A/N: My darlings, as you have probably understood from the description, it's an AU and very different from my previous writing. Please, be advised.

Just a note: in my mind I follow the Tumblr tradition of Frerin, Thorin's younger brother to look like Gerard Butler, especially the way he looks in Beowulf & Grendel.


Since there are so few Dwarven women and even fewer of them are willing to come to Erebor once it has been reclaimed, most having an established life in other mountains, Thorin decides to turn a blind eye to the fact that his younger brother, Frerin brings his mistress with him to reside Under the Mountain. She is of Men, and by the time they arrive to Erebor she has been Frerin's woman for five years.

The renovations and building proper life for everybody take a lot of effort, Thorin's wounds hurt, and marriage is the last thing on his mind. Fili is recovering from his lesions, and it goes without saying that he is the next in line for the throne, since he is the son of the middle child of Thrain, son of Thror. Frerin is never to rule, and Thorin is beyond his prime, both of them are seeking no wife.

With time Thorin finds out that Frerin's mistress has been a healer, and Frerin suggests she helps Thorin with the pain in the maimed leg. She has balms and very strong small hands.

With time Thorin and Frerin start sharing her in bed. They have shared women for many years, Frerin always being the charming one and finding the willing ones, Thorin too busy for such trite matters. The red haired woman in Frerin's bedchambers is lithe, skillful and flexible, she is used to Dwarven appetites, and Thorin comes to value her immensely. With time it is not just her bedroom skills, she can tend to old wounds, listens attentively when news and aggravations are shared with her, never rattles, her answers are always to the point and endlessly reasonable, and although Thorin himself never asks for it and feels slightly irritated at the beginning when Frerin does, soon the King realises that her advice is to be listened to.


Frerin loves Wren. There is certain calmness in her that he finds comforting. She is never in a rush, she is always where he needs her, and after all these years he is used to her. They share a sarcastic sense of humour, so rare among Dwarves, and she makes faces to him discreetly when other Dwarves are present and she is not pleased with what is said. She is insatiable in bed, but there is some sort of mildness to her. While her cool hands soothe the shoulder that has never fully recovered after the Battle of Azanulbizar, her reserved and even disposition brings peace to his mind.


Wren is standing on her hands and knees, and Frerin leans in, kissing down her back, slowly approaching her perky buttocks. He places a few little bites on her waist, and he knows she is ticklish there, and she would definitely giggle, if they were alone, but Thorin is kneeling in front of her, her red lips are wrapped around his length and she is sucking vigorously. Thorin pushes his hand into her hair, pulling her head closer, and she makes a soft moaning sound that, Frerin knows, means that Thorin's tip slid into her throat.

"Look at me, Wren," Thorin rasps, his burning eyes on her face, and Frerin assumes she does, since Thorin gently brushes her cheek with his other hand.

Frerin chuckles, he knows that Thorin is in for a surprise, and just as he expected Wren slightly tilts her head, allowing Thorin's member slide even deeper. A low growl escapes Thorin's lips, and he drops his head back, his hand slips out of her hair, his arms hanging limp along his body. Frerin enters her from behind, brushing the tips of his fingers on her folds before it, letting her prepare. She moans loudly and he assumes it is both from pleasure and as a thank you for the warning. The sound makes Thorin grunt, and suddenly he grabs the back of her head with both hands and Frerin sees him jerkily thrust into her throat several time, spilling his seed.


Thorin enters his brother's chambers one evening only to find the red haired woman alone, at a small desk in the corner of the parlour. She is writing something industriously, but puts the quill aside when she notices him. There is a warm calm smile on her lips, and although he came to discuss some matters with his brother, he heavily sits in an armchair. She still hasn't said a word. She tilts her head and lifts one brow. He chuckles and pats the armrest of his chair. She is wearing a simple home dress, green and demure. He has never seen her in anything but such attires.

"Frerin is in negotiations with the envoys from the Iron Hills, my lord," she is perched on the armrest, her pert backside is near his shoulder, and he leans back and closes his eyes. He is tired, and the rain that wouldn't stop for the last two weeks makes his joints ache dully. "Would you like a bath with herbal essences, my lord? It will ease the pain." He peeks at her with one eye. She is knowledgeable, that he knows by now, and he likes how she doesn't need to ask. There is still a soft smile on her lips, and he nods.

While she is clanking with something in the bath chamber, he idely walks around the parlour. The letters she was writing are in a thick neat pile on the corner of the table, and for the first time in almost two years since she started residing in Erebor and in six moons he has had her in bed, he asks himself what it is that she does every day. Dwarven women pursue all sorts of vocations, there is also housekeeping, but what does a woman of Men to do in a Dwarven city residing in royal halls?

"I am in charge of herbs supplies in the city infirmary, my lord," her voice is slightly laced with laughter, and he twirls on his heels. He was not, but it looks like he was rummaging through her belongings. "Through our travels with Frerin, I have made many beneficial connections." She has a strange manner of speaking, well articulated and cautious, her phrases thought through and her voice melodic.


The bath is hot, some unfamiliar fragrances swim in the air, and he sees some purple flowers in the tub. He hesitates and hears a little giggle behind him.

"These are not to even out your skin or give it radiance, and not for aroma either, my lord," she is holding a large sheet in her hands, "These are to soothe the pain. And hopefully prevent the hemicrania." He wonder how she knows. The headache is indeed coming, he has felt the first pangs, and he sinks in the water.

She puts a goblet with mead on a low table near him, and then places a few bottles, with soap for hair perhaps, and a little clay bowl. He gives it a confused look.

"For the beads from the hair," she is by the wall, sorting something in the cupboard full of bottles and vials, her back to him. He wonders how she knows what he is looking at. "Where is that soap?" Even when she mumbles under her nose, it sounds as if she is reciting poetry. He wonders where she grew up, there is a strange lilt to her words in Common Speech. She turns around and brings a bar of soap to him. "I shall leave you to it then, my lord." She gives him a small bow, and he catches her skirt.

"Sit with me, Wren," he doesn't know why he asks, but there is a little stool by the wall, and just as he assumes she moves it closer and sits behind his back leaned to the edge of the tub.

Her hands lie on his shoulders, he already knows how strong and skillful they are, and then she carefully picks up his hair and moves it over his shoulder. He mentally notes her consideration, she doesn't even offer to wash it. It is indeed an honour reserved for a wife, and then she starts kneading his muscles, and he realises how tired they were, and how much better they feel now.

"Forgive my impudence, my lord," she speaks quietly, and he hums showing her she may continue, "But I am certain your chair in your study is too tall for you. That is where at least a third of your backache comes from. You spend many hours there, and it is a strain for your back. You are taller than most Khazad, you need a lower chair." He opens his eyes and slightly turns to look at her. Her face is calm, but then her turn-up noses twitches. It is a nervous gesture, and he gets to see it very rarely. There are bright orange freckles on her nose and cheekbones.

It is hot in the chamber, and in the spicy fragrant steam a little curl is stuck to her wet temple, and her lips seem especially red. She has a wide mouth, and he remembers how her soft lips wrap around his member. He has never had her without Frerin being in the same bed with them, but he has learnt her well. He sees desire flare up in her eyes when he places his palm on the side of her neck. He then cups the back of her head and pulls her to his lips. Her mouth readily opens, and then he twists, grabs her around her middle with another arm and drags her into the tub. She emits a little squeak he has never heard before, and then she shifts and stretches on him.

He is kissing her greedily, his hands cupping her angular face, and then he grabs the back of her dress, the two halves of the laced corset, and jerks. There is a sound of tearing ribbons and fabric, and she lifts her face from his and tut-tuts. It is a playful, flirty sound, and he grins to her. He pushes his fingers into her hair, quickly destroying the braids and enjoying the soft curls running through his fingers. She catches his mouth again. They pull off her dress and the undertunic together, tangling in them and laughing, and then he gets impatient and tears her bloomers as well.

"Would you stop this barbarian behaviour already?" She is laughing and grabs his ear. It is different this time, she is freer with him, and he thinks he might like it.

He pick her up under her backside, one round buttock in each hand, and she bends backwards, encircles his base, and guides him inside her. He likes her flexibility, and the way tendons show on her long elegant neck when she twists her back. He slides inside, she is very tight, and she emits a raspy low moan. They start moving, in still warm water, he is sucking at her throat, her fingers are digging into his shoulders, and he starts inclining her back, one of his hands between her shoulder blades. She relaxes into this new position, her head drops all the way back, and he sees the ends of her fiery curls slither in the water. Her torso is in a steep arch, and he covers her small breast with the other hand. The peaks are bright red, puckered and tense, and a shudder runs through her body from his touch. He is bucking his hips, and she is moving forcefully. Their climax is simultaneous, her hands grip at his forearms, and before everything goes white in the charring pleasure he pulls her up and back into him. She slacks, her arms go around his neck, and she is breathing heavily.

Her forehead is pressed to his temple, and he slightly turns his head and kisses her cheekbone. She starts laughing softly, and he joins. There is no reason or rhyme in their frolics, but he is enjoying this moment.

She climbs out of the tub and goes to dry her hair in front of the fireplace. By the time he is done with his bath, she is already asleep on a low settee in the parlour. Frerin comes back to the chambers soon after, and before they start their conversation Thorin watches his brother pick the small woman up and carry her to the bedchambers.


Winter comes, Wren wakes up in the middle of the night and understands that her bed is empty. She finds Frerin smoking in front of an open window of the parlour, but cold never bothers him. She is bare, just a cover thrown on her shoulders, and she immediately starts shivering. He gives her an absent-minded smile, and opens one arm in an invitation. She slips on his lap, and he presses her into him. His skin is scorching, like of any Dwarf, and she is looking at the stars in the ink of the night sky.

"I miss the road," his tone is melancholic, and he puts the pipe aside. He sharply exhales with an open mouth, watching his warm breath swirl in the air.

"Me too," she answers softly and pulls her legs up hiding them under the cover. She is twirling the bead of one of the plaits on the side of his face in her hand. "But you want to stay with your family. This is where you belong. You are just bored with the negotiations." He sighs, and she slightly shifts and nuzzles his hair behind his ear. It is soft, and silky, of the brightest golden brown.

"I'd rather fight Orcs," he grumbles, "Than sit through all these discussions of how many guards are to accompany the merchants, and where they are to stay, and other igbêr karâk zifîr," he spits out, and she cups his face and gently turns his head making him meet her eyes.

"Izul kuthu barafzu tashmari ra dûmzu fuluz muneb samragi." Only when your family is guarded and your halls are prosperous should you feast. Her Khuzdul is impeccable, consonants deep and raspy, and words run melodically. She reminds him of the Dwarven ways, family and prosperity above merriment, and he laughs.

"You are such a Khuzd, Wren. Only you can compare fighting Orcs to a feast." She strokes the side of his face, and he leans into her palm.

"I'm no Dwarf, manardûnuh, but you are. You are the son of Thrain, son of Thror, son of Dain," she quickly brushes her lips to his, feeling the whiskers under her lips. He has a surprisingly soft beard, of a slightly darker shade than his beautiful hair. "You value your family, you want to bring prosperity to your people, and you just need more time for sparring to entertain yourself." He smiles to her widely, white teeth gleaming, and then he grabs her and moves her to straddle him. The cover slides down, and he dramatically bites into her shoulder. She gives him the yelp he is hoping for.

"I have no strength for sparring, woman. You wear me out." She grabs handfuls of his waves and pulls, making him drop his head back and bare his neck. She gives it a long lick, and then bites into his jaw with a small unimpressive growl.

"It's all this stern demeanor of yours, at the negotiations, manardûnuh. Looking at you in the council halls, no one would believe you are the man who got so drunk in Bree once that he tried to charm a training dummy into spending a night with us." He bursts into booming laughter.

"She was an enticing lass!" She is laughing too.

"Seeing this new matured decorum of yours makes me very, very, very..." She is placing small kisses along his jaw, between her words, closer and closer to his ear, and he is squinting his eyes like a giant cat, she watches his fluffy lashes, that she adores so much, from the corner of her eye.

"You were saying, halawi?" The rasp in his voice makes her arch into him, pulling his hair back more.

"Wet," she exhales into his ear, he growls and pushes her on the floor, covering her with his heavy body. Her breath is knocked out of her, and she laughs throatily, wrapping her legs around him.


A/N: Firstly, all the credit and the blame for Gerard Butler (mostly from Beowulf & Grendel) as Frerin who miraculously survived the Battle of Azanulbizar and popped up in my writing belongs to Wynni. She just gushed on how fit he was, and I didn't argue obviously and told her of how GB is the headcanon for Frerin on Tumblr. And then she started writing her lovely Modern AU All's Faire in Love and War (do check it out, it's to die for!), and my muse said "what the hell" (pronounce in your head with Eleven's intonations :D)

Secondly, it was initially planned as a two chapter fic, but at this stage it looks like a three-shot (all puns intended :D). As we all know, I rarely manage to stay in the limits I set for myself. But something tells me some of you don't mind ;)


igbêr karâk zifîr = (Khuzdul) melting lead shards (a foolish tedious endeavour with little profit as a result)

manardûnuh = (Khuzdul) the one I care for

halawi = (Khuzdul) honey-like