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 Hobbit/LOTR's universe, so this is more of an experiment than anything else. 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.
Chapter Four
The next few days passed a lot like you might expect. Fili and Kili walked around, sporting evil grins, looking as though Durin's Day had come early, while his own brother had the gall to look delighted. Dori and Nori, on the other hand, wore twin expressions of shock and dismay, often favoring him with a look that seemed to infer that this was somehow all his fault - bickering quietly until even Oin couldn't feign ignorance.
In fact, it wasn't long before Dori had worked himself up into full blown hysterics, "he's barely past a hundred for Mahal's sake! Not even a full beard!" and so on. Nori, for his part, just glared a lot. They didn't approach him, but they certainly made their displeasure known.
He barely noticed. After all, he had more important things to think about, things like keeping them one step ahead of the Pale Orc and his wargs, and - more importantly - how in the seven ancient forges was he going to return the lad's suit?
Ori, the only one in the family who seemed to have more than a lick of sense, coped by making himself scarce. He took to shadowing the hobbit as they walked, inquiring after the Shire's history and the customs of its people – quill ever ready. Bilbo, still slightly mortified by the fallout from the morning before, was only too happy to oblige.
To make matters worse, he learned pretty damn quickly that when it came to courting, he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He'd never been courted before. Not successfully at any rate and found himself woefully unprepared to set about securing the lad's affections. He wanted to answer the suit, but honestly, he had no idea where to even start.
He'd had his share of admirers over the years. Too many in his opinion, but few had ever piqued his interest, and fewer still had had the opportunity to get beyond the initial overtures. He'd been on the move for the majority of his life, following Thorin from his coming of age, to the fall of Erebor and beyond. All in all, it hadn't left much time for dabbling. Especially considering that the royal pain in his arse seemed prone to dying at every opportunity.
Prat.
For example, as Balin was quick to point out, apparently not displaying one's courting gift was an indication to your prospective suitor that you'd respectfully declined. He was quite sure he'd never rooted through his pack so quickly.
He spent half the morning plucking at the knitted monstrosity despairingly; grumping and grumbling as he delicately arranged the felt across Grasper's edge, tying the tiny yarn fasteners around the hilt and securing them with the even smaller button that had been painstakingly sewed into the in-seam.
He shook his head. Knitted blade protectors. He'd never heard of such a thing.
And while they looked all sorts of ridiculous, the delighted beam he got from Ori that evening somehow made it all worthwhile, (as did the swift kick he delivered to each of the princeling's behinds the moment their guffaw's threatened to outpace the conversation).
Unoriginal as it sounded, he tried knitting first. In his defense, considering his lack of options and the lad's love for everything warm and fuzzy, it'd seemed only natural. He figured that at the very least Ori would appreciate the gesture.
The only flaw in his plan was that he knew shit all about knitting. He could stitch a wound, a rough suture or two in the field, but this? All long thick needles and a ball of yarn Balin had found Mahal knows where? Pah!
You might as well have asked him to march right into Erebor alone, slathered in steak sauce and demand the fire drake's surrender.
He spent the better part of an evening huddled beside the fire, knitting needles click-click-clicking as something vaguely scarf shaped (though in this light it could be mistaken for a tea cozy) seemed to be gradually taking shape.
"Someone's in a mood," Bofur observed, chewing on the end of his pipe as Thorin stomped past. Thorin's expression withered as the black haired dwarf hummed cheerfully, whittling away at a piece of wood as the others set about preparing the evening meal. Indeed, Thorin seemed to be mirroring his irritation, spending the majority of the night pacing back and forth, muttering about hobbits and pastries, brooding as Bombur whipped up a thick stew and some coal-roasted taters.
He cursed as he missed a stitch, counting backwards as he realized he'd somehow managed to miss the last ten stitches in a row. Oh, for the love of-
"Need a hand Dwalin?" Kili sing-songed, the picture of ill-begotten innocence as he flounced past, balancing a stack of bowls in one hand and his bow in the other.
He glared, briefly considering the merits of shoving one of the needles right up Kili's nose before he snorted and turned away. Dis was a force to be reckoned with and frankly, he didn't have a death wish.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, the entire mess was chucked into the fire by night's end, a hideous tangle of split threads and uneven hems. He watched it burn moodily, staring into the flames as sparks danced across the yarn.
"Count your blessings," Balin pointed out, taking a seat beside him as the smell of singed wool rose, spitting fitfully until the fire flared and the entire thing went up in ashes.
"At least you don't have to learn how to bake," Balin continued, speaking loud enough that Thorin actually snarled, expression thunderous and slightly despairing as he stomped towards the edge of camp - his misery clear.
He hummed into the coarseness of his beard, half in agreement, surprised when he realized his irritation was only skin deep. He looked up from his cup – inadvertently catching the lad's eye as Ori twiddled his quill between his fingers, hemmed in by both his brothers at the far end of the fire.
His lips quirked upwards when he realized there was a splotch of ink smeared across the dwarf's lower lip. Absentminded and clearly deep in thought, the lad nibbled on the end of his quill, boots scuffing through the dirt until inspiration struck and he was scratching away in that crumpled old book of his all over again.
For once he was actually grateful for the lad's distraction, because suddenly all he could really think about was what it would feel like to be able to kiss it away. Fading the dark taint of ink with his tongue until flushing red took its place. And it would, of that he was certain – especially considering the lad's penchant for blushing.
He shook his head, blinking owlishly as the thought registered - dismissing it with a growl.
He was getting bloody well soft.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – One more chapter and this fic will be complete.