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 Five
It was only by the end of the third day of racking his brains for some way to return the lad's suit that he was forced to admit he just wasn't good at this. And as much as it galled him, he ended up cornering Balin later that day - practically begging as far as he was concerned – as he enlisted his brother's help.
They spent the evening secluded in each other's company, smoking far too much of the halfing's pipe weed and knocking heads in frustration. But before they could come to any sort of decision, then came Mirkwood, the river, Laketown and quite suddenly, the perfect gift practically fell into his lap.
He managed, despite the uproar and the severity of Kili's wounds, to gesture over to the boatman's eldest girl. All it took was a bit of coin, tempting her with a reward for an errand completed and not two hours later she returned, flushed in the face and triumphant, a cloth bundle hidden underneath her skirts.
The leather bindings smelt of salt and fish scales, but he figured it would have to do.
It wasn't until the party – the one the Master of Laketown decided to throw last minute in Thorin's honor – was in full swing and Dori and Nori suitably distracted, that he had a chance to pull Ori aside.
"I know a courting gift is more oft made than bought, but I figured with losing your quills, you'd rather not want to wait," he offered, voice rougher than he figured it ought to be as Ori blinked up at him, stunned.
"You-you're answering my suit?" he whispered, voice so quiet when set against the laughter in the other room he had to lean in a fraction just to hear. He inhaled on pure reflex, taking in the scent of ale and wet wool, clean sweat and a hint of something that was purely his own. Ori.
He wondered what the lad would smell like when he had him. Would he-
"O'course," he grunted, leaning up against the banister that led to the upper rooms, keeping a wary eye on the door, mindful that Dori would likely be exploding out of them at any moment. "Displayed your gift, didn't I?"
"I, well, I'd hoped, but I never-I never expected that you'd-" Ori babbled, fingers trembling as he hurried to unwrap the bundle.
"I won't deny you beat me to the punch, lad," he rumbled, letting his voice deepen as a blush, pleased and heady, spread down Ori's neck.
"I had half a mind to court you the moment you fell through that hobbit hole," he added, covering his sudden nervousness with meaningless chatter, hardly aware of what he was saying as the cloth wrapping was pulled away and the lad's expression changed.
He knew he'd chosen right when Ori's breath caught.
An odd sort of pleasure thrummed through him as Ori ran a hand down one of the carved quills - a handsome redwood finished in a waterproof gloss - with something close to reverence. The runes, seared into the bindings of the thick leather journal were an addition he'd insisted upon when he'd charged Bard's daughter with her task.
"They're perfect," Ori breathed, thumbing the outline, reading the runes more by touch than sight until his realized what it was he was reading.
It was an oath, a promise written in the oldest form of dwarvish known to both warrior and scribe, runes that had been carved into stone by Mahal himself, eons before. It was pledge not simply of devotion and fealty, but of bonding, of two souls that stood in the presence of their creator and through his light became one.
That was what he offered. Himself.
There was an expression on the lad's face that he didn't recognize, something that could have been pleasure or perhaps even anguish if it wasn't for the fact that Ori was already up on his tip-toes, leaning in for a kiss. He caught the lad by the elbows when he lost balance, holding him close, yet still at an arm's length as he returned it - for propriety's sake if nothing else.
The kiss was feather light and barely there, but he swallowed hard all the same, chasing the lad's taste as Ori tugged him down, pulling at him fitfully until they were resting their foreheads together, breathing hard. The intimacy, even of so small a thing, was almost staggering.
He'd had to stop himself from leaning in and claiming him right then and there.
Propriety and decorum be damned.
With the madness of the journey now behind them, the battle won, their losses tallied, the kingdom reclaimed and everyone more or less intact, it'd seemed only right that when Ori knocked - a tray of mugs clutched in his ink stained fingers – he'd yanked the poor thing in by his collar. Mashing their lips together and kissing him for all he was worth as he poured months of want and desire into that single, heart-felt gesture.
Ori, to his credit, basically climbed up the length of him, sending them crashing into the opposite wall, all thick thighs and grabby hands. They hit a snag when Ori tried to tug up his shirt and wrap his arms around his neck all at the same time. But he hardly noticed, because when one thing failed, Ori was quick to move on to another. Pressing kisses into his beard and nuzzling into him until his senses were alive with the sting of sharp teeth, smooth skin and chapped lips as Ori did his best to all but climb inside.
The gentle fuzz of burnished red was delectable as it rasped across his skin, a mess of placeless whiskers and soft down, indicative of a dwarf's first beard, as Ori rubbed himself across the length of him. His small, ink-stained fingers dug deep into the coarseness of his beard before he arched up and tugged.
And loathe as he was to admit, he nearly spent himself before he got either of them undressed.
It wasn't until sometime later, when Ori had his blood up and he'd somehow managed to step on a shard of pottery in the middle of tossing him (nimble as he was) clear across the room and into his bed, that he realized the lad had brought him Mahal's heart tea. He nearly choked. Serving heart tea was a signal by one suitor to the other that they accepted their suitors claim and mirrored it, wishing for the courtship to be over and the consummation to begin. It was a tradition as deeply ingrained as a miner's pick was to iron-ore, and they'd blood well skipped it.
Not only that, but it was traditionally served by the second party, the answering party.
Apparently Ori had gotten tired of waiting.
Daring little thing, his lad.
A fortnight after their joining ceremony, during a feast to celebrate the restoration of one of the great halls, Thorin presented Bilbo with a mangled looking pastry on a gilded plate. He'd murmured something about honor and intent and maybe even something about Hobbit courting customs as Bilbo's expression changed from confusion and outright shock to pleasure, and (oddly enough), a strangled sort of indignation.
Then, well, everything got a bit out of control, because despite the fact that Bilbo was still shouting about 'confounded dwarves!' and 'majestic, thick-headed idiots', he was also rather busy kissing the King senseless in front of the entire company and Grand Council to boot.
Thorin had looked confused, yet remarkably satisfied when the two of them had finally come up for air – blushing and smirking as the entire hall exploded in laughter and well-meant jeers. Instead, Thorin simply pulled the squirming Halfling firmly onto his lap, cracking a smile of his own as their burglar waved the pastry about like a war banner.
Indeed, Thorin looked rather pleased with himself, expression equal parts feral and disbelieving right up until the moment when Bilbo mashed his half of the pastry right into his royal face, before skittering off, laughing.
The King under the Mountain seemed shocked for a handful of beats, mouth opening and closing, blobs of cream dribbling down his beard, before suddenly, he too was leaping to his feet. Giving birth to a story that was likely to become legend as he bellowed, promising retribution in Khuzdul as the entire dining hall howled with laughter.
The king was hot on the hobbit's heels as Bilbo disappeared down the maze of stone halls. Thorin was wielding a dessert fork like a sword as he exploded through the wood paneled doors half a second later. Setting out on a chase which, he had little doubt, would eventually lead all the way to the royal bed chambers.
By that point everything was in an uproar. The council was spluttering, screeching about proper decorum and besmirching the King's dignity. Whereas Kili and Fili were in a heap under the table, laughing so hard they could scarcely draw breath. Ignoring the servants trying to ply them with mulled wine as a crowd began to gather.
And they weren't the only ones. Even Ori was leaning against him for support, shoulders shaking, peeking between his fingers as his burbling laugh rose and fell, a single strand in a vast, echoing chorus as the entire mountain seemed to laugh with them.
Bofur had fallen clear off the bench, big tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched his stomach. He had to roll quickly to the side to avoid getting squashed when Bombur's chair gave out underneath him, unable to take the strain when the weighty dwarf flailed, roaring with mirth as the rest of the company quickly followed.
Even Balin had succumbed, patting honeyed-ale and tears out of his beard as Oin and Gloin started a rousing (and now somewhat altered chorus) of the song they'd sung in the Shire – which now seemed to infer far more than was strictly appropriate about 'hobbit holes' and the 'King under the Mountain'. But by that point, even the Grand Council was too distracted to notice. Especially when Fili and Kili started dancing across the tables, sending salted pork and fried taters flying in all directions - the entire hall ringing with the sound of Dwarvish laughter for the first time in decades.
He looked down, chuckling; chin ghosting across the top of his One's head as the Great Hall exploded into a milling sea of chaos – happy chaos – but chaos nonetheless. He shook his head, content to pull Ori further into his lap as the lad's marriage braid, the same one he'd tied closed with gold and silver only a few weeks before, tinkled merrily. Unable to shake the feeling that everything had come surprisingly, no, marvelously full circle.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.