West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Frodo finds himself in an awkward situation at the Rethe fair. Sam does the only thing he can.
This story was written for the hobbit_smut
Livejournal Community "Double Dare" Challenge.
Rosie giggled and plucked a leaf from Sam's hair.
"It wouldn't be right if you showed up with that in your hair," she said, giving Sam a wink.
Sam blinked and stared at Rosie's fresh-kissed lips. He weren't sure what she was talking about, and he didn't mind, either. Rosie gave Sam's arm a playful pinch and bit her lip. Her chestnut-coloured hair fell about her shoulders, and her low bodice revealed plump breasts heaving. In the distance, Sam could hear the sounds of the fair: squealing children and laughing gaffers and the call of stall owners. The morning was washed bright with colour, and a gentle breeze curled the pretty flags placed around the field.
"I ought to be going," Rosie said. She was still smiling. "Unless you want one more kiss."
Sam did, and Rosie's mouth was warm and yielding on his, and sweet-tasting, like a clean spring morning. Sam could feel her breasts pushing up against him, two delicate mounds, firm like ripe peaches against his shirt. Her tongue cajoled Sam's to join hers in a slow play, while her fingers fluttered at the small of Sam's back. Sam's hand was tight on Rosie's fleshy hips, bunching her skirt up a bit, and he would have liked to have hitched up her skirt to reveal something even warmer than her mouth. A moist, luscious heat that spread easily round his fingers, and a tender little button to stroke with his thumb...
"I really ought to go!" Rosie said, breaking away.
Sam blushed hard, thinking she might have felt something against her thigh, and said, "I might go fetch an ale, early as it is." It was not yet noon, but the kegs were already being tapped. The brew this year had been particularly fine.
"Go on then!" Rosie twirled a curl around her finger. "I might see you tonight, Sam, unless you're with somebody else."
Sam swallowed. He'd like to be with somebody else, but Rosie was fair and nice-spoken, and the Gaffer always said her eyes had followed Sam since she was a little hobbit lass. "Perhaps I'd like to," he said, blushing at his boldness.
Rosie brushed off her skirt; it had a few specks of mud from where she'd been pushed up against the springhouse. "Goodbye, Sam," she said, and made her way quick across the grass. Sam sighed and gave a hasty rub to the front of his breeches. He liked Rosie quite a bit. He liked kissing her (though they'd only done it a few times) and he liked chatting with her and Tom, and he really did like looking at her shapely brown legs when her skirt was blown about by a gust of wind. But he was finding his heart was settling elsewhere, in a place that would bring him naught but trouble, no doubt.
The springhouse was cool next to Sam's shoulder, and his mouth watered as he thought about what was inside. Maybe a tall trifle, with layers of brandy-soaked sponge-cakes and whipped cream and strawberries as red as a lass's blush. Or perhaps cold jellies filled with chopped pieces of fruit and rich cheesecakes as moist as Rosie's little--
Setting his shoulders, Sam ducked into the springhouse and emerged a few minutes later licking his sugared fingers and wiping them on his breeches. The sun was high and fierce, and Sam's tongue now wanted some good beer, so he stuck his hands in his pockets and headed to the fair.
The fair was noisy and crowded, and as Sam weaved his way past the apple bobbing, his head began to hurt from nodding to those he knew. Faces were lit up like lamps; Rethe fairs were always a joyful event. Food, free-flowing ale and various entertainments kept most hobbits occupied, and Rethe fairs always seemed to happen when the sun was shining and the wind was warm and laughter came freely. There were wonderful smells in the air, too: the smoky scent of a slow-turning spit, fresh mown lawn and sweet fruits new picked.
Sam found his way to a large keg and waited patiently as an old hobbit filled his mug. By the looks of it he'd drunk quite a few pints before this one. The hobbit flicked the valve with his thumb -- spilling a few drops of the precious liquid onto the grass -- and ambled off, mug already between his lips. Sam filled his own mug; it foamed nicely, and Sam took a sup, drawing his sleeve across his mouth. He was hot in his thick shirt -- sweat made his chest sticky -- and he longed to take it off, but it weren't proper, not in proper company, nohow. Sam decided to walk around the fair and take in the sights. He'd arrived at the fair late, having to duck to Hobbiton to fetch some milk and eggs that morning, and had only had a quick look before bumping into Rosie and discovering the slow swelling heat of her kisses.
There was a stall piled high with assorted tarts and pies (Sam thought the hot apple pies looked the tastiest), another with hens hung upside down, and another with jars of jam tied with thin ribbons round their necks. A crowd of hobbits had gathered around a table; Sam cricked his head to find two lads playing a game of draughts, both of their faces creased as they studied the round bits of wood scattered across the board. A tremendous cheer went up as one hobbit lad's pieces were all captured. Sam clapped along with them as best he could as he nursed his beer.
A bit further down Sam stopped to watch a lass try to toss a ball through a hoop. The stall owner took her penny, grinning, and handed her a heavy ball. Sam didn't like this game much, nor the stall owner. The balls were almost too big to pass through the hoop anyhow, and the prizes weren't much to talk about. The lass's face fell as her ball struck the rim of the hoop and bounced harmlessly away. Sam took a sip of beer and walked off.
He came upon another booth; this one was run by a lass with pretty wheat-coloured curls and sparkling green eyes. The game this time involved six cans stacked in three rows: the bottom row had three cans, the middle two and one on top. If all the cans were knocked over with two tosses of a small ball, a prize was won. The lass smiled at Sam and offered him a ball.
"Will ye play a game?" she asked; her voice was husky.
Sam judged he hadn't had enough ale to make him tipsy yet, so he stuck his hand in his pocket and dropped a penny into her hand. "If you hold my mug for me," he said, giving her a grin.
She took his mug, her fingers sliding like silk over his palm. Sam swallowed, his heart catching. Her dress was awfully tight round her middle, and clung pleasantly to her small breasts. Sam was still all warm from Rosie, and he tingled to remember her kisses. He thought this lass would kiss nice too, with her generous bow-shaped mouth; and she'd probably feel good too, wet curls under his palm and flesh yielding to him like softened butter.
"Is this your first for today?" she asked, nodding to the mug. Her smile deepened. "Or have you had more for me?"
"First," said Sam, picking up a ball and tossing it a few times into the air, testing it. He winked at her. "I've a mind to win something."
"I'm sure you do." Sam caught a feisty look in her eyes, and he curled his toes on the ground.
Sam bit his lip and studied the target. He reckoned that if he knocked out the bottom middle can, most of the other cans would come crashing down, maybe only leaving one left to clout with his last ball. He'd do best just to throw as hard as he could, and hope the cans came tumbling down. That was the easy part; Sam was a well-muscled lad, his arms strong from working in Frodo's garden. Sam could beat any lad his age at arm wrestling, and that was a fact. The hard part was getting the aim right. Sam needed to make sure the ball hit the can right in the middle.
"I'll let you have another go if you don't knock 'em down this time," the lass offered, breaking Sam's thoughts.
Sam shook his head. It weren't right of him to flirt with her anymore, not when he were kissing Rosie and falling for another so fast he felt like he were drowning. He tossed the ball from hand to hand, eyeing his target, trying not to glance at the lass as she watched him, eyelashes lowered demurely. The fair seemed quiet all of a sudden, hushed. Sam raised his arm, elbow sticking out and hand near his ear. Squinting at the can he were aiming for, he threw the ball as hard as he could.
The ball struck right where Sam had wanted, and the cans clattered down, spilling onto the ground. The lass clapped and Sam grinned. But there was still one can left standing, and Sam had one more throw.
He picked up another ball, weighed it in his hand, raised his arm and took a breath.
"You can do it," the lass said encouragingly.
Sam nodded and tossed the ball. His aim weren't as good this time. The ball glanced off the can, nudging it just a bit. The can teetered, close to the edge, and fell with a satisfying rattle to the ground.
"Good on ye!" cried the pretty lass, and gave the flustered Sam a peck on the cheek. She smelled of apples and spring. "What would you be wanting?" she asked, gesturing to the prizes stacked on a small table.
Sam looked at the prizes, unsure. There were a few jars of preserves and sawdust dolls and small wooden boxes for assorted treasures. But Sam didn't need any of those, and his Mum had a good stock of preserves, and his sisters were too old for dolls anyhow.
"Can I pick one?" the lass asked, seeing Sam's hesitation.
Sam shrugged. "All right," he said.
The girl walked over to the table, spent a few moments considering the prizes, picked up something and came back to Sam. "Have this," she said, putting a bottle in Sam's hand.
It was slim and short, fitting into Sam's palm easily, and had a label with sweeping writing upon it. The glass was cool and clear. Inside the bottle swished a liquid: rose oil.
"You might find a use for it later," the lass said, tilting her head.
Sam blushed, reckoning he weren't thinking what she were thinking. He muttered a thank you, took his mug of beer, almost empty, from the lass and made a quick escape. He ducked around a corner, out of sight. With a sigh of relief, he took a sip of beer and hid the bottle in his pocket. He hoped he didn't cause no offence, but when he peered round, the lass was smiling at another lad about to play the game.
Sam turned to bump right into Tom Cotton and two other lads, Tom's brother Nick and Erl Hayward.
"Sam!" Tom repeated. "Have you seen what's down there?" He pointed his finger across the field. Sam shook his head, wondering. Tom looked all roused, red-face and puffing, like the time his Jolly broke his arm in a bad accident. But he didn't look hurt this time, and he was even smirking a bit as he grabbed Sam's arm and tugged him, hard. "Come see!"
"What do I have to see?" protested Sam. Tom's fingers bit into his arm.
Erl was grinning. "You got to see, Sam. You won't believe your eyes, like as not, but it's true."
Sam allowed himself to be dragged by Tom across the fairgrounds. He stubbed his toe a few times on a stone or raised bit of ground. Tom and his friends were snickering and elbowing each other, and Sam more than once asked where they were taking him, but they wouldn't open their mouths for aught. Finally, after Sam reckoned he'd have bruises on his arm as purple as grapes, the group stopped.
Sam stumbled and blinked. "Tom," he said angrily, "What the--"
Sam's tongue stopped working. He'd spotted Frodo a little way off, standing behind a booth. Frodo looked a little sour and sulky, like he got when Bag End ran out of mushrooms and Sam weren't able to fetch more for a few days. There was a glass of water beside Frodo, and a little pot of something that Sam couldn't work out. A jar filled with pennies sat at Frodo's elbow, bright gleaming in the sun. Frodo looked hot; his collar flapped lazily at his neck, revealing milky skin, and his left hand fluttered near his face, making his curls lift from his moist brow. Frodo's lips, Sam realised with a flash of dismay, were red and wet-looking -- being right worked, Sam'd wager.
Frodo was standing at the kissing booth.
Sam stared, open-mouthed, as a lass strode forward, confident as if she'd done this a thousand times. She might have, thought Sam sullenly, eyeing the penny-filled jar. Frodo greeted the lass with a small smile, watching her drop a penny into the jar. The lass licked her lips and pushed her brown hair from her face. Sam's stomach flip-flopped as the lass leaned over, even though Frodo looked a bit sickly as they drew together. Their lips met, clinging for a few moments before Frodo broke them apart. The lass nodded, touching her hair, and stumbled away. Sam scowled as she and a gaggle of lasses moved off, giggling and pointing towards the booth.
"Why's Mr. Frodo at this booth?" asked Sam, hearing anger his voice. "It were Mr. Merry who was to do that this year, seeing as he offered."
"Mr. Merry got sick this morning," said Tom. "A cold, I think. Mr. Frodo said he'd do it instead."
Merry no doubt had talked Frodo into it, Sam thought. Merry had been a guest at Bag End for the past week, and though Sam found him friendly enough, Mr. Merry could convince anybody to do anything. Like convincing Frodo to stand at the kissing booth this year. Mr. Merry had offered to do that job, quite eagerly Sam reckoned, no doubt happy to kiss lasses all day -- and probably the lads too.
"Look at him!" chortled Erl. "And the lasses! He'll not have much of a rest all day I'd wager."
The line of hobbits waiting to be kissed seemed to be a mile long to Sam. Lasses -- and a sprinkling of lads -- waited, some moving uneasily from foot to foot, some twirling their hair round their fingers, some jumping up to get a glimpse of Frodo. It was a tradition to have a kissing booth at the Rethe fair; sometimes a lad would be behind the booth, and sometimes it was a lass. Since Mr. Merry had come of age last year (the rules stated you had to be thirty-three; there was also another rule that stated you couldn't be married or courting somebody), he'd quickly put his name down, and, to his everlasting delight, it was Merry's name that had been plucked from the Mayor's hat last month.
"I'd go in line misself," Nick was saying, "but I'd reckon my Dad would give me the belt if I got caught. If you don't mind me saying, Sam, Mr. Frodo's a handsome a hobbit as I've seen. But if Dad found out I'd kissed a gentlehobbit, I wouldn't be able to sit for a week!"
"He would at that!" agreed Tom, laughing along with Erl and Nick.
Sam was silent. Oh, he knew what was talked about in the inns and at parties and at the markets. People wondered why Frodo hadn't taken a wife, him being so fair and polite and rich. They thought he was queer, holing himself up at Bag End, taking too-long walks in the forest, buying reams of paper and too many inkbottles. Sam knew what people would say after this -- that he'd plotted it with Merry all along, or something like that. It weren't respectable for the Master of Bag End to be, well, whoring himself like that. Of course, Frodo didn't keep the money -- it was donated to the poor orphans' house in Michel Delving, as were the other monies raised at the fair. Still, it weren't right, not for Mr. Frodo.
Just looking at him from far away set Sam's heart beating fast. He envied the lass wearing a bright green hat who was now locking lips with Frodo. To kiss Frodo would make Sam's knees shake: Frodo'd be warm and bone-achingly gentle, his tongue slickly touching Sam's for permission before swirling around in Sam's mouth...
"He can't do this!" Sam burst out.
"Why not, Sam? Mr. Frodo's not courting--" Tom suddenly looked pained, and Sam felt a flush of embarrassment all over his skin.
"Why not?" said Nick, glancing at Sam and Tom.
"It's not -- not what a gentlehobbit ought to do," said Tom, giving Sam a quick look.
"But Mr. Bolger did it last year!" piped up Erl.
"Hush!" said Tom sharply. "Why don't you and Nick fetch some cream tarts from Mrs. Hedgeweaver?"
Erl looked like he wanted to protest, but he nodded and jogged off with Nick.
"There's naught wrong with a few kisses between tweens," said Tom quietly as his gaze was drawn to Frodo in the middle of another kiss. "But Rosie's falling for you as quick as a hare, Sam. It's not right to lead her on if your heart belongs elsewhere."
"It doesn't!" Sam hissed, bunching up his fists. "I mean, not where it's wanted, nohow." His head swam at Tom's words. They were just a few sweet kisses -- it weren't meant to be serious. But Rosie wanted to see him tonight, didn't she? Sam suddenly felt all warm thinking about that.
"Rosie's a fine lass," Sam said finally.
"She likes you the best, I think," Tom said.
Sam nodded; he knew he weren't the only lad kissing Rosie. He felt a nudge on his side.
"Look, Sam," Tom murmured.
Frodo had opened the little pot next to him and was dipping a finger in. After a moment he wiped his finger across his lips and then pursed them together. There must be some kind of ointment in the pot, for Frodo's lips were shining as he screwed the lid on. It might be peppermint flavoured; Sam knew some of the lasses used peppermint ointment to soothe their lips. Some of the lads did too, in winter when the icy wind chapped lips.
But that weren't what Tom was talking about. A lad, dark-haired and thickset, walked up to Frodo next, a little nervously. Sam recognised him as Tod Stockwell from Bywater. Tod worked as an apprentice woodsman, and was jolly good by Shire standards. Digging a coin from deep in his pocket, Tod dropped it into the penny jar and looked at Frodo warily. Frodo said something, and took a gentle hold of Tod's chin with one hand. Sam's hands clenched, and he blinked a few times. Frodo's oil-covered lips glimmered in the sunlight. He closed his eyes and leaned forward to kiss Tod. Their lips met, a mere brush at first, like a snowflake's caress, and Tod's shoulders shuddered to be touched so. Frodo adjusted his head slightly to apply more pressure, and their lips held together, crushed in a slick-soft embrace. Then they were split apart, and Tod was blushing furiously, wide-eyed and gaping. Frodo laughed and waved Tod off like he didn't have a care, but Sam noticed the fingers of his other hand were twining in his shirt, hiding a shake.
"I reckon Mr. Frodo likes the lads," Tom observed quietly. "He don't kiss like that with the lasses."
Sam said nothing. It hurt, like a stab of sharp ice in his heart, to see Frodo kiss another lad. He wished he weren't such a fool, that he could ask Rosie if he could court her. But he knew deep in his heart he couldn't, not till he knew the answer to the question he would one day ask. Sam watched Frodo kiss another lass, lightly and not nearly as long as he had done with Tod. His mind was all a-jumble.
"Sam? Sam?" Tom was trying to get his attention.
"Aye." Sam blinked a few times.
"Why don't you go and line up for a kiss?" Tom suggested, a small grin on his lips. "Then perhaps you'll know."
"I couldn't!" Sam protested at once. He couldn't, could he? Sam did have quite a few pennies left in his pocket, but surely not one to spare for that... Besides, could he pay for that kind of thing? A few lasses in Buckland, it was rumoured, were paid for that and more. And what would Frodo think, Sam marching up to him and demanding a kiss? Or his Dad...
Tom sighed. "I don't want Rosie hurt, Sam. You might not get another chance to find out, 'less you blurt it to him."
Sam's fingers trembled around his mug. He could pretend it was all for a lark, that Tom and the lads had dared him. Frodo would laugh and play along, and if the kiss were nothing more than a gentle peck, Frodo would never know, and nothing between them would change. Later, he and Frodo would joke about the harmless prank around the table at Bag End, and Sam would court Rosie Cotton and marry her within a few years. And if the kiss held a promise of more? Sam didn't want to think about that too much, as much as he wanted it.
"Go on, Sam," Tom encouraged him.
Sam nodded, giving his mug to Tom, his mind made up. "I'll do it!" he said, with more confidence than he felt. He walked up to the line; Frodo was in the middle of another kiss and didn't see him. There were about twenty hobbits ahead of him, and even more showed up behind him as he waited. He could feel Tom's stare burning his neck; he hoped he were doing the right thing. Turning to look at his friend, Sam saw that Erl and Nick had returned, cream tarts in their hands. Erl and Nick were grinning, obviously thinking Tom had dared Sam as a joke, but Tom's eyes were serious, and his mouth tight.
In front of Sam stood Cherry Took, named so because of her dark red hair. She was a wild one, no doubt. Sam had heard plenty of rumours about her, and not many were flattering. He hoped she wouldn't cause no trouble for Frodo. She flipped her satiny red hair over her shoulder, obviously impatient. One of her hands was clenched, no doubt holding a precious penny. Cherry was alone in the line, but she kept waving to a group of lasses watching on, and to a few handsome lads that walked past too.
"He's fetching, no doubt," giggled a voice behind Sam.
"Oh yes," returned a hushed whisper. "I'd let him warm my bed any night!"
"I think he'd be fine in bed. I wonder if he's got a big..." The voice dipped low and the lasses tittered behind their hands.
Sam's stomach began to squirm about, like there were snakes tumbling around in there. He put his fingers in his pocket to dig out a penny; soon it was moist in his hand. The line moved slowly, and sometimes Sam would take a step to the side and glance at Frodo, look at his creamy skin and dark, damp hair. He kept his head lowered most of the time, in case somebody he knew were to spot him. Soon it was Cherry's turn to have her kiss, and Sam ducked his head in case Frodo were to see him.
Looking up through his eyelashes, Sam watched Cherry walk up to Frodo, hips swinging as she went. He waited till she had reached the booth till he looked proper, so he'd be hid from Frodo's view.
"Hello, Cherry," Sam heard Frodo say. Though he said it politely, Sam could hear a strain in Frodo's voice. No doubt Frodo had heard the rumours about Cherry as well.
"Hullo, Frodo," Cherry replied, her voice dripping like sweet honey. She raised her hand and let a coin fall into the jar, landing with a clink. Then, with no hesitation, another coin fell from her hand.
"It only costs one coin," Frodo said, about to reach forward to fish it back out.
"Don't you know?" Cherry said in a loud voice. "Two coins and I get a proper kiss."
"Two? But...oh." Sam picked up the dismay in Frodo's voice. He furrowed his brow. A proper kiss? But that would mean...
"I don't think that's necessary." Frodo's voice sounded rather high.
"Oh please, Frodo! Fosco let me kiss him proper last year. Don't be a baby." Cherry clucked her tongue as if she were talking to a young lad instead of the Master of Bag End. Sam's hands shook out of anger. Frodo ought not to be embarrassed so. He turned around to see what the hobbits behind him thought. But they were talking with their friends or squishing the grass with their toes nervously. They hadn't heard a thing. Sam's heart thumped; he had to stop Cherry! Somebody else might want a proper kiss as well! He was about to step up and have a few words with Cherry, when Frodo spoke up.
"All right then," Frodo sighed. Sam heard Cherry hum with pleasure, and watched her angle her head forward. He couldn't quite see Frodo's face, but Cherry's head was moving ever so slightly, like they were kissing slow and deep. All of a sudden tears filled his eyes, and he brushed them away angrily, all the while not taking his eyes off Cherry's luscious, swaying red locks.
Finally they parted. Frodo's cheeks were blushing as bright as Cherry's hair, while Cherry giggled and said, "thank you", walking off with a swish of skirts. A bit unsteadily, Frodo lifted the penny jar up and turned around, to empty it into a larger jar, most likely. He hadn't see Sam yet.
"Hey, it's your go!" somebody said behind Sam.
Sam started. He'd been so busy watching Cherry that he'd near forgotten he had to kiss Frodo next! His legs felt like jelly as he walked forward, and he wished he'd never listened to Tom. He was feeling less daring now, and all he wanted to do was run all the way back to Number Three and burrow into his nice warm bed, all alone. Frodo's back was still to him; Sam could hear the clatter of coins.
At last he reached the booth. There was a faint scent of peppermint in the air: he'd been right about Frodo's ointment. Sam felt queasy and dizzy. He hoped he'd be able to keep down his beer and cheesecake. It wouldn't do no good at all if he was sick all over Mr. Frodo!
"Sam!" Frodo had turned back to the line. The penny jar slipped from his fingers and clunked onto the booth. "What are you doing?"
"I -- I wanted a kiss, sir," Sam said.
"You did?" Frodo sounded surprised. "I'd think you wouldn't need to pay for kisses."
"I like kisses," murmured Sam. He felt like a fool.
"I suppose you can't have too many kisses," Frodo said, his blue eyes dancing with amusement.
"You don't have to, Mr. Frodo, if you'd rather not."
"I'd rather, if you have the money," said Frodo lightly. He was smiling at Sam, and sounded pleased.
Sam slowly lifted his hand and dropped a coin into the jar. Frodo was watching him carefully, and Sam felt a blush spread down his neck. Should Sam tell him it was for a lark? But Frodo didn't seem upset by it, not one bit.
"I'm getting good at kissing," Frodo chuckled. "I think I shall be able to write a book about it when this day is done." He paused, and said very seriously, "I hope I please you, Sam."
Sam was sure he'd be very pleased.
Frodo leaned forward, his face now awfully close to Sam's. He smelled of peppermint, and his lips were wet, and his eyes were blue fire.
"Sam, you've been drinking! How much have you had?" Frodo muttered suddenly, backing off. White teeth clung to his bottom lip, and he looked around. His eyes fell upon Tom, who was quite clearly holding a near empty mug, as well as a half full one. "Oh, there are Tom and his friends. I suppose they dared you, did they, Sam? You don't have to listen to them, you know."
"I know, sir," Sam said. Frodo sounded dismayed.
"What did they promise you? A pouch of old Toby? Or something else?" Frodo said bitterly. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sam. At Buckland I was dared to do many things, mostly unpleasant."
"This ain't unpleasant," Sam said quickly. An idea occurred him, a naughty idea, but there was something in Frodo's eyes... Boldly, Sam continued, "And they dared me something else..." He dunked his hand into his pocket and quickly let fall another coin.
There was a long silence. Behind him, Sam could hear the hobbits in line muttering impatiently. Sam withdrew his hand and wiped it on his breeches. Frodo stared at the fallen coin, mouth parted. "You needn't do that, Sam," Frodo whispered.
"I have to. Or I'd lose the bet."
"Could we pretend?" Frodo mused, his eyes searching Sam's face. "But the lads might find out. No, I think we should. Unless you don't want to, Sam dear."
Sam didn't miss the last word. He choked out, "Of course, Mr. Frodo. I don't mind."
"Well, shall we...?"
Warm and welcoming was Frodo's mouth, softened with peppermint. Sam closed his eyes, unbelieving and happy. He felt Frodo's thumb tease his eartip, sliding over it gently. Their lips held for a moment, unsure, till Sam felt Frodo's tongue flicker out and move across his lower lip, leaving a wet line. Frodo let out a low cry, and Sam gently licked Frodo's mouth to shush him. A hand came up to press into Sam's curls, pushing their mouths together urgently, desperate and yearning. The kiss deepened, Frodo's tongue fluttering over Sam's, hot and slick and carnal. The booth was between them; Sam pushed his swelling groin against it, frustrated, wishing it were Frodo's heat, all bared and hard against him. He gripped the edge of the booth with his slippery palms, devouring Frodo's sweet, beautiful mouth.
Finally the kiss ended. Sam stepped back, shaking, and found himself staring at an equally shaking Frodo.
"Sam, I--" Frodo whispered. "I didn't mean..."
Sam hung his head. "I'm sorry, sir." He was a ninnyhammer, just like his Dad always said. He was suddenly aware of the crowd of hobbits around them, murmuring and pointing.
"Don't say you're sorry, Sam, unless you really are sorry for kissing me," said Frodo, with a shy glance at Sam. Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Frodo grinned at the answer.
"People are staring," Frodo chuckled under his breath. "I think we gave them quite a show."
Sam offered a small smile. "Aye, we did."
"I'm having lunch with the mayor, but I'm finished here at tea-time. Do you know the springhouse just past the hill over there? Good. Shall we meet there a little after that? Widow Rumble is looking after Merry at Bag End, I'm afraid." Frodo hesitated. "If you wish, Sam."
"I will," said Sam. He felt a ripple shoot down his groin at the thought.
"Excellent." Frodo sounded relieved. He gave Sam a mischievous glance. "By the way, Sam, you're a wonderful kisser. I wish I could kiss you all day instead of all these other hobbits." Frodo waved his hand, gesturing.
"You're not too bad yourself," Sam answered back, equally teasing. "And maybe I'd let you kiss me all day sometime." They both laughed softly.
"You'd better leave," Frodo said. "The other hobbits are getting impatient."
Sam nodded a goodbye and went to find Tom and the lads. He had found his answer.
The sky was turning plum purple, and the wind was beginning to become a bit nippy, as Sam made his way down to the springhouse. His stomach was full of beer and cakes and chicken sandwiches, and his pockets were filled with oddments he'd won or bought -- the bottle of oil, a pink and white seashell, a lacy ribbon and a handkerchief with "S" embroidered in one corner. More than once he'd felt the rattle of the remaining coins in his pocket and wished he could buy some more kisses from Frodo. But the other hobbits might notice and mutter into their mugs, and Sam didn't want no more rumours about the Master of Bag End.
Sam found that he couldn't quite believe Frodo would come. He thought that perhaps Frodo would be tired of kissing and didn't want no more for today. He had avoided the kissing booth for the rest of the day, preferring to wander around the other parts of the fair, sometimes eating and drinking with Tom and the lads, sometimes by himself, thoughtful with both hands in his pocket, watching the wood chopping, or the eyeing the prettily decorated cakes, or some other goings-on.
He reached the springhouse and stopped his feet. The pale moon was rising steadily, bathing the grey grass. There was still quite a lot of noise from the fairgrounds; though most of the booths and other activities had closed, it was now time to make merry with plenty of ale and plenty of food. Various dainties were now being laid out to feast upon; Sam could smell the mouth-watering scents of cooked chicken and roast pork and buttered corn, hot from the oven. No doubt the hobbits will be spending the next few hours "filling up the corners".
"Sam!" a voice called out softly. Sam turned to find Frodo strolling across the grass, his hand up to push away branches that threatened to scratch his face. "I wasn't sure I'd find you here," he said, coming to a stop, right in front of Sam.
"I promised," said Sam. He felt awkward.
"Shall we go for a walk? It's not particularly hidden here, is it?" Frodo gave Sam a warm smile, dug his hands into his pockets and began to walk off. Sam trotted behind him, heart hammering.
It would be half an hour or so before it would be very dark, but the trees were drawing long shadows on the forest floor, and little white moths began to flit between branches. Sam stumbled a few times on half-hid logs, following Frodo's nimble body as he darted around trees.
At last Frodo came to a stop. Around his ankles was a thick layer of crinkly leaves, and the trees were spread about in a circle around them.
"This," said Frodo, gesturing, "is where I used to come when I wanted to be by myself, mostly to read a book without old Bilbo knowing!" He laughed. "Bilbo didn't like it when I got into his very delicate books, though I suspect he wanted to keep his favourites for himself!" Frodo stopped laughing and his face suddenly became serious.
"You miss him, sir?" Sam ventured.
"Yes. I do," Frodo said simply. He shook his head. "I shouldn't think of such sad things, at times like this."
At times like what? Sam wanted to blurt out, but he bit on his tongue and rocked on his heels.
"Come, sit down, Sam." Frodo lowered himself onto the leaves; Sam followed him. The leaves were surprisingly soft, and the ground was springy.
"It's nice here, isn't it?" Frodo asked, stretching out his legs. Crickets began to chirrup happily, and sounds heralding night-time murmured in the cool air.
"It is, Mr. Frodo," Sam agreed heartily, in all honesty, because Frodo was with him, and that was always nice.
"Did you have fun at the fair today? I heard you won a prize playing at the cans," Frodo said conversationally.
"How'd you know that?" Sam wondered.
Frodo shrugged. "Somebody saw you. They told me...before they got a kiss. What did you win?"
"A bit of scented oil," Sam said automatically, then blushed hard. "But I reckon you got better prizes than me today," he stumbled on, thinking of anything that came into his head.
"What? The kisses?" Frodo chuckled. "No, I'm afraid not, Sam. I can't say I don't enjoy kisses, but when you must kiss all day -- with hobbits you don't particularly like -- it can be a frightful chore. I think I'm all kissed out. Though I may be able to spare a few more," he added quietly, a shy, quick look coming in Sam's direction a moment later.
Sam felt a hot swell in his groin. He also felt the hard metal coins pressing into his thigh; he stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled them out. "I have some coins, sir. If you could spare a few more," he whispered, echoing Frodo.
Sam looked up, chilled and startled, but there was softness in Frodo's eyes. Frodo took Sam's hand and flexed his fingers close. "You needn't pay for them, my dear Sam."
Suddenly Frodo was kissing Sam, and a fine serving of tongue was travelling around Sam's mouth, hot and seeking. Somehow Sam found himself on his back, with Frodo straddling him, hands roaming his chest and tweaking his tight nipples. Sam's fingers fell open, coins spilling onto the ground, but he didn't care, not when Frodo's knee was wedged between his legs, pushing on his aching groin.
"Sam," Frodo purred, when he came up for air, "you needn't pay for this."
"Wouldn't have enough, nohow," gasped Sam, lifting his hips to rub himself on Frodo's thigh. "It'd cost thousands, for the likes of you..."
"I'm giving this to you...because I want to...I want you."
"As long as you don't go giving this to everybody." Sam's voice was rough, like new sandpaper.
"I won't...not anymore."
Sam raised his arms to allow Frodo's roaming hands to help him tug off his shirt. Frodo tossed the shirt away, running a lazy thumb over Sam's nipple. He bent his head down to nuzzle the soft down on Sam's belly, lips and tongue whispering over Sam's near-boiling skin. Sam tipped his head back and moaned, lifting his hips off the ground to encourage Frodo's mouth to continue -- and perhaps move a little lower, if truth be told.
"Patience, Sam," murmured Frodo, coming up to kiss Sam soundly on the mouth. "I'll taste you there, don't worry." He began suckling on Sam's neck, while his hand crept down to cover the front of Sam's breeches. Sam was tight-hard down there, all burning heat and near dripping, most like.
"Were you this hard while we were kissing at the booth?" Frodo said, feather-light, at Sam's ear. "I'll bet you were. I'll bet you wanted me to do this then. Will you come for me, Sam?" Frodo added wickedly, giving Sam's flesh a good squeeze.
Sam squeaked, hastily bringing his arm up to his mouth. It wouldn't do no good to be heard when Frodo was about to...
"I've wanted you for a long time," continued Frodo, mouth wet on Sam's neck. "Do you know that? Perhaps not. I wanted you. I didn't know you wanted me till we kissed. Oh, Sam, the things I want to do!"
It seemed Frodo was going to do one of those things soon; his fingers curled around Sam's eager flesh, thumb caressing idly in slow, open circles. With one clever hand Frodo flicked open Sam's buttons, letting his hand slip under his smallclothes for a moment to sample the treat there before pulling out, to Sam's dismay.
"Ah, love, you taste good." Frodo sucked briefly on Sam's neck, just so his skin would colour. Sam's eyes closed; Frodo's voice was honeyed and soft, and Sam thought it was the most erotic sound he'd ever heard. "I want to taste you...lower."
Sam sighed as Frodo's tongue took a long, winding journey down Sam's middle, sucking and nipping here and there, setting Sam's groin aflame. Sam rested on his elbows to watch Frodo's dark-coloured head bob about his belly, loving the view of Frodo's tongue licking his brown skin, and the little noises Frodo made, soft cries of pleasure.
"Ah, you smell good," said Frodo, nose snug between Sam's opened breeches, tongue deviously tasting and teasing in long, slow licks. He peeled Sam's smallclothes down, lifting them over Sam's erection, chuckling as it leapt up nicely in front of him. Frodo's head dipped, a smile on his lips, and gathered Sam into his mouth, sliding down deep, a hand steady on Sam's hip.
Sam bucked, mind screaming in exquisite delight, biting down hard on his arm again, no doubt leaving crescent shaped marks come morning. Frodo was making soft, oh so soft suckling sounds, wet little noises, like he was devouring Sam -- and he nearly was, his lips all hidden in Sam's dark curls. There was a stick lying near Sam's hand, and he curled his fingers around it tightly, desperate not to make a sound. If someone were to come now...
Two hands now firm on Sam's hips, Frodo had arisen to suck on the very end of Sam's shaft, tongue rolling around and around and sweeping up droplets of wetness, and lips hard at work applying suction. Sam squirmed under Frodo's eager mouth, feeling like a kettle on a hearth, ready to whistle -- though he'd not whistle, but shout loud enough for the folk at Bywater to hear.
Plunging down again, Frodo drew his lips close around Sam, breathing deeply through his nose. His mouth wouldn't give Sam no mercy, sweet and wicked all at once, making Sam's eyes clench shut, hot bright light clouding Sam's vision. There was a snap, and Sam realised he'd broken the stick in two. He let the pieces fall to the ground, curling his toes as Frodo continued to greedily consume him. He made a little sound, perhaps yesnostopplease.
Frodo came up, lips fairly blushing in the moonlight "You want me to stop?" he asked, licking his mouth. And, without waiting for an answer, he went back to his task, taking Sam in deep. Sam moaned, lifting his hips against the pressure of Frodo's hands, feeling like he were nearly drowning in Frodo -- swept away like a leaf in a swift-flowing river. He sucked on his lower lip, willing himself not to come like a silly tweener, wanting to last for Frodo. One of Frodo's hands had slipped from Sam's hip and was now beneath Sam, holding and squeezing his balls.
Sam clenched the flesh on his arm tightly between his teeth. Nobody had done anything like this to him before. Other lads had touched him -- quick secret strokes behind a shed or in a barn -- but now, now it felt as if all his bones had suddenly gone all limp and watery. He whimpered, thrusting into Frodo's luscious mouth, and suddenly came in a roll of hips -- over and over and over.
Frodo drank him up, not a sound coming from him, and pleasure shot through Sam like a high song, and his limbs felt like they were flowing like water. A few moments later Sam found his senses and opened his eyes, and found he was dizzy for a second before recovering. Frodo was sitting with his knees crossed beside him, looking right at him with dark eyes. Frodo's mouth was beaded with wet pearls, and he licked his lips with a quick pink tongue. Then, with his eyes lowered, he opened his breeches, drawing himself out slowly. He pumped, hand blurring, a couple of times. Sam's eyes followed Frodo's hand, heat and pleasure burning his cheeks.
"Touch me, Sam?" Frodo murmured, reaching out to circle Sam's wrist, bringing it close to his breeches. Sam was still lying down, and he was now stretched out like a thin bit of wire, and he felt something silky brush his fingers.
"You're so hard," he marvelled, whisper-quiet, curling his fingers around Frodo's shaft. He wasn't embarrassed, not now, not as he tightened his hand and began to stroke Frodo. After a few hesitant thrusts he was pumping as hard as Frodo had.
Sam dared to glance at Frodo's face; Frodo was staring at Sam's hand in fascination, his lips parted a little. Sam's heart burst to know that he was making Frodo feel so much pleasure.
"Ah, yes, Sam. That feels good." Frodo was moving his hips, matching Sam's rhythm. Sam's heart skipped, watching his hand -- up and down, up and down. He could see -- and feel -- a nest of tiny black curls, and the tip of Frodo's shaft was wet. Sam had the thought of licking Frodo there, just like he'd done to Sam, bitterness and salt delicious on his tongue. He made a noise in his throat, filled with desire.
And then Frodo was coming in warm and sticky throbs, dribbling over Sam's knuckles. He had cried softly, a broken call of release, and his breast was heaving. Sam wiped his hand on the grass, not quite looking at Frodo.
"Sam...thank you," said Frodo, flushed and eyes bright. He tucked himself back into his breeches, making a little purr of satisfaction.
Sam nodded, and began doing up his breeches and putting his shirt back on. He felt Frodo's eyes on him and blushed, even after what they had done.
"Sam..." Looking up, Sam saw Frodo holding out his spilt coins. The silver danced in the moonlight lustrously. "Thank you, Sam. I have my payment for you," he added. The corners of Frodo's mouth twitched.
"I'd reckon I'd need to pay you after you--" Sam broke off, not knowing what to say. There weren't no words to name what Frodo had done.
"It was my pleasure," said Frodo, and oh! there was fire in his eyes now. "Take the money, Sam." Sam held out his hand and Frodo dropped the coins; they made a sweet tinkling noise. Sam put his own coins into his pocket.
"You know, Sam," Frodo's voice was light and filled with a gentle teasing, "I might have given you an extra coin. Perhaps we could think of something else to try. I think Widow Rumble should have left Bag End by now, and Merry will be asleep." Frodo stepped forward, his breath a cool flutter on Sam's ear. "Should we find a use for your oil? I'm sure it would feel lovely in certain places."
Sam stifled his laugh on Frodo's shoulder, loving how Frodo talked so boldly. He could certainly become used to that. They kissed, gentle and loving, with a promise of more and more. Frodo cupped Sam's bottom, pressing them together, groin to groin. It felt wonderfully good. Frodo was hard again, and Sam jumped in his breeches, thinking about how he'd like to taste Frodo there, thick and fierce hot and keen in his mouth...
"Should we go?" Sam asked, mouth near-watering, and Frodo agreed, taking Sam's hand and walking with him out of the wood.
"Did you give anybody else a special kiss?" Sam asked shyly, as he carefully stepped over a fallen log.
"No, thank goodness!" Frodo said. "Nobody asked, and I wanted to save them for somebody. But, did you know, the Mayor told me that this year's kissing booth raised more money than any in the fair's history."
Sam snorted. "I wonder why!" he said, looking at Frodo admiringly.
"Yes, well." Frodo seemed embarrassed. "Merry can do it next year, if he's well. I hope I'll still be getting kisses then." He dropped his eyes and squeezed Sam's hand. "Tell me, Sam, did the lads really dare you to kiss me?"
"No, not really," admitted Sam. "I wanted to kiss you, more than anything."
"Good," said Frodo.
Before they found their way out of the wood, however, they stopped at hearing rather strange noises -- moans and heavy breaths and the rustling of leaves. Sam parted some branches and peeped through, leaning heavily on Frodo and biting his lip to stop himself from squeaking. Frodo took a look through, and clapped a hand over his mouth. Caught in the moonlight, naked and rolling around on the ground, were Sam's can game girl and Rosie Cotton, leaves stuck to their pale gleaming skin. Sam caught a glimpse of a rosy nipple and a patch of dark curls before Frodo tugged him away impatiently.
"I don't...I can't..." Sam gasped.
"Well, lasses can have fun too, Sam," said Frodo, eyes mirthful.
"Aye, they can at that," Sam said, laughing softly. "And I'm glad."
Sam kissed Frodo right on the mouth, licking his lower lip, and began to head towards Bag End, feeling the coins and bottle of oil press on his thigh.
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