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Friday Night Out

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{Friday #1}

It's Wren's second date with Dr Sexy, and she's in unbearable pain. From constantly restraining herself. He's just mannerly put a spoonful of cream mushroom soup in his mouth, and she had to sink her nails into her stocking covered thigh.

Wren's mobile beeps in her clutch, and one black mouth-watering eyebrow jumps up. Bugger, bugger, bugger! She was sure she's turned off the sound.

Wren squirms on her chair.

"How was your week?" Dr Panty Dropping Voice asks politely, and it takes Wren three slow breaths and six blinks to even perceive she's supposed to be answering. The honest reply would be 'I worked, drew, and valiantly fought off fantasies of licking whipped cream with fresh raspberries off your body.'

"Good." Wren sounds like a chicken meeting its demise in the hands of a butcher.

The thing is Wren could, of course, assume the two of them just aren't working out. They met; shagged, almost - well, she did; and then there was the whole aggro with her previously sampling both his nephews. And here they are, decorously munching on best Italian in town. And being quite. And conversing politely. Not exactly what Wren had in mind.

But that's the second date, and the first one went ace. They ate, walked, chatted; he kissed her near her door; she grabbed handfuls of his hair and snogged the hell out of him. He looked dazed; she felt smug. Basically, it was like a Gene Kelly film, but with more tongue.

And now they've been silent for eleven seconds - Wren counted - and she has nothing to say.

"And yours?" Croak, croak. Maybe Wren needs a throat examination. Any volunteers? "How was your week?"

"Quite good. Couple twisted ankles. My paper got accepted in a peer reviewed med journal." His tone is even. And bored. He sounds bored.

Maybe, they should just leave. And go to her place. Shut up, Wren's libido! But, yeah, maybe. They are clearly better off on her kitchen table, his trousers and pants around his ankles. Panting and moaning. Oh poop. She properly didn't need this image in her head.

Her imagination gleefully giggles and gallops away. He's wearing a nice suit, but she knows what beast is underneath. She can grab the tie, and pull him into her kitchen, and she always wanted to know if buttons on a man's shirt - his is white and crisp, just like her 'crisp white shirt kink' demands - actually fly if you jerk the sides hard enough. Interestingly, as good as he looks, and despite her usual preference for lean, clean, and metrosexual, she fancied him in a tee and track bottoms more. Sweaty after the jog, disheveled, and gritting his teeth, while his hips were thrusting into…

"Wren?" Dr Sexy interrupts Wren's fantasies. Oops. Let's hope she wasn't drooling. She focuses her eyes on his face.

He looks pissed off. Irritated and all 'I'm a fancy doctor.' Haughty. Cantankerous. Confident. Smug. Mouth-watering. What? Shut up!

"Would you like to ask for a bill?" he asks, eyes cold, and his - soft, warm, delicious, yum! - lips press in a firm line. Wren is gawking at him. "I can see you aren't enjoying it, and I'm sure we both have better things to do than to force ourselves into this date."

What. The. Sodding. Fuck?!

"You're forcing yourself into this date?" she asks.

He sighs, picks up the napkin from his lap, and slowly folds it. When it lies on the table, Wren's already lost her randy daze and is ready to stab him with a fork. Who in the name of Gallifrey does he think he is?

"Well, I assume, you'd prefer it casual, but I am not a one off type." Would you just look at him! He's like a Russian matryoshka doll! So full of himself! And this rightful indignation?! Is he saying he's 'not that kind of girl?!' "And since dating isn't your usual proceeding..."

Judging by him suddenly shutting his gob and wincing away from her, her murderous intentions clearly show in her narrowed eyes.

Wren has a lot to say to him. That he's exactly that kind of girl, because he shagged her on her kitchen table within half an hour of knowing her. And gave her the best crisis of her life, but that's beside the point. And that he has no right to judge. And Wren is any kind of girl! She can shag, or not shag; date, or not date; as long as it's open and honest; and who the frack does he think he is?! She knows she's already asked that, but really?!..

He was so understanding during that Wren Rocky Horror Show of dinner, when his two nephews - and Wren's two latest conquests - were there, and she knew everyone judged her!

Now she feels like crying, and she'd rather fight Balrog on a narrow bridge of Khazad-Dum than show him this.

She folds her napkin equally slowly, puts it aside, and gets up. He jumps on his feet like a well trained dog. Damn his manners!

Wren picks up her clutch, and starts going away, without a single word, head up, shoulders squared. He doesn't seem to even shift behind her - and she's almost at the door, when the ginger snaps.

OK, maybe it's hormones. Maybe it's because he just seemed so amazing. But for the first time in her 27 years Wren decides that cold and reserved and set on her principles suddenly isn't her thing, and 'preserving her dignity' and 'don't have to justify anything' rules can suck it.

She twirls on her heels and marches back through the restaurant, where Dr Sexy is still impersonating Han Solo in carbonite behind their table.

"You have no right to judge!" She's pointing a finger at him, and the whole restaurant looks at them. Good. If she's making a scene for the first time in her life, she might as well make it worth it. "It's not about you giving me a chance! It's not about you granting me a date after I showed what you think is immoral behaviour! It's two people going out to see if they like each other, and whether they want something out of it! I hate this social dance, and I did go through this for you!I dressed up and came to this posh place because I knew you needed this! I didn't!" She takes another deep breath in, and there might be smoke coming off her salon coiffured head. "I already knew everything I needed about you! We shagged, it was great! And now all I wanted is to continue shagging, and then snuggle and chat, and see if we have anything in common. Instead we sat here, and you wanted me to be a lady! Well, fuck it, none of that! We shagged, and I had the best orgasm in my life, and that's a big deal in my books! And I liked your sense of humour, and we clicked last time, I just wanted to shag and talk about Doctor Who today! If you needed this..." She gestures around her. "Then you're not the man for me!"

And with this Wren leaves, feeling every bit the goddess she is.


Except when she starts sniffling and quietly whining in the cab. Stupid Dr Sexy! Stupid societal norms! Stupid lacy thongs rubbing her arse in all the wrong spots, and the heels that are killing her, and the mascara eating at her eyeballs!

To distract herslef she checks her phone, and sees a text from her friend Thea.

"Speed pulling. Tonight. 9 pm. Hilton on Wellington. I sighed you up."

By 'pulling' Thea means 'dating,' of course. Thea doesn't date. Well, maybe Wren doesn't either! What did he just say? 'Not her usual proceeding?' Well, let's see what other proceedings there are there!


Wren has never been to a speed dating meeting; and she has half a mind to flee, when she's met by a very fit and elegant receptionist with a beaming smile.

"Welcome to Wellington Hilton! How can I help you?"

Wren gulps and the words 'I'm here for speed dating' get stuck in her throat. Besides other things, she isn't sure what people wear to these… sessions, but she's probably way overdressed. She properly made an effort for Dr Sexy, damn him, and his perfect shoulder hip ratio, and his appetising buttocks! Her dark red silk mini hugs her hips like a casing on a wiener - no puns intended; OK, maybe some puns intended. The low dropping neckline didn't allow any bra, and the sandals are strappy, going up to mid calf.

"Wrennie! Over here! The sweets buffet is this way!" Thea's cheerful voice rings through the lobby, and Wren imagines shaking off her Jimmy Choo's and sprinting towards the revolving doors and outside, like a bunny faced with a leaf blower.

Feeling her cheeks flame like crepe pans, Wren gives the receptionist a wide plastic smile and slowly walks towards her friend. Thea is her usual glorious self: the body that can make Luke Evans question his sexuality, luscious brown locks scattered on her shoulders, tight black sequen top, and the skirt that can be mistaken for a belt. Maybe, Wren is OK in her dress.

"C'mon, love! Let's browse the menu!" Thea loops her arm through Wren's, and the ginger gets pulled into the world of men, questions - varying from odd to awkward - and, damn Wren's luck... two familiar faces.

"Wren!" Killian from the gym - and the nephew of the man she's just insulted in the best Italian restaurant in the city - plops in the chair in front of her and gives her a radiant smile. "Long time no see!"

Wren gulps, shifts, and sees his brother give her a sad puppy look from the next table.

Sod Wren's life.

To be continued...


Chapter Text

{Still Friday #1}

"What do you mean, long time no see? You saw me two weeks ago," Wren grumbles, and uncomfortably shifts on her chair.

"And three weeks before it," he gleefully alludes to their one-off, white teeth gleaming; and Wren flares her nostrils. She's honestly had enough of judgements regarding her fanny's conduct today.

"So, now what?" she venomously asks. "You've repented and ventured into the world of monogamous shag and boring conversations over fettuccine?" Yeah, she's clearly not over her tonight's misadventures with Dr Sexy.

"Of course not. I'm here on a pull." He's still smiling widely, and Wren points with her index finger at a giant banner on a wall behind her shoulder.

"It says speed dating, Killian. People come here to find something real." Yeah, Wren should talk. He gives her a merry look over. What? The fact that she's dressed like a crossover between Madonna in Vogue - she'd her hair done in an overpriced posh salon - and Jessica Rabbit is all his Uncle's fault. Wren definitely blames Dr Sexy's narrow hips and massive upper arms for how much effort she put into her look. Tosser.

"But it is real!" He's openly chuckling now. "A good old real one-off."

"You're hopeless," Wren answers, but he's hard to resist. And a snort escapes her.

"So, I gather Uncle arsed it up?" he asks softly, and Wren chokes on her giggles. Ouch, she didn't need this reminder. "I'm sorry, Wren. Ma said he was really chuffed about the date. I gather, he did his whole 'I'm the King of the Mountain' thing."

"Oh, so you are familiar with the thing," Wren sighs.

"The man brought us up."

The gong goes off, and it's time to move on. Killian gets up and gives her his last sunny grin.

"Give the man another chance, if he wasn't a complete bellend. He's into you. Probably just bricking it. You're just too much for the poor geezer." Wren snorts and throws him a flirty look. Damn, his lashes are so fluffy, and the lips are ace, and hands are warm, and he knows how to apply them, and if not for that one thing... The thing with his Uncle. And Wren sort of not being into him, outside a healthy hanky-panky.

"Damn it, Wren, if not for that one thing..." he murmurs, and she nods.

"Yeah..." He salutes her and moves to the next table.



"Phil." Wren's tone is as cold as the landscape of Planet Hoth.

"So, you're dating now. And as I can see, in your favourite fast and efficient way."

What's the bloke's problem?!

"You are here too!" Wren exclaims shriekily; and a few heads turn. He leans back on his chair and crosses his arms on the chest. Oh, the chest… Damn it, Wren's libido, shut up!

"I'm here looking for the real thing, Wren. Are you?" One eyebrow is cocked up sardonically, and Wren loses it. He just looks too much like his Uncle!

"Listen, Phil!" Wren sounds as if speaking in Parseltongue. "I get what got your knickers in a twist last time. I said I'd ring but I didn't. But you lied to me! You said it was casual, and then you started..." Wren searches for the right word. "Wooing me! Nobody asked you! I wanted shag! I love shag!" That was loud; and now a few people definitely looked. Whatever! "Some women don't, some do; some date, some don't. Get over you manky narrow minded misconceptions because if you are looking for a real thing, she'll probably run if she knows it's all black and white for you. Women aren't just whores, or nuns! We are complex!"

He's studying her, fingers drumming on the other upper arm.

"He really cocked it up tonight, didn't he?" Phil suddenly says in a warm tone.  When he gives her this cheeky grin, the dimples on his cheeks are so ace. And she knows that the beard is soft. Shut up! "You're just too much of a firecracker, aren't you?"

Wren deflates and throws him an uncertain look. OK, maybe he isn't thick. Or annoying. In fact he might actually be ace. Just not for Wren. Well, she can always offer… No, no, bad Wren! Bad! Go sit in the corner.

"So, Phil, any maybe's?" Wren asks and points with her eyes at the card where one is supposed to enter the approved candidates.

"None so far. There was this one ginger, but I think she's out of my league." He gives her a wink, and she smiles back. Maybe… No, no! None of that! Wren might aim to misbehave, but she's no idiot.

The gong goes off, and he gets up.

"Listen, Wren, I don't normally stick my nose into other people's business..." He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, face uneasy. "But maybe Uncle was just… intimidated. Give it a thought, yeah?"

Wren nods, and he moves on. Alright, Dr Sexy might be a prick, but he brought up the boys well.


And then Wren's Dating Phantasmagoria starts.

"Jimmy O'Bofurson!" the man introduces himself with a happy grin. He's not bad, has gorgeous brown eyes, and eyebrows that look like thick fuzzy caterpillars.

"Hello, Jimmy, I'm Wren. What do you do?" Wren decides to go for a direct hit. After all, there's very little chance she'll actually put anyone's number into her card. She doesn't have to walk on eggshells.

"I'm a clown. And I make hats." He suddenly pulls out a phone from his pocket, and until the gong goes off he proceeds showing her his Instagram page with pictures of many, many hats, most of them looking like Russian hat ushanka. Wren smiles, nods, and wonders what's wrong with men these days.


"Graham," the next one grumbles. He's huge, bald head, hairy forearms, and he looks perpetually pissed off. Wren actually might fancy the bod a bit, but look at this Billy-no-mates!

"I'm Wren."

He's silently looking at her, from under the bushy eyebrows. It's not that grotty actually, there's some nice manly appreciation in his eyes, as if she's a juicy steak, but on the other hand it's not like she's a piece of meat. Oh wait, steak is a piece of meat! Wren gets tangled in her own metaphors, and shrugs it off. OK, basically, he looks like he'd shag her, and she's fine with it.

They sit in front of each other, in complete silence, and the gong goes off. He gets up, checks the number on her table, and scribbles it into his card. Wren smiles to him widely. He nods and leaves.


"Ken Balinson, at your service!"

Seriously?! You know how they say 'he could be her Father?' Well, this one is definitely taking the 'he could be her grandfather' title.

"Wren Leary, pleasure to meet you." Somehow his mannerly little bow made her speak in a much more posh way than she normally does.

"Before you ask, I am here because of a wager." He has a very nice voice, soft and low, making one shut their gob and listen. "In actuality, so are twelve of my teammates here." When he smiles, his dark eyes twinkle, and Wren can't help but feel a bit ticklish. There's definitely some song in this old flute! "We lost a game of footie, and the whole team going to a speed dating meeting was an ante." Wren giggles. He smiles to her warmly. "Only the unattached were forced into this torture, but old age was apparently no excuse." His theatrical sigh and mournful shaking of his white head makes Wren burst into merry laughter.

Well, it is of course a firm 'no,' but this wonderful gentleman in front of her makes her very hopeful for humanity. If a man can be that oh-la-la at this age, maybe it's worth keeping one around for longer.

Wren leans over the table and beckons him with her finger.

"I will be honest with you. I was also forced into this by dire circumstances." He leans as well, and their faces are very close. "But if I were actually looking for something, your number would go here." She taps her manicured red nail on her empty card, and he gives a low chuckle.

"You're warming an old man's heart, lass." She giggles and quickly pecks his cheek.


"Hi! I'm Wren."

The young man in front of her blushes feverishly, his cheeks so red that she can't even see the freckles. Wren sympathizes, both the orange pests and the blush are her common bane.

He's staring at her like a sprog at a roller coaster - both terrified and mildly in love. It's all the bloody dress. The room is also cold, so she gives a much clearer picture of her tits here. Poor sod, he might go cross-eyed if he tried not to look at her cleavage any harder.

Wren looks at the name tag on the sticker on his argyle knitted vest.

"So, what do you do, Adam?"

"Adam," he answers, and then blinks frantically. Poor duckie.

"Nice to meet you." Wren smiles to him encouragingly. His throat bobs, and the eyes grow even bigger.

"Painter, I'm a… painter," he rasps out, and Wren is worried for his blood pressure. He's gaining a purple tinge to his flaming cheeks.

"Ace. I'm a librarian."

"The pleasure is mine," he answers, and that's his undoing. Like roses in Alice in Wonderland, he is now white instead of red. Wren wonders if she's actually going to see a man faint.

"You're here because of the footie wager, aren't you?"

"Yes!" He hollers suddenly loudly, jumps on his feet, and runs, his soles flashing in the air.

Wren sighs and puts his number into her card. He won't dare putting hers, but this will boost his self-esteem a bit. He was actually very cute.


"Jed." The next one introduces himself, and Wren knows a barney when she sees it. "Jed Norison."

He stretches his hand to her, with his card.

Norison Antiques. We buy, sell, and resell, even if it's just souvenirs.

Yeah, that's a definite 'no.'


The next one just wouldn't shut up, and Wren imagines running to the gong and smashing the mallet into it herself. If she has to endure another minute of Dr Mark Dorison talking about the medicinal benefits of chamomile, Wren is going to scream. When he finally rises, scribbles her number in his card, and disappears, all pleased with himself, Wren drops her head on her arms folded on the table.


The next one is jolly and round, and they chat amicably. He's one of the victims of the footie wager, and generally a very funny and nice person. Wren would even consider, but there's just no spark. He doesn't seem that interested either, and Wren decides to just enjoy a chuffed conversation with a proper human being for once.


Which is great since the next bloke says literally nothing. He's sitting staring at her, and his 'hello' and 'goodbye' are grumbled so much under his breath that it sounds like he's speaking some foreign language. Wren thinks she caught his name - Something O'Bifurson - but she can't be sure. She fills in the awkward silence with chatting about her cat.


Another elderly gentleman appears, clearly another unfortunate footballer, and she is forced to listen about his concerns for the health of everyone on his team and all his close relatives. Wren yawns and nods, and almost yippee's when she hears the gong.


Wren peeks at the clock. There are just a few minutes left. She just has to endure two more men, and she's done.

Wren's tired, thirsty, hungry, and altogether very dischuffed. The buzz of the evening wears off, and the memories of Dr Sexy's misconduct return.

The second to last bloke is a middle aged ginger, and sadly is so mundane that Wren is starting to slope down. He only lights up when mentioning his son from the first marriage, and even shows her photos of an adorable ginger toddler, and Wren coo's and ahh's sincerely. The sprog is adorbs.


And then the gong bangs the time before last, and Wren lifts her eyes at the man who plops on the chair in front of her.

"Fuck my luck! You're so hot one can light up a faggot from you."

He's white haired, there are grey moustache and a goatee, funny round glasses, and Wren who thought she'd made up her mind to go home and sink in a hot bath with her favourite lilacs scented bubbles suddenly stops in her tracks and gives him an attentive look over.

"I'm Wren."

"Dain Chosiarainn, at your service, me dear." The voice is very distinct, and Wren feels blush spill on her cheekbones. A bit of her native Gaelic makes her only more… interested.

And yeah, she does have daddy issues, sue her! And hello, who's your daddy?


Chapter Text

{Yeah, still the same Friday}

Wren isn't big on facial hair. A few weeks ago she discovered she could tolerate it if the rest of a bod attached to the beard could make her quote Doctor Who and say 'permission to squee?'

And here she is - two black, and one ginger beard later - looking at a gentleman with hair, moustache, and a goatee as white as snow; and her fanny just paused and said, "Well..." The twisted funny whiskers of the moustache make him look like an aging musketeer, and still he doesn't look like he's trying too hard. It might have to do with the fact that he used the word 'fuck' in the very first sentence he said to her. And the thick Scottish accent. Roar. Oh shut up!

"So, what a popper like you doing in this botched up place?" he asks and gives her an open look over. "I doubt you need help finding a bloke."

"Let me guess." Wren laughs. "You're on the footie team with the rest of them."

"Darling, I am the team! They are all slow as bloody slugs. Except for the bairns, but they care more about how they look in shorts than about arsing up the other team. That's why we are bloody stuck here, talking to boring middle age women and fit gingers that are here probably on a wager too."

Wren tsk-tsks reproachfully.

"If you actually tried to talk to those middle aged women, they wouldn't seem boring."

"They hate me, love!" he exclaims in a fake terror. "I'm the worst they can find in a place like this. A drunkard, loud, obnoxious, and every second word is profanity. And I fish." He gives her a grin, and Wren can't help but return it.

"What? There wasn't a single lady there who wanted to take you home and clean you up?" she asks cheekily.

He leans over the table, closer to her; and she lifts one eyebrow. By the way, he's very nicely dressed. Clean white tee, under a nice suede jacket, some barmy necklace, from El Salvador probably; and the tan is definitely not from a salon.

"They all kept on glaring at the gong, darling. I expected one of them to gallops through the room and bash it with her uncomfortable high heeled shoe she pulled out from the back of her wardrobe for this shindig."

He couldn't be any more right about her Jimmy Choo's. Wren's leg twitches. And her foot accidentally brushes at his ankle.

"Ho, love, slow down, buy me a pint first!" he hollers, and everyone looks. Somehow Wren doesn't mind. After all, they aren't in a fancy Italian restaurant, and she doesn't care about him that much. Like, say, about certains doctors, whom she in no way was imagining tied to her bed. Or in a lovey dovey pink mist filled scene reminiscent of all ending scenes of all Meg Ryan films.

"You pay for your own pint, and we'll see," she says, and the Scotsman get propulsed out of his chair like a Pez sweet.

He's standing, having stretched his hand to her.

"Shall we, my lady?"

Wren thinks she might as well shall.


During the cab drive Wren laughs so much that her side stitches; and the mascara running with her tears might have turned her into an adequate cosplay of Winter Soldier. They're on the way to the pub his team apparently frequents; and most of them do need a drink after the ordeal in Hilton.

"So, all faces will be familiar for me there? Is the whole team going?" Wren giggles. He gives out a fruity laugh.

"Aye. Except for our Captain. He's me cousin. He's on a date. Ponced himself up like the Queen at the Olympics. Some exceptional bird she must be." He shakes her head, and Wren sighs. Yeah, some people apparently have nice dates. Whatever.

The pub is very decent, clean and small. The music isn't loud, and she goes down the stairs inside, the Scotsman following her. His jacket is on her shoulders; and she rather appreciates the surprisingly elegant cologne for an 'obnoxious loud drunkard, and a fisherman.'

Wren steps into the room, and the choir of voices meets her.

"Wren!" hollers Killian happily.

"Wren!" shouts Thea from Phil's lap.

"Wren!" joins three or four footballers.

"Ms. Leary!" happily chimes in the respectable looking Mr. Balinson.

"Lass!" roars the scary arse Dwalinson, raising a half empty glass. Someone's bladdered alright.

"Ohh-eee-aah!" squeals the suddenly pale, argyle clad Orison.

"You made an impression, darling," Wren's Scotsman whispers into her ear, leaning over her shoulders, and she giggles. "It's all this bloody red dress of yours."

"What? And not my charm and intelligence?" she teases, throwing him a flirty side glance.

"That's a given. But how do you expect any warm blooded male to notice them when all the said blood had travelled to the Lizard Point?"

Wren gives him a lash flutter, and then makes a choking sound like her cat Mr. Thornton after proper grass consumption.

Dr. Sexy's sitting at the bar, jacket at the back of his chair, rolled up sleeves of his crisp white shirt - has Wren mentioned her crisp white shirt kink? - a bottle of Jameson in front of him, and a tumbler in his long-fingered sexy hand.

The glass and the sexy hand are frozen midair, because even if he missed her dramatic entrance, the accapella of Wren's short term dates has surely directed his - glacial, husky, framed with fluffy black lashes - eyes at the right direction. Oh poop.

"Cousin!" bellows Wren's Scotsman, and opens his arms wide in an invitation for an embrace. Dr. Sexy is still perched on his bar stool, impersonating Easter Island dummy. "Oh bugger! The date went pearshaped, didn't it? Well, and fuck with her!" The Scotsman chops the air with his hand. "There's plenty of fish!"

"Somehow it feels like there's literally three fish in this city," Wren mumbles; and then her drunkard and fisherman grabs her hand and drags her towards the man previously humiliated in an Italian restaurant. Wren's Choo's are scraping at the floor like the claws of a mutt being hauled into a vet's office.

The Scotsman claps Dr. Sexy's shoulder. The blue eyes of our friendly neighbourhood orthopaedic surgeon are glued to Wren's face. Wren's cheeks are warming up rapidly.

"Was she off her onion? Or just thick?" Dain asks with sincere sympathy in his voice. "Oh, I'm being a numpty. This is Wren. We just met at the speed dating. Didn't we, boys?" he yells over his shoulder, and the pub cheers, lifting their pints. "You should see the minging place those bastards sent us to, for the wager, those ponces. You were jammy to weasel out of it, cousin."

And here the ginger predictably snaps.

"Is everyone I've ever considered shagging a relative of yours?!" she banshees into Dr. Sexy's face.

"There might be shag in it for me? Jings!" the Scotsman reacts gleefully, and Wren groans. A silent pause hangs.

Quoting Wren's favourite Almodovar, what has she done to deserve this? Well, technically, she knows the answer. She shagged his nephew; then his other nephew; then threw a tantrum in a restaurant because he was being a snooty prick; and then she apparently speed dated his footie team. Oopsie daisy. Well, the last part wasn't her fault. That was just a coincidence. And it's not like she promised anyone anything. Oh wait… She just said she considered shagging his cousin. And again, what the frack is with everyone shaggable being his kin, in the name of Rassilon? Damn his genetics. But c'mon! They aren't exclusive, and she wasn't even sure the Scotsman was anywhere near the potentiality of getting some-some! She just went for a pint with him! It's not an obligation.

And then Dr. Sexy jumps off the chair and makes a giant step ahead; there's a loud 'weeeeeee' sound in Wren's head from the view of how his massive body moves; his hot palms cup her face, and he leans in. No pause, no asking for consent - wanker! - and kiss! And Wren's brain goes kaput! Hot, hot, hot! He's so bloody fit and everything she ever wanted!

Wren's coiffured curls probably spring around her head like in a cartoon; and there might be smoke coming off her - because she's on fire! And might have wrapped one leg around his. Oops. Her head is now cradled in his right hand, the left is angling her face to his convenience. He's also bending her backwards; and if he lets her go, she might flop on the floor like a puppet with no hand inside it. Speaking of hands and inside… No, wait, wait, Wren needs to pull herself together! And stop moaning lustfully into his mouth.

Thankfully, Dr. Sexy backs off himself, before her naughty hands find that belt buckle they are clearly looking for at the moment.

She's still hanging in his arms like a kitten. He just moves away couple inches from her face and gives her an intense look.

"I do want to go to your place, shag, and talk about Doctor Who." Wren gulps.

He's so raspy, the sound of his voice goes straight to Wren's fanny, which cheers like a Septic schoolgirl with two giant pompoms.

"Fack it, I was so close…" his cousin draws out theatrically at the background, and Wren snorts.

She looks into the blue eyes of Dr. Sexy, and he smiles to her. OK, he needs to cut this down. No one can stay pissed off with him when he smiles.

"I'm still pissed off with you," she tries. Sounds very unconvincing. Playing with the third button on his shirt really doesn't help her point.

He looks down at her.

"And you have every right to." Bollocks! Dr. Sexy used Velvet Voice. Gotcha! Wren was caught in a Poke Ball. "I'm sorry for tonight. I behaved like a prick. I thought you were bored, and I lashed out."

"I wasn't bored! I was trying not to jump you!" Wren squeaks, and Dr. Sexy guffaws. John, his name is John. "It was difficult, you know. Demanded my whole concentration!"

He pulls her closer again; and the pub behind them cheers. Wren hides her face into his sternum.

"So, how about that Doctor Who?" he asks, and Wren has no objections to that whatsoever.