A/N: Dopamine07, that's not what you asked for, but it was just lying around so I decided I might as well finish it and post it :) I remember about the one I promised, just waiting for my Muse to cheer up :)
A/N#2: I think it was written during some boring conference, and it just hops and bobs around. Well, once again my writing is hardly literature, and some of you, my darlings, might still get a bit of enjoyment out of this nonsense :)
"Hey, I'm downstairs. Can I come up?" Leary's voice sounds a bit odd, but again she just woke him up in the middle of the night, and his brain is a bit foggy.
He buzzes her in. The door opens, he stares at her, his jaw slacked. They've been mates for a few years but he's never seen her so... well, bleeding fit. She is wearing a tiny dress, black, sparkly, and high heeled sandals that have some barmy straps going up her delicate ankles and shapely calves. Her hair is up, and she does have a very beautiful neck. There is a tiny golden wallet like thingie in her hands, and she is bladdered.
That's a feat in its own, since she doesn't drink. There is absolutely no happy squiffy time between her having one drink and her conking out on the floor. They've been mates for a while, and he once had to transport her unconscious little body when she had a fizzy drink that had a shot hidden in it.
"I'm drunk," her tone is warning, and he chuckles. Wren Leary, prim and proper, a bit of a prude, glasses wearing, Grammar nazi Wren Leary is mentioning in advance she is drunk. The evening promises to be interesting.
He lets her in, and she haughtily marches into his lounge. She then trips over his carpet, makes a few convulsive waving movements in the air, and he catches her and places her on the li-lo. She hums gratefully and then slides down, stretching on the li-lo in all her unimpressive height and starts wiggling her feet.
"Bloody hell, these shoes are tosh..." She shakes her tiny feet some more, it looks like what cats do when they accidentally step in a puddle, and he sits in his armchair.
"So, Wren, love, it's three at night, and you are drunk. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He is suppressing laughter, she doesn't take kindly to mockery, but she is adorable beyond measure. She suddenly sits up and stares at him.
"I need to talk to you. I was going to do it tomorrow, but then we went to a pub with some of my girlfriends, and we talked and talked, and Thea said I should just go for it, and she had about ten tequilas in her by then, so she told me to just go for it, and I decided I could potentially manage one, and then a cabbie was rude, he thought I am..." She wrinkles her nose, she is a Grammar nazi after all, "He thought I was an escort, and here I am." He lifts one brow and keeps quiet letting her elaborate. "May I have a glass of water, please?"
He finally can't keep it down anymore and guffaws. When he comes back with a glass of water, she is half asleep, but she still commands him to sit back into the armchair in front of her, and then suddenly she squares her shoulders and starts a long convoluted speech. It involves some musings on her age, their amicable relationships, which is a rarity between professors at the adjoint uni departments, usually it is a poorly concealed hostility, he chuckles to that again, then she describes her stable financial situation, good genetics and finally just before some big question, which was probably the whole point of the spiel, she freezes and heady bright blush spills on her cheeks.
He finds it endlessly entertaining, he finds her entertaining, and fun and fit, and a great mate, and let's face.. well, perfect, but that's not the point right now.
"Yes, Wren, thank you for all this wonderfully private information, but what can I do for you?"
"I want your baby," she blurts out, and he decides he is hallucinating. He considers giving himself a slap but then again he should have known he was sleeping. No way in hell Wren Leary wears such sexy outfits and wants his baby.
"I'm sorry, what?" She shakes her head, probably trying to straighten her thoughts, and he thinks he needs a drink.
"Sorry, I didn't say it right. I want a baby. And I think you are a perfect donor." She squares her shoulders again and goes into another lecture, and she is using her lecturing voice, all smooth and logical, and his head is spinning. She is describing his genealogy and financial status now, and then she goes as far as discussing his "evident fear of commitment," he wants to argue but she is right, he doesn't date for longer than a month, and then she drops the bomb on him.
"And I mean, we are slightly in love with each other, that should help right?" She is completely calm and collected now, if one disregards the fact that she is cross-eyed and is gently swaying from side to side.
"I'm sorry, what?" He is checking his forehead, it is clearly a delirium.
"Well, we spend a lot of time together, we… hang out, we go to theatres together, I've stayed on your li-lo endless amount of time, we co-wrote an article on Anna Karenina..."
"Wren," his voice is squeaky, "we are mates!"
"We hug!" Her counterargument makes him emit a strange gurgling noise.
"Many people hug," he realised he is saying some rubbish. He switches his tune, "Wren, you are gay!"
"I'm bi, I have been lying to you because I wanted to be your friend and didn't want us to hook up," there is an idiotic blissful smile on her face, she thinks she has been very smart apparently, "I hooked up with Anderson last Christmas, we shagged for two weeks. I'm bi." She starts unclasping her sandals, apparently they hurt her tiny cute feet, he is staring at her ponytail that is gently swishing from side to side, and a new thought comes.
"So we are not talking about wanking into a tube, are we?" She lifts her face to him and shakes her head. He has no answer to this.
"I am absolutely serious here, John. If you think about it, which you have every right to and I will obviously give you plenty of time for it, it makes perfect sense. You don't want a child, but in my estimation would not object to intimacy with me. Meaning we both will get what we want. I will get a baby with majestic genetics and no commitment from you. On the other hand, we have managed to remain mates for several years so hopefully we will manage that further on," she finally shakes one shoe off and emits a low moan of ecstasy. In the combination with what he was currently imagining this sound makes something explode at the back of his head. She is jerking the strap on the second one, and her cute angular face is scrunched in distress. He kneels in front of her and starts unclasping the tiny buckle. Her long slender leg is right in front of his nose, the skin is pale but radiant, and the sandal falls on the floor, and he is left with a tiny foot on his palm. The toes are small and delicate, red varnish on them, and he suddenly leans in and presses his lips to her knee. He tells himself he is testing her, and he is lying. She croaks and jerks. Her skin tastes amazing.
"We can't start right now," her voice is squeaky, and he gives her a disbelieving look. Is she serious? "I am drunk and I'm not ovulating any road. But next week should be fine." He decides he will deal with her later. He pushed her on the li-lo, she is not fighting, he covers her with a quilt and rushes in the sanctuary of his bedroom. She is still talking behind him, but he thinks he'll just wait till morning and she will be back to normal and they will go back to being mates, and not asking each other for a non-committal baby making shag.
They don't. She wakes up in the morning with the predictable excruciating headache, he nurses her back to health, she is a ginger, she can't take any painkillers. He brings her broth and brushes her hair. She is whining, but he knows she is in real pain. At some point she starts crying silently and desperately. He once had to help her through migraine before, she feels better during the headaches when someone is near her, and nothing beats better blood circulation as a treatment, so he is brushing her mad curls, and she is mumbling words of gratitude.
She wakes up the second time around dinner and drags herself first in the bathroom, he sees her small figure, she is plodding holding on to the wall, he is pretending to be absorbed in his laptop, and then to his kitchen. In the morning she changed in his tee and PJ bottoms he gave to her and she had to roll up about twenty times. She sits on the chair in front of him and drops her head on the table. He places a mug with her favourite Earl Grey in front of her, she is pale and has purple shadows under her eyes, and still… He prohibits himself to think about how she is still adorable and he wants to kiss that knee again.
"So, Leary," he is keeping his voice down. "Did you get over your idea of a sprog with me?" He is teasing her, and she groans. She then lifts her head, props it on her small fist and gives him a tortured look.
"Of course not, but if you feel like sniding me at the moment can it wait till when there are no trains running inside my head in circles?"
"You are not over the idea?" He is gaping at her, and she gives him a confused look.
"Why would I be over it? It wasn't a drunk outburst, I gave it a proper thought before. Again, you can say 'no' and we can close the topic, but if you feel like lecturing me, spare me in the name of Rassilon." She takes a small sip from her mug, and he sits down in front of her.
It takes him about five minutes to arrive to the most important decision in his adult life. He is no wuss, he is a Thorington. One of his ancestors was a pirate, there were couple Crusaders, a Roman general and a copper that crossed the ocean to Chicago to neutralise a bootlegger gang from Ireland.
"Leary, I want to shag you, to be honest even now that you look like a kitten with a stomach flu, but you were right. We are not mates. At least I am not. And now that I know how you look in a tiny dress, forgive my treating you like a one-dimensional character in a chick flick, and since you started talking about us shagging and that is all I now think about, I decisively offer you to date, shag and make a baby. Moving in together is obligatory, getting married is optional, but my mother would love to gift you with Nana's pearls so I think you should agree. They will look lovely on your neck." She is frozen with a mug mid-air. He is feigning the most bloody nonchalant nonchalance in his life, and he doesn't care it's a tautology. He can see her giant brain working on it, and he needs to finish her up before she runs. "You have twenty three minutes to make a decision. I'll be in the bedroom. I suggest you agree on my offer. But be aware that I'm shagging you into the sheets if you come there." He places his mug on the table carefully and decisively walks in his bedroom.
He leans back at the headboard of his oaken bed and folds his arms on the chest. Minute five. He is certain she is thinking it through. She has an unusual way of looking at things. She is basically barmy, and her mind works in zigzags. He adores that. He can bet couple hundred quid she is thinking about something random, like where they would go on vacation if she agreed, or something. Minute eight. He closes his eyes. He needs her to agree. He almost asked her out last week. He wants her in his bed. He wants her everywhere. Minute eleven. There is some bang, she moves somewhere in his flat. He wonders if she is pulling that bloody dress on again to leave. Minute twelve. Judging by the sounds she is in the bathroom. Minute sixteen. A door bangs again and there is pitter pattering of her bare feet in the hall. Minute seventeen. He checks time for the bleeding twentieth time in the last minute. She doesn't need to, she has the perfect perception of time. They tested it many times, her internal clock is impeccable. He feels irritated, she knows how little time she has left. She might as well stop dragging it and come and tell him to sod off.
Minute twenty. She opens the door and comes in. She is not wearing the bleeding black dress. She is not wearing anything. The small curls around her face are wet. She has taken a shower, that's what the noises were. She comes up and climbs on his bed. She is now straddling him, and he is staring at the freckles on her nose.
"First things first," her tone is completely even, "I didn't expect this result. I did indeed just want your baby. I didn't know you'd react this way and I wasn't aiming for it." He nods. All he can think about is that she has magnificent tits. His mouth waters but he doesn't move. "Secondly, I was slightly in love with you, just like I said. But that was before the whole macho twenty three minutes and take it or sod off thing just blew my mind." Her voice is suddenly nothing but a purr, and his cock jerks. He meets her eyes, she is smiling to him slyly. He cups the back of her head and pulls her to his lips.
He is running up the stairs jerking off his coat and his jacket on the way. She is standing at the half open door in his robe, and he falls into the parlour. While he is toeing his shoes off, she is quickly opening buttons on his shirt.
"Blimey, Leary, stop wasting time on the shirt, you need my lower half for that!" He tumbles clumsily in and grabs the buckle of his belt.
"I still need your chest, Thorington, belt it!" She pushes the shirt down his shoulders and he is already halfway out of his trousers. He starts hopping like a dimwit, she starts laughing, and he growls, finally untangles out of his trousers, pulling the socks off at the same time, and then he throws her over his shoulder, she is squealing, her arse up in the air in the most humiliating way, and he rushes into the bedroom. She is roaring with laughter and loudly reminds him that ovulation lasts a wee bit longer that the fifteen seconds he is trying to save by jumping over furniture.
Just to take a piss out of her he changes his direction sharply and deposits her on the dining table. She started squeaking and reminding him it was a gift from his Grand Uncle but he stops her mouth in the best traditions of Benedick she is so fond of. She is immediately warm wax in his hands, her legs go around his waist, and she purrs. He shuffles getting rid of his pants, and when his cock slides into her she emits this wonderful raspy moan he adores. The table is the perfect height, he is standing, she is spread open in front of him and he can watch her face. She is gasping and arching her back. He adores how much she forgets about everything when they shag, her hands wander her body and then she claws at his forearms. Apparently his forearms were another thing that convinced her to go for it. Whatever works. He is moving deeply and rhythmically, her legs shift, and her feet are on his shoulders. That squeezes him so much more that his rhythm stutters. She is getting louder and that spurs him. He leans ahead, her legs open up again, and he catches her nipple between his lips. She is so beautiful, ickle, cool, fluid, and his head is swimming. She is mumbling something highly inappropriate but he really doesn't need any more stimuli. He grabs her hips and jerks her into him. She comes with a scream, and he swears dirtily. She has just clenched around him so tightly that he sees purple spots swimming in front of his eyes. His orgasm is mindblowing, it is always different with her, and every time he thinks this one is definitely the best he's ever had. He pressed his hands into the table on the sides of her body, his head is full of lead, and she is studying the ceiling.
"I think we did it," her tone is pensive. He is still shaking from the shivers of pleasure running through his body.
"You don't know that," he lazily ponders between a bath and the bed. It is his lunch break but no way in hell he is going back to his office. His cock is still twitching in her but he already wants more.
"You don't know it that I don't know that," her tone is equally lazy. "You are just always randy and want to keep on shagging like bunnies." She is dangling one of her adorable feet. He bends down and places his elbows on the table on her sides. She smiles to him and strokes the sides of his face.
"You promised to me we would continue like that if everything went OK till the very end," he leans in and kisses her shoulder. She has very beautiful shoulders.
"And even if not I pledge to get you off in the most inventive and obscene ways all through my pregnancy," she gives him a Roman legion salute, and he guffaws. He moves away and helps her off the table. They decide on the bath, and he is slowly moving his hands in the suds, occasionally brushing on her skin in the warm water. She is relaxed, pressed into his side, her eyes closed. He quickly kisses her lips.
"Leary, since we seem to be having so much trouble with the names, you have twenty three minutes to choose between Thomas and Dain." She opens one eye and sticks her tongue at him.
"Thomas for the first one." He is staring at her, and she drops her head back on the edge of the bath again. He decides just to go with it and grabbing her smooth warm sides he pulls her into a kiss.