I wrote this bit of fluff for Tumblr last June (2018) and forgot to post it here.  In an effort to assist those who require a full catalog of my obsession, I am now correcting that error.

That being said, here’s some kettle-y Turnadette fluff. Not quite 4 kettles “as written by me,” but as many as you want “as read by you.”

And yeah. It’s got cricket in it. So, sue me.  I don’t choose the fic, the fic chooses me.

Do not blame me that there is no image to go with this fic.  If TPTB had any compassion for my pain, they would remedy that and have Patrick decked out in cricket whites.

She tilts her face to the sun, warmth filtering through her body.  There are birds somewhere, just close enough to tease her with their song, and she opens her eyes.  All around her is green, lush and fertile, and she wonders where she is.

Footsteps softened by the turf draw her attention and she turns to see him walking towards her across the cricket pitch.

He is tall and lean, and looks relaxed in his cricket whites. He stops before her and settles on the faded quilt.  She knows somehow that they are alone, or she must know, because she doesn’t hesitate.

She stretches up on her knees and places a languid kiss against his lips, slow and teasing, her arms wrapped tightly about his shoulders.  She presses her lips to the length of throat bared by his open collar, flicking her tongue to taste his skin. He moans deep in his chest and she smiles as she nips at the sinew of his neck.

Her hands trace the fine woolen cables of his jumper, then slip to the hem and with a swift motion she pulls it over his head.  His shirt comes away from the smart white trousers and she must feel his skin there.  Beneath her palms, the skin of his midriff is smooth and she wants more.

Their lips meet again, soft and wet and she lightly strokes her tongue into his mouth.  She loves the velvety feel of it against his. Desire fires up between her legs, and she moves to straddle him, reveling in the hardness pressed against her.  She needs him now.

“That’s my favorite alarm clock,” he whispers.

Startled, she opens her eyes.  She’s pressed to his side, her leg across his, the sheets a tangle about them.

“What were you dreaming of this morning?”  His hand is on her hip, tugging the thin fabric to reveal the silky skin of her legs.

She’s embarrassed, and pulls away to lie on her back.  “Don’t tease, Patrick.”

He laughs.  “You’re one to talk, my love!”  He presses the hard evidence of his morning desire against her hip.  Back and forth, he trails his fingertips across the tops of her thighs, each stroke edging closer to the warm triangle between them.  “What were you dreaming of this morning,” he repeats. His voice is husky.

She shakes her head, trying to resist, trying to shake off the dream.  He reaches his goal and applies light pressure as his fingers curve against her. “Tell me,” he whispers.

Her back arches as her eyelids flutter closed.  She sighs. “The same one.” The whisper escapes on a breath.

He smiles smugly, and rewards her with the attentions of his long finger.  “Cricket?” A second finger joins the first and he strokes the soft skin there.  “You do love me in my cricket whites.”

Breathless, she cannot answer.