West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive



Cure for a Headache
Aragorn helps a tipsy Frodo after he becomes drunk on mulled wine...
Author: Claudia
Rating: R


Written for the "Beneath the Mistletoe" Hobbit Smut challenge:

Aragorn's arm was firmly around Frodo's shoulders as he guided the stumbling hobbit up the winding stairs of the Citadel. Their chamber was a maddening distance away, up far too many man-sized stairs.

"Almost there," Aragorn said under his breath. "Almost there. Easy does it. If you stumble again, I shall have to carry you."

"I'm all right," Frodo's voice came out in a miserable slurred half burp, and his stomach rumbled in such an ominous manner, just as it often did just before it rejected everything inside. If only everything around him would stop spinning.

Not a moment too soon, they reached their quarters. Frodo blinked, rubbing his eyes, but still everything spun, and nausea spread up his stomach, up to his chest, and up the back of his throat. He covered his mouth, gagging.

"I shall be sick," he gasped, tugging at the top button of his stiff shirt. His face was far too warm, and sweat beaded on his brow. If Aragorn had not been holding him up, he would have collapsed to the floor with no strength left in his limbs.

Aragorn quickly ushered Frodo to the bed and lifted him so that he lay on his back atop the silk sheets, facing the revolving ceiling. With a miserable groan, Frodo rolled to the edge of the bed so that at least, he would not make a mess on the sheets. Where had Aragorn gone anyway?

But then Aragorn's firm hand was on the back of his neck, guiding his head to the tin pail. When Frodo was done, coughing and gasping, Aragorn wiped his mouth, gave him water to rinse out his mouth with, and took the vile-smelling pail away. Frodo felt almost immediately better, but oh, how his head ached! Who knew the wine of Minas Tirith could be so potent? Who knew that the sweet cloves and cinnamon, so irresistible at the Yule feast, could disguise the wine's vigor so well! Frodo closed his eyes and groaned again. He worked at buttoning the stiff brocaded vest he had worn to the Citadel's yearly Yule feast.

Aragorn, who had quickly changed into his maroon nightshirt, climbed into bed beside him and held him close, rubbing Frodo's recently sore belly. "How many mugs of the mulled wine did you have?"

"I do not know," Frodo said. "Two or three. Perhaps four. I lost count, you see."

Aragorn whistled.

Frodo squirmed around so that he faced Aragorn, and he smiled, clutching the front of Aragorn's shirt. "I didn't notice any ill effect until the last one."

"What you drank of that wine was enough to bring down a full-sized warrior, my Frodo. We should be grateful that hobbits are as hardy as they are. It is no wonder you are ill." He shook his head and grinned. "Four mugs. And full of Minas Tirith's finest mulled wine."

"I feel better already - only my head." Frodo touched his forehead tenderly. "It has never so ached."

"I have a cure for it," Aragorn said, and he pulled Frodo close so that their lips met. Aragorn claimed a single kiss before Frodo twisted away.

"No, Aragorn. I can't."

"It is an honest cure for headache," Aragorn said.

Frodo laughed. "Then why is it that when a hobbit lass does not wish her husband to touch her, a headache is her finest excuse?"

"Hush, just trust me on this." Aragorn pressed his lips into Frodo's again, and this time Frodo yielded. He might as well. It was much less effort than trying to turn Aragorn away in his frisky mood. And frisky it was. Before he could take time to breathe during the kiss, Frodo found himself stripped of his breeches and straddled by Aragorn, who had planned well by wearing nothing at all beneath his nightshirt. Still a bit dizzy, Frodo was only vaguely aware of Aragorn reaching over him to open the vial on the bedside table and pour cool oil scented with musk, cloves, and mint over his hands. The cloves turned his stomach for a moment, but he focused on the refreshing mint and the cool slippery feel of it being kneaded into his bottom. Frodo's belly was warm with desire and he had stiffened at Aragorn's first oily touch.

The evening soon filled with gasps and grinding warmth as muscular thighs quivered over slim hips and thrust with grunts of need. Woolly feet slid over the back of Aragorn's calves, and Frodo was stretched with swollen heat until agony turned into quivering spurts of delight. When at last they finished, clutching each other against heaving chests, Frodo had just a moment to marvel that indeed, his headache seemed to have completely fled.



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