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The Mathom
Title: The Mathom
Author: mirith
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It’s Sam’s birthday, and Frodo has a present for him.
Disclaimer: Tolkein’s estate is paid in money for the use of these characters. I am paid only in squees.
Feedback: is so very, very important to me.
Written: 10/19-10/21
The birthday girl: Is snoopydance4me. She is my dear friend and beta, and this is for her on her birthday. And because it her birthday, she didn’t have to beta. Any mistakes are mine.


“To Samwise,” said Tom Cotton. “May his days be long.” A serving lass, one of the Green Dragon’s finest, stopped to refill the tankards, and everyone drank heartily.

“To Samwise,” continued Tom’s brother Jolly, raising his glass towards the maid’s retreating skirts. “May his nights be longer!”

“Oh, there, now,” protested Sam, coloring, but his voice was lost among the cheers of the inebriated young tradesfolk and servants who had come to celebrate his 22nd birthday. He took a swig of ale and let his gaze wander away from the table. Most of the company’s attention was focused on the broad hips disappearing into the kitchen, but Sam’s mind was elsewhere.

Falco Chubb shot Sam a sly glance. “Someone you’re waiting on?” he said in a stage whisper. “You’ve had one eye on the door all night.”

“Not true,” said Jolly, waggling his eyebrows. “Sometimes he’s had two. Who’s the lucky lass, Samwise?”

Before the host of the party could formulate a reply, the door swept open. Sam’s view was partly obstructed by the crowd, but he could make out tawny blonde curls above a gaudy, brocaded weskit, then waves of brown hair above a pointed chin.

Meriadoc Brandybuck, as I sow and weed. And the other is Peregrin Took. Sam bolted from his seat to see if anyone were with them, but they were alone. He gave them a polite nod, more because they were Frodo’s cousins than because they were gentlefolk. According to local custom, class distinctions were not given as much weight within the Dragon’s walls as they were without. This circumstance had arisen from necessity, for it had become clear to all that after a pint or two, most patrons of the establishment did not know whether they were cart horses or kings.

Sam slumped back onto the bench where he had been sitting. He was surprised when the two gentlehobbits approached him.

“Happy birthday, Sam!” said Pippin, wedging himself between Samwise and Faldo. Pippin had a genius for making space where there had been no space to begin with, and it stood him in good stead at the local tavern. Merry squeezed in on the other side of Sam, and the latter found himself the filling of a cousin pie.

“Thankee, Master Peregrin,” Sam said. “Evening, Master Meriadoc. Here for a spot of ale?”

“In good time,” said Merry. “Frodo sent us to look for you. There was some talk of a mathom.”

“He must not have seen!” said Sam, perplexed. “I planted three blackberry bushes outside his window while he was in Buckland today, and two young apple trees besides. Begging your pardon, but I’m not one to forget Mr. Frodo on my birthday.” Or ever, he silently added, though, given Frodo’s absence from the night’s festivities, it didn’t look as though the arrangement was reciprocal.

In truth, Sam looked forward to his birthday as a time when he could do extra things for his master without causing anyone – and in particular, the recipient of the all the attention – to raise an eyebrow. His feelings for Frodo were not meant to be public. Although in recent weeks, Sam had begun to fret that Frodo already knew.

“Oh, he saw,” commented Pippin. “He loved them.”

Sam looked from one cousin to the other, then began to worry his bottom lip with his teeth. If Frodo had sent Merry and Pippin out to collect mathoms of their own, he was in a tight spot. He didn’t know them well, and he hadn’t anything for them.

“He wants to give you a mathom,” said Merry, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Something for me? On my birthday?” It was unheard of, but then, the Bagginses were an unusual clan. Frodo paid little attention to what was expected of him. It was one of the things that made him … a marvel, thought the gardener. He tried to banish the thought from his head, and only succeeding in conjuring up visions of Frodo’s cornflower eyes, his poppy mouth, and the lithe body for which the world of horticulture afforded no obvious match.

“Right,” said Pippin. “It’s at Bag End.” He tossed his head towards the door, as if expecting Sam to go through it.

“That’s very fine of him,” managed Sam, “and no mistake. I’ll be there in the morning.”

“He’d like you to come now,” said Merry. Pippin tried to squeak something out, but his kinsman clapped a hand over his mouth.

Sam stared at Merry. He wasn’t sure how late it was, and any sundial that could have told him had stopped functioning some time ago.

“Right now,” reiterated Merry. “And don’t worry about the Gaffer. Frodo already talked with him, and your family’s not expecting you.”

“Then I’d best be going,” said Sam, rising to his feet. “If Mr. Frodo needs me...”

“Oh, he does,” said Pippin. He looked as if he planned to say more, but Merry shot him a look that would curdle cream, and he contented himself with taking a healthy draught from Sam’s tankard. By the time Pippin put the ale down, Sam had said his good-byes and was halfway to the door.

When he knocked at the entrance to Bag End a short while later, there was no response. Sam groaned at his own gullibility.

“The idea,” he muttered. “Making me come here in the middle of the night to disturb Mr. Frodo’s sleep.” He had heard that Frodo’s cousins were full of mischief, and this proved it. He was heading in the direction of 3 Bagshot Row when he noticed a candle shining in one of Mr. Frodo’s windows.

That’s no good, thought Sam. He’ll burn the place down if he’s not careful. His master was usually conscientious about such things, but lately, he had seemed distracted. Just the other day, Sam had brought him a cup of tea, and though Sam had greeted Frodo on entering the room, the older hobbit had nearly toppled out of his chair.

Sam returned to Frodo’s door. There were smears of what appeared to be jam on the brass doorknob, no doubt a testament to Pippin’s recent departure. Sam got out his handkerchief to wipe it down, and was taken aback when the door swung open a few inches under his gentle pressure. It hadn’t been locked; it hadn’t even been fully closed. Sam debated with himself as to whether he should go in and risk waking his employer. He was generally protective of Frodo’s rest, but at the moment, he was more concerned that he not be broiled in his bed. Taking a deep breath, he slipped inside.

What Sam saw next struck him as very strange. In addition to the candle in the window, there was another candle resting on a tea saucer on the floor. Then another, and another, in a line that led into the smial. Sam tried to come up with alternative explanations, but it was no good: the lights had been deliberately set to form a trail. One that led to Frodo’s bedchamber.

With hope and fear at the reins, Sam’s heart gathered speed. He snuffed out the window candle, then set about extinguishing the candles on the floor. He left the last taper burning and picked it up, saucer and all. He held it aloft with an unsteady hand, and its light flickered against Frodo’s door.

A voice from within called out something that sounded like Sam’s name. That was encouragement enough, and Sam let himself in.

The light temporarily dazzled him. There were candles everywhere, the handiwork of more bees than Sam knew existed. When his vision cleared, he was able to make out Frodo, lying in bed and covered by a thin quilt. He was sweetly luminous against the pillows. Sam set his candle down on the nearest piece of furniture, an oaken wardrobe, for in his state of shock, it was either that or drop it.

“Mr. Frodo,” he gasped. “Not wanting to be any trouble, sir, but Master Peregrine…he said you…” It was difficult to concentrate on his errand, because Frodo’s shoulders were uncovered. In fact, the shape of the quilt suggested that underneath, the rest of Frodo was as deliciously bare as his shoulders. Trying not to let his eyes wander from the delicate face, he let the sentence fade. He couldn’t finish it without sounding presumptuous.

“Wanted you?” asked Frodo, softly.

“Yes. No.” Sam began again. “Not me, as you might say; just my presence. For a bit. Or more. Or however long you like.” His tongue was dragging him around in circles, so he bit down on it, trying to show it who was in charge.

“It’s all right,” said Frodo. Amusement turned his voice to silver, but something else darkened it. It made his voice catch in his throat, then break forth in a rumble, throaty and intense. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Aye, if it’d be no bother.” Sam was feeling dizzy, and a chair would have been welcome. He looked around the room, but didn’t see one. He looked back to the bed. Although Frodo was small in size, he seemed to be taking up a lot of it.

“Where would you like me to sit?” he continued. Whatever had been affecting Frodo’s voice was now affecting his. “I could take the floor, if you want to sit up where you are.”

“I can’t sit up, Sam. Not at the moment.” Frodo glanced towards his right arm, flung out in a direct line towards the bedpost. His left arm was in a similar position.

Sam’s eyes widened in shock. Somebody had lashed Frodo to the bedposts with a quantity of dark blue ribbon.

“Did your cousins do this?” asked Sam. The rascality of Frodo’s relations astonished him. “Never you mind, Mr. Frodo, I’ll have you loose in a minute.” He made for the ribbon closest to him, but the look in Frodo’s eyes stopped him. “Sir?”

“Merry did it. Pippin mostly bounced around, whooping. I…I asked them to.”

Sam pondered this. “The mathom,” he said, choosing his words as if they were to last him through the next spring. “Is it…”

“Me. Yes. If you’d like. You don’t have to. That’s what the ribbons are for. This way, nothing happens unless you wish it. If you’d like to go home…”

Sam swallowed hard. “I’d like to stay.” He reached out a tentative hand and stroked one of his master’s shoulders. Frodo closed his eyes and vibrated. Sam could not decide whether he was shivering or purring.

Sam was grateful for the contact, but it inflamed his desire for more. “If you don’t mind, sir, might I kiss you?” he asked. His heart tossed like a newly landed fish, and he tried to start over. “I mean to say…”

“Please,” said Frodo, tilting his head back in anticipation. Sam bent over the bed, but the position of nightstand precluded him from getting close enough to reach Frodo’s mouth.

“You might have more luck,” observed Frodo, “if you were to…you know…get on top of me.”

Hardly believing what he was hearing, Sam climbed the recumbent form. Once on top, he held himself up with his arms and peered into Frodo’s eyes.

“I’m not hurting you, am I? Tell me if I am.” Sam was usually comfortable with his own hobbit sturdiness, but he couldn’t help but think that, at the moment, it might more practical to share Frodo’s slender, elven build.

“It feels good to have your weight on me. Please, Sam. More.”

Sam lowered himself, moaning once his master was trapped beneath him. He had dreamed of this many times. It seemed likely that he was dreaming now, and that he would wake up, sticky and alone, to the sounds of Marigold cooking breakfast. But Frodo’s warm breath against his face seemed so real. Reminded of what he had come for, he slipped his hand under his beloved’s head, raised it from the bed, and kissed him.

Had Sam compared Frodo’s red mouth to a poppy earlier in the evening? The comparison seemed more apt now, for it was said that the juice of the poppy had the power to delight, to enrapture. The news from Bree was that it was dangerous to try it, for once a hobbit had tasted the juice, he would close his lips against all other food and drink. Frodo’s lips were petal-soft, and when he parted them slightly, inviting Sam in, the gardener felt as though he were under an enchantment. Whatever they were doing, he never wanted to stop. It could no longer be called kissing, because a kiss was something that one might bestow upon one’s maiden aunt. The bold seduction of one tongue against another was something else – a rite of claiming, erotic and fierce.

“Mmmm,” groaned Frodo, low in his throat. Sam gently lowered the heavy head on to the pillow to let his master have air. “It’s so good. Sam, please have me.”

Sam pushed Frodo’s dark curls back from his eyes, unsure of what he wanted. “I have you, Mr. Frodo. You’re safe. Sam’s got you.” He tucked his hands under Frodo’s shoulders and pressed him close.

“I want you to have more of me,” said Frodo, managing to spread his legs apart. Apparently, they weren’t bound. The only thing that had been holding them in place was Sam.

Oh? Oh! Sam stared at his master in amazement. He hoped that he was interpreting Frodo’s wishes correctly. “Begging your pardon…” he began.

“You don’t need to beg, Sam.” Frodo smiled, as though finding Sam’s air of deference incongruous, given their current situation. “You can have anything you want. Even if it’s just to go out in the kitchen and have a cup of tea. Though it would be sporting of you to let me up, first.”

“Don’t care about food nor drink right now, except what’s directly in front of me.” The truth came out of him in a rush, and he couldn’t stop it. “I want you, Mr. Frodo. I want to love you.”

Sam marvelled at his own audacity. Throughout the Shire, the idea of a Gamgee propositioning a Baggins would have been considered shocking. But here, in this small bedchamber, with Frodo underneath him, Sam could not resist.

Frodo gave a little gasp, arching his body like a cat that has exchanged a field of snow for a blazing hearth. “I want that too, Sam. You’ve no idea how much.”

Sam rolled off Frodo and ran a wondering hand over his lightly veiled form. The thin counterpane was inadequate to disguise Frodo’s arousal.

“I may have some idea,” Sam teased, eyeing Frodo’s crotch. “Not that my own condition is any different. It looks as though you’ve already discovered that.” Frodo blushed, aware that he’d been caught staring at the bulge straining against Sam’s woolen trousers. As if in sympathy, Sam’s own blood rushed through his body, though not to his face.

Sam leaned over to press his lips against his love’s ear. “It’s not fitting,” he said, “for a gardener to be clad in wool and linen when the master of the house has nowt but a coverlet. It’s time things were set to rights, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s past time,” moaned Frodo, his hips arcing up off the bed.

“I can’t dress you, you know,” murmured Sam, pulling back to stroke his own chin. “Not with your arms tied to the bedposts. It’s a puzzlement, Mr. Frodo.” He pretended to consider the problem of achieving equity.

“It’s no such thing,” said Frodo. “Samwise Gamgee, if you don’t take your clothes off this instant, I’ll undress you with my toes.”

“Might enjoy that, love,” Sam remarked, but he sat up, let his feet dangle off the bed, and began to undo his shirt buttons. When he was finished, he turned his head to glance at his sole observer. Noticing that he had Frodo’s complete attention, he let the shirt fall off one shoulder. Frodo let out a strangled cry and began to bounce his heels with impatience.

“Please, Sam. Not so slow.”

Taking pity on his master, Sam pulled the shirt off the rest of the way, then held it in his lap. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the breeches off as well.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “Everything. I want you naked and on top of me, as fast as you can manage.”

“Well, I can’t undress in front of you,” mused Sam. “Folk would talk.” He was only half-joking. The thought of getting undressed under that steady, blue gaze had brought on a sudden fit of shyness.

Frodo tensed his muscles, trying to get closer to Sam. “Then cover my eyes with something. I don’t mind. Please, Sam. You can arrange me however you like.”

Sam considered this, then covered Frodo’s eyes and nose with several layers of his own white shirt. “Is this all right?”

“It’s fine,” said Frodo. “Sweet Eru, it’s more than fine. You were gardening in this shirt, weren’t you? Putting in those lovely plants for me. I can smell them. And the grass. And the sunshine. And you.”

Greatly stirred, Sam rose to his feet and fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. When he saw Frodo waiting for him, bound and hard, he wondered why he hadn’t shucked his clothes and taken him the minute he walked in the door. He let his breeches drop to the floor, then stepped out of his linens.

Samwise pulled back the quilt, exposing the curves and planes of Frodo’s pale body as far down as his waist. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Sweet, beautiful master.” Though the weather was warm, Frodo trembled.

“It’s only me, love,” said the seated hobbit. “Only Sam.” He lay down on his side, nestling his body against Frodo’s. Acutely aware that his hardness was pressed against his master’s hip, he traced Frodo’s lips with trembling fingers, and gasped when the lips parted to take the fingers in. Sam moaned. It felt as though Frodo were licking and sucking a portion of Sam that was much more sensitive than his hand.

“Let me touch you,” Sam pleaded.

Frodo nodded, so Sam moved his warm, wet hand down Frodo’s throat. He touched the apple there. It was part and parcel of Frodo’s maleness, and it excited him, but then, Frodo excited him a thousand times a day just puttering around the smial. He moved down to Frodo’s chest, stroking and caressing. Frodo was breathing hard now, and it gave Sam pleasure to think that his master was enjoying his attentions. Emboldened, he ran a thumb over Frodo’s nipple, then prepared to continue downward, as though touching his love there had been pure happenstance. But Frodo cried out and pressed against Sam’s hand, and suddenly, Sam was in no hurry.

“Frodo, is it…is it good?”

Sam had never addressed his love without an honorific before, but somehow, he felt that it might please his master to hear it that way. He was relieved when Frodo smiled, his nipple hardening against Sam’s touch.

“Yes,” gasped the writhing form on the bed. “Everything you do feels good to me, Sam. Touch me wherever you like.”

Sam stroked the tender flesh for a while, then let his hand continue its progression down to the flat planes of Frodo’s upper stomach. He hesitated for a moment, resting his fingers in the soft curls that began at Frodo’s belly. The curls disappeared under the quilt, and Sam thought of the trail of candles, leading him on through the darkness.

Frodo called his name, and the yearning in his voice was unmistakable. In a fit of unsurpassed daring, Sam reached under the quilt and touched his master.

“Ohhh,” said Frodo, and his cock leapt and jerked against Sam’s hand. Sam thought of the time he had played with a half-tame deer that one of his cousins had raised from a fawn. He had touched one of the antlers, expecting hardness, and it was there, but covered with something unimaginably soft and sweet. Frodo was like that: strength sheathed in velvet.

Sam pulled the shirt from Frodo’s eyes and tossed it onto the floor. Then he rested his head against a pale shoulder and continued stroking. “I love you,” he murmured. “You know that, don’t you? It would cut me to the heart if you didn’t.”

“I’ve always known you loved me,” said Frodo. He pressed his lips to Sam’s hair. “Just as I always knew I loved you back. It just took me a while to find out what that meant.”

“And what does it mean?” asked Sam, stilling his hand.

“It means this,” said Frodo, and Sam remembered to breathe again. “It means that I want to be with you. This way, if you’ll let me, but all the other ways besides. I want us to eat seven meals a day together, and eight when there’s pie. I want to help you plant in spring, weed in summer, harvest in autumn, and when winter comes, I want us to make plans for the spring. I want my heart to beat in your chest the way yours does in mine. I want every leaf of your garden to say ‘Frodo’ to you, just as every page of my library says ‘Sam’ to me. I want to love you and know you, Samwise; know you better than I know myself.”

“You already do,” Sam said. “I wanted those things too, I just never reckoned on saying them. Master…” He lifted his eyes to Frodo’s and recognized his own tenderness and desire mirrored there.

“You don’t have to ask,” said Frodo.

Sam reached down and pulled back the coverlet, exposing the rest of his beloved’s body. As he crawled over Frodo, he felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, completely naked. Frodo seemed to feel it too, for the look on his face was equal parts vulnerability and exhilaration. Sam looked into blue depths and saw again that he was loved.

“Before I make love to you…” Sam stopped, unsure of how to proceed.

The idea of being made love to must have been agreeable to Frodo, because Sam felt his master’s erection surge against his own.

“Yes?” Frodo asked. His face was flushed, and his breathing was shallow.

“I don’t want to bring you any harm. If I could just nip out to the kitchen for a moment, I’m sure I could find summat to ease the pangs for you. Cooking oil, maybe.”

Frodo smiled. “I’m ready, Samwise. When you enter me, you’ll see.”

“You’re ready? Did Merry…put something in you?” Sam felt a stab of jealousy.

“No,” said Frodo. “I prepared myself with rose oil, then covered myself up with the quilt. Merry only tied my arms afterwards.”

“And other than that, he didn’t lay a hand on you?” Sam did not see how anyone could see Frodo – bound and naked, but for a thin layer of fabric – and not make love to him.

“He wanted to,” Frodo admitted. “Pippin talked him out of it.”

Sam imagined that Pippin’s style of “talking,” under such circumstances, would involve anything from cajoling to hair-pulling to threats involving kitchen implements. Pippin, who was sweet on Merry, would brook no rival, even one as cherished as his dear cousin Frodo.

“You prepared yourself for me,” murmured Sam in a tone of wonderment. “You were that certain, like, that we would come to this?”

“I was certain that if we did, I wanted to be ready for you. I need you, Samwise.”

“Then you’ll have me,” said Sam. “You’ve always had me, Mr. Frodo, and no mistake.”

Sam knelt between Frodo’s parted thighs. He had seen his master naked before – arising from the bath, say, or swimming, as only Bucklanders were wont to do, down at Bywater Pool. These furtive glimpses had formed the basis of Sam’s stickiest dreams. Sam had never expected to see his love as he saw him now: limbs spread apart, his body offered. Desire had turned Frodo’s eyes to coal and his cock to granite, his hips to ocean and his mouth to fire. Sam looked at him and knew, more than ever, what it was to want.

“May I touch you?” asked Sam. “Here, where I’m going to…enter you. I wouldn’t want the breaching to be rough.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. “Please, Sam.”

Sam stroked the entrance to Frodo’s body. Frodo moaned and shifted. Sam pressed one finger into him and held it there, letting his master get used to it. It wasn’t long before Frodo was begging for more fingers. Sam obliged. Once he had three fingers inside his slippery beloved, Frodo cried out. The look on his face was passion, not pain.

“It’s good,” breathed Frodo. “When your fingers bump against the upper wall, something there craves more. I crave more. Now, Sam. Will you take me now?”

“Yes, love.” Breathing hard, Sam stroked his own swollen cock with the shining oil he had found inside Frodo. He knelt over his love and let his hard length come to rest against the place that would shelter it. He wrapped one hand around his shaft to steady it, then, taking a deep breath, he pushed the head of his cock inside.

“Master,” cried Sam, hoping the tone of his voice could explain what his words could not. He had known Frodo first as his employer, then as his friend, then as the person he most loved in the world. Now he knew him also as the source of all pleasure, an avatar of tightness and heat.

“Sam, I love you. I can’t wait any more. Press into me. Not just the head, but everything."

Sam obeyed, and Frodo cried out, his eyes wide. “Like that,” he said, wrapping his legs around Sam’s sturdy back. “Do it again.”

Sam began to slide in and out of Frodo’s unresisting body. He looked down at where the two of them were joined, and the sight of Frodo accommodating his thick arousal took his breath away. He remembered what his master had said about the upper wall, and he angled his strokes to touch him there.

Frodo was panting now. “You’re so stiff,” he managed. “It makes me hot to think the stiffness is for me. And the way you’re touching me…you’ve got me so excited. I can’t last.”

“You don’t have to last, sweetheart. Lie back. I’ll take care of you.” Sam used one hand to hold himself up, then wrapped the other hand, which was still slippery with oil, around Frodo’s shaft.

Frodo’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body was misted in a fine sheen of sweat, and his heart was beating so hard that Sam swore he could hear it.

“Is it all right, love? Tell me what to do. Help me please you…”

“Harder,” gasped Frodo. “Do it harder. I’m close, Samwise, so close…”

Sam abandoned himself to his master’s request. His cock and hand moved in unison, and he could feel Frodo clenching around his hardness in time with his fist clenching around Frodo’s cock.

“Yessss,” keened Frodo. “Please, yes. Put it in me, Sam. I need to feel you…”

The sound of Frodo begging to be taken was too much for Sam. He could feel a tightness forming at the base of his balls, then a warmth that became a fire. As he screamed his lover’s name, the world tipped like a pitcher, pouring the contents of his own body into the vessel beneath him. Sam’s liquid offering fuelled his master’s climax like burning oil fuels a wick, and Frodo spilled hard and fast against both their stomachs as Sam and pleasure claimed him.

Afterwards, when Sam had untied the ribbons that had bound his mathom, they lay in each other’s arms, murmuring their love.

After a while, Sam’s eyes opened wide. “Birch,” he said.

Frodo laughed. “What?”

“I’d been trying to think of what kind of plant you were, all slender and white and strong, and I have it. You’re a birch. Silver birch. You know, the way it shines when the moon strikes it just right.”

“Am I shining, Sam?”

“You fair glow, Mr. Frodo. It’s something to see.”

“Then you must be moonlight,” said Frodo, tangling his fingers in Sam’s hair. “Will you plant a birch for me on your next birthday?”

“Aye. And you can tell me what sort of tree I am, and I’ll plant it alongsides.”

“Then maybe you ought to come and live with me, Sam. That way, I’ll have plenty of time to discover what kind of tree you are.”

Sam grinned with astonishment and joy. “That I will, Mr. Frodo,” he said, holding his lover tightly. “That I will.”