside 
the city walls. Frodo sought him out; he was munching on 
some fruits, under the tree of which he was seated. Faramir 
had decided to accompany him. “Greetings, Frodo,” Aragorn 
said. “Come to join us? You are welcome to.”  
 
"Oh, I'm just passing through, actually,” Frodo lied. “I'm 
on my way home, as it were, to sup with Pippin and Sam."  
 
"Well, don't let us keep you from a meal," Aragorn laughed. 
"But don't be a stranger, hm? It will be good to have 
another walk with you soon."  
 
At that Faramir looked to Frodo also, and winked.  
 
Frodo cleared his throat and excused himself. As he left, 
Aragorn and Faramir both smiled and sighed. Hearing each 
other, they turned and saw in each other's eyes the same 
far-away look of reminiscence.  
 
"Faramir," said Aragorn. You didn't. Did you?"  
 
"Did YOU?"  
 
"Oh my," Aragorn said, and looked back in the direction 
that Frodo had gone. "That's quite uncharacteristic of 
Frodo. I wonder what has gotten into him."  
 
"...Yes, now that we know WHO has..."  
 
"Don't be disgusting."  
 
There was a long pause, broken by Faramir. "He's very good, 
though, isn't he?"  
 
"That he is," Aragorn agreed. "A bit peculiar, though. You 
know, after I had taken him, he was quite shaken. The 
experience was, I am sure, overwhelming to him, having had 
no prior encounters. Or so he told me. He seemed fit to 
shatter, like a fine crystal goblet, were I to lay a hand 
on him. He assured me that he was quite content, but the 
way he looked at me, I was sure he was begging me not to 
touch him, lest I crush him to me with force beyond my 
control. I let him alone, though it pained me to refuse the 
temptation, so he could recover. But though I dared not 
touch him with my hands, my eyes could not resist, and 
wandered over him, caressing his body. I hoped that he felt 
my affection in the form it had taken by necessity."  
 
Faramir thought on this, and lamented, "I faced a similar 
difficulty. I did my best to please Frodo, and thinking 
back he seemed very much to enjoy himself, but towards the 
end our lovemaking took, shall I say, a bitter turn, and 
this unfortunate end tainted all. Afterwards he seemed in 
no mood for another attempt on my part to please him, lest 
it also go awry. I desired his warmth in my arms and near 
my heart, but I could not risk making a bad situation 
worse."  
 
"It is a sad state of affairs," said Aragorn. "My knowledge 
of hobbits is limited, but my understanding was that they 
are very affectionate. But it would seem that they are not 
even inclined to be held after being bedded, whether the 
conclusion is satisfactory or not. It made me glad, to see 
that hobbits were so light-hearted and quick to lavish 
affection. I was looking forward to Frodo being so. But now 
we discover that they do not even indulge in cuddling after 
such pleasure has been taken."  
 
"One should keep in mind, though," Faramir pointed out, 
with a spark of hope in his voice, "that Master Baggins is 
an unusual hobbit. I say this without malice, of course, as 
his exceptional nature is the result of his strange fate. 
But perhaps others of his kind do not eschew affection as 
he does. Surely hobbits as a race could not refuse such a 
good and simple pleasure?"  
 
Aragorn looked at Faramir and cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps. 
But how can we know for certain?"