That time when Thorin was being eaten alive by mosquitoes, while Wren was stuck on stilts in a marsh.
A/N: My darling RagdollPrincess, I love you! I bet the inspiration for this prompt was the marsh wren (Cistothorus palustris) and its ability to hold on to two cattails, its funny legs at 90 degrees to its body! It's a ninja wren, and that is what you are getting in this chapter :)
My lovelies, seriously, google the bird! It's to die for :)
Thorin was lost. He cursed the wizard, he cursed the map he had in the inner pocket of his coat, he cursed the innkeeper in Bree who gave him directions. He was not in any way in Hobbiton. He was in the middle of a swamp. And he was slowly but surely sinking into it. And he was devoured by mosquitoes that were, he could swear, twice their normal size. He had thought he was staying on the path, he could see the white stones marking the safer ground, but at some point all of them were gone, and he thought he was still doing fine. He wasn't. He poked a tussock near him with the handle of his axe. It sank with a disgusting squelching sound. That wasn't good. He poked around some more, with the same result.
He swore loudly and with gusto. He had had no desire to go and meet this hobbit, he doubted Gandalf's judgement in regards to a choice of a burglar, but at the moment he was in danger of having no chance to tell the nosey parker of the wizard off. He'd die in an unknown swamp. Slowly and humiliatingly. Half eaten by mosquitoes before he would actually drown in stale swamp water. He thought with relief that at least no one would know how his demise found him, when he thought he heard some approaching noise from around the nearest low hill. He pulled his sword out of the scabbard, lamenting his limited mobility, by then he had sunk so that the water had reached his family jewels, and he did mean the buckle on his belt, and if the person approaching were not to help him but to slay him, he'd be doomed.
He almost dropped his sword when she appeared from around the mound. His jaw slacked, and he stared at her. Firstly, it was her, and what were the chances? Secondly, she was dressed in narrow leather breeches, nothing left to imagination, and a short leather doublet, all in black. Thirdly, and most importantly, she was walking on stilts. She stopped and gaped at his as well. And then just as he managed to guess a second in advance she started laughing. It was a merry silver laughter, she folded in two, dangerously rocking on her stilts, and then she sobbed out, "Maiar help me, sweetpea, didn't you know Dwarves can't swim?" She finally looked at him, "It is you, darling, isn't it? I can only see the top half, and I have to confess I was more interested in what is currently hidden under water when we met before." He assumed she refered to his money pouch on his belt. Her eyes were shining with mischief, and he cocked a brow. She walked around him, like some sort of an exotic crane, and after a few minutes of search she found the solid ground. She deftly jumped off her stilts and started unbuttoning her doublet. There was a thin gauze tunic underneath it, and she tut-tutted, "Keep your scorching eyes to yourself, sweetpea."
"Consider it the dying wish of a doomed man," he grumbled and watched her unwrap the rope previously ties around her waist under the doublet.
"Would you like me to lift the tunic then, or you prefer me to throw you the rope?" Her tone was sarcastic, while she was clearly preparing to hurl him the end of the rope.
"The choice is rather difficult to make, Wren," he lifted a brow, and she giggled, "I'm tempted to die for just one glance."
"Oh you are a smooth talk when you want to be, sweetpea," the rope hit him to the nose, she had exceptional aim as he knew already, and he tied it around himself. She had strong arms and legs but it took a while to pull him out. Finally he fell down on the path near her, and she spread on the ground like a starfish. She was breathing heavily, and her chest was rising under the lace bodice.
"Eyes on the dreary swamp, Oakenshield," she breathed out, and he guffawed. She turned her head and smiled to him.
"Thank you," his tone was earnest, and she nodded. He moved closer, she was still smiling, he leaned in, and she placed her small hand on his lips.
"Don't even think about it, you stink like a bog, and there are probably leeches enjoying the blood from the line of Durin at the moment. I found a cabin not far from here, we can spend a night there. It's getting dark."
He got up and stretched his hand to her. Her fingers lay on his palm, and he pulled unnecessarily hard, bending at the same time, catching her mouth. The bog stench didn't seem to bother her this time, since she grabbed handfuls of his hair and enjoyed him fully. At some point her deft little tongue ran on his upper lip, and she purred, "Common, I even have a bathtub there." Never in his life had Thorin Oakenshield walked so carefully and so quickly through a swamp. The view of her perky buttocks while she was leading the way was additionally beneficial for his motivation.
The cabin was on stilts as well, he helped her carry hers, and they came in. There was one large room, with a wood stove, a table with one chair and a bed. She had obviously made herself comfortable in the cabin. There were luscious sheets and furs on the bed, wine, cheese and bread on the table, and indeed a wooden bathtub in the middle of it. On the stove there were large cauldrons with water for it, and she lit up the wood in it. His hands flew up to the clasps on his coat with the speed of lightning. She laughed and started putting up a kettle on the fire.
"I do not drink much," her tone was almost apologetic, "But I would love some tea. Will you have some?"
He had shed most of his clothes by then, and she was right about leeches, he noticed with disgust, and he came up to her and stood behind, without touching her. She was right about the stench as well.
"I'll have what you have," his tone was warm, and she looked at him over her shoulder. She was shamelessly flirting with him, and he laughed. What a kitten!
He helped her with cauldrons, his hand as if by accident brushing at her buttocks, each time he'd be rewarded with an askew glance full of feigned exasperation, and soon the bath was ready.
"It is too small for both of us," she sounded wistful, and his member rejoiced. "You take it, I already had one today. I'll see to the tea meanwhile."
He was soaking in scorching water, having given up on reigning his erection, enjoying the sounds of her rustling at the back of the room. At some point a glass of wine was pushed into his hand, and he smiled without opening his eyes. He wasn't naive, fool me once, as they say. He was sitting with his eyes half closed, watching her make tea and cut cheese, when she noticed he wasn't drinking.
"Oh for the glory of Maiar," she came up to him and looked at him as if derisively, "You do not trust me at all, do you, sweetpea?" He smiled wider without opening his eyes. She picked up the glass from his hand, his eyes flew open just in time to see her take a big sip from his glass. Her red lips grew even brighter, coloured with wine, and her throat moved. His length was sticking out of water like a bulrush. She gave him the glass back, quickly pecked his lips, threw a glance at the "reedlace", sighed wistfully and went back to her affairs. He was drinking wine and making plans.
They settled on the bed, kissing and feeding each other bread and cheese, and although he felt like he was going to explode like flashfire pot any moment, there was a certain thrill in prolonging the game. She was in his arms, taut and flexible, only her bloomers and chemise left on her. At some point when he was kissing her stomach, bunching up the undertunic, when she suddenly wiggled out of his hands and jumped off the bed. He stared at her, she quickly pitter-pattered to the stove and came back with a cup of tea. She took a small sip and licked her lips.
"Want some?" She definitely wasn't talking about tea, and he lunged at her. She laughed and pressed her hand to his chest, "Careful, you brute! It's hot! I'll burn myself." She drank some more, he caught her mouth in a kiss, her breath smelt of mint and some flowers, and he picked up the cup from her hands and drank it in one gulp.
"See? No more tea," he pushed the cup somewhere blindly, "Now you can finally spare me some attention." She laughed melodically and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"I'm all yours, sweetpea." He with all honesty had never heard anything better than this little purr of hers. He toppled her on the bed and proceeded kissing every inch of her. The skin was silky, cool, intoxicating. She was making small happy gasps and moans.
This time he got as far as almost pulling her flirty lacy bloomers off, when he noticed his drugged state. He lifted his face from the hipbone he was kissing and asked with sincere astonishment, "How?!"
"Oh it's just belladonna, sweetpea. You'll get a few hours of healthy sleep and probably won't even have any headache tomorrow. I'll leave you breakfast and a map of how to get out of here. I'm done with my affairs here anyroad." She was smiling blissfully to him, twirling a thread of his hair around her delicate index finger.
"But we shared everything! Was it wine?! Or tea?!" He was starting to slur.
"Both actually," she smiled merrily as if he had just complimented her cooking, "I spent the last few years building up an immunity to belladonna powder. And worry not, love, I am very careful with dosage."
He gave her a sad look, and his head fell on her warm stomach. Her deft little fingers gently scraping the back of his head and her even breathing lulled him to sleep. The last thought swimming in his drugged mind was that all and all this encounter went better than the previous ones, at least he didn't get a goose egg. He changed his mind in the morning when he realised she took his gold pouch again. And his favourite dagger as well.