"Mr Frodo, me dear, if you take any more I won't be able to rouse myself out of bed before lunch time, and there's those daffies that need potting in the morning."
"Bugger the daffies," Frodo offers as a solution, pushing Sam down into the softness of the bed. "You taste like the sun, Sam."
"Didn't know that the sun had a taste," Sam manages to say before Frodo's mouth seals around the cut again and it's difficult to think of anything but that careful, stinging touch.
Frodo doesn't answer, cold fingers kneading at Sam's hot damp skin restlessly, spine arching in rhythm with the strong pulse that passes from one set of veins to another as Frodo drinks.
"Mr Frodo, sir, I really must... oh, sir, do that again, please..." Sam murmurs, hands scrabbling against the clean angles of Frodo's hipbones.
Frodo smiles against Sam's skin, glad to finally have a request he's happy to oblige.
~