Mahal Give Me Strength
Part VII of Quite, Quite Scandalous
Mahal, it was cold in this Maker-forsaken cave. The rain was bucketing down and Thorin's furs were sodden and heavy; he heartily wished they could light a fire. But safety dictated a fire was unwise and so he grit his teeth and focused on not shivering. How un-kingly.
He could hear the halfling's teeth chattering and he glanced over at him, merely to offer him a blanket or something in that vein, but immediately had to close his eyes and look away, taking a few deep, calming breaths.
Mahal, give me strength. Oh, did Thorin need it...
It had rained before on their journey, yes.
The hobbit had got wet on their journey, yes.
But it had never rained this hard, and now the hobbit was sodden. It took all of Thorin's willpower not to go over there and simply remove the hobbit's clothing himself - it would grant him a lot more satisfaction than this... this teasing. Bilbo's light cotton shirt (impractical at the best of times) was clinging to his body, turning transparent and offering Thorin tantalising hints of Bilbo's soft, pink warm skin underneath; skin Thorin longed to run his hands over and taste and -
This was not the time or the place to be thinking such things! They were stuck in a cave and there was no 'firewood' to collect, and that train of thought would lead only to discomfort, at the very least. He was already a little...flustered.
He took a deep breath to calm his...overactive mind. Surely the halfling was sent to him as a test? A sign from Mahal? If he could prove himself and his honour then surely the Maker would look at least a bit more kindly on their endeavour? If he was watching them now, Thorin had no doubt he'd probably be laughing his beard off.
It just made matters worse, however, that Bilbo was glaring at him, at times sorrowful and others angry; either way, Thorin knew he'd been unfair when he'd lashed out earlier but really, it was all the halfling's fault anyway - Thorin had gotten used to having him around. And perhaps if he didn't go around parading himself like some doxy flashing her wares then Thorin would be able to think straight and perhaps have a decent conversation with him. One which didn't end up with Thorin rushing off abruptly with very Urgent Matters to attend to.
He rolled himself up in his blankets to escape the hobbit's baleful look, refusing to admit to the thrill curling in his belly at the thought of the halfling watching him sleep. (Because of course Thorin had most certainly not done just that. First watch was far too interesting and busy to be spending the small hours of the morning watching the gentle rise and fall of the hobbit's chest and imagining what it'd look like bared to him and panting, beads of sweat forming on his flushed brow; imagining the sounds Thorin could pull from that throat- of course he'd never done that. He'd never compromise their safety that way...)
Gradually the cave fell silent as the dwarves all fell asleep, huddled together for warmth. Thorin didn't want a company of invalids, thank you very much, so he relinquished his noble distance for one night to share in the not inconsiderable body heat of thirteen dwarves and one hobbit. Blocked noses weren't very majestic, either way.
Just as Thorin's lids were growing heavy with sleep he heard shuffling. Instantly alert, he listened more closely; it was still there, but very faint under the snores of his companions. Resisting the urge to punch them all and tell them to shut up, he slowly sat up, gripping Orcrist tight-
To see the hobbit, wriggling around under his blankets. His feet were sticking out from the thin woollen cover (and oh, those ankles had only gotten more shapely from all their walking!) and he'd curled up, bending his knees and writhing...
And if Thorin's mind didn't enter the gutter then. He had to bite back his groan as he thought what it would be like to have that soft, pliant little body beneath him, squirming and moving and touching all the right places-
He lay back down again quickly, stifling the small moan he let out as his trousers (confound it all they were still too tight) just made things worse.
A test from Mahal, indeed! The hobbit would be the death of him. Thorin wondered if he'd got a fever and that was why his imagination was so...vivid - or maybe they were visions, temptations from the Maker he must resist.
Gritting his teeth, he focused on his breathing, keep it deep and steady and trying to remember the day he'd gone swimming in the underground lakes with his grandfather. (It had scarred him to learn that Thrór favoured skinny-dipping).
Just as he managed to not groan every time he shifted, he heard something which fixed the problem quicker than even Grandpa Thrór's saggy bits.
"Where d'ya think you're going?"
"Back to Rivendell."
Not by Thorin's majestic beard, he was.