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.
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.
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?"