(no subject)

[doona_rose]

Title: Heat of Transition
Rating: M
Summary: Chem!Ten Smut. Though you don’t need to know who/what Chem!Ten is. Just know it’s non-Doomsday related smut. Happy, hot, non-spoilery smut. In a lab with Rose, a bench top and a Periodic Table.
Spoilers/Warnings: Smut. Lots of smut. Some swearing. Some chemistry. No spoilers what so ever. I don’t think.

Author’s Note: Thanks to chicklet73 for her numerous, beta reads and titling, general encouragement, Tennant visualization, etc. Thanks to phase_shifter86 for her advice and squee. Thanks to those on my flist who keep telling me to write it. Thanks to all of you who read this and then take the time to review.

So here he is, the return of Chem!Ten, post-corruption, doing naughty, naughty things with Rose. Enjoy.


“Rose.”

Her only response is a low murmur that sounds like a question. “Mmm?” And immediately he can picture her: bottom lip caught between her teeth, staring intently as the liquid drips in, drop by drop, concentrating madly on that single task and ignoring all distraction because she wants it to be perfect. Which is exactly what he wanted her to do.

He shakes his head to clear it. “Stop.” It sounds forced and strained and he’s mentally kicking himself. Earlier that morning, he’d resolved that today would be about proper, productive lab work and right now he has no idea what the point is even meant to be. He thinks it might, perhaps, have something to do with the conductivity of chameleon blood but then, it’s entirely possible they’re still working on a chromophoric indicator for the Ivanio virus. Which is what they were doing last week.

Either way, what he does know is that he’s set Rose the task of buretting liquid A into liquid B, that this involves watching very carefully for the color change as each drop is added and that that is exactly what she is trying to do.

Watching, he sees her reach up and turn the valve, closing it so she doesn’t miss anything. Then she turns her head, looking at him inquisitively, pointedly over her shoulder. “What?”

Her lips are sin; there’s something about the way they curve around the one word and then move into the knowing, devilish grin that he recognizes from past experience as tasting like trouble. And she’s wearing his glasses. Oh fuck she’s wearing his glasses on the tip of her nose, and that’s when he knows he’s been set up. She’s looking over them with sparkling brown eyes and grinning at him like she knows exactly what he’s been thinking, probably because she does.

Or, at least, what he hasn’t been thinking: what he’s been avoiding. Because with her leant so far over the bench, hips pressed to the edges, stomach against the top, he’s been trying ever so hard not to think. Now, with one look, all of the avoidance is undone, the effort forgotten and he can feel himself growing hard just looking at that smile.

No one else does this to him. Not ever. But she is just getting better and better at it and suddenly it is achingly obvious that she awoke this morning with plans of seduction and every action from there on in has been planned.

Twenty minutes with her ass in the air, pert and begging to be grabbed, the lab coat making it worse, covering only the tops of her thighs and she must be wearing that denim mini skirt because from there on down all there is to see are milky white legs. Having silently traced them with his eyes a thousand times in the last twenty minutes - though not once having thought about them - he doesn’t need to look now, knows the curvature all the way down to her bare feet. Bare feet in a lab: he should have seen it coming.

This is planned, this is another one of her attempts to snatch control out from under his nose and he’s ignored it all for twenty minutes. He shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have decided to tell her to go and do some other job, that he’d finish what she was doing; shouldn’t have done it because it’s given away that the view is too much. That he feels light headed and is licking his lips, that his fingertips are itching.

She’s wearing his glasses and she’s looking like sin. That’s the extent to the eloquence he can come up with. All of her looking like what his life is: like prim and proper science - glasses and lab coat and work in front of her - and irrational need. And he’s getting harder just thinking about it, just watching her face, lips moving slightly, her eyes on his the whole time.

Finding his jaw tight, he stretches it, forcing his teeth apart and swallowing. Purses his lips and shakes his head like he’s completely in control and is just a little disappointed she’s doing this.

Then he’s moving, crossing the distance even though he doesn’t want to, stops just short of pulling her up to face him and pressing his lips into hers, hips into hers, grabbing whatever’s in the way, tearing it off and racing her to the bedroom. Stands there instead and she half turns to keep eye contact, managed to keep her hips against the bench top but to catch his eyes and add another element: because the way she’s standing, half turned, looking back and up at him, he can see straight down the front of her lab coat and that is definitely not helping.

He lays a hand on her hip, purposely avoiding making it sexual, making it chastising and platonic. “Rose,” it still sounds strained but she might almost believe it. “Please stop trying to seduce me.” A small, tight smile at the end, and she just raises her eyebrows, watching him over those glasses and sliding her tongue across her lips.

Wondering if that’s all she’s got, he waits. Waits for her to press back against him or let a hand move onto his body or say something; he almost wants her to. But he gets nothing. Strange.

Then his fingers move the slightest distance, a few millimeters over her lab coat in an instinctive caress and he goes to smile bashfully, aware it was a small win to her for his fingers to have moved at all, prepares a witty remark. The words die on his lips and his brow creases, a second later his mouth goes instantly dry. “Rose.” Very strained, uneven, husky and begging and he knows this is going to end with sex. “You don’t seem to be wearing very much under that lab coat.”

She giggles a little and then turns her head back to the front, staring at the burette and the Periodic Table stuck on the wall beyond, a steady hand coming up to caress down a test tube. Then she speaks and it’s low and a game. “Doctor, I assure you I’m not wearing anything under this lab coat.”

Oh yes, he’s gone, but this time it’s not going to be her calling the shots because this time she’s offering herself to him and teasing him and he wants her just like this. Who cares about trying to hold back, for once he’s going to give in now, while he’s still got some sort of advantage. Instead of waiting for her to get him so hot and so hard he can’t see straight, he’s going to fight back and take her instead of the other way around.

So, rather than pulling his hand away and letting them fall into a silent stalemate, he lets his fingers slip lower, moving down from the small of her back, tracing the dip of dimples and the curve of waist. And she’s watching, craning her head around as far as she can without moving off the table, looking back over her shoulder at him, her forehead creased and that’s what gives away that he is surprising her.

Inspired by the faint bemusement painted across her face, the way her - his - glasses have slipped to the very tip of her nose, his hand slips lower still, fingers spreading to splay over her ass, cupping the hot flesh through the lab coat, squeezing lightly and finding her truthful about her state of undress.

Swallowing, she decides it might not be such a good idea to continue the chemistry in front of her. Decides to concentrate on what’s happening behind because she can feel it in the way he’s watching her, the way the air’s heavier. This time, he’s going to win and she doesn’t mind in the least.

Knowing she’s still watching him, he does his best not to react to the subtle changes in the situation: the way she’s pressing back, into his hand, the way her lips have parted and she’s breathing through her mouth. He even manages not to raise his eyebrows at the scent of her, moving through the air, swamping him with evidence that this is affecting her.

Calculates, considers, breaths in a long breath and feels the back of his throat itch with the underlying chemical smells of the lab. But she’s stronger than that, omnipresent even though he’s hardly touched her, even though her feet are still shoulder-width apart on the ground and the lab coat keeps her unexposed. .

This is turning her on and he knows it, knows she’s been thinking about it even since she walked into the lab and set about her seduction. She’s probably been picturing how they’ll end up, thinking about it. Does she realize he plans on taking her here, on one of the bench tops? Possibly: she knows her effect on him, has managed to seduce him in the console room once before and then he hadn’t been able to make it out the door, had ended up on the hard, metal floor, the entire ordeal so awkward that it had been more laughable than sensual.

Does she realize he doesn’t plan on letting her move an inch either way before sliding into her? No, that’s unprecedented and he knows it, he knows that whatever’s gotten her into this state, whatever motives possessed her, that what he has planned is better. Because it’s different and new and that’s what they do: different and knew, try anything once.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knows that this is going to be repeated. Knows that all of this laid out before him is too good not to hunt down again. And that’s what startles him, thoughts like that, so dominant and possessive that sometimes he worries. Not now, but sometimes.

Now he wonders just how wet she is, wonders if the edge of his lab bench is slightly damp and decides that no matter what it will be by the time he’s finished. That’s the thought that makes his lips quirk up and his hands slide under the lab coat.

Hearing her gasp at the fast fluid movement, he stops, rests his hand on the curve between thigh and backside and brings the other hand around to run his hand up and down her other leg. Back and forth, listening to her breathing, watching as some of the tension in her back seeps away, waiting and then wrapping his hand around her knee, lifting without pause and with the other hand pushing forward, sliding her across the table top until the foot on the ground is straining to touch even with the tip of her toes and the other is supported, knee on the edge, foot against the cupboard doorknob.

Hurriedly, she pushes the set-up glassware back as far as she can, the gentle tinks of glass on glass, liquid splashing into liquid and onto table top but she doesn’t care, just needs it out of the way and with it up against the Periodic Table that’s plastered on the wall, she’s got the whole bench to lean on.

Some part of him knows she let a little squeal of shock and delight escape when his hands wrapped around her hip and knee, moving her where he wanted her, but instead of reveling in that reaction, he’s trying ever so hard not to just yank his trousers open and shag her to oblivion. Because the lab coat’s doing nothing now, one of the pop buttons has snagged on the bench and undone and the change in angle has rendered the garment useless. She’s exposed and wet and he can see it and smell it and she knows all of this because she’s still watching his face.

She can see his every more, every reaction, the way he keeps licking his lips, running his tongue over his teeth and how his eyes can’t seem to decide what to look at. She loves that, all of it, goes to move and instantly there’s a hand pressing down on her back.

“No,” he says and there’s a combination of command and tease there not unlike what she’s used on occasion. She settles, confused but unwilling to argue because his hands have started moving, slipping up over her backside, underneath the lab coat and splaying out across her lower back, around to her sides, one grasping and lifting, coaxing her up a few centimeters so the other can slide around and press firmly against her belly, guiding her higher, delighted when her hands slide onto the table, pushing, holding herself up so he can let go.

Hands now free, one grips the material either side of the seam and tugs, hard, once. A half dozen pop buttons break open and with his hands sweeping out, the lab coat is left on either side of her body when she leans back against the table. He smirks at her and for a moment it’s too much, the way he’s looking at her, eyes racing up and down and she’s sure he’s calculating something in his head.

Hands retracing their original path, moving down her back, pressing firmly against the curves and coming to rest on her backside. She watches him lick his lips, eyes devouring her and feels the leg hitched up level with the bench spread a little wider. She needs him to touch her.

Then his hands leave and a sigh escapes her, the knowing smile he gives making her eyes flicker to the table for a moment because he shouldn’t be able to see her like this. She stares at nothing, trying not to hold her breath as his hands move over her shoulder blades, gripping the lab coat and pulling it away, carefully sliding it off her arms as she rests her weight on the table and then dropping it to the floor. His hands disappear again, nothing of him is left touching but she chooses to stare at nothing for a second longer, hoping to regain her balance. When she looks back around, he’s calmly unbuttoning his shirt, tugging on the knot of his tie, throwing both pieces of clothing onto a nearby chair before turning back to face her, stretching slightly and rolling his shoulders.

Catching her eye, all he can see is hunger and confusion and submission: she’s making it blatantly obvious that she doesn’t care what he does, as long as he does it now and he can feel the adrenaline shoot into his system making his hair stand on end, synapses fire and muscles tighten.

An arm curling around her hips, finding the place just where she curves over the bench top and his hand slipping across her skin, grasping at the other side. Without even thinking, without considering consequences, he acts by instinct, lifting her the required inches and leaning forward, grinding against her, once, long, slow and hard. The thin cotton does nothing but make the friction slightly scratching, doesn’t hide the lust of either and it makes her whimper just a little: the feel of him there, of his hand gripping her hard enough to bruise, all in a maddened search for a little release. And then she feels him, pressed against her back, stomach on ass and his chest on her back and then his teeth on her skin, skimming up her back to the muscle that joins her neck to her shoulder.

But he doesn’t bite down, just hovers and then retreats, arm slipping away, letting her come to rest back on the table with his hands either side. She’s facing the front now, hands laid flat, fingers spread beside her. She can’t look around, can’t coordinate a body already on edge to move so precisely, everything’s tense and her eyes are staring at the Periodic Table in front of her. That’s fine except he’s backed away: all she can feel is the heat of where his body was, can’t feel the slick heat of his skin anywhere and wonders if he’s fallen back into the old habit of being unsure.

His hands snake up over her back, down her arms, ghosting to her wrists and holding. Pressing his crotch, still clad in tight thin cotton, against her, slower this time, less friction, increased exposure and he lets out a breath. Leaning against her, he comes back into contact, a stomach taut with concentration, bare and sweaty, raising and falling with unsteady breath, resting against the curve of her backside. Then his lips, pressing to the centre of her back, leaning and breathing, trying to gain control and she grins at the wall in front of her even though she doesn’t really have any idea how far gone he is.

Lips moving, pressing every inch of the way, up her spine until at the nape of her neck; another pause and then a lick, tasting salt and the alcohol of perfume and Rose, the pause he takes to run his tongue over the roof of his mouth intoxicating rather than calming. Licks again and leans his forehead into her hair.

A hand leaves her wrist and it could be because the heat’s clouding her mind or it could be because this is something he’s never done, but she wonders vaguely what exactly he’s up to.

He’s lucky that his heavy breathing, hot against the back of her neck, masks the sound of the clasp of his pants being torn away and the zipper dragged down. His hands are trembling and that’s his excuse for breaking the cotton fibers instead of coordinating his fingers around the clasp; he registers it hit the ground with a cling and tightens his jaw, holding back even while pressing closer, because he needs to lean in, needs to let his body cover hers and that means touching her everywhere.

The gasp that escapes her lips when it registers that he’s got his trousers undone coincides with her back arching ever so slightly and her hips rocking back into him, pressing harder against him with almost the right geometry to slip him inside her but not quite, just hard pressure that makes him bite the inside of his mouth. She realizes then that he’s leaning far too close to plan on turning her around; she can feel his chest and stomach and thighs all pressing onto her, his lips still at the base of her neck, air taken from the surface of her skin in gulps.

Burying his head in the crook of her neck, he steals another taste of skin, licking and biting down and sucking. Then he turns his lips to her ear, takes one shaky breath and manages to speak.

It’s in contrast to everything else, it’s not primal or attacking or dominant - in delivery yes, he’s husky and reckless, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear and his teeth grazing down - but it’s so simply put it reminds her how badly he must want her to be giving in to this.

“Is this okay?”

Her lips open automatically to answer, everything blindingly obvious and she can feel herself straining back, understanding where this is going and growing ever more desperate to feel him from the inside. But it’s a slight moan that escapes, even that making his hips buck against her, power pulled into restraint as he waits.

Nodding she manages a whispered ‘yes’ that he can’t have been sure he heard but it’s enough.

She moans once as he enters her, the intricate feeling of being filled all at once, fitted perfectly and synchronously making her shudder and her eyes screw shut. And then she moans again when she realizes that’s what has happened: realizes it was quick and slick and he didn’t waste the time he usually does with letting her adjust and taking it slow.

Somehow she knows that the only reason he’s holding still now is because he’s as close to shattering as her and he wants more than that, a little more, a few seconds on the edge before he topples over. And he wants to take her with him.

It feels different, it feels completely and utterly different and if she was coherent she could list the reasons why: could move through each and every aspect of subtle change and explain why this feels like it does. She can’t see him or kiss him and her breasts and stomach are left pressed against an almost cold bench but her back’s on fire, her spine tingling with weight it isn’t used to feeling. His hands, now both on her wrists, are holding her still, removing any chance of interference from her but for the subtle movement of her hips and right now she can’t even manage that.

And he feels different inside her, pressing at a distinctly new angle and deep: deeper and hotter and she could swear harder, filling her completely and now she just wants him to move.

His lips press again to her back, tongue sweeping over skin in a broad, tasting stroke and she feels his hips buck: small and reflexively but powerful and she has to bite back a whimper. Feeling him moving away she presses back for a second, trying to draw him close then she holds still, wondering at his movements even as his hands trail away from her wrists and down her sides, stopping at her hips and holding each in a splayed, strong grasp, leaving just his hands and his hips against her skin, him inside her and she steals a glance back, risks losing her balance and angering her muscles to let her eyes drift over the angles of his hip, up his side to his face, wanting to see the expression.

He’s watching; it shocks her and thrills her at the same time because she never would have guessed him to be so bold, to stare so openly with hunger in his eyes at where he’s buried inside her. Swallowing and panting, she tries to hold onto reality as he licks his lips, chin resting numbly on his chest and continues to stare.

He rocks lightly before moving out of her with one swift stroke, hands on her hips holding her tight against the bench, refusing her the option of rocking back to stay with him, slipping out so fluidly until he’s barely in her, holding for the briefest moment, watching, trying to stop his mouth from falling open, lips shaking, eyes fluttering and then regaining control, looking again and he has no idea she knows. Sucking on his bottom lip, biting down on it to keep a growl low enough for her not to hear, doesn’t know she can see the vibrations in his throat. Then she catches his eye.

Seeing that she sees, his eyes go wide for just a second: he feels like she’s caught him out doing something he shouldn’t and feels like he needs to apologize. But her lips are parted fighting for breath and her fingers are grabbing at the table, scrambling for purchase and he wonders. “Do you like that I’m watching this?”

Her eyes go wider and a high-pitched vowel escapes and for once he’s convinced despite the non-definitive evidence, doesn’t need to retest or alter variables because he can see in her eyes that it’s all just escalation and in the moment where she’s lost, thinking about it, he takes the opportunity to thrust back into her, momentum and energy in one long stroke that he feels all the way. Groans; every inch. And oh, god that’s good: feels so different, physically different, the way he’s pressing and she’s pressing back, what his hands can touch, what he can see.

Oh god, what he can see. He shouldn’t be watching, should be concentrating on the feel of it because sight is superficial but he can see everything he’s doing to her, can watch as he disappears inside her and it’s making his brain melt.

Out again, a little bit slicker and this time he doesn’t pause before moving back into her, hard and fast and he’s not sure if it’s his hand or her hips but she rises off the table to meet him. Again and now it’s too good to stop, couldn’t pause for anything and doesn’t want to. Moving in and out in perfectly measured strokes, watching the way her back’s started to curve, her neck finally succumbing and her eyes turning back to the Periodic Table on the wall.

The glasses that had been perched on the tip of her nose fall and go skittering across the table and his eyes catch the movement, watches them clink off the bottom of a beaker and slide to a stop, the lenses skewing the symbols for Einsteinium and Mendelevium that he stares at for just a second.

She’s losing control fast, can’t stop thinking about him watching her, can’t get the image of pure passion in his eyes from her mind and her body’s ignoring her pleas to slow down, to not react because he just feels good. He slides back into her, teeth nipping at her shoulder, up her neck and then back down as he slips out. Up again and he’s inside her, his tongue tracing boldly around an ear, sucking on the lobe as he moves, biting and licking and oh fuck, she is not going to come like this, not yet, not without him.

Usually she has control - if not of him, of herself - usually she can hold herself coiled tight on the edge for minutes, waiting for the tell tale signs that he is as close as her. Usually she can think of mundane life: shopping lists, street directions, the Periodic Table, and that holds it back.

For once she can’t see him and she’d expected that would be an advantage: she can’t see his face or his chest, no trickles of sweat or wild eyes, reddened cheeks, nothing. But she can feel every atom of resistance and momentum and power and she can imagine the way he’s watching her. Eyes wide, her lips curve into an ‘o’ as her back curves up and it feels that much better when he thrusts back into her, unwavering but altering, fitting against her, inside her, making it hard to think.

Mundane is painted across the wall in front of her: printed black letters on a stark white background: transition elements, halogens, noble gases, lanthanides, actinides. She starts reading, makes it to neon and then has to shut her eyes to stop from dissolving as he presses into her.
Opens them again. Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Oh god, just there, pressing, moving over, friction as his hands tug at her hips, pulling her back onto him. Just there, she wants that again, more. Boron, Carbon, Oh. Oxy- Oh god. Oh fuck, the only thing stopping her now is the sheer need for it to last forever. Usually it doesn’t feel like this. Usually it isn’t white hot passion. And it is never, ever in the lab.

She’s panting and whimpering with each thrust and he can tell she’s close, pulls her back onto him, harder, faster and the whimper turns high pitched and loud, her back arching up, hands clawing at the bench beneath her until she’s leaning on her elbows, back to his chest as he leans down, hands suddenly leaving her hips to slam to the bench beside her elbows, holding himself up as he trails kisses, wet and hot up her spine, feeling her shoulders tighten. He reaches her neck and raises a hand to move her hair to the side, teeth scratching over her flesh, biting down and trusting their hips to keep time and pace with out his hands. Moves the other to her stomach, sliding across slick skin and pressing her closer as he drives into her again.

“Now?” Oh god that was him whispering that, mouth pressed against her ear, voice dripping with tease and control. He doesn’t know why or what prompted him but it’s done, his mouth still there, tongue tracing the curve down, nipping at the soft skin of her earlobe and then just stopping, pressing into the curve of her neck, breath in time with hers. “Yes?” And even he can hear the demand for an answer in his voice.

Into her, again and she murmurs a ‘yes’. He tries to hold back on the next stroke and knows she feels it because this time she yells it. “Yes.” She’s somehow in charge and he can’t resist, buries himself in her, hands racing over stomach and breasts, pulling her close while his lips whisper into her neck, feeling the vibration as she continues the mantra, ‘yes’ each and every time, turning to a whisper and then disappearing completely as she tenses around him, gasping and shuddering, swearing under her breath and a hand snaking back, leaving her weight to rest on one arm while the other moves, swift and sure, hand snaking over his hip and beneath the cotton of his pants, curving around the taut, sweaty flesh of his backside and pulling, forcing him closer with a bruising grasp and biting nails.

And that’s too much, fingers digging into him, holding him against her as he feels her tensed and out of control and he follows her over the edge, thrusting, growling long and hard, uncontrollable spasms racking his body until it’s all over and he’s left leaning against her back, hands dropping to the table as he breathes heavily and attempts to rouse the energy to open his eyes.

She wriggles beneath him and a soft grunt alerts him to the fact that she’s probably feeling a little squashed. He backs away immediately, worried he’s hurt her and completely forgetting that he’s still inside her, still pressing her against the bench. Another whimper, this time nothing like pain and he watches her slither like some sort of satin sheet off the bench to find her feet and stand.

Her back’s to him and he’s just staring, eyes wild, because maybe he has hurt her, he can see miles and miles of milky white skin and everywhere there are marks he can’t remember making. The indentation of teeth or nails, the redness of a tight grip, the faintest hint of purple at her hip and all of it covered in a slick sheen of sweat that smells like sex.

She straightens, something in her back cracking back into place and then she turns, grinning at him over her shoulder as she moves the few feet to the chair her coat’s draped over. Brow creasing lower, he wonders what such a wicked grin means, remains convinced that he should be feeling decidedly ashamed of himself.

“Rose.” It comes out strong and husky and it’s almost as though his voice is still with the part of him that didn’t hesitate to take her against a lab bench. Like his vocal chords haven’t caught up with his brain and he tries again. “Rose.”

She turns on him, waggling a finger as she straightens the coat across her shoulders and sets to doing the buttons up. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

He shuts his mouth immediately, surprised that she knew almost before he did what he was about to say. Noting the predatory gleam in her eyes and the way that any second she could turn to stalk him like prey, he ignores the shiver that races up his spine. Still watching her, he sucks in a breath just quietly enough that she might not have noticed as she turns back away and, heaven forbid, leans herself back across the lab bench, flattening herself out far more than necessary and wriggling so that he can see just enough to get his heart racing.

It isn’t until she’s back in front of him, glasses held up between them, that he realizes what she’d been retrieving. “These are yours,” she explains.

He does his best to look as embarrassed as he thinks he should but the blush is dying away and he’s raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips quirking up as she steps closer and gently replaces the glasses, hooking them over his ears and then leaning back to admire her handy work.

“That was a very good shag.” A pause as she considers him. “Well done.”

Was she mocking him? Of course, it was true, and he’s relieved she seems undamaged. But…he narrows his eyes and watches her as she looks him up and down, the once over reminding him his trousers are still around his ankles.

A challenging, controlling grin crosses her features: one that states quite plainly that she expects him to stand there and be embarrassed and unsure because he always is. He offers a manic, toothy grin in response and there’s a single second in which her lips turn down in confusion before he wraps a hand around her neck and pull her lips to his, meeting them open and hot. Kissing her like he owns her and knows it and would have done it sooner had he been able to reach.

When he finally pulls away, her eyes remain closed, her bottom lip trembling just enough That he has to have the last word. Because he’s like that. “Ta.” Her eyes widen and her smile broadens to a unashamed grin, the expression clearly showing she’s impressed.

Another impish quirk of his lips, paradoxically wicked and innocent at the same time. “Now get back to work.” A hand comes up to tap her backside affectionately, winking at her as he pushes her away and back towards the bench, stooping down as soon as she isn’t watching and hurriedly pulling his trousers back up as he feels the blush return to his cheeks.

So, what did we think? While, I’m at it, I’ve got a far more substantial fic, half way posted that I’m co-writing with chicklet73. I encourage you to read it over at her journal. That’s it from me, please feel free to leave constructive crit, praise, or just squee, I do love the feedback and thanks for reading.