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Dwalin, son of Fundin, had been inside of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, more times than he could count. 

It began with Thorin's first heat.

As if entering dwarvish adulthood wasn't embarrassing enough, heats and ruts were all too quick to put you on your ass. 

(Or ass-up, in Thorin’s case.)

Here, the universe seemed to say, have some sweating, slicking, and moaning in addition to your short, scraggly beard. 

First heats were even more embarrassing if you were royal. While your typical omega may have to deal with potential suitors, Thorin had to deal with power-hungry alphas who were either all too excited to pump a prince full of pups or push a prince face down in bed.

"Why don't ye just let me help?" Dwalin had asked.

Thorin looked up from his desk where he'd been staring depressively at a list of names his amad had given him—names of alphas deemed suitable to mate with if he should choose. "What?"

His scent had already started to change despite the sachets of herbs hidden in his leather tunic. It was a musky, masculine smell that drew as many omega eyes as it did alpha ones. 

King Thror was over the moon with this development, what it meant for his line.

Thorin wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

Dwalin waved a hand at himself. He was lounging in one of the chairs in the prince's study, waiting for Thorin to finish his paperwork so they could spar. "You're not looking for a mate right now. Right? You just need a knot to sit on, so your heat's bearable. I can knot."

"But," began Thorin, but he paused. Considering. Because Dwalin had a point.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Dwalin asked. "I accidentally knock ye up, and what? My bairn's got the same political power they'd have anywhere else." 

It wasn't entirely true—they would be next in line to the throne—but Dwalin and his brother, Balin, were children of advisors to the king. There wasn't any need for a power grab. They were well enough right where they were, and Dwalin had known Thorin since they were weans—Thorin knew he was no snake.

"If I fall pregnant, we'd have to marry," Thorin said, but his eyes were on the floor—considering, considering.

"Aye, a tragedy," said Dwalin, dryly. They already spent most of their time together. Even if they didn't love each other romantically, there was love there to make a marriage companionable. And while Dwalin was no king, he was certainly a king's right-hand dwarf.

Finally, Thorin met his eyes, hard and bright as steel—he’d made up his mind. Still, he asked (and it had to be asked), "Would you think less of me?"

It was one thing to have your shield brother’s back in battle, another to see him on his back and wanton.

Dwalin sat up straight so he was no longer lounging, and he lifted his hand in a fist. His skin was still pink from his first tattoo: a rune across the back of his hand, marking him officially of age. 

"I will never think less of you," he said firmly. "Of that, you have my word."

They held eyes, and the air in the room shifted. 

Looking back, Dwalin might say it was their destinies aligning.

Thorin nodded then, once. "I accept your offer.”

Since then, Dwalin was the only alpha Thorin had ever let bed him. Sure, the prince had a few flings here and there, but nothing substantial, and while Dwalin certainly knotted his fair share of lovers, there were never any courtships.

In all their years together, they never courted each other—and didn't plan to. They were happy enough as shield brothers, and their respect for one another never dwindled, from dragon fire to Khazad-dûm.

Which was good, considering Dwalin's rut was going to make him kill himself.

***

"Sorry," Dwalin said, not for what he was doing, but for waking Thorin the way he was.

It could hardly be called dawn, the sky outside the Prancing Pony a single shade lighter than a breath’s past midnight. The room was dark save for the muted glow of the dying fire in the hearth. 

Birds weren't even calling yet—crickets sang instead—so when Thorin let out a startled snort at being jerked awake by a nose at his crotch, he let out a very reasonable, "Fucking hell, Dwalin."

Dwalin pushed Thorin's thighs open to settle between them like a cat, pressing his face to his braies. "Ye can go back to sleep. It's not bad yet." The blankets and sheets on the floor would say otherwise. 

Thorin peered down at him. His gaze could cut glass. "You expect me to sleep like this?"

Dwalin took a very obvious huff of his crotch before he answered, "Ye’ve slept on my knot before."

Thorin sighed heavily and threw an arm over his face, thighs relaxing in defeat.

Dwalin settled in. His hands held the soft fat of Thorin's sides as he took long, heavy breaths. The smell of omega sated the itch in him, the deep urge to buck. Thorin hadn't bathed the night before, and Dwalin opened his mouth to catch the scent of his cunt at the back of his throat.

At the same time the sweat and musk calmed him down, it also stoked the flames of his rut, and it wasn't long before he started to lick at Thorin's crotch like it was their first time and he couldn't help himself. 

Thank Mahal that just as Dwalin never judged Thorin for the way he whined and ground his crotch against his knee during his heats, Thorin didn't judge him for the way he drooled for every hole Thorin let him have.

Despite how embarrassing it was to drag his tongue over sweaty braies, the way Thorin's scent grew thicker, headier, with each lick made it all worth it. The sharp taste of slick hit his tongue through the wet cotton, and Dwalin felt his skin grow hot.

It wouldn't be long now.

Through his underwear, Dwalin sucked Thorin's clit through his lips, and Thorin hummed.

He climbed up his body, earning several disgruntled sounds and one “ugh” as he pressed his nose into the curve of Thorin’s neck.

He mouthed the skin there, grazing it with his teeth.

“Don’t,” Thorin mumbled. “You mark me, you’re doing the market on Sunday on your own.”

“What I’m hearing is I can mark ye if I do the market on Sunday,” Dwalin said with a smirk. He bit Thorin’s neck, just a little—just to startle the king a little more awake—then pressed his nose beneath his ear and breathed.

"You’re wet," he said.

“Mm.”

Dwalin bit the shell of his ear. 

He stroked between Thorin’s legs, thumb rubbing back and forth over his clit through the fabric until Thorin’s hums started to turn into “ah”s and he pushed his hips up to meet Dwalin’s hand, humping his palm.

“Gonna cum in your pants?” Dwalin asked, teasing, but his heart jumped at the thought of it.

“I would,” Thorin said, and his breathless voice sent Dwalin’s brain on fire, “if you would just—"

He grabbed Dwalin’s hand and pushed it down his braies so his fingers slid right over hot skin and curly pubic hair and—

There was a wet, squelching sound and then Dwalin was smearing slick from Thorin’s folds over his clit and rubbing it the way he had for over a hundred years with just the right amount of pressure in the right spot while Thorin tensed his legs and—

“Aye, ye pretty bastard, cum on my fingers,” Dwalin snarled, and Thorin seized—gasping—and grabbed Dwalin by the beard as he shuddered.

He stroked his thumb over Thorin’s clit a few more times for good measure, just to watch him twitch and shudder, before capturing his mouth in a kiss. 

He pulled his fingers back out from Thorin’s pants and brought them up to his own neck, smearing his slick into his skin, right along his scent glands. It made Thorin snarl—a deep omega bellow so low it made Dwalin’s balls tighten.

And just like that, Dwalin’s rut reached a fever pitch. 

He pressed his nose to Thorin’s ear. “Can I fuck you?” he asked, grinding his cock against Thorin’s hip. “Thorin, can I fuck you? Please.”

But Thorin let out a hhhckt at the back of his throat, a dwarvish noise that was difficult to translate into Westron. It meant something along the lines of patience when delivered softly by someone like Balin, but from someone like Thorin, it was closer to wait a Mahal-fucking second. 

Dwalin moved away from his ear, a sign of respect, and returned to his neck instead, inhaling deeply. 

After all these years, Thorin’s scent had changed and matured into a deep musk that mixed with the scented oils of his beard, the wood ash and herbs he used in his hair. Dwalin could never get enough of it. During particularly rough ruts, he would hold Thorin's unwashed braies to his face and breathe. 

Here at Thorin's neck, he didn’t bite or lick—only scented—until Thorin’s heartbeat steadied again and his breathing slowed.

At last, Thorin grunted, arms lifting over his head and baring his neck. “Alright,” he said, voice low and scratchy with sleep, “now you can fuck me, you rut-drunk bastard.”

It was like a dog being let off-leash.

Dwalin took Thorin’s throat between his teeth, right beneath his beard—no pressure, just teeth—and then followed it with a hot, wet drag of his tongue.

Thorin groaned, head tilting back. He opened his thighs to make room for Dwalin as he pulled his braies from him. With nothing else separating them, Dwalin pressed forward and dragged his hips forward and back, forward and back, making schlick schlick noises as his cock rubbed between Thorin’s lips.

If anyone else heard, Dwalin would deny it, but surrounded by Thorin’s scent—and his cock surrounded by the hot, soft, slick folds of Thorin’s slit—he let out his own bellow: a quiet vibration, low in the back of his throat. 

Unlike omega bellows, which were meant to attract alphas and scare away other omegas, alpha bellows were smaller, softer things meant only for the one you were with.

Which made them humiliating.

Thorin said nothing, though—only responding with a bellow of his own, deep and rich and mean. 

Outside the door, unbeknownst to them, the inn keeper’s little hobbit assistant—already walking by their room at a pace with fresh blankets—hurried along faster.

Dwalin reached down to take himself in hand, blindly feeling for the part of Thorin’s cunt that pushed in, and slowly slid the tip of himself inside. 

The heat of him, the tightness of him, nearly had Dwalin knotting right then and there before he could even get in, and he let out an embarrassing string of curses while Thorin looked up at him through his long, stupid lashes with his pretty fucking lips parted.

He imagined another alpha cock between those lips—Nori’s maybe—and a wave of possessiveness hit him. A bellow rolled out of him for the second time, tattling, and as he pushed the rest of himself inside—shivering at the sounds of Thorin’s hitched breaths and the way his hips lifted off the bed—he slid a hand up, up over Thorin’s thick belly, his soft, strong sides, and up toward his hairy chest where he swept a thumb over his nipple.

Thorin jolted.

Dwalin swept his thumb over his nipple again, again, and then pinched—gentle. “Think I could get any o’ that omega milk from your tits?”

“Think I could make you spend your rut alone,” Thorin answered, but without heat.

Dwalin smirked, still gently squeezing, and when he started rolling his hips, he shivered in spite of himself. “Could try,” he said. “Make ye squirt from your cunt and your tits.”

Thorin snorted. “You’re rut-sloshed.”

“Aye? Then this isn’t your pussy button?” He shoved his hips forward, knowing full well with the way his cock was curved that he would smack up against that spot just above Thorin’s cervix, the spot that made air punch out of his lungs and his cunt spasm around him. 

"Uhn!" Thorin cried, mouth dropping open—because Dwalin was fucking psychic. 

“That’s right—gonna cream that fucking cunt.” He could hear himself slurring. Sweat dripped from his neck, down between his shoulder blades. “Have you dripping in the forges. Swollen with my cum, with my bairns.”

Dwalin could picture it. Thorin full of pups, powerful little bastards with Dwalin’s fierceness and Thorin’s tenacity. Ruthless cunts. Dragon slayers, the lot of them.

Thorin let out a laugh between groans. In reality, both of them had a little too much gray in their beards to be making babies, nor did they actually want any outside of their cycles—they were in no place to be taking care of a wee-whiskered wean.

“Gonna continue your line?” Thorin asked dryly, humoring him.

“Fuck my line,” Dwalin snapped. “Gonna continue yours. Stuff ye with orc killers—omegas with fire in their eyes and axes in their hands. Breed ye like a fucking king.”

He didn’t miss the way Thorin’s cunt clenched. That’s right, amadfucker, get loved and respected.

“Then when I’m done breeding your pussy, I’m gonna breed your ass. Stuff em both. Braw fucking bastard. Aye, ye like that? Creaming both holes? Aye, squeeze around me, ye wet prick. Make ye fucking gush.”

“Harder,” Thorin snarled, tensing his legs. He reached down and rubbed at his clit, and Dwalin’s balls jumped watching him.

He drove himself harder, bullying that spot and making Thorin's eyebrows climb and his lip wobble. His hands were vice-grips on Thorin's flanks, nails biting into skin. 

His lower back and stomach were just starting to burn when Thorin's face screwed up into this cute little pinch Dwalin would never tell him about and then he was seizing around him, cunt gripping and spasming around his cock while Thorin keened.

"Aye, that some good fucking dick?" Dwalin asked, grinning. He waited for most of the waves of Thorin's orgasm to end before changing his pace to adjust himself, leaning back and sitting on his knees.

Before Thorin could so much as catch his breath, still spasming, Dwalin grabbed him by the flanks and pulled him down the bed to him, hips lifted, to seat him right back fully on his cock—tight, wet, and hot.

Thorin gasped, letting out desperate "aah," "aah," "aah" sounds as Dwalin drove into him again and again, chasing his own pleasure now and hammering into him like a knife blade in the forge.

It was too much, too much, and Dwalin knew it, but his skin was on fire and Thorin's face was a fucking painting and the slick sounds of their fucking were foul and perfect. 

He could feel his knot growing and he stuffed it into Thorin's cunt again and again, shuddering each time—groaning, groaning—until pulling out made his nostrils flare and Thorin wince and it was almost too big to go back in.

"Dwalin—" Thorin started.

"Let me in, ye knot milker," Dwalin growled, and then two things happened at once:

Dwalin's knot squeezed in before his cock bottomed out, pushing just past the opening and fitting nice and snug up against Thorin's g-spot while he came, snarling.

At the same time his knot slid into place, Thorin let out a gasping hiccup of a sound and slick and fluid sprayed from his cunt, wetting Dwalin's lap.

Dwalin shuddered, then, when he caught his breath, he let out a little laugh. "Told ye I'd make ye gush."

"Sod off," Thorin said breathlessly.

But the thing about knotting was that the two of you were stuck together. Which meant Thorin couldn't do anything when Dwalin cooed at him and rubbed at his clit.

"Think I could get ye to do it again?" he asked.

"Dwalin—"

He ground his hips forward, making Thorin's lip do that wee little wobble he liked. "Aw, don't be like that," he said. "Give us a squirt."

"Dwalin—"

He slapped at Thorin's clit, making him jump, and then rubbed it with his thumb, driving his hips forward and back so his knot rubbed right up against his g-spot, unrelenting and unfair. 

"Fanâd duzdnu targ usganul mi mê," Thorin snarled, but it only made Dwalin laugh. He knew when Thorin really didn't like something and wanted him to stop—this wasn't one of those times.

As he rocked, Thorin's cunt got wetter, his breathing got heavier. "There ye go, love, make that pretty pussy shine for me," Dwalin said, voice low. "Won't be long now, I can feel it. Aye, there ye go… There ye go. Gush for me, Thorin. Aye, there it is."

Thorin spasmed again with a cry, dribbling slick into Dwalin's lap just like he said he would, the very picture of any alpha's lewd omega fantasy. He'd like to see any other dwarf try and make the oak-blooded savior of Khazad-dûm squirt like that.

(Unbeknownst to him, in two years time, he would be showing a small alpha halfling how to do just that.)

And if Dwalin wiped his hand through the mess and fed it to that same oak-blooded savior, mouth open and trusting, it was no dwarf's business but their own.

***

It took thirty minutes for Dwalin's knot to go down.

In that time, Thorin dozed back off again, arms draped loosely above his head. Birds had started to chirp outside, the sky brightening slightly like a candle lit in a mine. The working people across the Prancing Pony began to wake, and there were sounds of soft feet coming and going outside the room.

While the fire of Dwalin's rut had begun to burn less intensely, it was still a buzz in his blood. Once his knot went down enough for him to pull out, he did so slowly and carefully.

Slick and cum oozed from Thorin's cunt, coating the darker skin of his inner thighs and pubes, his ass hair, and the sheets below with clear and white juices.

And, well.

Waste not.

For the second time that morning, Thorin Oakenshield was jolted awake by the sensation of Dwalin at his crotch—but instead of his nose bumping and scenting him, this time it was the whole width of his tongue licking stripe after stripe from cunt to cock. 

Occasionally, he’d flick his tongue over the underside of Thorin’s clit before going back down again, eating his own spunk from Thorin’s folds in all its salty, musky glory.

Above him, Thorin swore and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. And then swore some more when Dwalin pushed a finger inside him. But not to fuck him. To coat it. And push it somewhere else.

“Oh, you’re a makk an e ha'ak,” Thorin snarled.

“Do you want me to take it out?” Dwalin asked, smirking. He sucked Thorin’s clit into his mouth and curled his finger at the same time.

"I'll make a cunt out of your face with my sword."

“Aye, but stop tensing. You’ll make it hurt.”

Thorin's hole begrudgingly relaxed around his finger.

If anyone ever claimed a pillow prince did nothing but lay there, they had never met Thorin, who had the patience of a king and the derision of an eldest sibling.

By the time Dwalin fit three oil-coated fingers inside him, curling and rubbing them upward the way he knew he liked, he had cleaned nearly every lick of cum he could get from Thorin's cunt until he was panting heavily into the pillow beside him, hands clenching in the fabric and teeth biting.

"Ye wanna turn over, gamzûn?" Dwalin asked.

Thorin didn't look like he wanted to do much of anything. With a monumental effort and uncomfortable grunt, he turned slowly onto his wide belly and gave Dwalin a glorious view of his round, broad ass. 

Before Dwalin could even think about licking him, though, Thorin peered over his shoulder with a look that would make poets flinch. "You put your tongue in my arse, you're not touching my slit again," he warned, pulling his hair over his neck, "and you're certainly not kissing me."

Dwalin groaned, temptation taunting him. He gripped Thorin's cheeks and pushed them up, separating them to see his wet hole shining in the light of the dying embers of the fireplace, covered in slick and oil.

His cunt, just below, was still wet.

He could lick him. Just a little. His rut wanted him to.

But Thorin's words were iron-clad, and he knew if he tongued him then Thorin would be livid to have his mouth so much as ghost over the back of his neck.

He resorted to giving Thorin's hole an affectionate rub with the pad of his thumb and an even more affectionate rub with the head of his cock.

"Yer gonna feel so fucking good," Dwalin groaned.

"Mm."

"D'ye think ye could… arch your back a little?"

"Don't push your luck," Thorin mumbled. 

That was well enough, he supposed. When you were getting anal before 5 AM, beggars couldn't be choosers.

Dwalin pressed his cock to his hole again and slowly, slowly, pushed in, mouth dropping open and air pulling from his lungs. The squeeze of it—hot and intense—had him making a sound that, for a moment, he thought belonged to Thorin. He couldn't stop it, either.

He could feel Thorin trying to relax beneath him. The dwarf's face was turned into his arm, but Dwalin could see his eyebrows pinching and his mouth turned down. Then, as Dwalin pushed past the first opening inch and slid further, deeper, Thorin let out a gut-punching, "Unnhh," noise that had Dwalin biting the back of his shoulders before he could so much as stop himself.

Thorin didn't even swear at him. If anything, now he really did arch his back, making Dwalin moan. 

It was one thing for an omega to present themselves, and another for a dwarf to do it. Dwarrow didn't just present themselves because of raging hormones—they did it when they fully trusted you, not only on the battlefield but also here, in the bedroom, where one was most vulnerable.

And for a king to present himself, well.

Dwalin had his arms wrapped around Thorin's wide middle in an instant, pressing every part of him snug against his body and—

"The teeth, Dwalin, the teeth," Thorin warned, voice breaking, and Dwalin pulled his mouth away from Thorin's neck before he could pierce the sensitive skin there.

He rocked his hips, making them both moan, and oh, Valar, he couldn't stop the emotions from bubbling up. It felt too good and his rut had him like he was 10 ales deep and falling off the bar.

"I'd follow ye anywhere," he told Thorin. "Anywhere, halwuzbad. Amlanthi sulla dê astâ. "

"Aye, Dwalin, I know," Thorin said, and then again, softer, "I know."

"Aye," Dwalin said, "aye. Good. Because I'm about to fuck ye like I don't have any respect for ye."

Thorin laughed. And then looked over his shoulder cheekily at him, eyes glittering like stars. "Well," he said, "grab my hair and fuck me, then.”

Dwalin let out another bellow, this one a mix between a moan and a growl, and reached forward. He gripped Thorin’s thick curls and twisted them around his hand as if he were putting it up. He didn’t pull, just anchored it there so Thorin could feel it. And then he started moving.

Dwalin wished he could have said he was the picture of an alpha: strong, possessive, in control. In reality, he couldn't make himself shut the fuck up.

As if it were vengeance for making Thorin squirt twice, he found himself keening with each buck of his hips as if it were Thorin fucking him instead of the other way around. Each thrust felt like he was burying his cock in Aulë's halls. The scent of Thorin's arousal, the way his skin rolled on his lower back during a particularly hard thrust, the sounds of him under him—

Dwalin swore long and filthy. He could feel his knot forming again in the way it was getting harder to push inside, and he could tell Thorin felt it too by the way the dwarf shifted to reach under himself and rub at his cock.

Sweat pooled in his collarbone and slid down his chest. He pressed his thumb into the dimple of Thorin's lower back and with his other hand, he gave a tug to Thorin's hair.

"Ye ready for me to breed that hole 'o yours?" he said. "Shove my knot into that tight fucking arse?"

Thorin moaned, arching, and Dwalin could feel him tensing around him—could see his arm moving.

"Aye, rub that fucking cock and milk me, khakhafel."

He fucked into him once more, twice more, and then—bit into the meat of Thorin's shoulder as he squeezed his knot inside and came, whining and humping against him as Thorin shuddered and spasmed around him, draining his knot for all it had.

They collapsed slowly onto the bed like wet sand, panting together like one heaving lung. 

At last, the sun peeked over the building across the road, and in the creamy orange glow of morning carried by the gentle song of Eriador rain doves, Dwalin realized with sheepish, dawning horror that Thorin's neck and shoulder were…

Well.

"Looks like I'll be doing Sunday's market," Dwalin muttered against Thorin's back. He placed a kiss there as if it would stop Thorin from realizing what that meant.

It didn't.

He turned, hair temporarily drowning Dwalin. Potentially on purpose. "What."

Dwalin grimaced. "And Tuesday's market."

"What!"

"Ach, ye know, I've got a chainmail coif ye could use."

Thorin thumped his head back onto the pillow. "Get out of me," he mumbled.

"Sorry, lad," Dwalin said, and gave a little bite to Thorin's unmarked shoulder. Just to push his luck. "You're stuck with me—for better or worse."