A/N: I started this as a draft for a fic that suddenly started expanding exponentially in my head. I'm worried it might turn into a full scale multi chapter story and then my head will explode. The whole universe of these characters is suddenly so clear to me, all of them already living their own lives. It is definitely running away from me again… 0_0
So I'll just use the draft as an intro that outlines the premises of the story, while the second half is based on a prompt "camping" from Just4Me. She asked for smut and that is what she gets! Contemporary, non-Tolkieny language makes me more graphic :) Be warned!
You meet Philip and Killian Durinson at the uni during the first year. Unlike the two blue-blooded "princes" who come from the long line of renown doctors and surgeons, rich and posh, you have a scholarship. To sustain yourself you tutor, work as professor's assistant and do the all available drone work in labs. You meet Phil first, one day his golden-maned head just pops up in your dorm room. He is failing Genetics, and here is where you come in. He is hitting on you all through the first class, after which you have a serious conversation. It includes kneeing him in the bollocks after an especially explicit attempt and a lecture on the respect towards women. You become friends after he aces his test, and that is when you get introduced to Killian.
The younger Durinson has no problem with studies. Less ambitious and probably less gifted than his brother in the medical field that they both pursue, he is nonetheless one of the top of his class. He does not require a tutor, he needs help in "the matters of heart" as his brother sarcastically puts it. The redhead he is after is in Anthropology and is a socialist. Since all the "scum" of the university, meaning those who have to work to get by, are more or less your close acquaintances, Killian comes to you for help. You introduce them, but she does not seem interested.
For no particular reason, you start dating. You are so wrong for each other that you never even get to sex. He spends couple of nights in your bed, but the spark is just not there. You break up, actually laughing about it, and become friends.
It continues for two years. Most of the time you study and work, but sometimes you let yourself forget the long list of goals set in your head, replace your glasses with contacts, put on red shoes and go out. Most of the time it is with your friends from BioChem, but with years it is increasingly more often with the Durinson brothers, and their clique of posh medical students. They are surprisingly accepting of you, probably since you are not interested in either of their males as a date. You suspect that they consider you gay, which you do not discuss, since it allows some degree of ease in your relationships and also because you are not sure yourself. At this stage you also do not care. You are busy.
With time they start inviting you to more family events, since the upper crust that they revolve in tends to have multigeneration gatherings. You get lost in the flurry of young faces. "This is Wren Leary, my friend from uni," that is how you get introduced to many people whom you would have never even dreamt of meeting. Phil is laughing at your constant resistance to use their family connections. "Use them," he is joking, "not that we need them." You receive your first grant because the head of the commission recognizes your face from the last year Equinox Picnic. You feel humiliated and stop going with the brothers to their mansion for breaks.
You miss it through, the old house, the enormous garden, the magnificent library, and mostly their mother, Deadre Durinson, nee Thorington. She is friendly, even-tempered and seems to envelop you with warmth and care. When you stay in their house, sometimes you feel that she singles you out of other friends of her sons, cares for you more, dotes on you even.
The only person from their small family you practically have never met is Deadre's brother, John Thorington. A renown neurosurgeon, he practices all around the world, travels a lot and his short visits rarely coincide with the occasions you are invited to. You suspect that he is avoiding crowds. You have seen him twice, once he arrived when you were already leaving the mansion, you shared a breakfast. He was jetlagged, and you are still not sure if his haughty silence is his customary treatment of the likes of you. The second time you saw him in a more official environment, during the Honourary Dinner at uni. You follow Sherlock Holmes' approach and delete the memories of his massive strong body clad in a dinner jacket. You have a tuxedo kink. If a sexual fantasy also included his blazing blue eyes and an exotic luscious ponytail an orgasm following it would probably incinerate you.
At the end of fourth year you give in to Phil's whining and agree to go to their mansion for their annual "trip to the swamps". Too late you realize that it means camping. A large crowd of their friends arrives to the mansion, they are later joined by their older relatives, and then everyone, loaded in Land Rovers, is driven into the middle of a swamp. You are mortified through the trip, newly bought camping clothes and no outdoors experience. You grew up in the heart of the city, the only grass you are familiar with is the bolding lawns in the city parks. The Durinsons both dote on you, help with a sleeping bag and share their bugspray.
While the older crowd enjoys some bird watching and fishing, you lot dawdle around. But the night comes, and the apparently long awaited bonfire time comes. It is roaring, flames are seemingly licking the sky, and you are awed. The only problem arises when you realize that bonfire means bewy and skinny dipping. Neither of the two interests you. You can't drink, pretty much losing consciousness after three shots, and even more so you are not looking forward to what you understand is an advertisement of available goods. When everyone starts talking too loudly and walking unsteadily, you sneak away and go back to your tent. You are supposed to share it with Killian, since you are sort of familiar with each other.
In the middle of the night while the noise of the bonfire party is still rumbling through the woods, you wake up because you desperately need to pee. You wander out of the tent clad only in light PJs and wellies. Unfortunately alcohol consumption usually triggers promiscuous behaviour in youth, and all bushes around the campsite seems to be occupied by two, sometimes three, people, and after learning three new sexual positions you are desperate. The swamp and the woods frighten you, but the nature calls. You venture into your quest.
After twenty minutes of walking and finally in a state of complete bliss from your bladder finally empty you realize that you are lost. Not completely, you more or less know where to go, the noise of the bonfire still echoing between the trees, but you suddenly realize that you are separated from the hostile environment of the wild nature by a flimsy cotton material of your polka dot pajamas. You carefully tread between the trees, constantly feeling that something is stretching its furry paws to get you. Then you catch a face full of spiderweb and shriek. Your own voice frightens you even more, and you dart sideways. Your foot gets stuck in an especially gooey muck and you frantically pull it out. You know you are being unreasonable, but you are shaking and sprint towards the fire you can see between the trees ahead.
Two things happen at the same time. You see a tent, erected under a large oaktree, and something grabs your leg. It is wet and scratchy, and you squeal. All decorum forgotten, you grab the zipper on the tent and jerking it open you jump inside. You pull the zipper up and freeze with your hands pressed into your chest. At this stage you don't care even if it is the Dean of your Faculty inside of it, which he is not, his was green, you are not going out there again.
XXX
"Are you lost?" The sleepy voice of John Thorington startles you, and you jump up with a yelp. The tent wobbles, and you stare into the darkness. Your eyes are used to the night already so you can guess the outline of his mane and wide shoulders. His cologne assaults your senses. Who actually puts any on when going to spend a night on a swamp? Doesn't it attract all kinds of stinging, blood sucking monsters? Or does it repel them? Your knowledge of camping is simply pathetic.
"Something touched my leg," you breath out as if it is supposed to explain him everything. He is lying on his back, propped on his elbows in futile attempts to see you better. "I am Wren, Wren Leary." "I know who you are." That's a surprise. "What I do not understand is what you are doing in my tent. Shouldn't you be in Philip's?" "I'm actually sharing one with Killian." "You are dating him now?" Is it disdain in his voice?
"No, I'm not." "So whose tent were you looking for?" "I wasn't looking for anyone's tent. Either would do to be honest at this stage." You certainly feel that didn't come out quite the way you planned it to. "I mean I'm not dating either of your nephews, sir, don't worry." "Why should I worry?" Because the likes of John Thorington do not approve of the likes of you shackling their sons and nephews. "What I meant is that I got scared outside and any familiar face would be welcome right now." "I am familiar." Bloody hell, is he flirting? Of course not, you are obviously misinterpreting.
You both are silent for a bit and then he sits up. You have never realize how massive his torso is. He has the same body structure as Phil, wide shoulders and broad chest, but he is two heads taller. He takes up all room in the tent and you suddenly feel trapped. Nonsense, you intruded on him and can just leave. On the other hand, whatever is out there might still be scarier than John Thorington. You look at him sideways. His extraordinary hair is loose, like a curtain of luscious wavy opulence.
"What did you say about your leg?" His velvet voice sounds irritated. You should assure him it was nothing, politely excuse yourself and leave. But whatever attacked you might still be there. "I was walking back to my tent and felt something grabbing it." He sighs and starts rummaging in his sleeping bag. After a few seconds he finally finds his mobile and lights up the screen. You blink from sudden light and seeing his face, with peevish scowl and drawn brows, so close in front of you. "Let me see." He definitely sounds irritated. You are hesitating. With another exasperated sigh he shoves the phone into your hands and suddenly grabs you under your arms. He pulls you closer, you are practically on his lap, your legs across his, and his deft fingers encircle your ankle. You squeak. "Does it hurt?" "No." You feel like a idiot. He gives you a sideways glance. Then he picks up your leg and examines first the foot and then the calf. The PJ pant is torn and dirty. "You probably tumbled over a root, I don't see any injuries." Your calf in in his palm and he is rubbing it slightly. "Does it hurt anywhere?" "No, it's fine," you suddenly realize that he isn't stopping, his scorching palm is brushing your skin through the hole in the pant.
The silence stretches, and it is quite a tense one. His thumb slips inside the gap in the fabric, and he draws a slow circle on your skin. That is already impossible to misinterpret. You consider leaping ahead and just kissing him, but the game seems to be going by different rules.
One of your arms is wrapped around your middle since you were subconsciously shielding yourself as he was so obviously apprehensive. The other one lies near his palm splayed on the floor of the tent. You slowly reach for his wrist and slide your fingers up the inner side of his forearm. You let your nails scrape the skin slightly, and you think you hear his breathing hitch.
He lowers his face to your neck and for a slip of a second you feel his hot lips on the side of your neck, behind your ear. Then you feel him smile into your skin, goosebumps quickly covering your whole body. You tilt your head allowing him more access. He brushes his nose along your throat. And then suddenly he moves you off his lap. You tense but then realize that he is unzipping his sleeping bag.
It is open and he is lying back, one arm open, another one supporting the flap of the sleeping bag. The invitation is quite clear. You bite your lip and then slip into his embrace. He closes the bag and smirks. "You will have to zip it up if you want to stay warm at night." You push one arm out of it and clumsily pull the zipper as far up as you can.
You two are pretty snug in the bag. Do they come in different sizes? This one seems to allow you both to be pretty comfortable inside, although you are mostly lying on him, pressed into his right side. You gingerly place your right hand on his chest and feel the soft fabric of his henley. He pulls you closer and you place your temple below his clavicle.
The erotic tension of a few seconds ago is gone, and you relax into the heat and fresh grassy smell of his skin. His breathing is even, heartbeat steady. You close your eyes and soak in the moment.
He is an amazing presence, strength and confidence radiating from him. You feel safe and sheltered. You don't want to think of the world outside the warm bubble you are in, you don't want to worry about tomorrow's morning coming and bringing the harsh light over your sleeping arrangements. You breathe him in and understand why they call physical intimacy "to know someone in a Biblical sense." The physical closeness allows you to know a person better than a hundred conversations.
His fingers tread through your hair and you feel him pulling out the pins holding your messy bun together. The dexterity of a surgeon is a magical thing, it allows you to pull out twenty eight pins while a girl's head is weighing your shoulder to the ground. His other hand covers yours on his chest and the thumb is rubbing your knuckles.
The strokes of his fingers are increasingly sensual, and you wonder if he can cause this much hunger inside you by lightly touching your hand with his fingers, what can he achieve with two hands? His mouth? His whole body? You take a shuddering breath and slide your hand from under his. And then you place it on the waist of his shirt and decisively slide it underneath. He sucks in air, and you feel triumphant. You are not a flustered girl he can play with. You splay the hand on his abdomen.
He pulls his torso from under you and rolls over you. Finally! He is deliciously heavy and hot, and he lowers his lips on yours. You have never been kissed like that. He is possessive, passionate, demanding. The cliche of "claiming your mouth" flashes through your mind. He slips his palms under your shoulder blades, and you arch into him. You wrap one leg around his waist and rub your pelvis into him
He groans and moves to your neck. He gives your throat a long scorching lick, and you moan. His hands are on the buttons of your PJ top, and he follows up every opened one with a kiss on your thorax. Your top open, he takes your nipple in his mouth and you claw at his shoulders. His tongue swirls around it and then he slightly bites it. You wrap the second leg around him. Your underwear is drenched, and you just want him inside of you.
He is apparently taking it slow. He is busy with the second breast when your patience snaps. You push your hand between your bodies and squeeze his erection. He hisses and bites hard. Good, enough of this unwavering smug self-control! You press your pelvis into him and cup his face. You force him to look into your eyes and suddenly you feel so powerful. His body on yours, his lips on your skin, his hot cock pressed between you two, it all feels right and you give him a predatory smile. You catch his mouth in a bruising kiss and push his tracksuit bottoms down with your feet. It's a very neat trick you learnt with a high school boyfriend, they never see it coming. You just have to be careful not to jerk them too sharply. He gasps into your mouth, and you close your palm around his cock.
Fucking hell, he is big. Not just big, you think it might actually hurt. But you are so wet and livid with lust that you just might be OK. Anyways, you are not stopping now. "I am on a pill and clean," you murmur in his mouth. "I don't sleep with women without a condom," he is panting and shakes his head. You assume that the long energetic strokes of your hand on his cock are slightly distracting. "Do you have one?" He is breathing through a wave of pleasure that shudders through his body and shakes his head. "You?" "Why would I? I wasn't planning on any adventures." He snorts and then lifts burning eyes at you. "Then we will have to solve our problems separately."
He takes your hand and gently removes it from his twitching cock. Then he catches you mouth and slides his hand into your PJ bottoms. The apt fingers find your clit and he gives it an experimental swirl. You moan and spread your legs wider. Oh, he is good! In most cases you need additional oral stimulation but he makes you come in a few seconds with just one finger in you. Given he has very large hands, you would usually need two and some tongue.
You are panting though your orgasm and he is lazily kissing your neck and collar bones. Your turn. You roll you two over as much as it is possible in the sleeping bag and slide down his body. You are small enough but there is another problem. You will probably faint inside the bag from overheating if you have to give him a blowjob without opening it. But you already hear him unzipping it. How considerate of him!
The task at hand is going to be laborious. His cock is not only large, the width is also beyond impressive. It has a whimsical curve, as if it is slightly pointing right and you giggle. He lifts a brow at you. You just can't help it and tilt your head to match the angle. He drops his head on the ground and chuckles. Some snarky remark dies on his lips when you take him into your mouth and give him a long strong suck. He clenches his fists.
In a few seconds you have him completely unraveled and growling through his teeth. You are taking him deep into your throat, bobbing your head and massaging his testicals. When you were sixteen you could not understand why your friend Thea was so enthused when in some medical journal you read that squeezing your thumb in your fist apparently turns off you gagging reflex. Now you find this information very useful.
He pushes you off him and comes with a loud groan. You help him through it with your hand, pressing your lips to his hipbone, and he is taking shaky breaths. He is coming down from his high and starts laughing. It is your turn to cock a brow. He rubs his face with his large palms and speaks in a shaky raspy voice, "I don't know why I'm laughing. I guess it's just been awhile." He grabs a towel from a bag nearby and cleans up. You are waiting till he pulls his bottoms up, and then he opens his arms for you again. You nest into his side and he zips up the sleeping bag. Then he lifts your face with his finger and looks into your eyes. You smile to him and then can't hold back a yawn. He smirks and kisses you tenderly. He is still smiling into the kiss but you already drift off.
A/N#2: Somehow in my head Phil (Fili) has actually been genuinely in love with her for all these years. Since she rejected him from the start and he doesn't really know how to be in relationship, a stud as he is, he is staying around as her friend. He silently suffers through her short something with Killian (Kili), endures her occasional one-night stands, but he is still certain she is the one. He either tells him Mom, or she guesses, but that is why she is so welcoming towards Wren and suggests inviting her to their house as often as possible. Cue drama!