Chapter 1: Ori
Ori can’t help being a little afraid on his wedding night. For all his brave words when he confronted his brothers and demanded that they accept his choice of husband, for all that he loves Dwalin more than bright gems and shining gold, for all that Dwalin has made it very clear that he adores Ori and wants nothing more than to be married to him – the fact remains that Ori is a scribe, not a warrior, that he is shy and naïve and best with a quill in his hands, and Dwalin is the very image of what a dwarf should be: broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, strong as an ox and dangerous as a mother bear protecting her cubs. He is, despite what Dori and Nori may think, much too good for Ori – and, more to the immediate point, he has a lot more experience as to what two people get up to in the bedroom than Ori does, which is to say, more than none at all.
Well, yes, he’s been kissed – by Dwalin – and he has read enough of the scrolls in Erebor’s library, including the ones Dori doesn’t know about, to have a decent idea of how two male dwarves interact in the bedroom. But he’s never really had the privacy to experiment, not with his oldest brother only a thin wall away in their old apartments, and not on the road to Belegost, and not in Belegost with all the bustle of rebuilding that has forced everyone to sleep all piled in heaps to keep warm while they get the forges working and the air-ducts cleaned out.
And now here he is, with a marriage braid behind his left ear and a huge, handsome husband who has been very patient with all the proper gestures of courtship so that Dori will not object more than he already does to the match, but who will surely want to consummate their marriage, and Ori doesn’t know how. He turns pink as Dwalin ushers him into the huge suite of rooms which was Thorin’s wedding gift to the couple, and stumbles over his own feet. Dwalin catches him, big hands gentle, and herds him carefully through the front room and into the bedroom, where Ori collapses gracelessly on the neatly-made bed and stares at his hands.
Dwalin kneels down in front of him and puts one of his own huge, tattooed hands over Ori’s. “My lad,” he says softly, and Ori smiles at the endearment, “what ails you?”
Ori takes a deep breath. He marched into Dwalin’s sickroom a year ago and declared his love, he can do this. “I don’t know what to do,” he says to their clasped hands, and feels Dwalin chuckle.
“I should have been fair surprised if you did, my lad, the way your brothers hover about you.” Ori dares to glance up, and Dwalin is smiling. “I do not expect you to be practiced,” Dwalin says calmly. “But I will do nothing if you are not willing.”
Ori blinks and straightens. “Of course I’m willing,” he bursts out. “I’ve wanted you for positively ages, Dwalin!”
Dwalin’s deep chuckle echoes a little off the stone walls. “Well then,” he says, “I think we shall get on just fine.” He pats Ori’s hands gently and stands. “In general, being naked is a good first step,” he adds, and begins to strip.
Ori means to undress, he really does, but he gets as far as tangling his hands in the hem of his tunic and is thoroughly distracted by the sight of Dwalin’s bare chest. The older dwarf is tattooed everywhere, which Ori really should have expected, and his nipples have slim iron bars in them. Ori knows that guards often get piercings to demonstrate how little they fear pain, but the sight of his burly husband with iron glinting gently against pale skin and black tattoos is simultaneously terrifying and terrifyingly arousing. The tattoos are runes of protection, instead of the threats and battle-cries on his head and hands, and Ori finds himself tilting his head to better read the runes which curve around to Dwalin’s back.
He is interrupted by Dwalin’s low chuckling. “I should have known you’d be reading my tattoos,” Dwalin rumbles. “My little scribe. Were we not meant to both be undressing?”
Ori blushes to the tips of his ears. “I…sorry. I was distracted.”
Dwalin grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, and reaches out to pull Ori off the bed and into his arms. “If you won’t undress, I’ll have to undress you.”
Ori relaxes into the embrace happily, resting his head against Dwalin’s shoulder for a moment. “If you like,” he says, and brings one hand up to touch one of Dwalin’s piercings gently. Dwalin stiffens a little, and Ori snatches his hand back.
“No – go ahead,” Dwalin reassures him, and Ori reaches out again, traces the line of iron with one finger. Dwalin shivers as Ori runs his finger gently over his nipple, and Ori has a sudden, blinding moment of lust. He tugs, very gently, on the iron bar, and Dwalin growls low in his throat, his hands tightening on the back of Ori’s tunic. Ori grins. None of the books which mentioned piercings talked about this.
Dwalin pulls carefully, moving Ori away from him. “I think you need to be wearing less clothing,” he says, and there is note in his voice which Ori has never heard before. When Ori meets his eyes, they are very dark, and Ori shivers all over and pulls his tunic over his head before he can think about it. Dwalin’s gaze sweeps over him, dark and dangerous, and Dwalin grins a wide and hungry grin. “My pretty little scribe,” he says, and Ori thinks to himself that he really needs to stop blushing at the slightest provocation.
Then Dwalin’s hands are on him, gentle for all their great strength, carding through the curling hair on Ori’s chest and tweaking his nipples, which makes Ori jump and squeak. Dwalin looks obscurely pleased by that, by the fact that Ori shivers and leans into his hands and cannot help a soft sound of disappointment when Dwalin stops touching him. But Dwalin has stopped in order to take off his own boots and trousers, and Ori forgets his disappointment and just stares.
Dwalin is hung like a fucking horse.
Dwalin bursts into laughter, and Ori realizes that he must have said that aloud. He claps both hands over his mouth and the fading blush comes back full force, heating his cheeks and his ears until they feel like they’re burning. Dwalin reaches out and traces his fingers down Ori’s chest, grinning. “Blush goes all the way down, does it, my lad?” he murmurs, and then reaches up to pry Ori’s hands gently away from his face. He keeps hold of Ori’s wrists as he leans in to kiss his husband.
Ori sighs into the kiss and relaxes a little. Perhaps he has not ruined everything with his ill-timed outburst. Dwalin lets go of Ori’s wrists, and Ori buries his hands in Dwalin’s hair and leans into the kiss, into the nude body of his husband. When they finally pull apart, both flushed and panting, Dwalin glances down between them and says mildly, “Are you going to take your pants off, my lad, or should I do it for you?”
Ori lets go of Dwalin’s hair and sits down on the bed to take off his boots and shimmy out of his pants, not looking up because he doesn’t want to see it if Dwalin is disappointed in him. Ori’s never going to be a guard, never going to be broad-shouldered and sturdy as his eldest brother is; he is thin and though he’s stronger than he looks, he knows he’s not the handsomest dwarf in Belegost.
Then Dwalin is kneeling between his feet again, tilting Ori’s chin up and pulling him into another kiss. “My pretty little scribe,” Dwalin says as they pull apart. “I am going to enjoy debauching you. Do you know how often I have dreamed of having you naked in my bed?”
Ori shakes his head mutely. Words seem to have deserted him at the sight of Dwalin kneeling naked at his feet. Dwalin strokes down Ori’s arms and puts his hands gently on the side of the bed. “Leave those there,” he says softly. “I don’t fancy having my hair pulled out.”
Ori would ask what he means – why on earth would Ori pull his hair out? – but Dwalin plants his hands on Ori’s hips, nearly spanning them, and bends to lick up the length of Ori’s cock. Ori squeaks and grabs the blankets tightly, and Dwalin smirks up at him and swallows him whole. Ori’s world is suddenly made of tight, wet heat and the utterly maddening movements of Dwalin’s tongue, and Ori twists his hands in the blankets and tries to move his hips against the solid strength of Dwalin’s hands and whimpers, embarrassingly loud. Dwalin growls low in the back of his throat and Ori wants to warn him, wants to say anything, but all he manages is a high-pitched moan as he comes down Dwalin’s throat.
Dwalin swallows. Ori didn’t even know that was possible.
When Dwalin sits back on his heels, his lips are red and he looks immensely smug. “There. Now you’re more relaxed,” he declares, and Ori stares at him wide-eyed and whimpers. Dwalin surges to his feet and picks Ori up, shifting him back on the bed until he’s splayed out on top of the blankets with Dwalin between his knees. Ori blinks up at him, still dazed from what was definitely the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and Dwalin reaches over to the nightstand and comes back with a small jar of oil. Then, for the first time all night, he hesitates.
“How much…how much do you know?”
Ori might not have known about any of those wonderful things Dwalin just did with his mouth, but the ancient cracking marriage manual he found years ago in the stacks of the Erebor library was explicit enough about this, anyhow. “Enough,” he says, glad his voice does not break, and spreads his legs wider. Dwalin grins, wide and predatory, and dips his thick fingers one by one into the oil. Ori cannot help but stare at Dwalin’s hand as it emerges shining from the jar and lowers, slowly and carefully, between Ori’s legs.
The first finger is a shock. Ori has never had the time and privacy to practice this, after all – never dared to try, lest Dori knock on the door to his little room and demand to know what is going on. It burns a little, though Dwalin has been generous with the oil, and Ori cannot help the small helpless noise in the back of his throat. Dwalin pauses, holding very still, until Ori gets his wits together and manages to nod. “It’s…it’s alright. Go on,” he reassures Dwalin, and Dwalin’s wide grin returns as he moves his hand again. The burn lessens – the oil is slick and warm and soothing – and Dwalin’s finger brushes against something that makes Ori’s head go back in shock, a high whine coming from his lips.
“There we go,” Dwalin murmurs, sounding altogether too proud of himself.
The second finger stretches Ori wide, and the burn is back. Ori twists his hands in the sheets and bites his lip so he won’t whimper, and loses himself in the burn and stretch and sudden jolts of pleasure. On the rare occasions he can get his eyes open, he can see Dwalin frowning in concentration, one hand braced on Ori’s hip and the other moving steadily between his legs.
Then suddenly Dwalin’s hand is gone, and Ori aches for the loss, pries his eyes open and stares down at his husband desperately. Dwalin is slicking his cock, big hands shaking just a little, and then he leans over and braces himself above Ori, looking down with wild eyes. “Ready?” he says, and it is only just barely a question.
Ori lifts his legs to loop them around Dwalin’s hips and grins up into his husband’s face, all fear gone and replaced by blazing lust. “Ready,” he says, his own voice gone hoarse from moaning, and then Dwalin is pressing into him and he arches his back and reaches up to tangle his hands in Dwalin’s hair.
Dwalin is huge. Ori knew that, realized it less than an hour ago, but it’s one thing to see your new husband’s impressive…warhammer…and quite another to feel it inside you. It hurts, despite all the oil and preparation, but at the same time Ori has never felt quite as sure that Dwalin wants him, wants scrawny bookish Ori, as now with Dwalin staring down at him with lust-black eyes and growling low in his throat, surrounding Ori completely, broad shoulders between Ori and the world.
Then Dwalin is moving, steady surging rolls of his hips which nudge his cock unerringly against that startling spot inside of Ori, and Ori is making embarrassing throaty noises and rocking back against the thrusts. He is mildly astonished, while he still has the coherence to be astonished, when he begins to harden again – yes, he’s young, but he’s no fifty-year-old just beginning to dream of bedmates! Then astonishment and coherence are both gone, and bookish Ori who makes his living with words cannot manage to say anything except his husband’s name, chanted in time with Dwalin’s movements.
Ori comes the second time with a bitten-off scream, and Dwalin drops his head and kisses him hard, thrusting once, twice, three more times and stilling, buried hilt-deep in his husband and moaning into Ori’s mouth.
They lie there panting for long moments, and the Dwalin kisses him again, gently, and murmurs, “My pretty little scribe, my lovely lad.”
“My Dwalin,” Ori agrees, and smiles. This marriage business isn’t so bad, really, he reflects as Dwalin pulls out gently and cleans them both off, handling Ori with the great care which most dwarves only give to precious gems. Ori curls into Dwalin’s arms as Dwalin hauls the sheet over them and kisses Dwalin thoroughly. Really, this is quite pleasant, Ori decides. Exactly what he’s always wanted.
He falls asleep in the comforting circle of Dwalin’s arms, and wakes the next morning sore and smiling and feeling very well loved.
Chapter 2: Dwalin
The other side of the story.
Dwalin has not been celibate these long years before he began courting Ori. Far from it, actually; there are many dwarves who look at Dwalin with covetous eyes and sidle up to him in bars, hinting that they’d be only too happy to care for his weapons, if he knows what they mean. On occasion he has taken them up on it, because Dwalin is not one of the maiar and has never claimed to be, and a dwarf has needs.
Some of his former partners have even looked a little like Ori; it’s not unheard of for a dwarf to want someone like Dwalin to pin them down and have his wicked way with them, and Dwalin is occasionally happy to oblige. He likes topping, and he saw no reason to abstain for many years.
All that ended the first time he laid eyes on Ori son of Korin. Scrawny and untrained, the lad certainly is, but he is stronger than he looks and braver than he acts, and there is something about his shy glances and his clever mind which makes Dwalin decide: this one, and no other. This lad in his baggy cardigans with a quill forever in his hands, this dwarf who makes beautiful things out of words and not gems. This one, and no other, for as long as Dwalin shall live. It takes some dwarves like that, the realization that another dwarf is their One for always. Dwalin just never thought he’d be one of them.
He doesn’t say anything for quite a while, though he knows that Dis is giving him disapproving looks – she always was too observant – because little Ori has two large and protective older brothers, and only a fool enrages a spymaster or a dwarf as strong as Dori. Dwalin has occasionally been accused of foolishness, but he’s not an idiot. If Ori isn’t interested, it isn’t worth getting his fingers broken or his ale poisoned just to flirt with the lad.
It’s not that he pines, but it’s certainly an incredible relief to look up at the odd round door of the room in Bilbo’s hobbit hole and see Ori, fidgeting with a too-large warhammer and declaring his love in halting tones. Dwalin can’t help kissing Ori that day, can’t help holding his pretty little scribe in his arms, though his injuries do mean he can’t do anything else. Just as well, really, considering Ori’s family.
The year of courting is torturous; he makes the best gifts he can think of for Ori, cherishes the scrolls and beads he receives in return, but not being able to so much as kiss his intended makes for a long, long year. Dwalin spends more time than he likes to think about flat on his back with a hand around his cock, thinking about wide brown eyes and messy reddish hair and the noises he hopes Ori will make when they finally are allowed into a bed together.
Finally, finally they are married. Thorin does the honors, which is a mark of great friendship, and Dwalin will feel proud and honored later, after he has taken his pretty little husband to bed and made him scream Dwalin’s name and held him as he falls asleep in Dwalin’s arms.
He really shouldn’t be surprised by Ori’s nervousness, in retrospect, given that the lad has clearly never had a bedmate before, but it still takes him a bit aback. Ori’s vehement enthusiasm is very reassuring, though. Dwalin has never taken a bedmate who didn’t want to be there, and he is not about to start with his husband!
…He really should have expected that Ori would start reading his tattoos. It’s kind of adorable, actually – and reminds Dwalin, too, that his pretty little husband has enough brains for three dwarves. Ori is smart, and brave, and surprisingly good in battle for how little training or practice he’s had, and Dwalin knows quite well who got the better end of this deal – and it isn’t the nervous little scribe perched on the end of the bed.
This is not Dwalin’s first time with a virgin, since here and there young dwarves with more guts than sense have decided that they’d like their first time to be with a guard as well-regarded as Dwalin is; but this is certainly the most important de-virginizing Dwalin has ever been involved with. After all, he’d rather like Ori to enjoy himself, and not only because one word from Ori suggesting unhappiness and Dori and Nori would be more than happy to make Ori a widower. No, Dwalin wants his lovely husband to want to share a bed, to come willingly and often into Dwalin’s arms, to anticipate with growing pleasure each night they spend together.
Dwalin pulls Ori off the bed and into his arms, enjoying the warm weight of him, and half-threatens to strip the lad himself if Ori won’t start undressing. If Ori was really scared, of course Dwalin would do no such thing, but this is the trembling nervousness of an eager virgin, not stark fear, and Ori laughs and traces gentle fingers over Dwalin’s piercings, making Dwalin shiver with want. Such a bundle of contradictions, his little scribe is: nervous courage and tongue-tied cleverness and utterly seductive innocence.
When Ori pulls his own tunic off, leaving his hair disheveled, Dwalin’s mouth waters. To be sure, Ori does not look like the broad-shouldered guards Dwalin spars with or the plumply pretty hobbits who so many of Belegost’s dwarves have married, but he is wiry and his chest is covered with reddish curls, and Dwalin thinks he is absolutely gorgeous. He can’t really help reaching out to touch, to run his fingers through the curls and tweak the tiny nipples to make Ori squeak and jump.
Then, well, leading by example seems to work, and so Dwalin strips off his own boots and trousers, and cannot help bursting into laughter when Ori breathes, “Mahal, you’re hung like a fucking horse!” From the startled look on the lad’s face, he doesn’t even realize he’d spoken until Dwalin laughs – which only makes Dwalin laugh the harder. Still, it’s true that Dwalin is gifted in the trouser department, and he resolves to be very sure his little scribe is fully relaxed and well-oiled before any attempts at penetration occur. And the best way to relax Ori…
The kiss is long and slow and Dwalin revels in it, in the way Ori buries his hands in Dwalin’s hair when Dwalin lets go of his wrists, the way Ori leans into him trustingly and opens his mouth under Dwalin’s probing tongue, the way he sighs a little when Dwalin pulls away and sways forward. So responsive, so willing, so beautiful. How has Dwalin gotten so lucky?
Ori is still ridiculously tense, though, as he shucks his trousers and boots; he’s back to sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed staring at his hands. Dwalin is rather reassured by the fact that despite Ori’s nerves, his cock is still standing tall and proud. It gives Dwalin an idea, actually: the best way to get young Ori to relax, something he might not even have heard of if his overprotective brothers have had their way. No one tells bawdy stories around Dori, after all. Not if they don’t want their arms broken for ‘corrupting’ his youngest brother.
So Dwalin has no qualms about dropping to his knees between his new husband’s feet and placing Ori’s hands gently on the bed. He may not have as much hair as he’d like, but Dwalin doesn’t want any more of it pulled out! Ori makes a very appealingly surprised noise when Dwalin swallows him down, thrusts up weakly against Dwalin’s hands, and Dwalin grins mentally at the sound and the movement, concentrates on using tongue and lips and – very gently – teeth to completely wreck Ori’s control. It works a treat, too, and Dwalin takes great pleasure in swallowing Ori’s seed and raising his head to leer up at the shocked little scribe. Stunned lust is a good look on Ori, Dwalin decides, and resolves to make a point of making sure it’s one he wears a lot.
A wrung-out Ori is easy enough to pick up and splay out across the bed, and really it’s one of the most beautiful things Dwalin has ever seen, his lovely husband panting and wide-eyed and naked and smiling. Dwalin is not a wordsmith, and does not have the words to tell Ori how lovely he is, but he makes a mental note to spend some time in the forge, very soon, making mithril and emerald beads to adorn his husband’s hair. Or perhaps one set with onyx and rubies and iolite, to spell out Ori’s name. But that is for tomorrow or the next day – tonight, Dwalin has a husband to deflower.
Thank Mahal, Ori does seem to know at least a little about how this goes: he spreads his legs willingly and watches Dwalin slick his fingers with wide, lust-darkened eyes. Dwalin shoves the pot of oil back onto the nightstand and takes a deep breath, reminding himself to go slowly, to be gentle. Ori opens around his fingers with soft whimpers and sighs, and Dwalin finds that spot which is the path to the Undying Lands without too much difficulty. Apparently Ori is not familiar with that spot – the sounds of shock and pleasure he makes are loud and delightful, and Dwalin spends as much time as he can bear teasing his husband with his fingers to wring more of those moans from him.
When Dwalin can bear it no longer, and when is absolutely certain that Ori will not be hurt, only then does he brace himself above his husband and guide his aching cock between Ori’s widespread legs. Ori reaches up to grab Dwalin’s hair, and Dwalin grins down at him, at the blown pupils and open mouth and disheveled hair, at the whimpers and moans as Dwalin begins to move at last. Ori is lithe and beautiful and gloriously responsive beneath him,
Dwalin will never tell a living soul – most especially not his husband – that when he comes at last, buried hilt-deep in his husband with Ori’s seed streaking their chests and Ori’s voice chanting his name, it feels like staking a claim, even more than putting the marriage braid into Ori’s hair did. It feels like Dwalin is a conquering warrior, taking what is his right – and giving back, giving back just as much in pleasure and joy, because the look on Ori’s face can be nothing else.
Dwalin lies awake for a long time after Ori falls asleep in his arms, though he lies as still as he can so as not to disturb his precious armful. He thinks about history, about all the tales of dwarves who found their One and never wavered, and wonders if in times to come young dwarves and dwobbits will tell stories of Dwalin and Ori, totally unsuited and yet perfectly matched. He thinks of the ornaments he will make for Ori, beads to braid into his hair and clasps for his cloaks and a carrying-case for his quills and parchments, anything and everything Dwalin can possibly invent which could adorn his beloved. Ori is shy and may not be willing to wear rings or necklaces, but Dwalin muses on the possibility of beads for his bootlaces or buttons for his sweaters. If Dwalin had his way, of course, he would drape Ori in gold and gems until the poor lad could hardly move for the weight and the jingling, but Dwalin will simply have to restrain himself to intricately carved inkwells and scroll-weights and perhaps an axe with its handle inscribed with quill motifs. Dwalin will never be gifted with words, but he makes a silent vow as Ori sleeps in his arms that Ori will never doubt, even for a moment, that Dwalin loves him beyond all reason.
Dwalin drifts into sleep on thoughts of gifts he can create for his husband, and wakes the next morning to the most beautiful sight in the world: Ori’s smile.