TITLE: Thieves of Hearts
AUTHOR: Scifi "takeowizard" <takeowizard@yahoo.com>
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Frodo/Sam
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these charming characters, nor the world they live in, nor 
the card game. Pretty much I don't own anything (so poor! sob!). I'm making no moolah 
off of this, so don't sue me! 
Waaargh!
SUMMARY: Frodo tries to teach Sam a simple card game, and things go a little weird 
from there...
NOTES: Got the idea from playing Thieves while having it in Two-Player mode and 
naming the players "Sam" and "Frodo" on a whim. The weird thing was, Sam kept losing, 
geh-heheh... The title's a bit corny. Also, I probably got everyone's eye-color wrong, so 
bear with me. I'm just calling it like I remember it, and I can only remember Frodo's eyes 
as blue. Takes place before the movie!!!!
	*
	There was a storm blowing in. The wind whistled shrilly through the trees and 
the chimneys, and the fat black clouds that rolled slowly in over the Shire were heavy 
with rain. Thunder echoed ominously the distance, followed by a occasional flash of 
white lightening, but two particular hobbits weren't paying attention to the coming storm 
at all.
	"What's this game called again, Mr. Frodo?"
	"Thieves, Sam," Frodo replied as he lit a few more candles.
	Sam gazed warily at the mass of cards on the table before him. He understood 
the rules, sure enough, but for some reason, as soon as he had let his eyes sweep the four 
neat rows of various playing cards, Sam felt like his mind had emptied itself of all 
thought. There was a three of diamonds before him, and that was all he seemed to know. 
Blinking furiously, Sam ran a hand through his soft curls and wondered how Frodo had 
talked him into this.
	Grinning mischievously, Frodo carefully watched Sam's face. 
It wasn't that Sam was stupid, far from it, it was just that he had the worst kinds of trouble 
when it came to cards; if it wasn't losing every hand when playing with Merry and 
Pippin--who, mercilessly, forced him to play for money every time and to top it off 
cheated--it was difficulty with the game itself. But Frodo still had a little bit of an impish 
streak, so he let Sam puzzle over the cards for a bit before gently suggesting, "The four of 
spades?"
	Blushing a little now in embarrassment, Sam picked up the card and placed it 
over the three. Then hesitantly he picked up a five, and then another four.
	"Hey, very good!" Frodo cheered, clapping his hands then making a little note 
of the score on a piece of paper.
	Sam's face had become rather red now, and he cleared his throat. "Might you 
have something to wet the throat, perhaps, not to be forward, but I'm feeling a bit parched 
at the moment."
	Now it was Frodo's turn to be embarrassed. "Of course, Sam, forgive my 
rudeness. I'll be back in a moment." He rose from the small table and quickly hurried off 
to the kitchen, leaving Sam to wonder at what he was supposed to do next. Frodo set 
about pouring mugs of ale and making a plate of snacks for them, his mind wandering a 
bit. It had been a lovely day, the entire thing wonderfully wasted doing nothing 
constructive with Samwise. Bilbo had gone off visiting on account of a death of a very 
distant relative--an unfortunate duty in everyone's eyes, but especially in Bilbo's, who 
preferred not to have anything to do with that side of the family--so Frodo had been in 
charge, and he had been unable to think of anything to do other than wander about the 
Shire having fun and occasionally getting in a little spot of harmless trouble, especially 
when they happened to run across the inseparable Merry and Pippin. As long as Sam was 
with him, any day was perfect. Smiling a little, his mouth quirked and soft blue eyes 
distant, Frodo let himself sneak a glance at his fellow hobbit and faithful friend, who 
hadn't moved an inch, so deeply mired in confusion was he. Frodo tried not to let himself 
think about it, but he couldn't help the thoughts that forced their way into his mind every 
so often when he wasn't being vigilant.
	"I could never be away from him," Frodo murmured to himself, so quiet it was 
like the whispering of the trees outside in the breeze of the threatening storm. "If I were, I 
would surely shrived up like a flower plucked from it's stem. I need Sam, I suppose, I 
need him like I need air, food, light." His smile twisted, became wistful, dreamy and 
distant, as he let his eyes and mind caress the soft face, the shining curls, the gentle eyes 
narrowed in frustration.
	"Mr. Frodo!" Sam suddenly called out, his head lifting. Frodo jumped a little, 
his heart pounding, when he remembered he was safely concealed in the shadows the 
candles created. "Mr. Frodo, can you explain this one more time please, sir?"
	*
	The storm raged on. It had finally reached the Shire and blew with full force, 
the rain so strong and angry that it stung the skin, the lightening striking with disturbing 
frequency and even more disturbing proximity. The thunder roared as if enraged, driving 
all sensible hobbits to their beds to sleep the storm away.
	It had taken a bit of ale and more than a few of rounds of 
Thieves before Sam stopped called him "sir"--but not "Mister", he clung stubbornly to 
that--not to mention his score finally reached above 100. This current round, Frodo had 
491 points, and Sam had a rather sad 266. It would seem to any observer that Sam had 
actually improved at the game proportionally with his intake of ale. The thought of it 
made Frodo grin a little as he took a five, a six, a seven, a six, a five, and a four. Then he 
pulled a King, and grabbed a Queen, and a Jack. Then his turn was over, for he had run 
out of cards but there were still some before him, and the game was over, for Frodo had 
gone over five hundred points.
	"You certainly are good at this, Mr. Frodo," Sam muttered, shaking his head. 
Frodo could swear he could hear the quiet swishing of his golden hair brushing against 
his face even over the sounds of the raging storm. The fair-haired hobbit looked up, then, 
and his eyes met Frodo's over the yellow-orange glow of the candles and the cards he had 
begun to hate so very much, and suddenly his heart was in his throat and he felt very 
nervous and addle-brained with drink. 
Clumsy in mind and action, that's how he felt. "I-..." He began, uncertain what he was 
going to say. "I-..." Suddenly the words came out of his mouth, spilling a secret fear of 
his, one of his many secrets, "I'll always been an idiot, not just in cards, neither, I guess. 
The Gaffer would be ashamed if he knew just how stupid I was, 
Mr. Frodo. 'Sam', he's say--"
	"Sam," Frodo abruptly interrupted, his eyes still locked with Sam's own 
widening ones. "Sam, dearest Samwise, you're not an idiot, and you're not stupid. And 
your Gaffer's blind if he thinks that you are."
	Both hobbits blushed a rosy red, their eyes dropping in confusion at feelings 
that they both had known in their hearts but hadn't had much experience dealing with. 
Sam's hand slowly sneaked across the table to Frodo's where it sat, pale and slender and 
tempting, and he took it in his own, enjoying the smooth skin compared to his own rough 
with calluses and scars. He often held Frodo's hand, it was habit since he was a wee one, 
but for some reason, now, the common act had taken on deeper meanings, tenors, and--
above all--consequences.
	"Mr. Frodo?" Sam whispered, then stopped. All the words he wanted to say, all 
the secrets he had harbored for so long, they had become lodged firmly in his throat in a 
tight ball that threatened to choke him. His eyes burned, but he didn't dare to blink.
	A cool hand touched his cheek, the tips of the fingers resting, unmoving, on the 
bone there. So cold. Sam clapped his hand over Frodo's, nuzzling it with his face, 
warming it, pulling the other hand closer, holding it tight to his chest. Frodo somehow 
ended up standing before him, his eyes large and round and a violent shade of icy blue, 
his mouth parted slightly as his breath whistled audibly over the screaming of the wind 
and the rain. Getting to his feet, Sam took a step closer to the hobbit standing before him, 
his eyes locked on the throat, the lips, anything other than the eyes, unable to meet those 
eyes, when Frodo whispered hoarsely, "The storm's pretty bad, 
Sam. You--.. You might as well stay here tonight."
	That gave Sam the courage to look into those burning eyes, and he saw 
kindness and love there, and a wanting to match his own. "Frodo," he sighed, finally 
dropping the formality in the face of their desires.
	Then Frodo's mouth was on his, the lips soft and full and yielding, just like he 
had always imagined they would be, and those silken hands pulled his shirt free and 
slipped under the fabric and when they touched his skin, they made him shiver in joy so 
fierce and sudden it was almost painful. Sam found he couldn't move, locked in place by 
the kiss and the touch of his most beloved, the one he had loved since he could 
remember.
	"Sam," Frodo finally gasped into his mouth, his hands gathering the soft golden 
hair and slicing through it's silken strands with his fingers. "Sam, what's wrong?"
	Shivering with delight, Sam felt life return to his stone limbs, and he whispered, 
"Absolutely nothing," before he grabbed 
Frodo up and placed him on his back on the table.
	Frodo could feel the table below him, the smooth wood, and the cards digging 
gently into his back, but he could hardly believe it. Sam, his Sam, was unbuttoning his 
shirt, touching his chest and stomach with shaking hands, gliding so carefully as if afraid 
to bruise him. Frustrated by the touches so delicate they were almost nonexistent, Frodo 
took the other's hands in his own and ran then up and down his torso, gazing hard into 
Sam's eyes. "I'm not fragile," Frodo said, smiling, "you don't have to worry."
	His stomach did a flip-flop and he thought very briefly he was going to faint. 
Just watching Frodo, shirtless, his skin glowing in the candlelight, helping him to touch, 
to feel his perfect flesh, was almost unbearable. He was quickly losing his nerve. "I feel... 
strange..." he gasped, watching those hands on his sliding, gliding.
	Letting go of the other hobbit's hands, Frodo sat up quickly, his face strange 
with a mix of emotions. "Don't say that," he whispered, sounding hurt. "Don't say that 
and use the ale as an excuse. I don't want you to regret this. I love you, Sam, I'm very 
much in love with you, but if you're not sure, if this is not what you want or this is 
something you only want tonight and never again, I'll not do it, not for all the gold in the 
world."
	Sam realized then what had hurt his precious Frodo, and he regretted what he 
said, "No," he amended, "no, I simply meant... I mean... I feel a bit... dizzy... It's so 
fast..." The pain in Frodo's eyes hadn't abated one bit, and it made the lump in Sam's 
throat reappear and his eyes burn again. Stupid, stupid he was, couldn't make the very 
words he wanted to say so badly come out. "What I mean to say, Frodo dear, is that... I 
love you. Very much. With all my heart and body and soul, every last bit of me, I love 
you and the sound of your voice and your eyes and---"
	"Enough!" Frodo cried, laughing. "Enough, I understand now. I'm sorry, Sam, 
for doubting you." His eyelids lowered, hiding the blinding blue in long dark lashes. 
There was a pause as their hands found each other and joined warmly and lovingly, and 
then Sam hesitantly pressed his mouth to Frodo's, and found himself pulled into a tight 
and tender embrace. Then Sam lowered his head and placed kisses along the other's jaw, 
his neck, his chest, all the while pushing his shirt off. "Not fair," Frodo gasped. He 
quickly unbuttoned Sam's shirt and let it drop to the floor, letting his hands slide over the 
skin so frequently tanned--and burned--by the sun that it had become a sort of permanent 
shade darker than most other hobbits'.
	Groaning in pleasure as Frodo touched him, blushing furiously at his own 
audacity, Sam quickly undid the other hobbit's remaining clothes and forced them out of 
his way. All the while, he could hear his name being called gently, insistently, and only 
finally when he had the object of his love unashamedly naked on the table, perfect and 
benumbingly gorgeous, did he look up and concentrate on what the other was saying. 
Something about the cards. Those blasted cards!
	"They're digging into my back, Sam," Frodo murmured, smiling slightly at the 
irritation so plain in the other's face. He stood up and, catching Sam's mouth in a brief 
kiss, said, "Perhaps the floor will be more comfortable."
	The floor! Sam's face flushed again, scandalized. The table in the middle of the 
room was bad enough. "Shouldn't we go to your room, Frodo--"
	Frodo smiled mischievously and pulled the other close so that their skin touched 
and burned. "No," he said. "Now, Sam, now." He knew how prudish the hobbit could be 
about certain matters, and Frodo delighted in teasing him at times, and he was not 
disappointed this time as Sam bowed his head in embarrassment and bit his bottom lip, 
bruised with kissing. Frodo grabbed the other's hands and said tenderly, "I know you 
liked this, I saw it in your face," and pulled them to him, running them across his chest, 
down his sides, to his hips, teasing and coy and seductive. Sam's eyebrows arched and he 
licked his lips, breathing heavily, his heart pounding. "Take your clothes off, Sam," 
Frodo whispered into the other hobbit's ear, "I want to see you. You're beautiful."
	"No I'm not, I'm rough and dirty and miserable," Sam said, abashed, but did as 
Frodo wanted, and soon found himself being pulled down to the floor on top of Frodo. 
Even in his wildest dreams he wouldn't have thought this possible, because that was 
where this sharing of hearts had always remained for so long, in his wildest dreams. So 
aroused he was nearly in pain, Sam pressed his body 
against Frodo's, eliciting an exhilarating groan, and found himself no longer in control of 
his body as he his hips against the other's, his hands burying themselves in his brown 
curls, his mouth covering every inch of body available to him in sloppy kisses. Frodo 
cried out in pleasure and wrapped one leg loosely around Sam's hip, his back arching up.
	"Sam!" he whimpered, eyes closed so tight that his brow was furrowed, "Sam, I 
want you... inside..."
	Shocked, Sam faltered and pulled back a little. Inside? He... 
No, he couldn't. "No, Frodo, love, dearest," Sam whispered into his lovely ear, "I'll hurt 
you, surely, if I do."
	Frodo's eyes flew open and the brilliant blue there met his own chocolate 
brown. "Sam, you could never hurt me," he said, smiling adoringly. Arching his back 
again, rubbing his chest against Sam's, he spit reached down his hand and touched him, 
making his entire body suddenly lurch. "Please." His hand rubbed up and down, coating 
him, making him shudder and produce urgent noises deep in his throat. Any more and 
Sam was sure he would simply die right there on the floor.
	"Yes," Sam hoarsely cried, and, burying his face in the crook of Frodo's neck, 
slowly but with an ever-present need found the opening and careful pushed in. The other 
hobbit tipped his head back and wrapped both legs around him, pulling him as close as 
possible. Sam felt as if his mind was narrowing down to one singular point of focus: 
Frodo, and it would never shift from that focus again. Moving a little, Sam's eyelids 
slammed shut in pleasure and he gave a little shuddering cry. Frodo wiggled his hips and 
Sam's body took over again, his mind no longer functioning, and he began to thrust 
slowly at first, then with increasing speed, and all the while Frodo writhed and tossed, 
frenzied, in consuming elation. The pleasure mounted and became unbearable, and Sam 
wrapped his arms around the other, picking him up so that he appeared to be sitting on his 
lap; Frodo slid down him all the way and they both cried out in enraptured ecstasy, both 
coming violently.
	Exhausted, Sam fell back, enjoying the feel of Frodo laying on him, warm and 
heavy like a sun-heated stone. Sam wrapped his arms tight around the other hobbit and 
pulled him close, protectively, unexpectedly aware of the storm raging outside.
	Frodo snuggled against him. "Sam, let's go to bed," Frodo said with a scratchy 
voice, his throat rough and sore from the yelling. "It's getting cold." Struggling to their 
feet, they slowly made their way to the bedroom, spent and smarting a little from the 
rowdy behavior on the chilly hard floor. 
	Getting under the sheets together, now like one person, so joined by heart and 
body, Sam pulled Frodo close again, loving the feel of him in his arms, and said, "I love 
you so much, Mr. Frodo, it makes my heart hurt, if you'll forgive me saying."
	Laughing a little at the return of the ever-present and ever-annoying formal title, 
Frodo placed a few quick kisses on Sam's face and then a more lingering, deeper kiss on 
his mouth, letting himself tarry there. When the kiss broke, he replied, "I love you too, 
Sam, with everything I have in me." They curled up together in the bed, warm and safe 
from the storm screaming and shrieking outside, sleepy-headed and still a little fuzzy 
from the ale.
	After a long and happily comfortable while, Frodo grinned mischievously again 
and said in an off-hand manner, "Perhaps we should teach Merry and Pippin that game. 
It's probably even more interesting with four players."
	Knowing perfectly well what Frodo meant, Sam, once again scandalized, 
gasped, "Mr. Frodo!" while the other hobbit shook with laughter.
	And outside the storm raged on, but no one paid it much mind anymore.
	*
	*
	*
	end