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Saturday Night Out

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{Saturday #1}

There are pretty pink sparks dancing in front of Wren's eyes. They are the result of a precisely calculated, perfectly timed shot of tequila. Wren's intolerant, but she's been smart. She had food, she's not tired, and she didn't finish the drink. Thus, she's squiffy and chuffed, but not impaired. And she's dancing. It's so perfect she's gonna die! OK, maybe that's seven eighths of the shot talking.

There are couple blokes pointedly dancing near her, but she turns away and focuses on the DJ. The chick is very fit, and exactly Wren's type, tall and dark-haired, and the rhythm is ace. And then Wren has this familiar feeling, at the back of the neck, that tingle of someone's clear interest, and she turns around to flip them off... and doesn't.

The bloke is vaguely familiar. Wren searches her memory. Killian, or Aidan, or something else somewhat Irish... Yeah, definitely Killian. He goes to the same gym as her, and then she remembers her mate Thea telling her she'd chat him up some time ago, and they shagged. The shag was good. It was actually so good that Thea - who never does anything but one offs - considered a second helping, but eventually decided against it. Wren rummages in memory and recalls Thea saying the bloke was safe to take home, clean, and knew what he was doing.

He has glorious eyes! Like Wren's favourite Ghirardelli 86% Cacao chocolate, dark and deep; and she likes his lips. He's not pushing either, just sort of lingers nearby, clearly waiting for consent or refusal, and she gives him a smile. That's all the encouragement he needs, and he steps closer. He looks very good, in a well tailored dark blue shirt, slim trousers, and the pink sparks that Wren's tipsy brain has decorated him with. She stretches her hand and runs the tips of her fingers on his sternum. He gives her a wide cheeky grin. Those are very white teeth! He might think that was a signal, while - though it indeed was - it was also a test. Wren has a few clearly pronounced kinks, and a male chest is on the top of the list. This one is rock hard - she was thorough and scored a boob brush as well - and there's chest hair. She's not quite sure how she feels about the beard - it's very dark, almost black, and thick - but it's nicely trimmed and sort of makes sense with his luscious locks. Seriously, he manages to style his curls better than she does with hers.

Altogether… not her thing, but she's in the mood, so why not, in the name of Rassilon and the High Council of Gallifrey?

They dance. He's got the moves, and those legs do go on forever. Her thoughts happily zigzag between wondering how to make sure that he doesn't go sappy on her in the morning, and appreciating… all this.

After couple tracks he mimicks taking a shot and points at the bar with a tilt of his head. She shakes her head, and mimics walking. And her head tilts towards the exit. He clearly doesn't mind, judging by another toothy grin and enthusiastic nodding.

They are outside, and he turns to her.

"Killian." Oh, lovely accent. Northern though, not Irish, but nice. "And you're Wren, right? You go to..."

"Dale Gym, yeah," she confirms and steps closer to him. The pink sparks suggest she is clear from the start. Her hands lie on his chest. "So, Killian..."

"So, Wren..." he draws out, and they both laugh.

"My place, but you can't stay, and it's not awkward the next time we run into each other in the gym?" she offers, and he gives out a jolly loud laugh. It's open mouthed, and let's face it, properly sexy.

"Sounds good to me." He moves to her, his hands are on her middle, and he pulls her to his lips.

The magic doesn't happen. Well, she can't say it's manky or anything, and he is indeed good, Thea was right, but… But Wren has a 'shag switch.' She calls it this way in her head. It's when her noggin conks out, and out of the prim and proper librarian - that she is - she turns into a shag overcrazed bunny, all raw instinct and no extensive analysis of self and the surroundings, which she practises on everyday basis. It's happened before, and… nope, none of it now.

She still decides to go on. He's pleasant, breath fresh, with a tinge of the lager he drank, his hands are on her waist, and she's tingly and excited. And it's July, no jackets, and what she feels through her dress and his trousers is more than promising.

The beard is an interesting sensation. She's never kissed a bearded man before. There'll be a burn though. He's just deepened the kiss, and she pushes her hand into his hair. Oh, that was totally worth it, so silky, thick, and heavy! And then... product! Nope, not going there.

She catches a cab, they continue copping off in it, a bit too vigorously to her taste - she is a wee bit of a prude, after all - and then they enter her building, and she unlocks her flat.

She flips the light switch in the kitchen and turns to him.

"Can I use your loo?" he asks, and she smiles. That's actually cute. He's sort of light and straightforward, just full of some nice, even friendliness.

"Second door to the right," she points, and he nods and disappears towards the bathroom. Funny, what was she to do now? Start undressing? Wren's nose twitches.

Thankfully, the chuffed pink mist is still swimming in her head, and she finds the whole situation hilarious. She's had a fair amount of one offs, but it wasn't quite her cup of tea. And usually it's pretty awkward, but this bloke is somewhere at the top of 'lush and not stressful' list.

She hears a flush and water running. Well, at least he washed his hands. Which she decides is indeed the right thing to do and goes to the kitchen sink.

"Is that your real colour?" He has a very nice voice too, not knickers dropping worthy - at least not for her - but deep and rumbly enough.

"Yeah, purebred ginger," she answers, and he laughs loudly again. "Want anything?" Maybe they're just a pull for each other, but no need to be uncivilised, yeah?

"Yeah," he answers with a smirk. A good smirk, she notes, not prickish, but cheeky and sexy. "I fancy me some ginger."

"Boo," she answers, and laughs. "That was rather sad."

"Oh c'mon, it's not a Fringe Festival, and I'm no Wilde."

Oh, that's actually brill.

"No blasphemy! Paws off the God of Wit!" She shakes her finger at him, and he chuckles, and steps to her.

He gives her a look over, and she feels all warm and tingly head to toe. And then his hands lie on her waist - and those are very nice large hands - and he props her up on a kitchen stool and wedges between her knees. If anything, he's shag worthy just for the mental shoulder hip ratio. She wraps her legs around him. The skirt of her titchy dress - tight as a glove, one shoulder, champagne colour, sequin; basically, an invitation for a casual shag - hitches up, and his hands are on her thighs, and then slide up. The palms are nicely warm and dry. And a bit calloused. If it weren't a one off, she'd ask, but to be honest she properly doesn't care what he does. He leans in and kisses her, and Wren once again praises herself for a smart choice. Very good indeed.

They kiss for a while, and then he moves to the jaw, and then the throat , and then the muscle between the neck and the shoulder. Somehow these overused moves feel fresh and exciting with him. Probably, because neither of them is actually trying to impress another.

"Do you want to stay here or move to the bedroom?" There's more rasp to his voice now, and some funny muscles clench in Wren's lower stomach. She gives it a thought and realises she doesn't want him in her bed. Because it's her bed.

"I'd move to the li-lo." She points at the futon in the living room, and he glances over his shoulder. And then he hums approvingly, picks her up under her arse - smooth! - and carries her there. On the way, she flails her arm, grabs a cupboard door, and jerks it open. He gives her a merry look.

"Durex," she explains.

"You keep Durex in the kitchen?" He funnily wrinkles his nose.

"Yeah… With the rest of medicine, I guess." They laugh together. "You know, Claritin, and such."

"Oh right, a ginger. Hay fever?" Are they actually having a chummy discussion of her medical conditions? Considering he's properly hard as she can feel under her pelvis, that's impressive.

"Yeah, and some food allergies, and dental freezing." She's comfortably seated, buttocks on his large palms, and he's waiting for her to finally take the box. Honestly, all one offs should be that nonchalant. It's ace!

She pulls the box out, and they continue their trip. The li-lo is new and springy, and he presses one knee into it, and carefully puts her down. He's now between her legs, and she quite fancies him there.

Quick work on his buttons, and hello, chest! He's in a very good shape, and properly furry, just the way she likes them. Maybe, just a bit more meat would be nice, but overall, yum! The shirt flies off, and she grabs the belt of his trousers. All that while he's creating some lovely magic on her neck and ear with his lips. And then she gets a surprise - no pants! Somehow that throws her off, and she freezes.

"Alright, love?"

Hm, he noticed. She gives him a smile, feeling that her nose is doing its usual dance.

"I didn't expect the lack of layering." Her voice's shaking with laughter, and he snorts.

"I don't fancy being restrained."

She pushes the hand down the trousers, and… reckons why not. That's… quite a lot for his height. What is he, six feet or so? Blimey, it's quite a lot for any height. No wonder he doesn't like restraints.

There's a cheeky spark dancing in his eyes - she guesses her reaction is written on her clock - but let's face it, he's entitled.

"OK..." she mumbles, and then she decides to set the rules from the start. "OK, we are agreeing right now. You are going to keep yourself under control, yeah? Because I'm small and, as you'll soon find out, very, very tight. So no… hammering!"

The roaring laughter that he emits rolls in the living room, and even his nose scrunches from the merriment.

"Hey, I'm serious!" Wren pokes him between his ribs, and he laughs even louder. "I need to be able to walk tomorrow! I'm having lunch with my Nana. How am I going to explain to her if I can't sit or stand properly?" She doesn't manage to keep the straight face at the end, and he sits up on his knees and looks her over.

"Deal, love. No hammering." He's pressing his lips, but a grin escapes, and would you look at that, there are dimples!

He grabs the hem of the dress, wiggle, wiggle, and it's off! Orange you glad Wren's made an effort? Judging by how his eyes darken, he's properly appreciating the peach coloured lace.

He hooks his fingers on the sides of the knickers, and carefully pulls them down. She decides to show him her best trick. Soles of feet press into the waist of trousers, gentle push - she has very nimble toes - and voila!

"Impressive," he approves, and she giggles and pecks his lips.

"You're welcome."

The trousers fly as well, she mentally notes the proficiency - the socks have been removed discreetly - and she wraps her hand around his cock. Well, she attempts, because… oops! She does have small hands, but that's not the reason.

He makes an adorable little groan, and she strokes along the length. She's properly wet by then, and just can't wait! A Durex is rolled onto him, he catches her mouth, and pushes in. Ooph, that's good! That is properly good!

He's carefully rolling his hips into her, confident long strokes, so good… He's supporting himself on his elbows - thankfully the li-lo's wide enough - his fingers tangle into her hair, and he's keeping a very, very... admirable rhythm. Also, thank Rassilon, there's no awkward snogging. His lips brush hers from time to time, but seriously, she's so short that blokes have to weirdly crane their necks when shagging her in the missionary.

Also, he is so bloody lush! And the muscles on the back are just brill! Wren wraps her legs around him tighter and bucks her hips. The rhythm doesn't stutter - good on you, mate - but he gives her a questioning look.

"OK, you can hammer," she deadpans, and he stops. What?.. And then he laughs, shakes his head, and grabs her leg under the knee. He hikes it up, and boom! Ooph, that's deep! But he's still considerate, and she's grateful. She grabs him around his neck and arches into him.

You know what tells Wren that's not his first rodeo, as they say in Septic cop films? It doesn't feel repetitive. They are, after all, doing it in the most common position, but there's some cheery twist to his movements, and she's having so much fun here!

And then he pushes hands under her, rolls, and lands on the floor on his back. She expected an 'ouch' but he seems fine.

"What did you do that for?" she asks. She was doing ace!

He gives her a wide smug grin. She assumes he's proud of this move.

"I reckoned you need to be in charge to come. You seem like a bossy type."

Seriously? Well, A. She is bossy. And B. That won't help.

"I fancy being in charge, but I can't come like that either." His grin drops. On no, that's not the reaction she wanted. "Seriously, mate, don't think about it. I'm doing great. I just can't come at all."


Actually, that'd work, but she's not in the mood. She doesn't know him. And doesn't want to see him ever again. She was enjoying the shag. Can they go back to the simple, uncomplicated bonk?

"Nope. But I'm fine, I swear." She sits up on him and tangles her fingers in the chest hair. "Can we… just have fun?"

"That's my motto." Now that their positions are clear, he seems relaxed again, and that suits Wren just perfect.

He rolls her underneath him, and they continue 'having fun' for another hour. He comes twice, she does lashings of fondling of the chest and buttocks - seriously, exceptionally moreish buttocks! - and he falls on her, both of them feeling 100% satisfied with the experience. At least, Wren is. She can't speak for him, but he seems quite content.

He rolls on his back, with a half sigh, half groan, and stares at her ceiling.

Wren is now sleepy. She always is after a shag. She didn't come - she lied of course that she can't, but it's complicated - but her muscles are tired enough to make her want to crawl under her duvet and her sheets with yellow roses, purr, and go to sleep.

He sits up and starts looking for his trousers. Yes, once again yes, and thank you very much!

She gets up too, and there's a small moment when she's uncomfortable because she's starkers, and wants to get her robe, or maybe take a bath, but he's clearly leaving,and it'd be weird to leave to the bathroom now.

He notices - not his first rodeo indeed - and quickly leans in, pecks her cheek, and heads to the door. She follows, picking up a quilt on the way and wrapping in it.

In the doors he turns around and gives her the already familiar grin.

"See you?" she offers, and he barks a laugh.

"See you, Wren. And no awkwardness, cross my heart." He gestures accordingly, and she snorts.

Wren locks the door behind the bloke, plods to the bathroom, and sits on the edge of the tub waiting for it to fill. She's yawning, poking bubbles quickly growing above her water, and feeling very chuffed, she's going through her plans for tomorrow. She's visiting Nana, then there's shopping to do, and… Wren's thoughts gallop ahead, while water's pouring and the aroma of her favourite lilacs fills her head with some pleasant mist.


Wren's poking the bloody machine, but the screen's frozen, and she groans in irritation. It's her day off, and she had this lovely plan of spending half of the day in a coffee shop, working on her novel, and drinking her cappuccinos.

"Hey." A pleasant male voice comes from above, and she throws a look above the rim of her glasses.

Were she not that spun out, she'd appreciate the golden curls, the blue eyes, and especially the curved lips peeking from the ginger beard. But her Mac is doing something barmy, and she's not in the mood.

"I'm Phil. I was wondering if I can buy you a coffee?"

Chapter Text

"Sorry, I'm not interested." Wren gives the bloke a tight lipped fake smile, and goes back to poking the bloody machine.

He nods and turns around. And that's when she notices... the bum. And the mental shoulder hip ratio. Seriously, mama mia! He is around six feet, she likes them much larger, but it's like a compact version of a perfect man. And Wren just can't get over the bum!

"On the other hand..." she calls after him, and he twirls on his heels. Wow, that's what they call a hundred watt grin!

Wren doesn't like blondes, but he has a very balanced appearance - the bright blue eyes, golden, very soft looking curls, down to shoulder, and a shockingly orange beard. He looks Scottish to her, but there's no Scottish accent. Actually, it's Northern, he sounds like the Ninth Doctor, and she wonders what's with her luck for Northerners these days.

"I'll buy my own coffee, but we can chat?" she offers, and he slides on the chair in front of her. He has a cup of tea in his hand, ginger lemongrass, and she quickly evaluates the hands. Nope, not to her liking. They are large, very masculine, and for someone - probably Heaven on Earth... but not for Wren. Yet another of her kinks - that impossible combination of long, masculine fingers, and beautiful artistic wrists, preferably with well shaped forearm, and black hair. No jam here. Still, the arms altogether are ace, the sleeves on his soft, mustard coloured cashmere jumper are rolled up, and she properly appreciates the forearms and the biceps.

"Phil, was it?" she asks, and he smiles wider. "I'm Wren."

"Oh, like a bird? Ace." Ugh, she's quite tired of this line, to be honest, but she smiles back. "So, what is it that you do, Wren?" Oh wow, he moves fast.

"I'm a librarian." And here it comes... His eyebrows jump up, and the corners of his lips curl up. Those are bloody sexy lips! So curved, as if he's perpetually smirking and pouting at the same time.

"Aren't you tired of the line, 'You don't look like a librarian'?" he asks and the aforementioned lips close over the rim of his cup. She laughs.


"I am a pediatrician," he announces, with just the right amount of fake aplomb, to let her know that he realises how much of a cliche chat up technique this job is. Making chicks drop their panties is basically a part of the job description for a pediatrician.

"Would you like me to batter my lashes or emit an 'awwww'?" she asks, and he chuckles.

"Depends. Do you even like children?"

"Not particularly," Wren lies, and he salutes her with his cup.

"Then just nod and pretend to be impressed." He gives her a lopsided smirk, and that's when Wren wants to emit the 'awwww' because... dimples. And criminally cute ones. She actually doesn't like them, but she might still be riding the wave from the Saturday's pull. The fake Irishman from the weekend also had dimples.

"Don't you just hate how people immediately put label on some jobs?" Wren asks and takes a sip of her coffee. "Like since I'm a librarian, I'm uptight, but there's a sexy vixen hiding somewhere behind the glasses and the knee length skirt?"

He chuckles louder and then leans to the side and peeks under the table. The gesture is theatrical and ridiculous, and she laughs. She's wearing tiny denim shorts, and he resurfaces with a jolly grin plastered on his face.

"I'm expected to chat up housewives by charming their sprogs. I blame George Clooney." When he jokes, he squints his eyes, and would you just look at these fluffy lashes!

"And do you?" Wren throws him a look over the rim of her mug.

"Trust me, a mother of three, one colicky, two with measles they brought from school... The last thing she needs is some prick to try to get into her smalls. All she wants is to sleep."

Wren is laughing loudly, and then his phone rings.

He apologises, gets up, and steps aside, the mobile pressed to his ear.

And that's when Wren decides that he might be a decent bloke. Which means the two of them should finish their cuppas, and she should say 'no' to anything that he has to offer. Because as much as she fancies the bum - seriously, Mother Nature was on ecstasy when making those pert buttocks! - couple of fast and furious shags with him is all she'd like. And something tells her Mr. I-Am-No-Doug-Ross is not a one off kind of bloke.

He comes back to the table, and she gives him a plastic smile. The mood's gone as well, they were rolling with the whole verbal ping-pong, but now there's a pause.

"Would you have dinner with me on Saturday, Wren?"

"I'm sorry..." Wren searches her mind for right words. "I don't... date."

Isn't Wren a nasty liar these days? "No, I can't come"; "no, I don't like children," and now "no, I don't date."

His eyebrows jump up again.

"Who said anything about a date?"

It's Wren turn to hike up her eyebrows now. She's very rarely wrong in people, and this one was giving out the 'serious' vibe. Well, maybe her radar is off.

He rubs his cheek with his hand.

"Listen, Wren, I'm not looking for anything serious these days..." Halleluja! "So, I just sort of thought we'd get some nosh, go to my place, and..."

"And?" Wren encourages him to talk with a small wave of her hand.

"And we'll see where it takes us."

Alarm is blaring in her mind, but on the other hand, the bloke with such body and a doctor for that matter... he can't possibly be anything but a wolf.

"Alright, Doctor. Let's have dinner on Saturday. Where would you like to meet?"

"How's Mirkwood Bistro?"

Wren really should've started to worry here. The place is all posh, and romantic, white cloths and candles on the tables, but she's too sidetracked by the idea of finally getting her hands on the buttocks.

"Sure. Seven?"

"Seven's perfect. I'll make a reservation."

That's ding-ding-ding of Wren's alarm once again. It does sound too much like a date! But then he gets up, quickly leans in to her cheek, and starts leaving. See? Wren tells to her fretty side. The bloke's clearly very nonchalant, it's OK. We are safe.

She is not. During the dinner, he tells her of his family - his Mum and a younger brother, his Dad passed away when they were kids, Uncle brought them up, all family are doctors, except for the aforementioned younger brother who's a masseuse. That's penalty one. She's avoidant and gives minimum info, just the usual rubbish - she was brought up by her Nana, and she has a boring life, to which he predictably answers that she's surely exaggerating. Chatting with him is easy, he's smart and witty and sunny, but c'mon! She's here for the buttocks!

Then he offers to pay. Penalty number two! Wren's considering running, but when they step outside, he pulls her into a kiss, instead of just calling a cab, and it's so very hot that she decides to give him one last chance.

OK, Wren has to admit, she asked around about him. The barista in the coffee shop told her that she knew his brother, and that Dr. Phil is apparently safe. As in no rapist and won't suddenly pull out some menacing BDSM equipment out of his back room. The barista mentioned some of her friend hooked up with him last Summer, just a few casual incidents, he was good, and Wren says to herself: why not?

They come to his place, it's a nice clean flat, not too organised, but stylish. She decides to test him in the lift and pulls him in, purposefully pushing the hand down and cupping the wedding vegetables. He's hard. And big. Judging by his enthusiastic response he's into a nice stormy bonk.

They fall into the doors, clothes fly off, and he's leading her backwards towards what she thinks is a bedroom. She's not wrong, and it doesn't look like a manky bachelor pad. A nice wide bed, clean sheets, everything in elegant beige shades. She's in her knickers and bra at that point, he's got a tee and smalls left, and she grabs the hem and pulls up.

Wow, that's furry. That's officially a fur! Wren cautiously presses her hands into his chest. The problem is that she's a ginger, and has very pale, sensitive skin. Any sort of rubbing causes a lot of burns. Last Saturday's' adventure cost her a jar of L'Occitane's Almond Velvet Balm.

Wren squeaks. It's a happy squeak. He's soft! Not as in floppy, but the fur is like a bunny! Or a golden lab! The chuffed grin on his clock altogether reinforces the similarity to a happy pup.

He steps closer, and then bends, his large hands low on her buttocks, and he picks her up and hikes her up. Her legs go around his waist, and bless him! She catches his mouth, and hooray! The beard is soft too.

And then Wren is so disappointed that she's going to scream! Because instead of shagging her into a wall, perhaps even inconsiderately without taking off her knickers and just pushing them aside - and yes, she was in that kind of mood - he walks up to the bed, and plops on it backwards, so she ends up on top of him.

Wren tries to pacify her randy side. He might still be a wanker and just want her to do all the work.

Oh no, he isn't! He sits up, and starts… caressing her! Bugger. He's passionately kissing her neck, his hands run her back, and that's not even the worst! The bloke is bloody talking!

"You are so delicate… Such wonderful skin."

Oh no, shut your gob! Monkey sex, mate! Concentrate! Wren quickly takes off her bra, hoping the tits will get him into the mood. And then she tried to take off her knickers. C'mon, she can feel his cock underneath, and she can't wait to get to it. At this stage it's quite clear that she scored a jackpot second time in a row. That's the second week that she ran into an disproportionately huge pecker, and she needs it now!

Oh stop it, now the bloke is pretty much purring. His hands cover her tits - again with considerate?! What's wrong with him?! - and he flickers his thumbs on her nipples. His blue eyes are right in front of her - and she's got a weakness for them - and she grabs his ears.

"You really don't have to take it slow, love." She hopes she delegates the idea, and he chuckles.

"Don't want to leave bruises." He smiles to her.

Wren decides to take the matters in her own hands. Literally. She grabs his shoulders and rolls on her back, pulling him on top. And then she wiggles, and her smalls are flying across his bedroom. He lies on top - yes, please - and he's now kissing her collarbones, going down. Wren closes her eyes, and just starts enjoying it, and trying to remember where her handbag is, because Durex is in it, when he suddenly covers her fanny with his mouth. Oh no, that will take forever, and seriously, shouldn't he have asked?

"Um… can you go back, please?" He lifts his face. She beckons him with her index finger.

"I want you to have fun, love." The voice's soft, rumbly, and everything a chick would want. That is if the chick wanted to talk!

"Take off your pants, and I'm sure I'll have plenty."

He complies, and all Wren can say is Takei's iconic "Oh my-y-y..." It's long, thick, and straight. Glorious! He's kissing her again, but thankfully he has Durex in the bedside table, and…

Oh! That, as they say, hit the spot. She arches and moans loudly. He thrusts his hips into her, deep and slow, perhaps a bit too pointed though. She opens her eyes and sees him watch her and smile warmly.

"You are so beautiful, Wren..."

Oh, he just had to arse it all up!

Wren digs her heels into the bum - damn the bum! That's what got her into this aggro! - spurring him, and he speeds up. He's shagging her for a while, she's stroking his sides and back. The skin is so soft and silky, and the chest hair is like a kitten, and she's just starting to properly enjoy it, when he leans in and whispers into her lips, "I want you to come, Wren. Tell me what to do to get you there."

Firstly, 'to get you there'?! Does he fancy himself a harlequin novel protagonist?! Secondly, can she finally get a prick with no consideration for her orgasm?! It's her body and her climax! If she chooses not to reach the bloody 'peak of pleasure' it's her bloody right!

"I can't come," she mumbles. "But please, do go on! I'm good." He catches her mouth, his tongue opens her lips, and he's very good. But again, she's properly certain at this stage that she made a huge mistake.

He tears his mouth of hers and gives her a lopsided smirk, "I bet I can give you one."

And after that he starts to really try, and Wren's considering to fake it for the first time in her life. Because he changes positions - Bridge, Splitting Bamboo, Glowing Juniper, and then even an endlessly awkward Deckchair; he's emitting what he thinks is sensual murmurs; and then he decides that oral and hands is the way to go. By then Wren really wants him to be done and let her go home.

She decisively catches his ear and batters his hand off her fanny. "I don't like oral sex." Liar, liar, pants on fire!

Oh, now she feels like she kicked the aforementioned puppy.

She decides to speak his language. "I want you take me from behind." Really, Wren, 'take'? Oh shut up.

He's been hard for so long, and they've been shagging for like two hours, so she assumes he'd be done quickly. She's wrong. Blast it. She has her weekly lunch with Nana tomorrow. Maybe a standing buffet is a good idea. She's sore and irritated, and he just keeps on going. Her orange curls are swinging in front of her face, and at some point one of the gets into her nose, and… she sneezes.

Which coincidentally makes him come. Oh, thank all Æsir!

They fall on the bed, he's laughing, she would too, but he quickly cleans up and starts pulling her on top of him, clearly for snuggles. OK, he makes a great pillow, she'll give him that. He's warm, the chest hair is soft, and he has this nice balance between muscly and meaty, that she decides to give herself couple minutes. Besides, judging by his previous behaviour, he doesn't expect her to leave right away. And then Wren yawns - she's always sleepy after a shag - and decides it's time to start moving. The worst thing to happen right now if for her to fall asleep on him. That he will surely misinterpret.

"Have lunch with me tomorrow, Wren?"


She lifts her head and meets his eyes. They are serious and warm, and Rassilon help her, what did she get herself into?! It's all his bum's fault! For someone this bloke is a gift from the whole Pantheon, while she now has a choice between cocking up his mood or, again, lying to him.

"I can't tomorrow. I spend my Sundays with my Nana." That's not exactly a lie. He hums, the soft noise vibrates in his chest under her hand.

"Next Saturday?" Oh god, Wren is literally in mental pain.

"How about I'll ring you?" That is a complete lie.

Wren feels very, very bad, yeah? She is not enjoying to be that sleazebag who shags and then never calls, but what else is she to do? He said it wasn't a date! He is a doctor! They are not exactly famous for any sort of monogamous habits. Blimey, how could she have been so wrong?!

He cheerily agrees, and she start sliding off him. He looks surprised, but at this stage all Wren wants is to basically run. Like the Doctor. So, what follows can definitely be called 'the most awkward ten minutes in Wren's life.' She has to walk around his flat, to pick up assorted items of her wardrobe, and he follows her around. Like the bloody pup, fuck her. He's also starkers - she would walk around naked as well if she had a body like that - but it makes her feel even worse. She wants to yell at him to stop being so bloody comfortable around her. In the doors he gently spins her around and into a tender passionate kiss. Wren would take stubbing her toe over a sofa leg over this wonderful, considerate, skillful kiss.

She tumbles down the stairs, no time to wait for the lift, and catches a cab. At home she fills her bath, and still shaking her head in disbelief she sinks into lilac scented bubbles.

{Saturday #3}

Wren decides she's not repeating the mistake of last Saturday, and stays home. She cleans her flat, waters her plants, and spends several hours on her li-lo in the company of The Bone Clocks and her cat, Mr. Thornton.

In the evening Wren decides to go jogging. It's her favourite exercise, and she already had her 12 kilometers this week, but might as well. She pulls on her old hoodie and yoga bottoms, and with Bajofondo Tango Club in her earphones, she sets off.

The bloke she slams into - because he bloody didn't signal that he was about to take a walk break - is about six four, wide, and heavy. The dark waves are gathered in a ponytail, mindblowing wide shoulders, arms like logs.

Wren flies to the side of the trail. Because... Newton's Second Law!

She rolls down the hill, lands into the ditch, her hands and knees scrape on the roots and small rocks, she yelps, and then sharp pain blooms in her hip.

"Miss?" He jumps down into the ditch and scoots in front of her. "Are you alright?"

Wow, those are glorious blue eyes! And eyebrows! And the nose! And the voice! And... wanker! Doesn't he know the jogging etiquette?!

"Weren't you watching where you're going?" she hisses at him.

He cocks an eyebrow. If he thinks his whole… majesticness will get him out of this barney, he's cruelly mistaken!


Chapter Text

"You can insult me in a moment, but first tell me if anything hurts." Seriously, his voice has to be legally rationalised, no more than one sentence per person a day. One can easily OD on it.

"Plenty hurts!" she bites back, and looks at her palms. They are scratched and bleeding. She tries to get up and hisses. The hip hurts like hell.

"Let me help you." He stretches hands to her, but doesn't touch. How considerate! Wren gives him a glare, and stretches her arms to him in return. He carefully picks her up under her elbows, and pulls up, rising in a fluid move. Blimey, he's like a large wild animal. OK, that might be the adrenaline coursing her veins, and she's still shaking after her tumble, but oh-la-la!

She is upright, her nose is on level with his sternum. Wow, Wren's properly affected, against all odds that is. Firstly, he's sweaty, the tee is sticking to his chest. And Wren is a clean freak. Given she can smell his cologne on him, but he's been extensively jogging. Do the math. Also, she's still supposed to be cheesed off. Her knees and hands are bleeding, and Rassilon knows what's going on with her hip, and it's all his fault! And yet while he's carefully leading her out of the ditch, she's fighting heady and embarrassing arousal. At some point she has to step on her right foot, and the pain shoots into the hip.

"I can carry you out," he offers. Yes, please! her libido yells. Shut up, she mentally hisses, we are going to embarrass ourselves.

"I'm fine..." She sounds grumpy.

"Your hip, isn't it?" He leans down to her face. Aaaah, the eyes are criminal too! "I'm an orthopedic surgeon. You've clearly hit your hip."

"You hit my hip!" Why can't she keep her snark under control? "To be precise, you made a root hit my hip."

"To which I profoundly apologise."

OK, that didn't sound at all apologetic. That's the tone they call sardonic. Prick.

"Apology not accepted," she sneers, and he suddenly bends down and picks her up bridal style. And starts marching up the slope of the ditch. Swoon! What?! No, no swoon! Wanker!

"You are manhandling me!" she squeaks, and he throws her a look askew.

And the black eyebrow is hiked up, and the angle is whimsical and works wonders on Wren's nether regions! And the nose is right in front of her! As well as an almost black beard - and she now knows that beards are ace - and a cheek above it, which looks really, really delicious. Oh, in the name of the Shadow Protocol, she didn't just imagine nibbling at his jaw, and then probably licking his neck! Somehow he seems so scrummy to her that she'd take him even without a preliminary showering. You know how they say 'wash before consumption' on the boxes of berries? Well, Wren would risk it with this strawberry.

"So, I can take you to a clinic, but it's a Saturday evening, and the nearest MIU is twenty minutes drive from here..."

He's now standing on the trail, still holding her in his arms. She's irresponsibly enjoying it. His neck, the jawline, the dark waves, with grey streaks in them, and especially the nose - all of his moreish self is doing things to her!

"And my car is..." He peeks at his Garmin 305. "15 kilometres away from here."

"My flat is right there." Wren points at her building, and he slowly turns and meets her eyes. OK, maybe her statement was innocent, yeah? She feels like flipping off Mr. Orthopedic Surgeon - by the way what the frack with all these doctors and Northerners around here? This one also probably would pronounce 'loov' instead of 'love.'

"Is that an invitation?" He has crow's feet, these nice little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and then one corner of his lips crawls up. Wow, that's a sexy smirk if she's ever seen one.

"You are my transport at the moment. So chivvy on!" she grumbles, and he guffaws. That's an open mouthed laugh, he has marvelous white teeth, and the lower rumbles of his chuckling then roll in his chest. Oh, may the Force be with her! All this glorious masculine rumbly-mumbly, sexy-schmexy... stuff just reverberated through her, and she wraps one arm around his neck. Clearly, only to hold on to him tighter. Shut up!

He's walking towards her building. He just needs to cross a small square with some shrubbery - wink, wink, nudge, nudge, oh shut up! - and here they are.

"Key?" he asks, and she rummages in her pocket. He's politely studying azaleas in the flower bed near the door. So, he's just run 15 kilometers and carried her for ten minutes, and his breathing is even, and the heartbeat isn't raised. How does she know? She's pressed into his rock hard and clearly hairy chest. Oh god, Wren's not feeling that great, and it's not the result of a spectacular fall into a ditch.

He bends down letting her unlock the front door, and then he marches through the hall. Mr. Jones, her concierge, freezes with a watering can in front of his favourite ficus.

"Good evening, Mr. Jones," Wren decorously announces. "This is..." She throws the man carrying her a pointed look.

"John Thorington," the man supplies, with a laughter shaking in his voice. And shaking his shoulders. The full body laughter! Oh gods, he's so fit Wren is going to scream!

"This is Dr. John Thorington, and he is helping me after a jogging incident. And now he will give you his ID for safe keeping while he's going up to my flat."

What? Did he think she'll let him in her place just like that? Ha! He's studying her, again from under a cocked eyebrow, and then he slightly shakes his head in some sort of irritated amusement.

"You can have the whole wallet, love." His tone is sarcastic. And yep, she was right. 'Loov' instead of 'love.' "But you'll have to fish it out of my pocket, my hands are busy."

Oh gods. Is she actually supposed to push her hand into his trousers pocket? Wren's hands are shaking. She stretches slightly and is almost ready to do it, when he chuckles.

"The back pocket, love."

Oh gods.

And that's what perfect buttocks look like. And feel like. Where are Wren's smelling salts?

He enters the flat.

"Where to?"

"Kitchen. I keep the medicine there, and you know, supplies..." Durex, for example. Oh shut up!

He toes off his shoes - so very considerate, are we, Dr. Totty? - and carries her to the kitchen. And carefully puts her on the table. The whole time with an arrogant, slightly cheesed off expression on his face. So very grumpy. And delicious. No, no, bad, bad Wren, stop salivating!

"Trousers off, please?"

"What now?" That was a pathetic squeak. OK, maybe she's shortly fantasised about him saying these exact words during the ride in the lift, but he was all randy and breathy in her little daydream, and not detached and… again, grumpy.

"I need to see your hip. Out of us two, I'm more qualified for it."

"Maybe I'm a doctor too!" she exclaims, and... again with the eyebrow?!

"Are you?" Rumble, rumble, rumble, like a mountain lion. Oh shut up, Wren's libido!

"I am a librarian. But I know CPR!" She sounds rather unimpressive even to her own ears.

"Well, you don't need resuscitation." Yes, she does. Shut. Up. "You probably need a plaster, and maybe later some physiotherapy."

Is he aware that everything he says sounds like an innuendo to her - and like an invitation?

Keeping her face schooled into a displeased grimace, she wiggles out of her bottoms and shoes. Keeping her jolly mismatched socks on, one with polka dots, another one stripy. Life's too short for matching socks. Let's face it, he's seen plenty of naked lower halves, so no need to get excited, Miss Wren's Fanny.

The bruise is angry red, a few deeper scratches, bleeding slightly. He washes his hands, opens her fully equipped First Aid kit - she's a control freak and has a slight OCD - and hums approvingly. And then he kneels in front of her, and his nose is couple inches away from her hip. Her skin covers in goosebumps.

He's tending to her hip, she's fighting the desire to do things to him that even porn would have trouble fitting under a proper rating. He has very hot hands, altogether he has a mental body temperature. She's been in his arms, he's like a furnace. And the hands are glorious! Perfect, actually. Everything about him is. Oh gods.

"I need to check the joint." His tone is once again very professional. She looks down at him.

What does it entitle exactly? Spreading her legs? Putting her on a horizontal surface and bending and unbending her legs? Properly examining her hips with his large, hot, long-fingered hands?

All of the above, apparently.

OK, she checked his wallet by the way. And there was the ID there, and GMC cards, and the magnetic key to the hospital entrance, and a badge, and his Visas. So whatever he's doing to her seems legit. Also, he doesn't seem to have much fun with it. He's frowning, while she's trying really hard not to pant.

He helps her sit up on the table, and goes to wash his hands in the sink. Wren has never thought that scrubbing one's hands can be fit, but live and learn, as they say.

"I'd say, stay away from jogging for a couple weeks, but otherwise you are fine. Maybe some ice from swelling, and some painkillers, if it bothers you."

He turns to her, and Wren assumes that's it. And then he steps closer to her.

"Now that we're done with your injury, do you want me to leave, or to stay for a jiffy?"

Holy moly. So, before he was apparently keeping his mojo under control, and now he releases his whole… majesticness on her. Now his eyes are intently focused on her, in all their blue glory, and the lips part slightly, and then he licks the bottom one, the tip of his tongue peeks out, and Wren's throat goes dry. Wren's so randy that it's almost painful. She grabs his tee and jerks him to her. He wedges himself between her legs, careful not to jerk her right leg - what a poppet! - his large hand cups her jaw, thumb on the side of her chin, fingers behind her ear, in her hair, and he kisses her so hard that she thinks her head might explode or her hair catch on fire.

The other hand covers her naked left thigh, and he rubs it with his thumb. Oh. My. God.

"Durex... cabinet... there..." Wren rasps out, and he stretches his long arm and grabs the box. She deftly unties the string on his track bottoms, and pushes them down, together with the pants. Then they pull off her knickers together.

Durex is on - she has a second to feel awed by the size, and the thickness, and the curve; oh, the curve! - and then the Doctor is in! Wren cries out, it's so good she might've just seen stars, and then he thrusts. He's leaning her backwards; he's so tall, that even sitting on the table her nose is pressed in his collarbones, and then his hand covers her shoulder blades, and he lays her down on the table.

He pressed both hands into the table, and sucking at her neck, he's shagging her brains out.

And then Wren comes.

That is unapologetically the best orgasm she's ever had in her life. It's like she's a well shaken bottle of fizz and someone stuffed two packages of Mentos into her. She's wailing, her nails are scratching his back, and she's talking, most likely praising his prowess. She doesn't give a fuck.

He's growling, his hips do not stop, and she really doesn't want him to.

"C'mon!" she yells at him, and he speeds up.

By the way, the table is moving. The legs are loudly scraping on the floor, and the table is squeaking, and Wren's moaning, and he's snarling, and all this cacophony of sounds… is suddenly interrupted by his mobile in his pocket. Somewhere around his ankles.

Bleep. Since he isn't stopping, Wren ignores it too.

Bleep. Bleep. And again, bleep.

"What..." she mumbles, and he suddenly stops. His massive body is violently shaking, and his eyes are closed.

"Did you hear something?" he rasps out.

"No… yes..." She's half conscious at this stage. "Your phone?"

"Sod it!" His voice is coarse, and he thrusts again. Yes, please!



"What the fuck?!" Wren can't believe it.

"It's a text… Texts..." He's panting, his sides are rising like on a race horse. "Something urgent. It's from… fuck me… family..."

Is… he… fucking… seriously… planning… to…?

Yes, he does. He straightens up and then pulls out. She's staring at him in disbelief. He bends down and takes out his mobile. What?!

He sweeps the screen, and his eyes run the texts.

"My Aunt Cecile broke her leg..." he mumbles.

"Seriously?!" She's gaping at him.

"I need to go. I'm sorry."

He's going down from his shag mode properly quickly, isn't he? One shake of his impressive mane - the ponytail has fallen apart some time ago - and he's back to his reserved, grumpy self. He pulls his bottoms up and stuffs the mobile in the pocket. Wren is sitting on the table, air cooling down her very confused fanny.

"Are you for real?" she asks, and he turns around by the door.

"Do you want my number?" Oh you wanker.

"No! I don't want your fucking number!"

"Pity." He unlocks the door, and he's gone.

Wren drops back on the table and stares at the ceiling. And then she starts laughing. As one offs go, this one was actually not that bad. She had her crisis, and the bloke didn't linger. She only hopes he didn't forget to take his wallet from Mr. Jones.

She slides off her table with a groan, takes some Ibuprofen, and plods to the bathroom to make herself a bath with lilac scented bubbles.


Wren and her Nana are having dinner in an Italian bistro. Wren had a lie-in today, and they met up later than usual. Wren has just withstood a lecture on being more careful when she jogs. Of course, when she was explaining her limping, no tall, dark, and brooding were mentioned, but Nana still gave her an earful.

They are done with their salads, and Nana is gracefully twirling her fork, gathering her spaghetti with marinated tiger prawns, chilli, lemon, and rocket.

"Wren, I am more than serious. You are not that young anymore, you should consider a constant man."

Wren chokes on her Zucchine Saltate con Origano.

Wren's Nana is small and skinny, just like Wren, her hair is white, and she's dressed in Chanel head to toe. She's also the scariest thing one can encounter in their life. In Medieval times they'd burn her for witchcraft. Well, at least they'd try but then they's brick it and run.

Wren's staring into her plate. Seriously, she's had way too much testosterone in her life in the last few weeks; she might want a break now.

"I know decent men are a rarity these days." Nana's well articulated venom is pouring. "But surely, you can find a mediocre one and school him in an appropriate resource." Nana fixes her five string Mikimoto pearl necklace.

"You just need to be open to opportunities, Wren. Look around you. There's probably at least one viable candidate somewhere near."

The bell above the door chimes, and Nana hums approvingly.

"Look! That is quite an assortment. Tell me none of these men catches your eye."

Wren lifts the aforementioned eye, and freezes like a rabbit in front of a lawn mower.

Killian from the gym, Dr. Phil, and Mr. Jogger and Orgasm Giver are standing by the door, in the company of a middle aged dark haired woman - clearly Dr. Grumpy's sister - and an old lady in a wheelchair, with a cast on her leg.

They are all nicely dressed, clearly for a family dinner, and then the men see Wren. In a well coordinated effort, that makes Wren want to end herself in with her steak knife.

Killian grins from ear to ear and waves to her, in a chummy gesture. Phil's face drops, and he gives her puppy eyes, which Killian notices, clearly puts two and two together, and bursts into gleeful laughter. And Dr. Thorington's face is lacking any expression whatsoever.

"So, Wren, purely hypothetically, which out of these men would you consider as a potential sexual partner?" Nana asks in her usual cold, detached voice.

Oh poop.

Chapter Text

"Wren!" exclaims Aunt Cecilia. Because it's clearly the Aunt Cecilia who broke her leg while Wren was mewling through the biggest crisis of her life.

"Cecilia!" answers Nana, whose name is indeed Wren. All women in Wren's family are skinny gingers named Wren.

"Wren!" tragically gasps Phil.

"Phil," mumbles Wren.

"Wren?" asks Killian, pointing at Wren.

"Wren!" confirms Phil.

"Killian." Wren is too polite not to acknowledge that they've met. He gives her a toothy grin.

And then this Rocky Horror Picture Show continues - or should she say 'Wren Horror?'

"Wren..." slowly rumbles Dr. John. Oh right, she sort of didn't have time to introduce herself. She was busy clawing at his back, while the two of them were scratching her floors with the table legs.

"Killian?" asks Phil, giving his brother a suspicious look. "Wren?" he points at Wren, his eyes widening in understanding.

"Oh, Killian..." Dr. Grumpy's sister, and probably Killian and Phil's mum, exhales sadly.

"Mum!" Killian's hands fly up in a defensive gesture, signalling he has nothing to do with all this aggro.

"Oh, Philly..." their Mum switches, and then Aunt Cecilia pats Dr. John's hand on the handle of her wheelchair, pointing at the table occupied by the very pleased looking Nana - schadenfreude is Nana's favourite hobby - and the very much nauseated Wren.

"Wren..." Dr. John repeats in his criminally deep velvet voice - just as they sometimes call it in harlequin novels - as if tasting the name - which men do only in harlequin novels.

"Uncle?" Phil sounds suddenly worried.

"Wren!" Aunt Cecilia's been rolled closer, and now the whole family's crowded around Wren's table.

Wren's staring into her plate. It's not helping, since she can still feel several pairs of eyes on her.

"Cecilia," Nana answers cordially.

"Wren..." Killian tsk-tsks, clearly stating she's been a very naughty girl.

"Killian..." Dr. John's voice drops in warning.

"The Wren?" asks Phil's Mum. Wren peeks. Phil nods, his eyes on her. What the actual Gallifrey?! Did he talk to his Mum about her?!

And that's the end of Wren's endurance. The cork pops - and the ginger snaps.

"It's all your fault!" she hisses at Phil. "You said it wasn't a date!"

Everyone stares at Phil, whose cheeks above the orange beard are suddenly red.

"You didn't ring." His tone is accusatory.

"It was a one-off! We had a verbal contract! Why can't you understand it like your brother?" Everyone as if by command whips their heads and looks at Killian.

"Oh goodness, it's worse than I thought..." mournfully mumbles the Mum.

"Can we not do this in a public place?" Dr. John's low voice pours into Wren's ear, and she braces herself.

"Are these your wonderful nephew and grandsons, Cecillia dear?" Nana's eyes run over Dr. John. "You should join us for dinner."

"Nana!" Wren squeaks.

"Wren," Nana warns. She'd never let a chance for a dramatic show pass her.

"With pleasure," Aunt Cecilia answers, and Wren's suspicions are confirmed when the respectable looking lady gives her a wink. Oh gods. It's the Grandmas conspiracy.

Killian is as eager to lower his sexy backside as a sprog sitting down in front of a slice of his birthday cake. Dr. John moves a chair back for his sister, ensures his Aunt is comfortable, and sits down as well. Phil is still frozen like a Weeping Angel under someone's unblinking stare.

His eyes are jumping between Wren and Killian, with an occasional detour to Dr. John. Oh Rassilon help her… And then it clicks.

"Uncle as well?" He sounds choked. Wren is actually worried for his blood pressure.

"With all due respect, how's that any of your business?" Wren's pretty much speaking in Parseltongue.

"Phil, sit." Dr. John's imperious tone makes Phil plop down on the last unoccupied chair.

"Oh, lovely," Nana is as cheery as a lark.

She beckons a waiter with her elegant, ring adorned hand, diamonds shooting blinding flashes, and the conversation is postponed, while the new arrivals are taking their menus and ordering their drinks.

The waiter leaves, and Wren is inflicting stabbing wounds onto her zucchine.

"So, Wren, what do you do?" The Mum's polite voice makes Wren gulp loudly.

"I'm a librarian." She gives the woman a grateful smile. At least someone here is being sane.

"Well, at least you didn't lie about this," Phil sneers sarcastically.

Dr. John gives out a pointed cough. "Manners, Phil."

Wren doesn't dare look at either of the men. She decides that females are safer.

"Are you a doctor as well, Mrs...?" Wren stumbles, not knowing the woman's name.

"Just Deadre, please," the Mum helps her out. "And yes, I'm a pediatrician, just like Philly here."

"Oh, lovely, a doctor." Nana clearly thinks that's point Phil. Probably just as much of a point as his elegant grey jacket over a light blue shirt.

Wren decides to make some things clear.

"You all are doctors, aren't you? The whole family? I remember Killian telling me..." she pronounces in a polite, even tone, keeping her eyes on Deadre.

"Oh, so you talked as well." Phil's mumbled commentary hangs above the table like a cloud of suffocating cigar smoke. Wren glares at him.

"Yes, we are," Dr. John supplies. Wren's industriously avoiding looking at him, not to throw poor Philly off his trolley completely.

"Except me! I'm a masseuse!" Killian from the gym announces gleefully.

"And an excellent one. This vocation is in such demand these days." Aunt Cecilia throws Nana a pointed look. Wren ponders stabbing herself into the eyeball with a fork. Nana's cold, slanted eyes focus on Killian. He's smiling sunnily to her. Wren can't say he looks any worse than his brother, this black jumper underlining his pectoral muscles and his arms… yum. In a completely platonic way, yum. Shut up.

"And how do you know my granddaughter, young man?" Nana inquires.

"We go to the same gym," Killian answers.

"We hooked up in a club," Wren announces at the same time, and heads turn, and everyone's looking at her. That's still better than the not-so-covert matchmaking going on here. "You know the sexual habits of our generation. No strings attached, new partner every night, and such..." Wren's cheeks are burning, but she feels the old ladies' efforts have to be nipped in the bud.

"Clearly, not just our generation." Seriously, does Dr. Phil need a bloody gag, or something?

"Phil, I doubt that making a woman more uncomfortable than she already is will gain you her affection."

OK, that rumbly statement makes Wren finally look at Dr. John. There are muscles dancing on his jaw, and altogether he looks… good. Gods, he looks good. She even momentarily forgets this whole aggro! Bloody hell, this dark red jumper over a pale grey shirt, and a tie two tones lighter, and the nose, and the lips… Oh, she's suddenly hot! She meets his eyes... and Dr. John gets a point for the lack of judgement in them. If anything, he looks supportive. Hard to tell for sure, though. He's mastered the Easter Island dummy facial expression to perfection.

"So, John, how do you know my granddaughter?"

Oh no, Nana has acquired a target. Alarm, alarm, alarm! Retreat! Wren feels like jumping on her feet and running out of the bistro, flailing her arms above her head in panic. Probably screaming, Can a girl have a casual shag in peace here?!

"We ran into each other jogging." Wow, the bloke's really calm. So, no mentioning the table incident? Even the memories of it make Wren squirm.

"Did you? Are you the one I should thank for my granddaughter's limp then?" Nana lifts one eyebrow.

"Oh no!" Deadre the Pediatrician throws Wren a worried look. "Did you have it looked at, Wren? It might be something serious." She looks sincerely concerned. Awww, Wren likes her.

"It's just a bruise," Wren reassures.

"But you should take it to a doctor, Wren..." Deadre insists.

"She did," Dr. John deadpans. Now he's the one everyone's staring at. Wren takes a giant gulp of water from her glass. She feels like calling their waiter and ordering an aneurism, please? "And now I think we should enjoy our meal and choose some neutral topic."

That, ladies and jellybeans, is the authoritative tone if Wren's ever heard one. And somehow even Nana doesn't argue. She's actually giving him an approving glance, and nods to her own thoughts. Wren is somehow certain she wouldn't like those thoughts.

The aforementioned neutral topic is the two old ladies recollecting the times when their husbands were in the same club, and how much fun the derby was all those years ago. Wren is industriously eating her meal, and the waiter shows up with the menu for desserts.

A crack appears in the hard earned peace at the table, when Killian decides that their waiter - a super fit, long legged brunette, with the most glorious tits - needs to get a dosage of his charm. His pull talk isn't sleazy actually, kind of cute, and Deadre is throwing him kind, but exasperated looks. He's like a BN biscuit, all winky and sweet. John's deftly ignoring it, in his usual unwavering confident manner. Wren shortly wonders when exactly she started thinking about him in terms of 'usual.' No one seems disturbed by the dialogue - the old ladies are chatting, Deadre and Dr. John are clearly accustomed, Wren's just happy no one's paying attention to her - but somehow the flirty banter between the brunette and Killian regarding bruttiboni 'being not sweet enough to sooth his lonely heart' sets off poor Philly.

"Does it not bother you, Wren?" Does Wren detect a slightly hysterical note in Dr. Phil's voice?

She feels sincerely sorry for him, don't get her wrong. Poor ducky. On one hand, she doesn't approve of his manipulative behaviour, and seriously, did he think his cock was magical and she'd suddenly change her mind after a shag? But on the other hand, the barney like theirs doesn't normally jump out of shrubbery and bite one's arse. He'd wait for her to ring, she'd never do… end of story. Them sharing a table with two other men intimately familiar with her fanny - his brother and Uncle, no less - plus three older relatives, isn't exactly what unfortunate one offs lead to, and understandably, he's approaching a wobbly.

"C'mon, Phil, we are all friends here. Can't we just get along?" Killian's places a hand on his brother's shoulder, and gives the waiter a wink. "I'm sure Wren doesn't care owt what either of us does in his free time."

Phil throws Killian's hand off his shoulder, and narrows his eyes. "Well, then clearly the two of you are a perfect match."

"We are not!" Wren rushes to reassure the waiter. She really doesn't want to arse up Killian's chances with the brunette. "We are not together, and it's just one big misunderstanding..."

"It's not a misunderstanding, Wren." Dr. Phil's clearly lost his bottle now, and he points his finger at her. "You slept with every single man at this table!"

An excruciating pause hangs, and Wren flares her nostrils and slowly turns to the livid looking Dr. Phil.

"And if we both want it, I can also shag this wonderful young lady!" She point at the waiter, who is carefully backing off from their table - and then stops and starts scribbling something in her notebook. "Sorry." Wren apologises to the chick, and turns back to the spasming blonde. "And it will be my personal business, as long as everyone participating in it is clear on what's happening and what's expected from them!"

They are locked in a death glare competition, when the waiter places a page from her notebook in front of Wren.

"That's my number. Call me..."

"She won't," Phil snarls.

"Maybe I will," Wren hisses, and picks up the page.

"And share it with him," says the waiter, pointing at the dark haired brother with her pencil, and everyone turns to the very smug looking Killian. Seriously, for the ladies except Wren this whole dinner is like Wimbledon. Left-right, left-right. "And now, I'll go get your desserts." The waiter twirls on her heels and leaves.

Wren theatrically picks up the brunette's number and stuffs it into her clutch.

Phil opens his mouth, probably to roar something else... and then Wren's phone rings.

Again, heads turn, and now everyone's looking at the device in a Tardis case, jollily vibrating on the table. Wren grabs it like a lifesaver.


"Ms. Leary, it's Mr. Jones, your concierge."

"Evening, Mr Jones." Wren is still keeping her narrowed eyes on Phil. He is hyperventilating. From the corner of her eye Wren can see Killian trying not to burst into laughter. Nana's whispering something in the ear of Aunt Cecilia. Deadre is drinking water with a distant expression.

"Ms. Leary, there's a delivery from a florist shop here. It's a large bouquet of irises, and there's a note with a phone number. Would you like me to read it to you?"

"Florist?" Wren doesn't understand. Flowers are nice of course, and also it's very unintrusive to think of it, compared to say, a bloke creepily appearing at her doorstep, but what?..

"Yes, for you. And I have to say, I've accepted many bouquets for my tenants over the thirty years of my service, Ms. Leary, and this one might be the most elegant. They are wonderful, simply wonderful! Have I mentioned my brother is a botanist? And this is exquisite! Iris latifolia, if I'm not wrong, and such elegant Monet blue..."

"The note, Mr. Jones," Wren interrupts.

"Oh yes, I'm sorry. It says, I hope you are feeling better and have forgiven the root that hit your hip. John. And there's a phone number, Ms. Leary."

"Ms. Leary?" Mr. Jones asks, troubled by Wren's long silence.

Wren's lifted her eyes and is staring at Dr. John... or just John, to think of it. He's looking back at her, and there are merry sparks of laughter in his eyes. She cocks her head and gives him an exaggerated questioning look from under a hiked up eyebrow. And then one corner of his lips curls up, in a lopsided smirk, and... Wren's toast. What a cocky bastard! All puns intended.

"Wren?" her Nana asks, and Wren hangs up. She hasn't stopped looking in his eyes, and maybe… she sort of doesn't want to any time soon.

"I have forgiven the root," she says and smiles to him widely.

"Good," he answers simply.

Wren puts the phone aside, and the waiter appears with their dessert. Coffee and sweets are arranged on the table, and Nana summarizes the evening, "So, the Uncle then, Wren?"

John emits a throaty chuckle, and takes a sip of his espresso. Wren properly fancies how his lips close over the rim of the cup.

"Maybe..." Wren smiles to him, and he salutes her with the cup. "Ask me next Saturday."


P.S. Maybe... :)