Pairing: Frodo/Faramir/Aragorn, Frodo/Sam implied
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An understanding is reached in Gondor. Angst, some humour, true love.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Professor Tolkien and his Estate, and to Peter Jackson and New Line Cinema. No profit is made nor offence intended.
AN: Set very loosely during ROTK. Follows movie canon for characterisation.

For two nights Aragorn had listened helplessly to Frodo's lament.

It was tearing him, slicing away at his resolve. He had promised himself he would not go into that chamber. It would be unwise. He was the newly crowned King of Gondor. King! Lowest of the low, unfit to rule if he could not even govern his own heart.

The cry could be heard again, at times almost inhuman. It was too much!

Samwise Gamgee had heard this cry before. He knew this cry. It resonated in him and coiled around his heart, squeezing. This cry resided in him now and he would never be free of it. Even as he held Frodo's hand and stroked the wrist, gently, as softly as he could, he felt it was useless. As he channelled every ounce of his love into his touch, into the tips of his fingers, it was just not enough.

Sam saw the light beneath the door before it opened, quietly. Then the light was blocked for an instant before it settled to reveal Aragorn framed there, the flickering candle in his hand guttering in the cool night air.

"Leave us, Sam," the man said, gently. Sam protested but Aragorn's face was set and immovable. "You need your rest. Let me watch your master for a little while."

As Sam moved towards the door, he felt an aching guilt. Guilt that he was so very relieved. Someone else would have the burden for a little while.

"Sam, why are you leaving Frodo?", Faramir had collided with the hobbit on his way inside and was puzzled. Sam had not left Frodo's side for days. However, when he saw Aragorn by the bed, calm and still, his heart sank.

The two men faced each other as Sam closed the door behind him. Aragorn had every right to be there. Frodo was his friend, his dear friend. Faramir, too, had a claim to friendship with the hobbit but Aragorn was older and of greater rank. Faramir, deeply disappointed, turned to leave but Aragorn crossed the room and laid his hand on the his shoulder.

"Stay, Faramir. Your place is here. With him."

Faramir held the gaze of his King for a moment, and then sank into a chair by the bed. The bed.

Frodo looked very small in that man-sized bed, small and helpless. He lay with his head turned to one side, spidery lashes dark and thick on his white skin. In the mixing of the lights, the yellowish glow of the candle and the silvery luminescence of the moon, Frodo seemed almost ethereal. Even as the two men watched over him, he moaned, and thrashed beneath the coverlet.

Faramir and Aragorn exchanged a glance. There was knowledge in that glance, an understanding reached.

“How long?” asked Faramir, running his hand softly through Frodo's hair. He looked into Aragorn's steely blue eyes, which softened, and then the King's shoulders sagged perceptibly. There was no need to clarify the question.

“Since Bree. The first time I saw him. I didn't want it, not at all. It was - a distraction,” he shrugged and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “And you?”

“The same,” Faramir replied softly. “The first time, the very first moment. He was so bedraggled and weary but there was such a spirit in him, too. And such - loveliness. I am no poet, Aragorn, despite what my father and brother may have called me, but that was what I felt that day. What I feel still.” He laughed softly at the absurdity of it all, but the sound died in his throat as Frodo suddenly bucked off the bed, his eyes open and wide and feral.

Aragorn and Faramir pushed the hobbit back down onto the bed, gently but firmly. Without a word being said or required, the two men took up position on the bed, flanking Frodo, their long bodies splinting the hobbit in place. Pinned, unable to move, he whimpered and the tension abruptly left his body.

The three of them lay quietly in the inky dark of a chamber in Gondor. The candle guttered out and the moon drifted into velvety black nothingness.

“Faramir, do you sleep?” Aragorn's voice was low and soft, just loud enough to carry the distance between the two men. Soft enough that the sleeping hobbit might not hear.

After a moment, when Aragorn had almost given up, Faramir replied, equally quietly, “No. In truth, I cannot sleep.”

Aragorn sighed and stared up at the ceiling bathed in a dawn's pale light. How could either of them sleep when the object of their desires lay between them, warm and soft and snoring almost imperceptibly? It was torture.

“Go, Faramir. I will stay with Frodo. I will be here should he awake.” Aragorn propped himself up on one elbow and looked to his companion. How very young the Gondorian looked in the early morning light. Between them, Frodo mumbled in his sleep and arched his back a fraction, his arm freeing itself from the prison of the coverlet to fall limply across Faramir's chest.

The two men froze. Faramir blushed, unable to take his eyes off Frodo's arm; Aragorn flushed too but managed a smile. “Go, Faramir. All will be well. If I need assistance, I will call you.”

Frodo opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. The wild look of last night was gone, replaced by the hobbit's customary beguiling gaze. He seemed disoriented for a moment but barely disconcerted to find the two men in his bed.

“Faramir, Aragorn. Where is Sam?” he asked, yawning and stretching. The movement caused his voluminous cambric nightshirt to fall open, revealing his slender and snowy chest.

With difficulty, Aragorn made to leave the bed. He was the King, it was not seemly to be harbouring the thoughts racing around in his head, and no good would come of it. Frodo awake and semi-naked, stretching, was a much more dangerous proposition than hallucinatory Frodo. Faramir seemed to think Aragorn should leave too, judging by his body language.

“Stay, please, both of you. I find such comfort in your presence. It happened again? Is that why you are here and not Sam?” Frodo seemed genuinely ashamed and concerned. Aragorn, before his reasonable self could intervene, reached out and brushed Frodo's hair from his eyes and kissed that pale, soft forehead.

“Sam would never leave you, Frodo, you know that. I made him go, he was weary. I will call him back for you. Would you like that?” Aragorn could deny Frodo nothing. Such bravery, such spirit in one so small. The sight of Frodo's maimed hand on Faramir's chest was proof enough of his suffering. Aragorn would not knowingly add to it, however much the ache in his loins urged him on.

Faramir leaned down to kiss Frodo's mutilated hand; he was not surprised when Frodo withdrew it hastily. It was a cause of some shame to the hobbit and Faramir thanked all the gods that for even a little time Frodo had forgotten it.

“Let Sam have his rest, Aragorn. That is, unless you wish to go?” Frodo had a strange light in his eyes now, one that Aragorn and Faramir had not seen before. Was it the draw of the Ring? The Ring which, gone forever, still seemed able to exert an influence on Frodo, in the same way as the ghost of that missing finger seemed to trouble him.

Aragorn felt something on his hand; looking down he saw that Frodo had clasped it within his own, caressing the big fingers with his own small ones. He smiled but was surprised to find Frodo tugging at his hand and drawing it across the coverlet to rest on Faramir's chest. The two men exchanged frowns, but Frodo merely smiled and shuffled up in the bed.

“I want nothing more this day, this fine morning in Gondor, Aragorn, than to be here with you both. Will you indulge me, Aragorn … and you, Faramir?”

Frodo had never looked lovelier. Those eyes, which had entranced the men at their first encounter, now radiated a passion they had not seen before. With a start, Aragorn realised that what he was witnessing was nothing less than - lust.

“Frodo, what is it you want?” Faramir's voice almost broke as he uttered the words. His heart was racing. Could this be happening? Faramir noted with a tingle in his groin that Aragorn had not removed his hand from his chest; indeed the hand was lazily questing inside Faramir's nightshirt.

“I want to be loved. Isn't that what we all want? Every one of us? To be loved?” Frodo licked his lips and Aragorn knew he would come in a moment if Frodo continued in that vein. With a start he realised his hand had brushed against Faramir's nipple, his erect nipple; and that Faramir seemed to have no qualms about it whatsoever.

“How do you want to be loved, Frodo? Tell me, tell us ...” Faramir wanted desperately to take the hobbit in his arms there and then and crush him to his chest. But he did not want to lose the contact with Aragorn's hand, which was describing sweet circles on his chest. Ye gods, what was happening?

“Frodo, are you unwell?” Aragorn cleared his throat, his voice failing him. He wanted so much to be close to Frodo, to kiss that mouth, touch that skin, but not if Frodo would hate him for it afterwards. He loved Frodo, he knew that without a shadow of a doubt, and he would not exchange that sweet emotion for a moment of lust, no matter how tempting.

“No! I have never felt better. I feel as I have awoken from the strangest dream and know for the first time what I really want. I did my part, I trod that path. Now I want to feel. Help me feel, Aragorn! Faramir!”

The fortress of Faramir's resolve came crashing down as if assailed by a legion of Orcs. With a groan, he pulled away from Aragorn's gentle caress to take Frodo in his arms and kiss him hungrily on the mouth he had coveted for so long. Frodo returned the kiss as passionately, his hand cradling the back of Faramir's head to bring him deeper into the moment.

Aragorn, deprived of Faramir, simply watched in fascination as the two lovers rolled together. He saw Frodo's shapely leg fighting free of the folds of his nightshirt to hook over Faramir's lean hip. Faramir's hands, undecided where to go first, ended by roaming everywhere at once. The King raised his own nightshirt up and took a hold of the hardness there, his shaft already slick with anticipation.

“Aragorn! Do you not want to do this? Are you content to merely watch?” Frodo was mischievous and devilish on this most wonderful morning in Gondor; it was a side of Frodo's personality Aragorn had not seen before. Always there had been duty and fortitude and that had been enough to make Aragorn fall in love with him. Now there was this sparkling playfulness, which was completely overwhelming.

Needing no further encouragement, Aragorn joined the two and was delighted to find Faramir's arms welcoming him in, encompassing him.

“Take off that ridiculous shirt, Frodo!” Aragorn commanded, sternly as a King should. Before the startled hobbit could comply, Aragorn had pulled the offending garment from Frodo's creamy shoulders and tossed it aside. The two men, faced with this waking dream, could barely contain themselves.

“How will we manage this, Aragorn? There is so much of us”, Faramir said, glancing at the King's swollen member, and then at his own, “and so little of him.”

Frodo laughed but his laughter was tinged with a sudden wariness, as if perhaps he had finally realised the reality of the situation. There was, indeed, a surfeit of manliness in the chamber and a dearth of hobbit.

“Do not fret, Frodo. Much as I want to, I would rather die than take you like this. We will think of something.” Aragorn cast his eyes about the room, desperate for something to ease his way.

“Perhaps - and hear me out - I could take you?” Frodo suggested sweetly.

There was a moment's silence and then Aragorn laughed out loud, quickly joined by Faramir, who let go of Frodo's nipple to clutch his own chest. As the two men giggled like children, Frodo's face darkened.

“I am sorry, Frodo, “said Aragorn, quickly. “Forgive me, I did not mean to insult you, but in truth I would barely feel you, my sweet love. But if that is what you desire, then it shall be as you wish.”

Faramir choked back his own laughter. They were a pair of buffoons to hurt the feelings of the hobbit thus. Reappraising Frodo's swollen member, Faramir was not so sure that Aragorn was right. Frodo was certainly not as delicate in that department as might have been expected.

“Frodo, if you want to take me, I will be honoured. My body is yours, my love,” Faramir lay back on the bed, legs akimbo, knees bent. The beauty of this young man, his smooth skin and sculpted body, struck Aragorn anew.

“No,” Frodo replied, relaxing and allowing his smile to return, “you are both right. It would be - disappointing for both parties. No, it should be the other way. Though I will need reassuring that you are not going to turn me inside out with that monstrosity!” He pointed at Aragorn's long, thick member; the King's erection jumped to attention and pointed rigidly at Frodo.

“Wait here. Amuse yourselves for a moment.” Aragorn slipped his nightshirt back on and discreetly left the chamber. The sun was higher in the sky now and the palace would be awakening all too soon.

“Come, Frodo, lie with me a little while,” said Faramir, opening his arms wide. In reply, Frodo straddled the man, though it was something of a stretch to get his legs either side of Faramir's hard hips.

“Can I take you in my mouth, Faramir? Would that be pleasing to you?” asked Frodo, a modicum of his shyness returning for a moment.

“Would it be pleasing to me?” Faramir could barely conceal his grin, “Why, yes, if that is what you want, Frodo. Please make free with my body. I am yours. Do what you will.”

Frodo squirmed down until his head was level with Faramir's navel. He began to lick, softly at first but then with more relish, down the hard, smooth planes of the Gondorian's belly and to the beginnings of golden hair down below. The attention afforded it caused Faramir's member to leap even more rigidly to attention.

His fingers laced into Frodo's curls, brushing the tips of his ears. As Frodo's mouth closed on Faramir, as his teeth rasped slightly over the cockhead and his lips sealed around the shaft, Faramir was transported from the bed into the clouds.

“Frodo, Frodo, more, more!” It was becoming more difficult to resist the urge to push that sweet head down; only the fear of hurting his lover stopped the man from using him in that way. But Frodo seemed not to care, taking as much of the length into his small, hot mouth as he could. Faramir, cursing, crying, sobbing, came in Frodo's mouth. The hobbit, startled, managed to swallow a small portion of the man's thick, hot seed but most of it shot onto Faramir's own belly.

“Faramir, was that to your liking?” Frodo asked, anxiously. He found one of the cloths that Sam used to wipe his fevered brow, and gently wiped the liquid from Faramir's heaving belly. The man, for answer, took Frodo's hand, his maimed and beautiful hand, and kissed it softly, his eyes locked on Frodo's own.

“I love you, Frodo. I loved you before this moment and I love you even more deeply now.”

Frodo seemed momentarily taken aback but smiled sweetly and lay in the crook of Faramir's strong arm. He kissed Faramir's face, from his flushed forehead to the strong chin, delighting in the manly beard. Faramir, dozing lightly, realised he had left Frodo in need, and took hold of the hobbit's member, stroking it gently and languidly.

“There is no need for that, young Faramir of Gondor. Go to sleep now. I will attend to Master Baggins.” Aragorn had slipped quietly back into the chamber, holding a small phial. Frodo eyed the liquid inside with distaste, his qualms seemingly returned.

Faramir did not seem to want to sleep right then; instead, he turned on his side and merely slid out of the way to allow the King more room. Aragorn laid the phial of oil to one side and took Frodo in his arms. For a moment he was content merely to feel the hobbit close, to have their hearts beating in unison. Frodo sighed, and wrapped his arms as far around Aragorn as he could, which was not that far.

Laying Frodo down on the coverlet, Aragorn kissed him very slowly and carefully. He allowed his tongue to roam inside Frodo's mouth, to become fully acquainted with his teeth and lips. His erection was throbbing almost painfully but he refused to hurry.

“I love you, Frodo. You believe me when I say that, don't you? It is important that you know I speak the truth.” Aragorn looked deeply into Frodo's eyes, noting that the hobbit seemed almost dreamy in his lustful state.

“Yes, yes. I know. I want this. It is just,” he said, biting his lip, which almost brought Aragorn to climax there and then, “please be gentle. It is my first time.”

Aragorn felt as if his heart would break at the words. Never had so much time and consideration gone into the act of love. He sucked his fingers to warm them and then coated them in the oil. One finger slid in with as much delicacy as he possessed, insinuating itself in Frodo's body rather than invading it. Frodo gasped and clenched around the intrusion, but nodded his head, his eyes bright. Satisfied with the response, Aragorn allowed a second finger to join the first and this time, despite all his care, Frodo cried out and bucked off the bed.

“Allow me, my King,” Faramir, wide awake again and hardening anew, took a gentle hold of Frodo's shoulder and anchored him down. Aragorn smiled in response and then bent his fingers inside of the hobbit.

“Aragorn! Oh ...” Frodo cried out, digging his nails in the flesh of the King's arm.

“Shhh, there, my love, shhh,” soothed Aragorn. “You will have the servants rushing in to see what is what. Shh.” Faramir leaned in to give Frodo a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“I am going to enter you now, Frodo. You must tell me if it is too much. Believe me, it will get better as it goes along. Do you want to change your mind, my love?”

Frodo shook his head. He was desperately tense, his fingers raking the King's arms and his thighs trembling. Aragorn carefully spread Frodo's legs as wide as he could without hurting him and kissed him once more.

“Faramir, perhaps you could, after all, attend to Frodo?” Aragorn gestured to Frodo's hard, neglected member. Faramir happily obliged. With Aragorn on top of Frodo and about to enter him, there was little room to reach in to get a rhythm going, but he stroked Frodo, marvelling at the softness of the skin, which covered such a hard and impressive member. Frodo smiled in gratitude at the young man, mouthing an endearment, whilst at the same time trying to relax in preparation for Aragorn.

The King spread Frodo's buttocks enough to oil the entrance and then coated himself. He knew he would not be able to go all the way in, it would be impossible, but he should be able to at least sink himself in partway and find some fulfilment. It was enough to be close to Frodo at this time, to see the want in his beautiful eyes, to feel his perfect body beneath him, waiting.

Frodo, stroked to the edge by Faramir, came with a burst that sent his body into spasm, his head thrown back against the pillows. Aragorn waited, tense and aching, for Frodo to recover. Faramir kissed Frodo's mouth almost reverently. His own throbbing need could be addressed later. For now the pleasure of the King was paramount.

Aragorn pushed carefully inside of Frodo, felt the hobbit tense and then relax as Faramir's kisses soothed him. Was this how it was always to be then? The three of them like this? It was a small price to pay, sharing his love with Faramir. He allowed himself to slide in a tiny bit more, with infinite care, and felt Frodo's natural resistance begin to yield. Their lovemaking went beyond the physical tightness, far beyond it. He paused to raise Frodo's legs up until they rested on his hips and was overjoyed when Frodo raised himself clear of the bed and tried to lock his ankles around Aragorn's waist. He could not manage it, but the movement brought Aragorn deeper in than he had intended to go.

“Frodo,” he said, his voice cracking, “can I go on? Can I take you or shall I stop? Even now I will stop.” Could he stop? Yes! He just prayed he would not have to.

“No! I want this. Stop now and I will - tell Faramir - here all about your bad - habits ...” gasped Frodo, one hand clutching at Faramir's arm and the other grasping Aragorn's hip. The hobbit's eyes, usually so bright and clear, became momentarily darker; almost, it seemed to Aragorn that at that moment his own want was mirrored plainly for him to see. And then it was too late for anything else. Aragorn's body was in total control. The King thrust himself into Frodo, deep and fast. Frodo was jiggled up and down, only the gentling hand of Faramir keeping him from launching off the bed. Desperately, Aragorn tried to end it. Such sweetness, such heat and delight but at what price? What if he was damaging Frodo?

With a shudder, Aragorn felt himself on the verge and could do nothing but give in to it.

“Frodo!” he cried, pumping in one more time. Release, when it came, was the sweetest sensation he had ever known. With a last gasp he fell across Frodo, releasing his legs. The hobbit had arched his back with tremendous force at the moment of Aragorn's climax and now flopped back down with a deep sigh.

Faramir stroked Frodo's hair from his sweat-slicked face and then kissed him gently on his lips. In his heart of hearts, he wanted more than anything to do to Frodo what Aragorn had just done. But the hobbit was exhausted. He would wait. There would be another time.

Aragorn, spent and sweating, breathed deeply and rolled over to find a cloth. When he returned to the bed he lay close to Frodo, surreptitiously examining his buttocks. Hobbits, it seemed however, were resilient creatures.

Frodo stretched and yawned. Bright sunshine now illuminated the chamber and bathed the three lovers in a soft hazy glow.

“Thank you, Aragorn, and you, Faramir.” Frodo bestowed light, sweet kisses on both men, before turning onto his stomach. “I will rest a little and then perhaps Sam will bring hot water for a bath.”

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged wry glances and stood up to dress. At the door, out of earshot, Faramir turned to his King.

“Was he ...?” Faramir asked, pulling on his nightshirt. He couldn't resist, he had to know.

“Everything I had hoped for? Oh yes, when we were joined it was like nothing else,” smiled Aragorn a little dreamily. “And did he, earlier on, when I left you alone…?” Aragorn too was curious.

It was Faramir's turn to be lost in the recollection. “He did, yes. That mouth, so beautiful. It was, well, wonderful ...”

As the two men left the chamber, ready to go their separate ways, Sam was returning. He had slept well for the last few hours, a rarity these days.

“Good morning, Sam!” Aragorn beamed. Sam was a little surprised by the flushed look of the two men.

“Good morning, sirs, good morning. Is Mr. Frodo well?” he asked.

There was the merest hesitation before the King nodded. As Sam bustled into the chamber and closed the door, Aragorn stopped and laid his hand on Faramir's arm. A thought had occurred to him.

“He never ...” Aragorn began, and his face was suddenly sorrowful.

Faramir nodded, and he, too, had now lost his earlier sexual flush. Their understanding was complete.

“He never said `I love you', did he?” asked Aragorn.

“No, Aragorn. He never said those words.”

The two men stood in silence at the window, watching a bird - some hawk perhaps - hover in the blue skies above Gondor. After a moment, their fingers entwined gently.

In the chamber, the two hobbits stood in silence at the window, watching a bird - some hawk perhaps - hover in the blue skies above Gondor. Their fingers were already firmly entwined.

“I love you, Frodo.”

“I know. I love you, too, Sam.”

The End

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