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Watch duty can be a miserable thing, separated as they are from the warmth and kinship of the others. They’re too far away to hear if there are any songs behind them, but it isn’t likely—the trolls scared them all half to death and have left them tense and ready. What started as a brave quest in high spirits has spiraled into a dangerous crawl, and they send two instead of one at a time to keep watch for the next set of perils.
Ori feels himself a poor choice for this. He has no idea what he’ll do if such trouble should come along, other than yell for help, but the saving grace is that he’s with Dwalin. Intellectually, he knows that Dori is the strongest, but it’s easier to admire Dwalin than his own brother. He feels the safest with Dwalin, thinks Dwalin the bravest, greatest warrior, and not just because a few nights ago Balin showed him a picture of Dwalin in his youth, complete with a fierce smirk and handsome mohawk.
Unfortunately, Dwalin doesn’t seem to appreciate Ori’s company as much. He’s always on the grumpy side, but he’s spent their watch in a particularly low funk. They’ve both taken seat on a fallen log, their companions hidden back several boulders, while they eye the rolling hills around them. Dwalin’s slouched over, glaring blankly forward, and Ori mostly fidgets and tries to stay alert but fails. It doesn’t help that it’s dark out, the stars just enough to give Dwalin a faint glow around the edges, and it’s a little cold. Frankly, Ori’s more scared than he’d like to admit. Finally, he murmurs, “What’s wrong?”
Dwalin starts, his head whipping around. It’s like he’s forgotten Ori’s there entirely, which only makes Ori frown and want to wilt. Dwalin shakes his head and grumbles something, peering forward again.
Ori asks tentatively, “What?”
“S’nothing.”
Curious but trying not to be too annoying, Ori mumbles, “I’m sorry...”
Dwalin sighs. He looks at Ori again and grunts, “I just... I miss my dog.”
“You had a dog?” Ori asks, blinking. He knows what a dog is, but only because he’s training to be a scribe and information is his business. Pets are uncommon among dwarves, but then, since the fall of Erebor, great men like Dwalin have had to filter into less-than-Dwarven ways in places. Dwalin just nods, while Ori tries to imagine what it would be like to have a less intelligent but loyal creature. Dwalin would probably make a good pet owner, Ori thinks. He’s dutiful and protective, and also very loveable to those who don’t rely solely on verbal communication.
There’s a good deal of things Ori misses about home, but none of those were alive. It would probably hurt more to leave his favourite books behind if they could smile up at him. For a few moments, they sit in silence, Ori marinating in empathy and Dwalin continuing to wallow.
Then a strange thought occurs to Ori. At first, he brushes it away, because it’s presumptuous and silly and might get him laughed at. But then it gnaws and gnaws at him, until he’s convinced himself it’s worth a shot. On the off chance it makes Dwalin feel better, his humiliation will be worth it.
Before he can talk himself out of it, Ori slips off the log and onto all fours. His thick, fingerless gloves protect his palms from the harsh ground, his trousers and coat protecting his knees. He looks around in the low light of the moon and the stars, squinting at the dirt and grass beneath him, until he spots a good-sized stick.
Then he crawls over, trying not to think too much about how stupid he looks, and he bends to pick the stick up in his teeth. It tastes like mud, but that’s not so far off from the stew they’ve had to live on lately. After spending so long on the road, getting a little dirtier doesn’t seem such a big step.
Holding the long, thick twig carefully in his teeth, Ori turns around and crawls back to the log Dwalin’s sitting at. Ori can’t bring himself to look up at Dwalin’s face, not with how hard he’s blushing, so he just drops the stick at Dwalin’s feet. When Dwalin doesn’t immediately react, Ori nudges Dwalin’s leg with his nose like he imagines a dog would do. He’s seen them before, once or twice, but he’s more familiar with pigs, and that’s probably more how he pictures himself.
When several seconds pass and Dwalin still doesn’t do anything, Ori breaks and looks up. Dwalin’s lips are slightly parted. Ori has his rapt attention, but he looks mostly confused.
Ori, searching his memory for more dog-like tendencies, opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. He lets it hang over his bottom lip, and he starts an exaggerated panting, eyes hopeful that Dwalin will understand.
Another few seconds, and the confusion ebbs away. An unreadable resolution comes over Dwalin’s handsome features, and he bends forward to pick up the stick. Ori tries not to think about how much it’s coated in his spit. He looks over his shoulder as Dwalin tosses it a few paces away.
Ori turns around and waddles over, trying not to trip over the drag of his coat. He’s acutely aware of Dwalin’s eyes on his rear, but at least Dwalin’s playing along. That has to account for something.
There’s something bizarrely satisfying about picking the stick up, now that it’s lying where Dwalin threw it. Again, Ori only uses his mouth. When he has it, he trots back to his makeshift master.
This time, Ori lifts up on his knees, his fingers curling into his palms like paws. He drops the stick into Dwalin’s lap and leans in to nudge it forwards, nuzzling into Dwalin’s stomach. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and that encourages him to do more. Not knowing how to sound, he just makes pathetic, animalistic whining noises, like he’s a small, needy creature that craves his master’s hand. He paws lightly at Dwalin’s thighs, and he wriggles his rear, wishing he had a tail to wag. But he doesn’t, so this will have to do.
Ori’s just about to give up when Dwalin’s large hand falls onto his head. Dwalin’s warm, thick fingers run through his hair, brushing it back, and Dwalin murmurs soothingly, “Good boy.”
A shiver runs right down Ori’s spine. He’s done well, he thinks: there’s pleasure in Dwalin’s voice. He can feel Dwalin bending over, and his own knees shuffle back to accommodate, his mouth now breathing hard against Dwalin’s crotch, his face buried in Dwalin’s stomach. Dwalin strokes behind his ears and practically purrs, “You’re a good boy, Ori.”
Ori almost moans. He just barely stops himself. When he tilts his head back, Dwalin’s right there, and Ori’s fogged brain produces another fact about what dogs do with their owners. Ori opens his mouth wide and runs his tongue over Dwalin’s cheek, down into the dark beard weaved across Dwalin’s jaw. Ori laps at him over and over, messy and crude, but it gets him what he wants. Dwalin turns to meet him, grabs a chunk of his hair to pull him up, and kisses him hard.
Ori melts. He loses himself in the exquisite feeling of Dwalin’s huge tongue inside his mouth, Dwalin’s blunt teeth dragging over his lips, and the musky taste of Dwalin’s spit. If he knew this is what Dwalin did with his pets, he would’ve gotten down on his knees and offered himself a long time ago. He would spend this whole quest on his knees, wearing nothing but Dwalin’s collar, being tugged along by a leash, if it meant more kisses like this. Dwalin’s attentions are fierce, and by the time he lets go, Ori’s truly breathless, his panting real.
It takes him a moment to gasp, “Do you normally kiss your dogs?” He means it to be teasing, but it comes out desperate and small.
Dwalin growls, “You’re not a dog. You’re my special puppy.” Ori moans, arches up and mewls in delight. He nuzzles into Dwalin’s neck and shoulder and licks at all the exposed skin he can, his hips now rocking against Dwalin’s leg. It’s utterly shameful, but Dwalin doesn’t seem to mind reducing him to an animal. When Ori’s around Dwalin, everything else falls by the wayside: this is all he wants, and even with the quest and bad stew and fear, this is the best he’s felt in ages.
He comes up with one last piece of information about dogs. It’s the silliest of all, but so far, this behaviour’s only won him good things. So he gives in, and he pulls back, climbing carefully off of Dwalin’s knees.
He lies, instead, along the ground, on his side, his arms and legs curled in. He opens his mouth again to spread his tongue along the toe of Dwalin’s boot. It tastes like grime, but submitting himself to Dwalin is worth everything.
When he bites onto it, Dwalin actually laughs, deep and joyous, and it makes Ori squirm in bliss. He did that. He gave Dwalin mirth. He happily chews on the end of Dwalin’s shoe, idly hoping that Dwalin will still want to kiss him after.
“Ori!”
At the shrill sound of his brother’s voice, Ori loosens his jaw and slips off. Dori’s standing over the log, staring down with a look of horror on his face. “Why would you put something so disgusting in your mouth?”
Turning totally red, Ori looks pleadingly up at Dwalin for something to bail him out, but Dwalin looks just as shocked to see Dori there. Once it’s clear that there will be no answers from Ori, Dori glares daggers at Dwalin.
Balin appears on Dwalin’s other side, looking down to chuckle. Dori looks scandalized.
Dwalin takes that excuse to jump to his feet. Ori almost turns around to follow on all fours, then remembers at the last moment that he’s not actually a pet. He scrambles up, clings timidly onto Dwalin’s arm, and lets Dwalin gruffly tug them off.
They’re almost back to the camp when Ori, still bright red, stops Dwalin short. He mumbles, “Maybe we could play some more first?”
And Dwalin grins.