Dr T Oneshots || Wrennie vs Stag Party

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7:09 p.m.

You are sitting on his bed, absorbed into an article on how maternal immune activation alters the fetal brain development through interleukin-6, and chewing on an apple, when his voice shakes you out of your concentration.

“Where is the cursed tie?” You lift your eyes and see him moving in his walk-in closet. The door is half-open, and you see a white sleeve of his shirt swooping back and forth. The closet is the size of Switzerland, which tells a lot about his taste in clothes, plus you remember how he didn’t manage to find a single bloody shelf for you there, his perfect system not to be altered, and you honestly get so miffed that you can’t remember why you even agreed to marry a man so self-absorbed and narcissistic.

He steps out of the closet, fixing the knot on his black tie, black three piece suit, magnificent hair in a ponytail, and you remember why. Your mouth goes dry, and you squeeze your knees together.

You play nonchalance and give him a skeptical lifted brow. “I didn’t realise you lament your loss of freedom so much that you feel the need to treat your stag party as funeral.”

He gives you his own skeptical brow. Let’s face, it’s much more impressive.

“Which one of us had a meltdown this morning at the rehearsal, sobbing that they can’t go through with this torturous nightmare?”

“These are not my words!”

“Right, your exact words, darling, were ‘never in my bloody life, sod it all.'”

He turns his back to you and surveys his suit in the full length mirror.

“I hope you didn’t take it personally.”

You do feel awful about the incident, but it honestly has nothing to do with him, and has everything to do with more than seven hundred wedding guests you had to approve, and fourteen cakes you had to sample in the last week.

“Why would I, kiddo?”

He still sounds peevish about it, and you know that is not the mood one should have on his stag night. You jump off the bed and stalk your victim. At the very last moment he notices your approaching in the mirror and swirls around.

The buttons on you PJ top are already open, and how can he say ‘no’?

8:47 p.m.

You slide off him, and he sits up.

“I think I need another suit.”

The jacket and the waistcoat are open; the shirt is missing buttons – you needed the access to the chest a. s. a. p. – the fly is unzipped; he’s missing one shoe. Strangely enough the tie is still around his neck. You hum and crawl towards the pillows. You slip under the comforter, and he looks at you with longing in his eyes.

“Do you think they can have a stag night without me? You look so cozy there.” He seems to be seriously considering it, and you shoo him.

“Get changed, and get out! Booze, lap dancing, and other dalliances are waiting for you.” You yawn, and he groans and goes back to his closet. In a few minutes he appears in a seemingly identical suit, but you are certain if you asked, he would lecture you on higher armhole and something rather pleats. You never do. No need to stroke his already inflated ego. He looks delectable, and that’s more than enough.

He comes to you and leans to kiss you. Your eyes are already closing, and you hear him murmur into your ear, “I love you.”

You wish you could answer, but all you can manage is “Too…” and then it’s dark.

6:13 a.m.

You’re woken up by hysterical giggling and a sound of something hard bumping into a door frame.

“Careful, you pillock! That is the head of a world renown surgeon!”

Giggling intensifies, and another person whispers in loud hissing voice, “He won’t be fixing anyone’s noggins if we bash his brain out tonight.”

“Shut your gob. If you wake up Wren, we are all dead men!”

You flip the switch up and enjoy the view of your appointed father-of-the bride, Orlando Theodore Elliot William Thrandon, white tuxedo shirt, no jacket, and your future nephew by marriage and short time boyfriend Killian Durinson, supporting a slumping body of your future husband. The two freeze with facial expressions of a deer in the lights of an approaching car; your fiance does not even twitch.

“He’s drunk,” Kilian blurts out, and you lift a brow silently. “Decided to tell you in advance. Sloshed, bladdered, arseholed, rat arsed…”

“I get the hint, Killian, thank you.”

“Not our fault, it was all Graham.” You shift your cold stare onto Lan.

“It’s true! Dwalinson is scary like shite, but still John fought it till the last drop of his blood. But then they ran out of Jameson, and all that tequila over the jemmies…” He shakes his head.

You open the door to the bedroom, and they drag him in.

“He’s so bloody heavy!” He is taller than both of them, and at least twice as wide – what did they expect? They drop their precious cargo face down into the sheets, and Lan gives him a look over.

“Would you like us to help you to move him to the pillows?” John’s legs are hanging off the edge of the bed.

“I’ll manage. Go home.”

You push them both out of the flat, Lan throwing last longing look at John’s spread body. “Are you certain you don’t need my help to undress him?”

Killian makes a disgusted noise.

“Scram, perv, don’t even dare fantasising about this piece of arse.” You point your index finger at his narrow noble nose. By then Killian has a pained face.

Lan lifts his hands in a mock surrender. “Only kidding!”

They tumble out to the hall, and you blow them both a kiss. They giggle again, and the door closes behind them.

You return to the bedroom and survey the field of work in front of you. You kneel near him on the bed and try to roll him over to reach the button on the suit. It’s no use. He’s like a bloody bear. A very floppy bear, for that matter.

“John, I need you on the back.” He mumbles something and doesn’t even stir.

You slide your hand under his stomach and curl up your fingers. Never fails, he is extremely ticklish. He immediately rolls away from you, and not only on his back but also towards the pillows. Success!

You straddle him and start unbuttoning his clothes. A goofy drunk smile spreads on his face. One hot palm lies on your buttock, and he gives it a weak squeeze.

“Sweet…” You’re working on the tiny buttons of his shirt. “Almost as good… But hers is better…”

Your fingers freeze, and you lean to his face. “Whose bum are we talking about here?”

The blue eyes suddenly fly open, and he’s staring at you. Then he jerks his hand away from your arse.

“Sorry… I can’t…” He violently shakes his head, which would look hilarious, if you weren’t worried that he might vomit from shaking his noggin. “I have a wife…” Who does he think is undressing him?

He promptly falls asleep, and you’re studying his face. Yep, completely bladdered. You roll, and push, and pull, and finally all that is left on him is pants. You roll him under the comforter and finally settle near him. He’s mumbling something in his sleep and makes funny twitching movements with his long nose.

You close your eyes and are almost asleep, when his absolutely clear voice makes you jump up, “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

You stare at his open unfocused eyes. He’s frowning.


“The wedding. Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“And what do you think?” you ask carefully.

“I think you were right, and she’s going to leg it before the church. I shouldn’t have pressured her.” He obviously isn’t talking to you.

You pat his shoulder.

“She won’t. She loves you and will marry you.”

He gives you a wide idiotic smile and goes back to sleep. You chuckle, and he pulls you into him, envelops around you and buries his nose in your neck.

You sigh in relief, you still have a couple hours of sleep, when you realise that the pressure of his arms around you is increasingly crushing your ribs. Bloody boa constrictor! He is also nuzzling your neck; and once his lips are pressed to your ear, you realise what he’s doing. Let’s face, no way in hell he can get it up in this state. You start making shushing noises and scratch his scalp. He purrs, and the grip on you loosens.

Your heads are on the same pillow, and he looks into your eyes, “I think I should marry you…”

His eyebrows cock in a funny way, forming a comical sad angle, raised in the middle, puppy eyes, sort of pleading and pitiful.

“You are, you barmy muppet.” You rub his ears with the tips of your fingers. “We are getting married in less than a month.”

“Are we?” He’s frowning.

“Uh-huh.” You quickly kiss his lips. “And I promise you I’m going to show up.”

“Do you swear?” What are you two, twelve?

“Yes, I swear, now go to sleep.” He pulls you into him and wraps his arms around your middle again. Let’s face it, by now you are used to sleeping feeling like a fizzy drink in a can under pressure.

“I asked them for no redhead lap dancers, that would just be wrong…”

And very proud of himself he falls asleep. You’re lying under the comforter, pressed into his scorching wide body, and smile. What a barmpot! Adorable lovable barmpot!

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