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Ori gave a sigh of relief as he raced into his office, locking the door behind him and slumping against it. That one had been a little too close for comfort and Ori didn't like it. He didn't know what it was but ever since the caravans had arrived from Ered Luin and the Blue Mountains, he had been flavour of the month. It had seemed as though everywhere he turned there was a dwarrow wanting either a quick tumble or, the one that was scarier, wanting to court him. Even dwarrows who had barely given him the time of day back in Ered Luin were interested.

He knew that the only reason they were showing an interest was because he had been part of Thorin's Company and was now Royal Scribe and in charge of Erebor's vast libraries. Were he not, he was convinced that he wouldn't have warranted a second glance from any other dwarrow. Why would he when he was being courted by Mister Dwalin? The burly, tattooed dwarrow, now in his rightful position as Head of the Royal Guard, had presented Ori with his first gift at Beorn's and their courtship had gone from there. It had, understandably, faltered when they had been captured in Mirkwood but had picked back up once they were back in Erebor, despite Thorin's gold sickness.

Now, all Ori wanted was for Dwalin to be back in Erebor, back from protecting Thorin in Laketown, as hopefully his presence would deter some of the more persistent suitors. Most of them, when he told them that he was courting someone would leave him alone but there were a few who couldn't take a hint. They kept seeking him out, sending him notes and gifts and Narvi – a dwarrow from the Iron Hills, who was the most persistent of the lot – had even cornered Ori today and tried to steal a kiss and a grope. Ori was desperate for someone new to arrive to take the attention away from him.

He stiffened against the door as he heard footsteps outside accompanied by Narvi's voice calling out to him. Panicking, he double checked the lock and then reached for one of the throwing knives that Ori had gifted him with just as Narvi started banging on the door. Just as Ori was steeling himself to do something, he wasn't sure what, he heard a very familiar growl and the banging stopped. Straining his ears, he heard a long stream of Khuzdûl punctuated by the thump of fists hitting flesh. When the sounds faded, Ori decided to brave opening the door. The instant that he did, he was wrapped in an embrace and, though he stiffened at first, it didn't take him long to relax as he recognised the scent of the furs in front of him and the arms wrapped around him.

“Mister Dwalin!”

“Are yer alrigh' lad?”

Ori nodded, moaning happily as he was kissed, even as Dwalin's arms roamed across his body, reassuring himself.

“Yer too popular lad. I'm going to have to marry yer to tell everyone yer mine.”

“But...” They had been holding off on getting married until the ceremonial chambers had been repaired after Smaug's damages; they were allowed to marry there as both Dwalin and Ori were of Durin's bloodline.

“Bofur announced the chambers are complete when me an' Thorin got back from Laketown. Thorin'll do the ceremony whenever we want.”

Ori couldn't help the squeak of delight that escaped him as he stood on tip-toe to kiss his dwarrow.

“Oh Mister Dwalin!”