Frodo somehow manages to get ink in the most unusual of places. The black stains are all over his fingers, his wrists, too, sometimes on cuffs and shirtsleeves when ideas strike and paper is scarce. These are normal and too be expected. But then there are the other splotches, discovered through (mostly) innocent means in the most bizarre sections of Frodo's skin. A dark blue streak smeared behind one pale, pointed ear, found while combing his unruly black locks. A little dark line along the tip of his nose that was so endearing that Rosie allowed him to go the whole day without telling him to clean it off. Little spatterings of the gold tinted ink he uses for the title pages over his eyelids where he has rubbed sleep away. Words written in reverse along a high cheekbone, evidence of another nap pillowed by footnotes.
Rosie has found another stain, more black ink between soft folds of flesh. She tisks in disappointment and Sam, looking over her shoulder, shakes his head as well.
'I couldn't help it,' Frodo protests, laying back against their bed sheets. 'I itched, so I had to scratch.'
He's hushed by a kiss, soft lips and warm hands being stained with the black ink as well. She smiles, a wicked little grin. 'Frodo Baggins, the next time you feel inclined to itch, tell us so that we may scratch it and save some of your good clothes.'
He blushes prettily in embarrassment and gasps when she touches the blot in question. 'Rose-dear, I think that I would stain them anyway!'
~