Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is my first time dipping my toes into Tolkien's universe, so this is more of an experiment than anything. I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. The main pairing in this fic is Dwori (Dwalin/Ori) with a secondary pairing of Bagginshield (Thorin/Bilbo) for flavour.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for 'The Hobbit' and 'The Desolation of Smaug' if you squint. This is set in an 'everyone lives' style AU. Expect canon appropriate violence, mature language, minor mention of body image issues, age difference, discussion of injuries. Timeline? What timeline? Characters being adorable little shits, dwarvish courting rituals, slash, and – oh yeah – smut.
Untraditionally, Yours.
He'd learned many things in their quest to regain Erebor. And while the list itself was exhaustive, some of the highlights go as follows: the first was that Thorin had a truly terrible sense of direction. King under the Mountain or not, he swore the man had no idea how to even use a bloody map, let alone navigate cross country. Honestly, how does one even get lost in a place as small as the Shire?!
Second, (and this was something he was still uncertain of) he wasn't sure if the elves were all a bunch of pointy-eared gits or if it was just the one with the war-moose and the obvious love affair with his own reflection. Pah. Either way, he still wasn't fond of them. They were mischievous, secretive, beardless, and thought way too much of themselves, if you were askin' his opinion.
Third, having a wizard in your company was both the best and worst business proposition his elder brother had ever made. Because despite their habit of turning up just in the nick of time, they also had an annoying tendency to toddle off for days – even weeks at a time. Personally, he was half convinced that most of their problems could've been just as easily avoided if the batty old grey beard wasn't trying to be in four different places at once. (Not that he'd shared his whereabouts mind you, but eh, he had eyes.)
And lastly, was that Hobbits, despite their size, were not to be underestimated, especially when it came to priceless gems and their undying affection for food and drink. After all, the ability out-feast a dwarf, especially one the size of Bombur, was a feat deserving of admiration – if not outright concern. In fact, despite Bilbo's less than gracious beginnings, he was certain that if Hobbit-kind ever decided to vey the fairer races for dominion over Middle Earth, a vast majority of his gold would probably find its way into the Shire's betting pots.
But quite frankly, nothing had prepared him for the way Ori looked, shucked down to his small clothes, squirming against the linens as he traced a line down the length of the lad's inner thigh with his tongue.
There was no denying he had the youngling right where he wanted him. After months of chasing, months of awkward exchanges and brief moments alone – the lad was finally his. They'd fought together, bled together, nearly died together. Standing side by side in the final battle until rocks ran red and the war, if it was ever that, was over.
The sons of Durin had returned to Erebor.
He supposed the fact that it still smelt of mildew and dragon dung seemed pretty inconsequential in the scheme of things. Pungent as it was, it too would fade. Already dwarves from every corner of Middle Earth – from the Iron Hills to the lowlands bordering Moria – were making their presence known. Some traveled in hopes of prospects, others to offer their allegiance, pledging their service to Thorin, son of Thrain, as the reality of the task ahead loomed, more foreboding than any Dragon.
Fortunately, Dis was already working wonders, bustling about, keeping an entire squadron of housekeepers, masons, blacksmiths, and architects in line as they planned out the next three decades of restorations. Thorin basically just nodded a lot, grumbling about Elvish grain prices and related politics until Bilbo dragged him off, Mahal knows where.
In fact, it soon became a habit. They explored the deep dark together – from cavern to great hall – until even the King under the bloody mountain forgot himself. They left footprints in the dust. Some of which were not found until months later, when the cleaners and stone masons moved into new sections – coincidentally, the rumour mill in the kingdom was quite extensive.
They had Fili and Kili to blame for the majority of it, no doubt. Nosey little twats.
His attention was drawn back to the present when he realized that Ori was holding onto the edge of his last layer, fisting the hem of his sweater almost bashfully. The far edge barely covered the long, partly-healed slice that stood out from collarbone to hip, a shallow yet enticing reminder of the final battle. The pinkness of the new flesh was stark against the lad's pale skin, a ruddy mixture of pale-dusk and ginger roots. His touch was light as he ran a nail, blunt and gentle, down the length of it. He was unable to hold back a grin when the boy's spine arced, hips snapping up like a bow-string as he thumbed the sensitive line.
He couldn't dampen the blush of pride as he remembered how, despite the pain, Ori had lashed out, sinking his axe deep into the spine of the orc that'd wounded him. Screaming his defiance as the horrid thing had gurgled, black blood frothing up until Ori kicked it away, pulling his axe free just in time as the next group charged towards them.
Bias aside, he reckoned it only made the lad look that much more desirable. He'd had his first real blood that day, proving beyond any doubt, that youth and inexperience were no excuse for a lack of bravery.
It'd taken him weeks to get the lad comfortable with the idea of hefting anything other than that damn slingshot. So naturally, seeing the complete opposite had been enough to give him pause. The lad wasn't a natural fighter, he was too kind for that, too gentle. But he'd proven that much like his eldest brother, when called upon, what he lacked in skill was often made up with pure determination.
"Don't hide yourself lad," he hummed, lingering on the puffy-red skin for a smattering of beats before he carried on, getting distracted by the shallow dips that stood out above each hipbone. Ori just quivered, a rumpled mess of excitement, anticipation, uncertainty, and ginger-red fuzz.
Caught, the dwarf's blush only deepened.
"Oh! I don't- I'm, I just-"
"Then what is it?" he rumbled, getting the general idea as Ori wriggled under his hold, the whisper of his hardness dampening his small clothes - straining. His excitement already pearling along his-
His closed his eyes. Mahal preserve him.
The sight alone was likely to be the death of him.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.