#I write when the brain weasels strike

[ace-oreos]

Catapulting myself back into writing with some more TFaTWS content ft. Bucky and Sarah.

Bucky nods once, watching her in a way she can only describe as wary. And Sarah might only know bits and pieces, but she can’t help thinking that the wide blue eyes detract from the whole Fist of HYDRA thing. “Are you okay?” she asks before she can think better of it. “I didn’t realize you were out here.”

“I’m alright,” Bucky says. His voice is quiet. “Just getting some air.” Sarah and Bucky and the beginnings of what feels like friendship.

[slashingdisneypasta]

For when you want... I thought of something very cursed while closing last night. What would happen if the world of Who Framed Roger Rabbit went through a Dorothy Must Die scenario.

Don't ask me where this came from, I don't even know how it'd work 😭 but what I briefly thought of last night was that, for some reason, the world of toons gets blocked off from humanity (maybe they were considered too dangerous after the story of Theadore Valient got out?). And Doom, instead of trying to enact his plan to replace Toontown with a freeway, decides this is the perfect opportunity to take over and control the toons instead. So basically, Doom is DmD!Dorothy (I did not need the image of Doom in the gingham dress, but my brain went there 😭)

This was mainly imagining the Toon Patrol as the DmD trio, admittedly 😅 being Doom's enforcers and striking fear into the residents of Toontown in this AU. Psycho and Greasy are like Scarecrow, being the two most feared of the patrol for similar and different reasons. Smartass and Stupid could be similar to the Lion, being more on the dumb side, but also not questioning Doom and happy with his position as his seargent. That leaves Wheezy most like Tinman; deep down, he knows that all this is wrong, but he doesn't try to stop Doom or Smartass for his own reasons. They use DIP to scare the citizens into obeying these new laws, but they're far more grusome and dangerous here, just like the trio are in DmD. Can you imagine that bubble gun Tin's soldier used on Indigo, but with DIP?? (Ngl, I've been having fun imaging Greasy as the Scarecrow in particular).

I'm not sure who Amy Gumm would be, probably Eddie if he ever decides to visit the tunnel again or somehow got a job that required him to get close to Toontown and he got captured. Or it could be an original character. But Jessica and Roger are part of the rebellion to take Doom and his patrol down, along with various other characters. They're war torn and traumatized, but they're still kicking.

I have no idea why I thought this, but here you go 😅😅😅😅

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE THIS!! Especially Scarecrow!Greasy, oh my g o d. Let me just- let me just- *gets out copy of Dorothy Must Die, which is heavily sticky-noted and thick from rereads already, and starts reading through all of Scare's bits imagining my favourite weasel* ... would it be crazy of me to write fanfiction of this concept!?? XD

YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME.

The only thing 'cursed' about this is Doom in gingham 🤣🤣🤣 But its all just 👌👌👌 Perfect! This was such a gem to wake up to XDD

I also love Stupid getting a main character part for once!! We too often let him fade into the background and this weighs heavily upon my soul, as I'm sure it does yours 😰Lion!Stupid would be so adorable!! Lion!Stupid developing a particular interest in a servant at the palace; them of course becoming his Favourite. Lion!Stupid struggling between his sexual appetite and his hunger for blood, licking and sucking and tasting his S/O any time that they're intimate; whimpering when they bleed because he got too rough with them; wanting to eat them. He wants to tear them apart and feast on their flesh, feel his teeth sink into their fat. Lion!Stupid feeling curious about this desire- because he loves them, doesn't he?? He doesn't understand. Lion!Stupid going to his good, old, most trustworthy, most intelligent friend Scarecrow!Greasy asking about it. Scarecrow!Greasy saying basically that he doesn't blame him- Stupid is an animal, after all. And that Y/N... is a delicious little morsel~ Do what feels right, Greasy tells him absentmindedly, going back to his work (Greasy never did alot the Lion much of his precious time, anymore, since Dorothy came back. Sometimes Stupid wondered why everything had changed). Follow your excellent, leonine instincts. Lion!Stupid returning to his lovers bed that night and doing exactly as his good comrade told him. Lion!Stupid eating what he loves (Lion!Stupid never losing the perfect taste off his tongue). Tin Woodman!Wheezy giving him a word of advice, later; that old friend of ours is crafty and cruel, Stu. Everything's different, now. 'ts best if ya don't trust any of us.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Writing a short story with a deadline is amazing because it cuts past all the brain weasels and forces me to write something. Usually, I’d be dithering for weeks, thinking endlessly about how to rework portions of the story. Now, when the thought strikes me that “Maybe I should rework this beginning to make the story work better,” I’m just like, “Sorry, there’s no time.” We’re going to make this story good enough, and then when I go ahead on good enough, it turns out that opening was better than the brain weasels gave it credit for. I’m still reworking parts of it, but now I’m limiting it to reworking what’s there, rather than drastically reshaping the entire story.

I think the Inklings Challenge works especially well for this because it’s a short story, and there’s an audience waiting for a story. Nanowrimo gets too abstract--it’s spread out over too long a time period, with the word count mattering more than the completion of a story. By the time I get to worrying about the deadline in Inklings, it’s like, “You have three days to write a short story.” It’s more concrete. It’s a shorter crunch time. A sprint rather than a marathon. And that makes it more sustainable and doable. And when you know you have to have something to show people, having anything to show them, even if it’s not perfect, is better than the perfect nothing that never gets out of your head.

[elsiebrayisgay]

Hi! 54 and 65 for the fic writer's asks, please!

ahhhh thank you for your interest!!! 54. my absolute favorite part of the process is getting feedback because the brain chemicals are unparalleled, but that has less to do with craft, so i will also offer a real answer. my favorite part about writing fic is that i almost exclusively work in alternate-setting AUs, and figuring out who each of the characters and what each of the locations map to and make sense as is super fun for me. in my baldur's gate story, one of the main villains (a cult leader) is a crossfit-influencer in a metal band. in my magic story, it was fun to think about where in the college ecosystem each of those mechanical monsters and the heroes fighting to overthrow them would fit, what kinda fashion they would be into and what hobbies they would have, that kinda thing. those types of details are super fun for me to figure out.

65. the tricky part with this is that while i have an outline for my current project, i hesitate to specify any plot details ahead of time because i'm about to be hitting my readers over the head with a club when my next chapter (currently in beta, sourceless bruises girlies and gays check Ao3 SOON) gets posted. so i want to preserve the drama and uncertainty of the moment in the story right now. but i am very excited to keep working on this story, to be sure. there is also some original fiction i think i will be trying to work on when i finish sourceless bruises, and i am DEFINITELY excited for that, but this is about fic so i'm also going to weasel out of a firm answer to this question on that front. but i will talk about what fic is on the horizon for me. the thing for me is that i don't really have the instinct for drabbles or one-shots; when i have an idea i go all-in on turning it into an Entire Thing (more of these queer feelings... it's probably nothing being an example of one of my bonkers premises which i gave extremely serious, loving care and attention to and took entirely seriously with the exception of a couple gags) and i tend to write novella-length or longer. SO i've had a couple of ideas of fandoms i want to work within and what i want to do with it; fans of mine probably would like that absurd LoK idea i posted about a few weeks ago and while that was meant to be a joke, the more i think about it the more i think it may have legs. i've also been really into wenclair and the empyrean recently in my own reading time so those spaces are very real possibilities for me strike next in. that being said, per the content of each of these answers, expect it to be heavily AU and such like everything else i write, whatever it is.

[reyes-is-dead]

[it's been a very, very long time since I've written for any fandom, never mind Overwatch, so I wanted to repost here something I drabbled in Discord for a near and dear friend of mine.

And saying that I feel the need to preface it with a little OOC blurb as I'll be using tags for this drabble and quite frankly I'm too old and tired for the usual discourse that comes with the bullshit of a small, insignificant niche of gatekeeping jackals that yip and yap over every little mote of annoyance they snatch out of context. So to all those mangey jackals, kindly fuck off, block me and continue to circle your drain of ugly hatred and loathing elsewhere, thanks.

I withdrew from Overwatch well before all the bad shit that went down with Blizzard, Activision. I do not and will never condone the heinous and disgusting actions that were finally brought to light, and I will always support victims and witnesses to come forth and speak up and report the injustices that have been wrought upon them.

With that being said, I left the fandom long before Jesse was retcon'd and Cole overwrote the lore. I don't care who the IRL person was, nor do I care to know anything about the person that they are, insofar as they reap the consequences their actions have sown. Justice will be served. But Jesse McCree will always be Overwatch's BAMF gunslinger outlaw, and will never be any sort of IRL reflection for me. Jesse McCree will always be Gabriel Reyes' right hand man in Blackwatch and not some easily forgotten "who is this guy? he did what now? IRL? fuck that guy he doesn't deserve any sort of spotlight".

My Jesse McCree will always be my Reaper's.

Period.

I won't name swap.

I'll be keeping Jesse McCree for myself and my writing, reclaiming and claiming the name that just fits the character. There is no other Jesse McCree than Overwatch's, Blackwatch's, Deadlock's Jesse BAMF McCree.

Here's the drabble: ]

Same shit, different year. Just numbers on someone's calendar, an agenda to weasel out and squash. It's not like he'd been ignorant of the date or the significance or the value of making appearances, it's just…

…

Distracted, determined, focused. Factors that play in measuring how fleeting time really does fly by. That and he'd wanted to just avoid people at all costs this year. Especially after the heat Blackwatch brought the whole organization. Moreso than usual at least.

A quick glance to his watch and a twinge in the pit of his gut that may or may not have been some sort of guilt has him sucking it up and making his way to where everything's cheery, merry, and bright. Maybe he'll be able to snag a bottle of something on the way back to his pile of bureaucracy and bullshit.

A habitual sweep of the festivities runs a headcount of the Usual Suspects milling about, noting who's missing but shrugs it off with mental nonchalance. He does his best to nod and grin that lopsided smarminess of his when greeted, passing through with handshakes and back slaps, quick hugs an pecks to the cheeks of those closest to him.

Artfully avoiding a certain someone while building up the New Years alibi.

Seconds tick by and there's no time left, nowhere to slink off to, he's caught in every sense of the word.

"Jesse…"

Their eyes meet and the off-tone vocalized Countdown from Ten is drowned out by that cheeky grin and glint in the younger man's eyes. His own reflects the same whorl and melange of threatening emotions, sentiments unspoken in their world of shadows. And there might just be a crinkle of crows feet upturned in something more than smirking amusement, even if his stern and tired features remain masked.

But nothing matters anymore when midnight strikes, taking whatever fight or flight his brain screams at him to engage in.

Yanked, an arm settles around the outlaw's waist, a rough hand comes up to card fingers through thick unkempt hair and scruff, and in his reciprocated kiss he tastes whiskey and ash, sour and sweet and smoky.

Same shit, different year.

But at least he's not alone now.

[justahopelessaromantic]

Memories (Ch. 5: Denki)

Fandom: My Hero Academia Links to Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, and 6 Summary: They'll probably write memoirs about all this. That or they’ll pay someone else to. When they're all retired top heroes, of course, ready to share their life stories with the public they’ve spent their lives protecting. Who knows? It might even inspire the next generation of crime fighters! Maybe they'll even throw together a neat little scrapbook or something as a class this year and give it to Mr. Aizawa as a gift. For now, it'll just have to settle for rattling around in their brains every once and a while. You know. Like memories do.

Denki remembers the blinding white of the walls

(It’s funny

His memory’s usually shit

why hasn’t it blocked out what happened from his mind yet

The details hard to make out)

They make his vision spin

Blurring everything around him together

God, why is his brain wired this way?

Until it's just him

And her

And the faint ugly mustard yellow of the hallway

Hanging in his peripheral vision

(It seemed so lovely and quaint

When his mother took him to pick out the paint color with him

Wistfully musing over how

If you stare long enough

It almost matched her favorite house in San Juan

But that's where it happened the first time

Now it’s ugly and gross and dirty

like her like him)

The soft cotton of her sweater

Pink, he thinks

Suffocates him

Scratches his face

As he buries his face

Into the crook of her shoulder

He forgets if it’s some desperate grasp at comfort from someone he trusts

Idealizes

Loves in theory

Or just not to look weirder than she says he already is

(And if there really is a loving god

what kind god would do this to some random kid

Who’s protecting him

mama what kind of protection is this

Despite his mind and its repulsive thoughts,

mama why did He send me that sick dream about her

Like mama always says

mama you say i can always come to you if something happened

After she ruffles his hair

mama its happening

Playing with the static electricity it stores,

mama sometimes i play scenarios in my head where i slip up and tell you and i cry and you cry and hug me tight and its nothing like sis’s hugs and you promise to keep me safe from her and but that cant happen cause you would have to know and you cant know you cant you just cant

He won't let Denki remember

mama why wont He let me forget)

Arms are holding him in place close

Hands wandering down his back

Lower and lower and lower and lower and lower and lower andlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowerandlowera

In a tight, suffocating embrace

tooclosetooclosetooclosetooclosetooclose

Leaving him dizzy and nauseous

His body lingers in her touch of course because this is normal

Resisting the perverse typical urge to squeeze tighter

quit making it weird you fucking freak

(Kaminari doesn’t know much

But he knows hes going to burn for this

He just knows

The knowledge crawls around his brain

Like a cockroach

Making his mother screech

Before she grasps for the broom

Curses it out

Chases it out of the narrow laundry room and into the kitchen

Encouraged by his hysterical laughter and his sister’s giggles and playful eye roll

Textbooks and homework splayed all over the counter

Their backpacks

Their legs

Tangled together

Before he pulled away from her touch)

No one hugs him at U.A.

Maybe its ‘cause they want to die on the battlefield 

In gore and glory

Not by accidental electrocution

(One day Denki will strike himself down

With lightning

From electricity he let fester in the air

And the Lord will get full credit

And his sister will weep)

And what kind of douchebag doesn’t hug his own sister?

what kind of hero freezes in the face of danger

Sharp nails scratch his skin

As he weasels his way out of her grip

Static dances on her skin like her fingers did on his

He spits out a shaky apology

Barely a whisper

She could barely hear him

could mama hear

could she hear him if he screamed

would she want to

Be more careful

She pleads

Runs off to go help with dinner

Down the hall

Out the door

shes in the next room why can he still feel her hands

Like she’s forgotten him already

he wishes he could too

Denki remembers wishing he didn’t have to play nice with adults

With sisters

Like her

Sisters that touch

Denki remembers her

Clear as day

He wishes he could forget

[darkmarkets]

The Horror of Writing Time

For me, dinner used to be a relaxing time. It used to be cooking, maybe 45 minutes or so; then eating, during which conversation or engaging television took place; then a few moments of cheerful tidying up; after which I retreated to the lounge with a glass of port or an after-dinner coffee. Dinner used to be nice.

Then, I had...A BABY. (Queue lightning strike and ominous music.)

After THE BABY (lightning, music), dinner didn't change that much, really. I perform the same activities—cooking, eating, talking, cleaning—except now it's like I perform them while juggling a starving weasel with a ribeye taped to my ear. Dinner is chaos. It is the unbridled, maddening kind of chaos that seems to go on forever, like a hell dimension of weasel-dinner, in which the simple act of cooking and eating takes four hours and the kitchen afterwards is an aftermath of spaghetti murder and frozen pizza destruction.

Then there's the added commitment of BEDTIME (crash, scream!) which takes another ungodly two hours of bath and pajamas and story reading, and when THE BABY is finally deposited into his room, my husband and I can finally sit limply and stare at the wall for a little while. And this is before grad school homework; before we get up at 6 am the next day to go to work... And I can't even bring myself to talk about breakfast (queue maniacal laughter.)

Anyway, my point is: a busy life leaves little room to write.

We all have busy lives. Work, school, family, commuting, that pesky sleep thing we never get...it all adds up to a very full day, no matter what combination of commitments we have. So, how can we find the time to be writers? How do we write with a busy life?

Well, first, if you can quit your job and still eat, do that. The best option for a writer is to quit your job and just write all day. (Or, get laid off from your job and sit around writing while you're telling your parents you're looking for jobs.) And, really, that's why most of us want to be published in the first place—so we can sit around a write all day.

But, who gets to quit their job (when we're lucky enough to even have one)? Not many of us are visited by the Free Rent Fairy or the Goblin of Cheap Groceries. When that pesky need-to-eat thing interferes with our fantasy writing career, we have to figure out how to write while being busy. To that end, here's a few tricks I've found to be useful:

Get used to tiny, tiny chunks of writing time. If you don't feel like getting up at 3am (which is usually the only hour of peace and quiet in the modern schedule), then you have to be okay with short, often interrupted writing sessions anywhere you can find them. Fifteen minutes is common; you get twenty if you're lucky. This makes writing fantastically difficult, not because it's hard to pick up a pen between tooth brushing and rushing out the door, but because it's hard to switch mental gears from the Real World to the World of Illusion. So, it helps to...

Focus quickly. Ideally, we need a cottage on the lake with no cell phone or internet and a long afternoon alone before we're even ready to start. If we can't get that, certain tricks help stretch the mind into shape. Listen to music or do a deep breathing exercise; try some repetitive incantations or pain. (You think I'm kidding here, but I'm not. Slap your thigh real hard and how quickly you go back to wondering what the weasels want to eat for dinner.) Coffee and alcohol is also a time-honored tradition (and now we're beginning to see why writers get that self-destructive drunk reputation! Dark Markets does not endorse becoming a self-destructive drunk, by the way.) Whatever you do, repetition is key, so if you have to bite your tongue and spin clockwise three times before writing, go ahead. Just do it every day. But, if you find that you still can't focus...

Write anything. Write a laundry list, write Mary Had a Little Lamb. Write that your thigh hurts. The old adage of "Write Every Day" is about training your brain, and when you write something—anything—for tiny chunks of time every day, your brain will learn how to function under the conditions your life dictates. This is why it's important to remember...

Don't stress out if the writing sucks. The cool thing about editing (and perhaps, the only cool thing) is that it takes less brain power to move and cut words than it takes to spontaneously create them. If you find you only have twenty minutes between dinner and dishes but your head won't work, just write utter crap. Write crap for a week or two then go back and see what gems can be dug up from your heap of nonsense. But if even that doesn't work...

Read. Reading is writing, in a sense; it's pre-programming your brain with special arrangements of words that are known as fiction. Reading is especially useful if you have an undisturbed block of time but you still can't write—say if you're on a shaky commuter train or you're covered in weasels. By reading, you prime your brain for that future fifteen minute genius, and even if you don't get a chance to write all day, your time has not been wasted.

Ultimately, this slow-drip method of writing is not ideal. We all want the experience of being immersed in our stories for a long period of time—cooked in them, so to speak—so that's usually why we crave the sitting-around-and-writing-all-day thing. But, if we want to produce something, stay sane, and feed our darling spawn at the same time, the only way to do it is eek out a tiny bit of writing in between the cracks of the Daily Grind. If we do this every day, eventually, we will have something that can be published.

And that something might be a bestselling novel that makes us a gajillion dollars, so we can quit our jobs and finally have the time to write that bestseller! ...or maybe I'm just talking crazy. It always happens when I've had one too many thigh-slaps.

Lorna D Keach

[detectivehannibal]

Desk Dreams

__

Hannibal Lecter x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Smut...lol have fun.

A/N: Testing my smut writing skills I see...I tried to weasel Will into this, but I’d hardly consider this a Will oneshot. I struggled so hard with this smh.

Requested by: @no-homo-hank

Prompt: also.. if i may request something sm*tty. personally i think your writing is so good. soo maybe something in his office yk yk like if the reader has a *sexy* dream about him,, and she has to tell him,, idk idk and only if you’re comfortable with it ofc! thanks :)

Word Count: 1,697

“Is it so wrong to change things up a little?”

__

You couldn’t get it out of your head. The images, the sounds, the touches, the smells. You had tried to shake it off all morning. You had brewed an extra strong cup of coffee hoping to rid your conscious of the less than appropriate dream from the night before, but to no avail. You never really had dreams, and you especially didn’t have such scandalous ones. On top of that, you definitely never had sex dreams about your therapist. 

Sure, you found him attractive in more ways than just his striking intelligence. However, the thought of anything that wasn’t purely professional had never crossed your mind. You knew what Hannibal thought about dreams. He had mentioned to you before that they are often a crucial tell-tale of a person’s mental state most of the time. That was the part you couldn’t figure out.

What did having such a racy dream mean for you?

You pondered the thought on your way to your session. You desperately wished that you didn’t have to go today, but you knew you’d be questioned about it next session if you canceled. You entered his office’s waiting room, there were no other patients at that time. You weren’t surprised, considering most people tried to push for the afternoon appointments. You took your normal seat, knowing that Dr. Lecter and Will Graham would be finished shortly. Will Graham’s appointments were always before yours, and you always noted how Will always looked as if his brain had been completely picked apart when he exited.

You often wondered what sort of things they talked about.

Sure enough, the door opened a few minutes later, Hannibal seeing Will out of his office. 

“I will see you soon, Will.” Hannibal said to Will, who had pretty much already ended the conversation. 

Will spotted you waiting and actually offered a smile. He didn’t know you outside of the waiting room, but well enough to know your name and speak to you.

“Hello, [Y/N],” He greeted, leaning in slightly; “He’s acting strangely today.” He whispered.

You gave him a confused look, but returned the greeting before he dashed off and out of the building. What did he mean by “acting strangely”? There was only one way to find out. 

“[Y/N], are you ready?” Hannibal asked, inviting you into his office.

You nodded, entering swiftly. When you passed by him, a familiar scent enriched your nose. The smell of his cologne was exquisite and suddenly sparked your memory of the dream from the night before. So that was what you smelled in the dream. You had never paid attention to it before. 

Speaking of the dream, it was suddenly all you could think about. You sat in one of his chairs, immediately striking Hannibal as out of character. He decided to hold off on mentioning it yet. 

“Good morning. How are you?” He asked, sitting in the chair in front of you.

Your leg bounced anxiously as you found yourself in a trance, raking over his features. Had his hair always been so nice? Were his eyes always so enticing? You caught his gaze, waiting for you to give an answer.

“Huh? Oh! I’m doing well.” You said, beginning to feel a heat creep over your cheeks.

His hand briefly went up to his collar to readjust his tie. You basically stopped yourself from salivating. His hands were...so perfect. 

“You’re nervous.” He announced.

You denied. You denied hard. You would not let him through to you today. You’d die of embarrassment.

“Nope. Not nervous,” You said, visibly nervous; “What makes you say that?”

His expression was calculating. He was soaking you up like a sponge to sink water, taking everything in to be squeezed out again.

“For starters, you’re sitting. You usually walk around during our sessions,” He noted; “Secondly, your entire demeanor is tense.” 

Your leg stopped bouncing and you slowly stood from your chair, you began to try and walk as you normally did, but it ended up being more of a pace. 

“Is it so wrong to change things up a little?” You asked as casually as possible.

He looked so good in that light blue shirt. 

“No, but there’s always a reason for such change.” He bantered.

You shot him a look. It was hard to get anything past him. 

“I just...” You tried to come up with an excuse, but turned up short. 

He waited patiently, his gaze never leaving yours. You sighed in defeat. 

“Dreams are normal, right?” You asked, preparing to bite the bullet.

He nodded simply.

“Certainly.” 

You chewed your lip in thought, careful with how you approached this. You fiddled with the hem of your sweater.

“I had a rather interesting dream last night,” You confessed; “It wasn’t anything I had ever experienced.”

He was listening intently, not quite following what you were getting at.

“What did you dream about?” He prompted.

You felt a sudden rise in your throat. This was painful to admit.

“Well, you were in me- uh, I mean...in it.” You said, mentally cursing at yourself for your embarrassing slip up.

A wave of realization was clear on his face as he connected the dots. You wanted nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die.

“[Y/N], I can assure you that sexual fantasy dreams are quite normal.” He said in an attempt to comfort you.

You groaned miserably, burying your face in your hands. You were humiliated. You’d have to request a different therapist. Maybe even seek out a totally different counseling practice.

“Dreams often must be explored to be understood. Tell me more about the content of this dream.” He requested calmly.

Your blood went hot. What? Why did he want to know that? You looked to him, surprised to see that he was completely serious. You rubbed your palms together nervously.

“I came in for my usual session. The energy was different. You were looking at me in a way you don’t usually,” You explained; “The conversation took a turn and...we had sex.”

His expression remained unchanged, but you weren’t close enough yet to see the fire in his eyes. He stood from his seat and took slow strides over towards you. You were sure he could hear your thumping heart.

“How was I looking at you?” He questioned, his voice thick and smooth.

That’s when you saw the riled up glaze in his eyes. A sudden wave of emotion and arousal crashed over you. This was really going to happen.

“Just like you are now.” You breathed out.

Instantly, his lips were on yours. Passionate and needy, but steady and calculated too. His hands gripped your waist, pushing you towards his desk. He shimmied you onto the cool, dark wood and allowed you to remove his suit blazer. 

Your mind was racing, but your movements were faster. You untucked his dress shirt from his pants while his fingertips worked on unbuttoning your jeans. It was a hot, heavy silence as the two of you stripped down enough to get the job done. His mouth was hot on your neck once your pants were casted aside, sucking a hickey on your most sensitive spot. 

“Dr. Lecter, I...” You trailed off, your mind too clouded with pleasure to offer any kind of sentence.

This felt so wrong, but so right at the same time. You were thankful for patient-doctor confidentiality. 

“Hannibal.” He corrected, unbuckling his belt and getting his pants down to his ankles.

Woah. First name basis. That was new. Hannibal really seemed to know his way around a woman. You found that rather shocking.

“Is this your means of dream exploration?” You joked, giving a breathy laugh.

“Something like that.” He replied.

He pulled himself from his boxers, stroking a few times before gingerly pushing himself inside of you. A synchronized moan drew from the both of you as he pushed through your walls, traveling as deep as he could go. He pushed your back down onto the desk, watching you sprawl out desperately for him.

He began with slow thrusts to allow you to adjust to his length, but hit the sweetest of spots each time he went back in. He grasped one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist so he could get a better angle. He had one hand on your throat, wrapped firmly but not uncomfortably. 

“Hannibal, please. Faster.” You begged, your tone coming out as a whine.

He hummed in response, his pace beginning to pick up. Your hands gripped the edge of the desk as the sounds of skin and rattling desk objects echoed in your ears. He admired the way your eyes glassed over in pleasure, his own forehead beginning to break out into a sweat. 

“Was this how your dream played out?” He asked, the slightest bit of strain in his voice; “On my desk...in the middle of a session.”

You nodded in response, but that wasn’t enough.

“Use your words.” He ordered, slamming back into you again.

“Yes.” You groaned out.

“Good girl.” He praised, moving his pace even faster.

This wasn’t how he’d usually pleasure a woman. He preferred something a little more timed out and slow, but you needed something spontaneous and fast. He could feel it radiating off of you. Your mind bounced back and forth from the dream to this present moment. This was too good to be true.

Your legs tightened around his waist, signaling to him that you were awfully close. He himself felt a twitch, looks like you were going to both finish on time. He continued to pound into you, your moans relentlessly sounding out into the air. Your high-pitched, surprised gasp alerted your release, his own spilling out just a few moments later. 

Your moans and sounds dwindled into heavy breathing, your chests heaving to catch up. He collapsed onto your shaky frame, your hand resting in his hair. You could barely comprehend what had just happened. You suddenly had a whole new reason to come to therapy. Hannibal lifted his head, pride written all over his face.

“I think...we’ll pick this back up next week.”

[mondscheinprinzessin]

drunken tattoos

This post discussing Olli’s not visible BC tattoo didn’t leave my mind and I just had to write something stupid. So here are Joonas and Olli making a pact to get the BC logo tattooed on their asses.

I am dedicating this dumbassery to @drippinlou and @dream-thieves

(also pls don’t get a tattoo while drunk)

Playing in front of more than a hundred people was more exhilarating than Olli could've ever expected. The way they swayed and jumped to their music, sang along to the words and made them feel like the biggest band walking on earth.

It had to be celebrated. Selling that many tickets was a new high in their band life and it was steady but surely going uphill for them. Soon it was no more playing in shady bars and dirty clubs, they could get a bigger stage and invest in equipment.

Olli wanted to ride on that high forever, the beers he had downed helping him to keep him afloat on a cloud of adrenaline, excitement, and blissful joy. The wide smile on his face had been there for the last hour or so, but Olli couldn’t stop. Seeing his bandmates in each other’s arms and screaming to a Britney Spears Remix currently playing in the club would remain as a picture forever saved in his memories.

Joonas hooked arms with him and pressed a cocktail in his hands with the command to drink it up. And who was Olli to refuse such a charming smile on his fellow guitarist.

Not long after -or was it, Olli couldn’t tell- the both of them found themselves in the alley outside the club, still swaying to the music that could be heard through the open doors. They passed a few smokers that gave them disapproving stares but Olli couldn’t care less. He was having the time of his life.

Passing a corner Joonas suddenly stopped in his tracks, regarding him with wide eyes.

“What?” Olli asked, confused. “Don’t tell me you have to puke, go somewhere else for that.” Already on the move to march forward, Olli was once again held back by Joonas by a tug on his hand.

“No, I have an amazing idea.” He told him with shining eyes, the mischief was clear as day, but that was normal with Joonas and didn’t worry him.

When nothing else came Olli motioned with his hand to continue, looking at him expectantly. Now he wanted to know. The night was too early to kill off and he was in the mood for an adventure, which was guaranteed to happen with a drunken Joonas in company.

“Oh right.” Joonas said as if he had forgotten he was in the middle of explaining. “Tattoos!”

“Tattoos?”

“Yes, tattoos! We always wanted our band logo tattooed, don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Olli defended himself. “I’m not that drunk.” He said and promptly stumbled over his own foot, holding himself up by the wall next to him.

A giggling came from behind, but Olli found it funny enough to join in, already forgetting what reason Joonas had to laugh.

“Let’s do it now.”

Lifting his head, getting dizzy from the abrupt movement, he looked at Joonas, thinking hard about what they were talking about. “Huh?”

“The tattoo.” Joonas said urgently like it was the most important thing on earth right now. And...it kind of was in Olli’s opinion. Tattoos sounded great. He wanted one.

“Now?” he asked to be sure he understood the plan.

“Of course now. Now is the best time.”

Olli agreed and nodded with his head more forcefully than it was necessary, the world once again hiding behind a blurriness that he was unable to blink away.

“But we can do one better. Let’s make a pact!”

“A pact?” Olli felt like he was only asking questions this evening, his brain slowed down and unable to process any information Joonas threw his way.

Hitting him square over the chest Joonas grinned at him. “Dude, how drunk are you, keep up. A pact between brothers.”

Olli hummed and grabbed Joonas by the shoulders to pull him into a hug, simultaneously tousling his hair. They almost fell over from the force but Joonas was able to keep them upright.

“You’re the bestest brother.” Olli said and squeezed tighter, Joonas only chuckling into his shoulder, the sound loud in his ear but enough to raise his spirits even higher. The fun that came out of forming a band with his friends and touring together was the greatest thing in his life, enjoying the close bond they had and right now he had the most awesome fun ever.

Joonas weaseled his way out of his grip and jumped on his back instead, giving Olli only seconds to take a hold of his legs but they managed, going forward on wobbly knees and in a zigzag course, only swerving around a lamppost last second and when Joonas pulled his hair in the direction they were headed to.

Picking up from where they left off, Joonas said, “So, from brother to brother I say let’s put it on our ass.”

Coming to a halt, Olli tried to understand the strings of words and especially the combination of tattoo and ass in one sentence.

“Hey, I didn’t say you could stop.” Joonas let out and wiggled with his legs till Olli got the memo and started walking again. More or less.

“Why on our ass?”

“Uh...because that’s funny? And like the greatest idea ever. And funny.” He said as if it was obvious. Which- yeah okay Olli could see behind it. It was pretty funny. Hilarious even. Why didn’t they think of it before? Might be the greatest idea Joonas ever had. Or the one they could remember.

“It is.”

“Then onward my fair steed” Joonas said and began giggling again when Olli picked up speed and Joonas was swaying on his back like a ship on the high sea. It was a miracle they didn’t crash and kept lying in a ditch, waiting to be found by their bandmates in the morning.

Somehow, they managed to find their destination, or more like a random tattoo parlour that was mysteriously open at this hour. But why should they care as long as they would finally get their tattoos.

They wandered inside (Joonas by his side instead of his back), greeting the woman behind the counter who had a boring expression on her face. She raised an eyebrow, eying them from top to bottom but didn’t comment on their state.

When asked what she can do for them they simply said ass tattoo. That should cover all information needed.

The woman called for a Sarah and a blonde woman emerged from a room, waving Joonas over who had a flirty smile already on his face. Always ready to play with his charms. Who knows what could come out of this.

Olli eyed the woman, whose name he still didn’t know, but followed her willingly into another room, losing sight of Joonas. They would see each other soon enough. With a little extra on their bodies.

He laid down as instructed, his pants off over a chair and his underwear pulled down to bare his butt for everyone to see. Without the alcohol he may have been blushing more over the fact he was showing himself off so freely, but he couldn’t see what the woman was doing anyway.

He had given her the flyer of tonight's concert so she had a template for the tattoo, and it wasn’t like it was a big one, he would cope.

The first lines of the needle hurt nevertheless and reached his mind even in his drunken state, the alcohol only doing so much to fight back on the pain. After a while though the buzzing only made him tired, having to suppress the urge to close his eyes and just fall asleep.

He contemplated over doing just that when the woman swatted over his cheek not currently sporting a tattoo and that helped him getting awake again. He practically jumped up, refraining from pulling up his underwear as she needed to get over the aftercare stuff but then he was free to go.

He stumbled over the threshold into the colder night air, the alcohol level noticeably lower but not enough to keep his head from spinning. He could hardly make out Joonas leaned against the lamppost across from him, but that stupid hat was indicator enough it was his friend standing there and not some stranger with striking similarity.

Joonas put out his cigarette when Olli came closer. “Well, how was it?”

“Not liking getting my ass spanked but other than that I’m fine.”

Joonas let out a loud laugh from deep in his chest, probably waking every sleeping person in the street. “Sounds like you had a good time. Show me?”

“Are you stupid? Not here. I don’t want to get arrested for public nuisance.” Olli said and shoved Joonas away when he made grabby hands towards his belt. He was definitely not getting naked here.

“Tease.” Joonas whined disappointed. “Oh! But let me show you mine.”

“Joonas, no. I don’t wanna see your ass now either. Besides, we got the same motive?”

But Joonas didn’t make a move to open his pants, no, he only shoved his hand into his face, making him crosseyed.

Grabbing the hand waving before his eyes, he tried to focus. “Joonas, what? Hey! What is this?”

There was clearly a diamond shaped thing on the back of his hand, that suspiciously looked like their band logo, and then it dawned on him.

“There is one on your ass too, right? You didn’t make me do that alone? Right? Joonas?”

His questions fell on deaf ears though and there was only maniac laughter coming from Joonas, who upon seeing Olli’s eyes darken, got a good headstart and ran away before Olli could grab the hem of his jacket. Cursing, Olli could do nothing than follow Joonas and made sure they didn’t lose their way to the hotel and then he could wrestle him down long enough to tattoo that stupid thing on him on his own.

[hypnomicimagines]

☂️Rainy Day Blues☂️[Nurude Sasara]☂️

Oh, how tragedy loved to strike Sasara when he least expected it.

He had been walking to your house with an extra pep in his step, the fresh bouquet he’d picked up along the way only lifting his mood. He was stuck in daydreams even before he reached you, thinking about how lovely you’d look that night and how he couldn’t wait to do the little things like hold your hand as you were on the way to your date destination. He thought that nothing could possibly dampen his happiness, that him finally confessing after years of being in relationship purgatory had made him see the brighter side of any situation, but it seemed he still had blinders on in some aspects. His parade was about to be rained on.

Literally.

Sasara didn’t know where the icy rain had come from but it hit him like a sack of bricks, goosebumps rising on his skin as his leisurely walk turned into a marathon run as he made his way to your apartment complex. He hadn’t checked the weather forecast, who did that anymore? Clearly Sasara’s hubris had upset the weather Gods as he caught sight of himself in a window, no longer looking like your handsome suitor but a sad clown that had just walked through a door with a bucket of water precariously balanced on top of it. The bouquet is just as pathetic as he is, and hey, aren’t flowers supposed to like water? Why were they drooping like that? You’d probably laugh in his face when you saw them.

You did.

He had to get you back somehow for laughing at his plight despite the fact your laughter had quickly washed away every negative emotion he’d previously been feeling. He had to get you back somehow and decided to show you his best ‘wet dog’ impersonation, shaking his hair out in your doorway and giving you a little preview of what it was like outside. The rain had only started to come down harder, thunder and lightning being added to the mix, meaning it was unlikely the date would continue as planned. Not to mention his hair which he had spent an entire three minutes and seven seconds on was now a poofed out mess due to how he chose to dry out his hair, not that you seemed to mind. You laughed again at his saggy bouquet, telling him you loved it no matter how pathetic it looked (he hoped that was the last time he ever heard that).

“We can just spend the night in. Why do you look so excited that I said that? Did you think I’d tell you to walk home?”

“I’d never accuse you of something so cold-hearted!”

“Good, I’m glad to see the rain hasn’t washed away your remaining brain cell. Come in and change your clothes, too, as much as I love seeing you be a complete eyesore, I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Shouldn’t you stripping me of my clothes wait until after dinner? Not that I mind.”

“You know what… Maybe walking home in the rain is just what you need. Maybe you’ll get struck by lightning and have some sort of epiphany that’ll make you funny.”

“Now you really sound like Rosho,” Sasara sighed out, fighting the smile that wanted to break out on his face so he could keep up the ‘hurt’ façade he was putting on, “To think that the person I love most would say such things to me… I’ll go back outside to hide my tears!”

“Bye.”

You closed the door behind him as he stepped into your apartment, heading straight to your bedroom and thinking about how he had essentially done a speed run of the date. He hadn’t suspected he’d be here until a little bit later but he couldn’t say he was complaining as you joined him, digging through your drawers for some spare clothes that he had left behind the various other times he’d stayed over on a whim. He purposely left his clothes with you just so you’d always have something to remember him by, weaseling his way into your heart first and now your home, hoping that he might even get a whole draw just for his stuff one day. His apartment was certainly the winner with its scenic view but since you had yet to talk about the whole ‘moving in’ thing, he decided he’d get you used to the idea by leaving random things of his behind so you were used to it when it finally did happen.

“Here you go.” You set the clothes down on the counter, taking a second to admire how cute he looked with a wet mop of hair on his head, reaching over to run your fingers through it just for good measure, “I’d say take a shower but I don’t actually want you struck by lightning.”

“But you seem to like my hair so much… It could become a permanent fixture with the help of electricity.”

“I do like it,” You confirmed, smiling as you stroked his hair fondly, Sasara’s heart pounding loudly in his chest, “Almost as much as I like you. Get changed while I try to find some candles. I can’t imagine we’re going to have power too long so…”

You spoke the unfortunate lightning strike into existence that completely knocked out anything electrical in the apartment building and part of Sasara wonders if you had spoken the rain into existence, too. Had this been your plan all along? Had you wanted to just trap him in your room from the get-go, using him for your own needs and then discarding him afterward? Sasara considered suggesting that type of supervillain roleplay on a less romantic night but for now his head was still in the clouds, wanting to do simple things like hold your hand and cuddle against you, sucking the warmth out of you as he had no spare warmth to give at this point.

“Y-You’re cold!” Sasara had reached out to touch you when the lights had first gone out, wanting to assure you were still there and okay first, “Just be careful as you get changed! I’ll be right back!”

You’re only gone about ten minutes but it’s so painfully lonely in the bathroom without you, Sasara already thinking about the letter he’d write to you if you had gone off to war. He would be the lonely maiden waiting by the window, longing to see their love again, dramatically falling to the ground as he received the news that you had passed away. He was already thinking about how he’d meet your ghost in the afterlife to confirm he never fell in love again when you entered the bathroom, face highlighted by a small candle that he’s almost positive he had gifted you.

“Come on, come on! It’s a little better in the living room and the blankets are all out.” You moved the candle to one hand and reached down to grab his, fingers lacing together without words having to even be exchanged. “I don’t want you getting lost.”

“The only place I’ll get lost is in your eyes, beautiful.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re lucky you’re cute? Because you’re sooo lucky you’re cute!” He can tell from your tone that there’s a wide smile on your face, the one that made him feel like the most successful comedian in the world. Getting you to laugh was no easy task and you had never been one to show him even a dollop of mercy when it came to his material but it made it all the more worth it when he got to hear you laugh. Every time you laughed an angel grew its wings, that’s how the saying went, right? It doesn’t matter as his brain is entirely centered around you and only you, especially as the two of you seat yourselves on your ridiculously comfortable couch.

“I don’t know what we’ll eat… It’s gonna be cold and sad.”

“As long as we’re not cold and sad, it’s fine, right?”

“Fair enough.”

His arm wrapped around you as you threw your legs across his lap, the blanket quickly following suit as you curled up into his side. You wondered how many people would be surprised that Mr. Tragic Comedy was not only a total romantic but a stage five clinger, unlikely to give you a moment alone now that you had both finally settled in together. Sasara valued his privacy from time to time but when it came to you, it seemed his social battery could never run out; he wanted to be around you, to be with you, to be touching you and talking to you as much as he possibly could.

“What should we do?” Sasara quickly grew uncomfortable with the silence and you felt bad for your boyfriend, knowing his anxiety tended to spike in the silence. You wished you had something to act as white noise in the background but it seemed all you could do to distract him was talk, or listen to a slew of jokes that would have you standing in the rain rather than being in your own apartment if they were on par with the normal puns he liked to deliver.

“Tell me about your day before you got here. Did you talk to Rosho about your birthday plans?”

Sasara is grateful for the conversation starter as once he’s begun to talk, he’s adept at not shutting up again.  

It was going to be a long, rainy night, but at least you got to spend it together.

[fanficflaneuse]

Dear Draco - Part 1

Part 2  Part 3  Bonus Chapter 

Index 

A/N: Hello loves, welcome to my new mini series based on an anon request. It will have three parts, four at most. I hope you like this! 

Thanks for all the love I received for my birthday. And thanks for reading and letting me know how you feel about my writing. 

Details: 

Draco x reader (she/her) 

Word count: 3146 (I got carried away, sorry). 

Summary: In the summer after fourth year, Draco falls in love with a muggle.

Disclaimers: it’s going to get angsty as hell and also very fluffy. Hermione x Draco friendship. 

Enjoy! 

Hermione sat alone on the library. She was deep in concentration, reading about the Patronus charm for the next DA meeting. All of a sudden, she felt someone looming over her. She closed her book, trying to make it seem as natural as possible. The brown-haired girl looked up, only to find none other than Draco Malfoy himself looming over her. Hermione’s features turned into a nasty scowl.  

“Granger,” he tried to sound conciliatory.

“What do you wa –wait, what? Since when do you call me by my last name?”  

Only then she realized Draco didn’t look like himself at all. Gone was the haughty attitude, the cocky smirk, the puffed chest. Not to mention the posse. He was no longer an image of confidence, but rather seemed distraught. This piqued the Gryffindor’s curiosity. Still, she was not going to let him see that. These days any slip could be detrimental.

Draco shrugged, hands deep in his robe’s pockets. “It’s your last name, isn’t it?”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. “Oh, really? So, for five years you’ve thought my last name was mudblood?” she snapped.

Draco winced as she said the hateful label, as though it physically hurt him to hear it. This was the strangest sight she had encountered so far – which was plenty, all things considered.

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” she asked, baffled and cautious.

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he just rubbed his face with his hands before pulling his hair just slightly. Hermione had never seen him act so natural, so human and, above all, so appalled. Slowly, the ubiquitous paranoia in the back of her mind fogged all of her brain. Her mind started shooting conspiracy theories left and right. As the seconds passed, she thought about every possible way in which Draco could be tending her a trap, which meant he knew something. Hermione got nervous and peered around for someone who could potentially help her. She noted – much to her annoyance – that her tendency to study in the farthest corners of the library had her facing the Slytherin prick on her own.

Draco noticed her discomfort and felt really stupid. He was about to leave, but then he remembered why he approached in the first place. It glued him in his place. So, he just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and swallowed his pride.

“I…I need your help,” he said sheepishly.

For a second, Hermione thought about making a run for it. But she was far too intrigued now. She definitely wanted to know what could Draco Malfoy possibly need her help for. She stayed still, eyeing him skeptically.

“What is it?”

“Not here,” he said in a hushed voice.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Malfoy” she huffed.

Draco lowered his gaze. The silence between them was absolutely charged. Hermione’s glare made him feel exposed and ashamed.

“Please.” The sound of his desperation almost convinced the Gryffindor. Almost.

“Harry and Ron must be within hearing range.”

“Not bloody likely,” he snapped.  

“Then no,” she said, crossing her arms.

Draco sighed, defeated. “Potter and Weasel-ey can’t know. Nobody can know. Hermione, please I am desperate.”

Hermione looked at him, her eyes wide. He had used her first name for the first time ever. She realized he must have been absolutely desperate. As stupid as seemed, it disarmed her. Hermione took a deep breath. In the worst of cases, Hermione thought, she was more than capable to defend herself from Malfoy. Besides, if he knew something about D.A, it was better to get over with it. She stood up, picked her books and looked at him.

“Where?”

Draco turned on his heel and guided Hermione to moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. She eyed him suspiciously as he motioned for her to get into a stall. He shot her a pout and Hermione rolled her eyes, but entered anyways. She thought she must have been going crazy as she found herself just inches away from Malfoy, who seemed unfazed by the whole affair. He felt so hopeless in his situation he didn’t really care what he had to do at this point.

“So,” she said awkwardly.

Draco didn’t listen. Hermione realized he was casting a silencing charm around them. Only then, did he dare to spill the secret that had been locked in his heart.

“Hermione, I am in love with a muggle.”

As the Hogwarts’ express arrived to platform 9 ¾ after their fourth year, Draco found himself alone. This was a strange occurrence; usually his parents were there to greet him. Their absence hinted something unpleasant, considering the dreary note in which the schoolyear had ended, and suddenly he didn’t feel like apparating back home. Not knowing where else to go, Draco joined the crowd of students heading towards muggle London.

He had never been to the muggle King’s Cross station and he’d be lying to say he wasn’t startled by it. He was mesmerized by the buzzing of the crowd, the smoke coming from the muggle trains, and the elegant simplicity of the station. He was eyeing the entrance curiously, wondering if he should step out or apparate back home, when he bumped into her. Or rather, she collided with him and their trunks were suddenly scattered around.

“Bloody muggles,” he murmured, as he picked his belongings.

“What did you call me?” the girl growled.

“Nothing,” Draco said, startled. He was not used to people talking back to him. The only ones who did were the infamous golden trio, but after five years of bantering he considered it part of his daily routine. Everyone else bowed their heads and carried own with their lives. He was expecting the muggle to follow suit.

She didn’t. So, he softened his scowl to take a good look at her, only to find the most striking girl he had ever seen. Draco was absolutely smitten. She tilted her head, eyeing him curiously.

“You have pretty eyes,” she said casually, as though she was talking about the weather. He felt his face getting hot, his eyes opening in a very unbefitting gesture of surprise. He wondered how she could be so…so easy-going about stuff like that. He had been thought to be suave, but four words of her had beat him.

Draco realized she was waiting for a response. “T-thank you,” he said embarrassedly. He grimaced when he heard her chuckle. The girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stood up, offering a hand for him. Draco looked at the stretched hand for a while and took it just before she let it drop. They were soon shamelessly staring at each other, until a wave of people pushed them.

“Where are you going?” she asked. Draco shrugged in response, not knowing what to say.  

“Well…I don’t want to go back home. Would you want to go somewhere with me?”

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets, not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to go back home either. He had an enticing girl in front of him, one that didn’t hesitate to tell him – a stranger – his eyes were pretty and invite him somewhere. But that girl happened to be a mudblood. He shook that thought off his head, realizing, once again, that he was lost in thoughts and the girl was looking at him, waiting for him to answer.

“My name is (y/n),” she said as she pushed her trolley.

“Draco,” he answered, pushing his own trolley, “Draco Malfoy.”

(y/n) giggled, which filled Draco’s stomach with butterflies. “What is it?” Even he could hear the amusement in his voice.

“Was it after the constellation or because it’s Latin for dragon?” she mused.  

Draco gave her a small, genuine smile. “Both.”

He soon realized he had no idea where they were going. (y/n) seemed to read his mind, as she explained that they could leave their trunks at a luggage storage while they a stroll through the city. He then noticed that (y/n)’s trolley had trunks, big wooden trunks that resembled his own instead of the ungodly and shabby suitcases he had seen some mudbloods carrying around. He regarded her for a moment as they walked, examining her wardrobe: she wore a carmine coloured skirt, a matching blazer, black tights, black patent loafers and a creamy button-up with a dainty black bow at the collar. Her hair was up in a complicated hair-do. Draco noted that, by her side, he didn’t look particularly out of place in his sweater vest and tie. They could pass as two eccentric, rich kids.

“I gather you’re not from London.” She caught him staring in awe as they left the station, which made him feel self-conscious.

“N-no,” he stammered.

“Where are you from, then?”

“Wiltshire,” he blurted out. Draco realized he must look totally awkward, stuttering every answer as though he never had a conversation in his life. He didn’t know if he was nervous because of her or the fact that he was walking to the unknown with none other than a muggle, but it was totally wrecking his suaveness.

The girl seemed patient enough and smiled at him softly. Maybe it was even out of pity, but he found it adorable. “My grandma lives in Wiltshire. My mother makes me go there every once in a while, but I don’t like it that much.”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely interested.

“It’s a beautiful place, don’t get me wrong. And my grandma’s estate is marvellous, but such a vast house makes the solitude much more…real, you know?” Draco was hanging onto her every word now. She was describing, unabashedly, something he had felt since childhood. He admired her capacity to say this kind of things without the need of closed doors or silencing charms.

“I…I feel just the same,” Draco answered. He was surprised by the idea that him and muggles could have something in common.

(y/n) stopped on her tracks and Draco, who was following her around like a lost puppy, bumped into her back. He was about to apologize when she stopped him. “Given that you’re not from here, let’s do some touristy stuff. We can start here,” she said pointing out the building behind them. It was a grand construction, all in brick of a pinkish colour.

“British library,” Draco mouthed unsure. He noticed how (y/n) blushed slightly and her smile fell a little.

“We could…we could do something else,” she offered a bit ashamed. Draco felt terrible, he wanted her to smile again, to talk to him excitedly as she had done just a couple of seconds before. So, without really thinking about it, he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the building.

She clasped his hand, an easy smile on his face, and was soon guiding him through rows and rows of muggle books he had never heard before. Draco tried to listen to everything she said. He wanted to remember names and references and look them up to have more things to talk to her about. Draco found himself wanting more conversations with her, more tours through libraries, more recommendations.

(y/n) was an open book. She told him that her parents were divorced. She lived with her mother in Edinburgh. Her father was a professor at LSE – whatever that was. He imagined, by context, it was a muggle Hogwarts.

“I like how you’re unphased by it,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“Whenever I tell anybody my dad works in LSE, I get a lot of praise. No matter how bigshot the person is, they want the easy way in to the school,” she shrugged. It meant nothing to Draco, who scratched the back of his neck in confusion. (y/n) laughed and carried on, pulling him through different streets with their fingers intertwined.

Draco just let go. He was having so much fun with her, he almost forgot about how weird the situation was. They talked about astronomy and Greek mythology, topics he – thankfully – dominated. They talked about their love for reading and learning. They bonded over the fact that their parents had very high expectations for them and they were top of their classes.

“Top of your class?” asked Hermione, eyebrow raised, as he told her this.

“I’m the second best. She didn’t need to know about you.” For the first time ever, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy shared a laugh. He then carried on with the most unlikely story ever.

Draco avoided telling her as many details as he could, but they managed to connect over the most universal feelings and situations. They talked about loneliness and pressure, about finding joy in the most unexpected things, about creating a façade for people. When she told him she enjoyed nature, he told her he played “a sport”. He smiled softly and agreed – almost unironically – when she said she would love to fly. When she told him about her pets, he told him his house was full of peacocks.

“She has a dog named Matisse, a snake named Medusa and a cat named Catsby,” he said.

Hermione laughed, which confused Draco deeply. “What’s so funny Granger?” He was getting defensive.

“Catsby,” she said, “what a very nerdy joke.”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Explain it to me. Merlin, maybe for once I can laugh at one of her jokes. She thinks I have the most backward sense of humour,” he ranted, hiding his face in his hands. Hermione thought it was almost – almost – adorable.

She told him in length about The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald and the Lost Generation, because she figured they were some references that would come in handy if he kept talking to (y/n). Once he understood the reference, Draco snorted.

“She’s such a smartass,” he said lovingly.

Hermione couldn’t believe her eyes. She was dying to know what he needed from her, but refrained from asking, allowing him to gush some more.

(y/n) invited him to afternoon tea. The tearoom reminded him of the grandeur of the tea parties back in the manor. He felt comfortable, and ventured to tell her little details about his boarding school. He told her about his favourite places and pastimes – the ones that could pass as muggle, of course. He told her about his friends. They talked and enjoyed tea and pastries until it was very late.

As they picked their trunks, they promised to meet the next day. They spent together almost every day of that summer. He was very careful when sneaking out, but soon realized his parents didn’t notice much, so he had free reign over his time as long as he was back for dinner. They met at the entrance of the station and they would stroll through the city together. (y/n) thought him how to use the tube. She taught him history as they walked hand in hand through museums and libraries. She recommended books he had to read in the middle of the night. And before he could even realize it, Draco caught feelings for her.

They kissed for the first time one month after they first met. They had spent the day walking through Camden Town. They visited little stores and swayed to music in the middle of the street. As every single afternoon, Draco didn’t want to say goodbye. (y/n)’s arms were locked around his neck and his own were on her hips. His chin rested on top of her head and they stayed like that for a while. Not saying anything. She pushed away from him just a little to see his face and they could feel the desire engulfing them.

Draco leaned in first, slow and calculated. (y/n) closed her eyes as soon as she felt their lips touching. It was a delicious sensation, their lips moving in synch in a kiss they had been waiting for a long time. As they pulled away, they were both a bit breathless and absolutely happy.

After that day, things changed for them. Every day they grew more attached to each other and it was harder and harder to say goodbye. And then the last day of August came by. (y/n) gave Draco her contact information for him to write and call her. When she asked for his, though, he made an elaborate story on how his school was very strict and prohibited letters from outsiders. (y/n) hadn’t bought it.

“I don’t get it. What kind of school doesn’t allow you to receive calls and letters?” she said, not very convinced. Draco didn’t want to look her way, knowing very well that he’d give her everything she wished if he saw her adorable little pout.

“So, I won’t hear from you?” she sighed, “Is this true or are you trying to get rid of me?” Draco finally looked her way and his heart broke. (y/n) was trying to hold back tears. He hugged her tightly, protectively.

“Hey, hey,” he said, taking her chin gently with his hand, “Never in a million years would I try to get rid of you.” He wiped away her tears, feeling miserable for making her sad. He hated that she had jumped into that terrible conclusion.

“I promise I will do everything I can to contact you. I’ll find a way. I’ll break the rules,” he said, not a hint of doubt in his voice. (y/n) hugged him tightly.

“I am going to miss you so much,” she said in a small, quavering voice.

“Me too, love,” he answered, hugging her back and trying to remain strong for both of them.

That is why he has here, three weeks into their fifth year, almost begging for Hermione’s help. He was desperate because he hadn’t thought about a way to contact (y/n) and he missed her so much his heart was genuinely aching. He imagined (y/n) must be heartbroken thinking he had played her and that thought alone was enough to give him nightmares.

Hermione was still trying to process everything he was telling her. Still in disbelief, she gave Draco a hug. The Gryffindor felt how he stiffened with her touch, but then he heard him sigh and relax. The Slytherin hugged her back and Hermione’s whole body tinged with hope. If Draco Malfoy had fallen for a muggle, anything could happen now.

“Is this why you didn’t join Umbridge’s squad?” she asked curiously.

Draco shrugged. “Mostly.”  

Hermione agreed to help him and they soon found a way. For the rest of the year, Draco handed in (y/n)’s letters to Hermione. She owled them to her own parents and they sent them by Royal Mail to her. Occasionally, Hermione would sit next to Draco in Myrtle’s bathroom. She would explain to him the references he wouldn’t get, which were mostly about culture. At times, she’d stay a little longer and they would gossip. To their surprise, they soon became each other’s confidant.

tags: @cleopatera @okaydraco @naomi02hook @the-hufflefluffwriter

[sleepypeaky]

amore?

michael gray x italian american male reader

wc: 1.5k

warnings: mentions of death, scars, you know the drill

request: My gay italian ass self would LOVE a Micheal Gray fic, but like, not sure he would like a guy who's italian after that fucking Luca incident.. and I dont know if you write for mlm..

a/n:  I hope you enjoy! idk why i made it so long but when i get a plot in my head i mean,,,,,

also i always try not to describe the readers features so everyone can be represented and i full mean for that when i say early on that michael sees him as italian. I personally dont look italian besides my nose- somehow the like 2% irish overrided it- so obviously this is a little off but i didnt know where to fix it

1927

Michael sat in his desk chair facing the window.

He was in New York City, he was the head of this branch of the company.

But he still felt like something was missing. Naturally, part of that feeling was from the fact that he had been exiled from his home. But the other was something else, boredom maybe, depression, loneliness. 

He sighed and turned back to his desk, where his meetings planner was open to the days page. 

His first meeting was a clandestine one, booked under a guise of what it really was. It was always intriguing, Michael thought, running a company that was a front. 

What he knew of this client was they were attached to one of the city’s hundreds of speakeasies, what these prohibition inhibited Americans called their secret pubs. And he assumed the client was coming to purchase some quality booze from the Shelby Company Limited.

What he he didn’t expect was who they were going to send. 

Normally the heads of the pubs sent someone to broker the deal in their place, a tall weasel faced man usually, who reeked of alcohol from every pore. 

Instead, when his secretary opened the door, an incredibly striking Italian lad strode through.

-

You weren’t expecting to see a man like that behind the desk. You figured it’d be some slimy old guy getting rich off of the illegal cash. Not a charming and incredibly handsome British boy.

-

“Uh hi, I’m Michael, Michael Gray.” He held his hand out to you and you shook it.

“I’m (y/n) (l/n).”

 He offered you a seat. 

“You’re not from around here are you?” You said.

He chuckled, “What gave it away?”

The deal was done in barely a half hour. But somehow you both found yourselves at lunch. 

“So how did you find yourself in, well, this line of work?” Michael asked.

“Well it’s pretty simple, there’s always work for people who don’t mind taking risks.” Michael smiled at that. You continued, 

“but I could ask you the same question.”

“Well lets say that this is one of the less illegal ventures of my family. And as you put it, risks are lucrative.”

“Ill cheers to that.” You smiled and raised a glass.

-

The lunches happened again, and then again.

Soon you were meeting daily, making up further excuses for getting to know each other.

-

“My family is, well, its complicated...” Michael chuckled one day as you were at lunch.

You smirked, “Michael, i’m Italian. My family is fucking nuts, trust me, your’s is no worse than mine.”

With people who had said that to Michael in the past he had laughed along and said sure, he was sure you meant it. Probably not in the same way, but he was in no position to argue.

“I might work in the illegal pub world, but some of my family is fucking nuts,”  You began. “My parents are fine, they came over from Italy before the war and brought my grandma, who i’m convinced my grandma used to be a spy or something in Italy. At least 3 of my cousins are working for the mob. It easy work for us, we’re all connected to one family or another between here and the old country.” You noticed a dark look on Michael’s face, a typical reaction “Dont worry, not the big guys like the Black hand, we don’t mix with Sicilians, they think they’re better because they live on an island.”

You went on for a bit more, just basic family outlining. And then it was his turn.

Michael went into the abbreviated version of his past (how he was taken and adopted) and the Shelby’s endeavors- the betting to drugs, smuggling, alcohol. Eventually he got up to the Changretta execution and John.

“John was killed by the Black hand in December ‘25.” 

“Stronzi, I’m sorry.” You cursed. 

He rubbed his right shoulder, “Yeah, after that my cousins decided to take down the boss, unfortunately I made some stupid decisions that could have ruined the plan and ended up exiled here.”

He took a weak bite of food. You tried to lighten the mood.

“Well, you weren’t kidding when you said you’re family was complicated.” 

You both laughed.

Shortly after this lunch you were both walking back to his office when a group of black clad men passed by on the street. They passed by without issue, but you saw that Michael paled and clenched his jaw. They were blatantly Black Hand. You saw he was rubbing his right shoulder again, nd you now figured it was a nervous habit. You endeavored to take his mind off it and started a new conversation.

-

About a month following this, you had brought Michael to the bar where you worked. You danced to the jazz and drank heavily, both getting caught in the energy of the decade. 

You ended up back at his office, now the only ones there, and he cracked open a hidden bottle of Shelby malt. 

Now both of you were on several glasses of liquor from the night, you found yourself floating in and out of conscious perception. Though you came to, suddenly, when you realized your lips were quite incriminatingly interlocked with Michael’s. 

Your inhibitions lowered, you continued gladly. And before anything progressed you both passed out drunk on his office floor.

-

You didn’t talk to him the next day. Mostly because your hangover was so severe you thought you would have permanent brain damage, but also because you were not sure how to proceed.

It would be easy to pretend like nothing had ever happened. To blame it on the booze, or just claim you didn’t have any recollection of the night. That was also gnawing at you, what if Michael didn’t remember?

It would be easy to just move past it, but did you want that?

-

Michael still felt the slight pressure in his head after 2 days. He rubbed his eyes and put the cigarette back to his lips. He was sitting in his apartment contemplating. He knew what he wanted, but did he want to risk it.

The door buzzer rang as he stumped the cigarette out. Who was calling at this hour? He took his pistol from the table.

He walked along the passageway to the door, he unlocked it and looked through the crack.

His heart skipped a beat and he released his grip on the gun.

“I got your address from your secretary.” You said. “I hope that’s o–” 

Michael cut you off by pulling you inside and kissing you against the shut door. You gave in to surprise and kissed back, pushing him through the hallway. 

Without breaking you unbuttoned your shirt and let it fall in your path. He broke for a breath of air.

You kissed him again and began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled back quickly to say something, but it was too late. You had already seen them.

Two knotted scars on his right shoulder.

“Michael what-”

“I didn’t want to tell you.” He looked down. “I was scared.”

Still in shock you watched as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. Low on his abdomen were two more scars. 

Suddenly in your mind you connected the signs, talking about john, the Sicilians, and the instinctive rub of his shoulder.

“They shot you too.” You said in a barely audible whisper.

Michael only nodded.

You walked forward and reached a tentative hand out to one on his shoulder. Tears prickled your eyes. You walked around to his back, you hand trailing over the soft skin before finding the exit scars from 3 of the bullets.

Michael turned to face you. 

“I didn’t think you’d ever find out.” 

You nodded.

He put his hand behind your head and guided it back to his. 

-

“What do your parents think?” Michael asked later.

Your head was tucked in the curve of his neck, your arm laying over his bare chest, playing carelessly with the sheet draped over it.

“My dads not really invested around to care, i think he knows but it’s just brushed over. Ma still thinks that maybe if she pushes the right Italian girl at me i’ll change. But honestly?” You laughed. “You’re catholic, she’ll be over the moon.” 

Michael smiled and threaded his fingers through your hand.

“What about you?” You moved back a little to see his face better, “Does anyone know?”

Michael let out a deep breath, the one that normally proceeded any talk referring to his family. 

“There was always so much going on that i didn't have much time to process, much less let anyone else see it. There were girls, i wont lie. That may have thrown them off. Even now, i think there is so much actual bad going on that what i do wouldn't make any of them bat an eye.”

“Is this what you want?”

He looked at you,

“I didn’t know until now.”

You breathed. 

“And?”

“More than anything.”

And he kissed you again.

☾ ✧ ☾ ✩ ☾ ✧ ☾ ✩ ☾

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☾ ✧ ☾ ✩

☾ ✧ ☾

☾ ✧

☾

[slashingdisneypasta]

I wanted to send you this yesterday, but I got caught up in stuff as you know 😅😮‍💨😅😮‍💨😅😮‍💨 but now that I have a minute, here is something I hope comforts you ^^

How some of your F/O's help you sleep ^^ (I am not confident in characterizing some of your F/O's, so I can't do them all here 😅)

(iiiiii don't want to be disrespectful so I'm not gonna add how they'd react to your brother waking you up- especially when sick. It's up to you to fill in those blanks if you wish XD)

Greasy Weasel: C'mon, man. We know this weasel. He's gonna take this as an ~opportunity~ to exploit. Get you all nice and relaxed so he can strike 😅 if you're sick, he's a bit more focused on taking care of you.... Though those hands of his still wander 😅😅😅 though you're just as badass as you are sweet; if anybody can get him to act right, it's you Hannah... Though that all depends on whether you'd be willing to fall for his lack of subtlety 😏

Slenderman: Based on your writing for him... He's gonna be a grump about it 😅 like somehow your whirring brain in the middle of the night disturbs an eldritch creature like him (though he won't admit he just wants his favorite human to get her sleep). But hey, if you're up, let's have some tea. You got him hooked on that toast and jam tea, so you better have more XD you can listen to him moan about what his (children) pastas have done now, or how silly your stars look in your room. Or you guys can just enjoy the forest or rain ^^

Jim: Aw, you can't sleep? Here, how about some of the- no? C'mon, Hannah, it's his own brew!... Alright then XD yeah, he'll offer the contents of his flask to help turn your brain off. But hey, you got your cuddly, flannel wearing old man here. If he'll offer you some of his booze, you can steal one of his flannels to relax in XD don't worry, he thinks you look adorable ^^

Big Bad: idk of you consider him an F/O, but I think you could use a big, bad, wolf man who is very warm and plush. He probably had his arm around you already while you guys were trying to sleep. But he can tell something ain't right with his sweetheart. He'll crack some jokes to make you feel better, and pull you in closer if that's what you want (I warn you though, he is furry and had a big body, so it might be hot 😅), maybe even offer to you a midnight snack or something if that'll help.

I really really really wanted to add more like Cruella and Jafar, but I keep dozing off in the middle of writing this 😅 I need to go to sleep myself, but I hope you enjoy these! ^^

Ackkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk 🥺🥺🥺🥺 Please! These are sooo warm and fuzzy, I feel like I just drank a hot chocolate with whipped cream (And some of that special b r e w, probably XD You know I don't drink but I'd take whatever he gave me, honestly- ). This totally made me forget i was heating up water for tea and a hot water bottle! XD

These are all the best characters though!! Oh my goodness. Greasy 💚, Slender 🖤, Jim 💙, Big Bad 🧡-- I cannot express how much I love them <3 God, i wanna have a midnight tea with Slender in the spooky forest mansion so bad!! And I NEED to cuddle with the fat fuzzy wolf, damnit!! XDD 🧡🧡🧡

Thank you so much for these!! Especially with how your week is going so far too- it means so so much to me that you've sent me this even so. And they're so so good!! Really, oh my goodness- they're perfect and I feel so fuzzy now 💛🤍💛🤍💛🤍 XD ^^

[sunnywritesstuff34]

Found

(Working on my wips??? never heard of it. Hears an entirely different au then the other one I posted, which I will write more of. At some point. For now, Boruto brain rot has gotten to me, so here’s a weird au where Hinata had the two kids and then died and then Naruto took the kids and left the village under mysterious circumstances. Have fun, try to follow it as best as you can. You don’t need to watch Boruto to know what’s going on here. Just know that Naruto left the village with his kids in tow and they have no idea that they’re from Konoha. Oh and just like everything else this will probably be sns at some point because I am weak. Tell me if you like this one)

TW and CW for: potential parental death, implied past parental death, cursing, death, blood, children navigating traumatizing situations, probably medically inaccurate but its a fanfiction about gay ninjas so sue me, tell me if I miss anything this one isn’t too bad. 

His father is dying and Boruto can't think. 

He should do something, say something. Come up with a funny, stupid one liner or whatever. But he can't. He can't do fucking anything at all. Sometimes his brain feels like it's made of jelly, sloshing around uselessly in his head when he desperately needed to use it. The rain was coming down in torrents, a downpour that they hadn't expected. The giant trees stretch out above them and form a canopy as they stand at the forest floor, but the canopy isn't enough to stop the rain from reaching them. Boruto’s clothes are soaked through; sticking to his body. Thankfully the storm was warm, a summer downpour rather than an icy tsunami. But he didn't notice the rain, and he probably wouldn’t have given a damn anyway. His father was laying in the grass, the wound on his chest staining the green with crimson. Boruto desperately tried to use every healing technique he could remember, funneling chakra into his hands in a desperate attempt to close the wound. He was sixteen years old, his father had trained him in almost every technique he knew (mostly for defense), but truthfully, Naruto had never been good at healing jutsu either. So, Boruto’s skill was lacking in this area, and it was going to get his father killed. He couldn't weasel his way out of this one like he usually did, and that was becoming abundantly clear. His father had gotten nervous, Boruto was aware of that when they went there. They needed to draw close to Konohagakure to get across the Land of Fire and back home to Wave Country before winter set in, and that had immediately set Naruto on edge for some reason. Boruto didn't bother questioning it, he knew he wouldn't get any answers. Everything had been going fine, they were making good time, but then they got ambushed by bandits, and everything had happened so fast. It was all Boruto's fault, really. If he hadn't kept his father up so late the night before, he would have realized something was wrong earlier and managed to fend them off easily. Typically any opponent was no match for Boruto’s father, but none of them had been paying attention and the ambush was almost perfectly timed. Naruto scared them off and nearly got himself killed in the process, and now Boruto was here, stuck in time. He dimly felt a tug on his sleeve and vaguely registered Himawari talking to him. 

“Is he gonna die?” she whispered. Boruto didn't even think about the question.

“No,” he answered immediately, letting the chakra fade from his fingertips and opting to just stop the bleeding manually instead, pressing on the wound. He was running out of time, there was so much blood and he could hardly get it to slow down and what would he do if- he felt the presence of ninja before he saw them, and that fully snapped him back to reality. Boruto forgot about his father for a second and whirled towards the other side of the clearing, shoving Himawari behind him. He had to protect her, that was the prerogative. He threw kunai blindly in that direction, three of them. The shinobi dodged the blades easily and then began advancing. 

His eyes settled on the squad of shinobi standing in the grass as they assessed him. He grabbed another kunai from his pocket and flipped it into his hand, angling it outwards. Boruto narrowed his eyes. Ninja were never good news, rogue or otherwise. These didn't seem rogue, and that was probably for the best. Still, loyal shinobi could be just as dangerous. Could be even more so, and he had Himawari to think about. The clouds in his head seemed to clear. There was a woman heading the group, with platinum blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes were light blue, a different color from theirs, and she seemed… welcoming, almost. Still, she had the scrutinizing gaze of a shinobi. Boruto watched her movements, careful.   

“Don't come any closer,” he growled, trying to sound as threatening as he could manage, well aware of what he looked like. The hand holding his kunai was shaking. Who was he kidding? He’d gotten injured before while his father was fighting, he couldn't protect himself in this condition, let alone Naruto and his little sister as well. Still, he had to try. “Hear me? I said- I said stay away.” He gripped the kunai tighter, waiting for them to strike, make a move, do something. His father didn't trust ninja, they were to be avoided at all costs, even if he never seemed to have any necessarily malicious feelings towards them. Still, they were never to be trifled with under an circumstance. Never let them see what I taught you, he’d tell them, the few times where Naruto was serious. Ninjutsu are considered very dangerous, especially by shinobi. If they see you using ninjutsu it could get us in serious trouble. I mean it, Boruto. God, he wished Kurama was here right now, but by the looks of it, the demon was doing everything it could just to keep Naruto alive. Fine, they could do it on their own. Of course they could. The leading woman put her hands in the air and started edging towards him slowly. Her smile looked warm. He still didn't trust it. He gritted his teeth. What was she playing at?

“Hi there. My name’s Ino. What's your name?” she asked calmly. He didn't answer. 

“It looks like something bad happened. You have someone injured behind you, it looks like they need help. If you let me I can heal them. What’s your name, kid?” Boruto hesitated. It was too good to be true. This was a trap, it had to be. She had two people behind her, two men. Someone with black hair pulled into a stark ponytail and a frown. The other looked a bit more kind, he had brown hair and welcoming eyes. He still didn't trust them, he couldn't trust this-

“Please!” Himawari shouted. Boruto blinked and before he could do anything about it, Himawari had ducked past him and was running towards the woman. 

“Himawari! Get, get back here!” he shouted desperately, mind racing. They were going to kill her, what was she thinking? Himawari was usually more cautious, smart about these things despite her age. But the shinobi seemed surprised, not angry or poised to hurt her. She ran to the woman and tugged on her sleeve. Boruto froze. 

“He’s- he’s hurt and Boruto can't help and there's blood- I, I mean i've seen blood before but this- he’s- he’s going to die, please-” the woman crouched down and smiled again, clasping Himawari’s hands gently with hers. 

“Don't worry, I'm a medical ninja. I can help your father, okay?” She glanced at Boruto as if asking permission, and he found himself stepping aside, silently urging Himawari to come back to him. He moved out of the way and she ran into his arms. He should have been thinking about her more. She was clearly terrified, and he had been too psyched out to think about it. He scooped her up easily, suddenly more at ease now that he could confirm she would be safe. Boruto watched the medical ninja like a hawk as she moved over to his father, letting the other two approach as well. When the woman got a good look at him she gasped. “By the sages! What the fuck?” she demanded, sounding more juvenile all of a sudden.  

“What? What is it?” the plump man asked, trying to get a better look. 

“It's… it's Naruto.” Boruto stiffened, holding Himawari closer to him. 

“How do you people know my dad’s name?” he demanded. He felt lightheaded, and the indignant shouts of ‘what?’ from the other ninja weren't helping. The woman ignored him for a moment, checking Naruto’s wounds. It didn't take her long to stop the bleeding and close the wound, and she stood right after and turned her attention back to Boruto.

“Listen kid, it's… it's a long story. He’s going to be alright but he needs further treatment at the hospital. We can help him if we take him back to the village.” Boruto hesitated again, but concluded he didn't have a choice. He was outnumbered and if he didn’t accept the help, whatever the ulterior motives were, Naruto would die. So Boruto nodded mutely.

“F-Fine. But you better answer me when we get back to… wherever you're taking me. And- and she stays with me,” he said, nodding at Himawari. The woman smiled shakily, clearly rattled by some realization about Boruto’s father. The larger man picked him up and carried him easily. So Boruto watched, hopeless, as they took his father away, and followed close behind, arm still wrapped around Himawari. He would lecture her about rash actions later, now wasn't the time. The man with long black hair was studying him, and he didn't like it. Boruto glared. “What?” he snapped. The man raised an eyebrow. 

“I'm Shikamaru Nara,” he said. “What about you?” Boruto looked away. 

“I… B-Boruto… Namikaze,” he said with finality. Boruto Uzumaki, he wanted to say. Descendant of Uzushiogakure, grand daughter of Kushina Uzumaki. But he didn't trust these people to share his real name, instead going with the one their father used occasionally. Shikamaru snorted.

“Original name,” he muttered. Boruto only frowned. “Well, alright. Your sister, it looks like she has Byakugan. Does she?” Boruto blinked.

“Byaku- Byaku… what?”

“Hm. Nevermind. C’mon, while your father’s in the hospital, i'll take you to see the Hokage.”

[rockpapertheodore]

A Toast to Trouble

Bonnie of Braugh, the Goliath of Chapel Bay, is the personal bodyguard of Lady Remadia Seneca, the Countess of Chapel Bay. For a year, she has served faithfully and happily under Her Ladyship, having to do little more than be an ear for Lady Seneca’s machinations and withering observations of the nobility, and serve a towering wall of iron-clad muscle and stand there with her fuck-off heavy warhammer to intimidate anyone who starts getting too disagreeable towards the Countess.

Lady Seneca has seen fit to reward her loyal service with a night off. Unfortunately, she has also seen fit to commission the ethereal twin couturiers, Artemis and Apollo, to fit her for a very fancy dress, for a very fancy party. 

Bonnie was under the impression that she was supposed to rewarded for her loyal service, not damned straight to her own personal hell.

Tags for Content: Explicit, Low Fantasy, Original Work, Casual Sex, Bisexuality, Love and Affection, (a very brief scene of) M/F, (4.5k words worth of) F/F, D/s dynamics, Alcohol, consent is sexy, sober consent is even sexier, a rather unprofessional development in an otherwise professional relationship. WORD COUNT: 11,561 words

Quick note: I’m a queer cis man writing a wlw story, and I’ve tried to portray everything to the best of my ability. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and, please, i implore you, correct me if I’ve gotten anything wrong, particularly with the romance scene. Thanks <3

Quick note 2: Getting this to format properly for Tungles dot Bungles was hell, I apologize profusely if there’s anything hideously goofy with it

A Toast to Trouble

“Lady Seneca, may I speak frankly with you?” Bonnie of Braugh sputtered, standing stiffly in front of the mirror as the twin couturiers, Artemis and Apollo, went about their business cleaning up her appearance - perfecting the make-up on her face and making her suitable for the public.

Lady Remadia Seneca, Countess of Chapel Bay, lounged on the gilded divan near the door, idly swirling a glass of wine as she gleefully watched the twins struggle to do their work with the colossal woman, who dwarfed them considerably. “If I said no, would you hear it?” She asked, taking a sip of her wine that was the same deep red as Bonnie's dress.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then why bother asking?”

“Because it bothers you, my lady,” Bonnie said, as she felt Apollo begin to tighten the girdle over the dress. Artemis was making her way around Bonnie, smoothing out the fabric under the girdle where it had started to bunch up.

“Speak away, Bonnie.”

“Why must I wear this horrible outfit?”

Lady Seneca rolled her eyes. “Bonnie, you do a terrible disservice to yourself. You look absolutely stunning. Does she not, Artemis? Apollo?”

“We agree with you, Lady Seneca,” Apollo said, standing on a stool so that he could work at the top strings of the girdle, tying them into place.

“We do, indeed. Bonnie. You look beautiful, love.” Artemis said as she reached up, gently poking Bonnie's nose. Bonnie's face scrunched up in response. Artemis winked up at her and went about her work.

“Please, you two, not this. Why can't I wear my armor? How am I supposed to do my job like this?”

“It is a party, darling, worry not! The only things you should concern yourself with are dancing and being merry.”

“And should there be trouble? You very well won't let me carry my hammer with me.” Bonnie looked to the twins, hoping they'd agree with her, at least on this. Instead, they were busy packing away their tools.

“Bonnie, my beautiful brute, how I do adore thee.” Lady Seneca rose from the divan, her dress flowing behind her, and opened the door.

“That's not an answer.”

“I'm already going out to the party! I can't hear you!”

“Lady Seneca!”

“See you amongst the rabble, love! Ta!”

“Remy!” Bonnie shouted, desperate, to no avail. “Damn it.” Crestfallen, she stared at the door, hoping that Lady Seneca would come back through and tell her it was all some hilarious joke. She sighed and sat down on the stool Apollo had been standing on, slouching as far as her dress would let her. “I really have to go out there, don't I?”

Artemis and Apollo nodded, moving to Bonnie's sides to encompass her in a compassionate hug. “Trust us, love. You'll do fine,” Apollo murmured into her ear. Artemis laid a gentle kiss on Bonnie's cheek. “You are lovely.”

Bonnie sighed dramatically, wrapping a powerful arm around the two of them and forcing them into her lap. “I don't give a shit about that! What I'm terrified of is having to interact with these high-society types as something other than their hired muscle! I don't know how to hold a conversation with these people beyond, 'yes, m'lord,' or 'no, your grace!” She pulled them in so she could rest her chin on both of their heads as they each hugged an arm. “Do any of them know anything about smithing? Perhaps some steel merchant or a jeweller? My hands are too big for such delicate work, but perhaps we'd have some shared appreciation for craftsmanship.”

“You'll never know until you go out there,” Artemis said, resting her cheek against Bonnie's bicep. Apollo muttered, “and you're never going to get out there until you get over yourself. Ow!” Bonnie had dug her chin into the top of his head. “I'm just saying, love, you're going to have to let us free at some point and go.”

“But what if I don't want to let you go? What if I want to smuggle you two in my bustier?”

“Bonnie.”

Bonnie whined and loosened her grip on the twins, allowing them to slip out from her arms. The twins turned, offering their hands to help her up. Though Bonnie didn't need it, she appreciated the gesture, taking their offered hands and offering a sarcastic curtsy to them in thanks. They rolled their eyes and began to push her towards the door. Bonnie laughed, shooing them away. “Leave me alone, you two, I've got this.”

-The Party-

I haven’t got this, Bonnie thought as she tried to navigate the social seas of high-society. Mumbled half-attempts to strike up conversation left her lips time and again, only to be ignored or met with shocked stares. I have no idea how to talk to these people. She could feel every glance being cast her way as she stood easily head and shoulders above those gathered for the Countess's party, too much attention being paid to her scars and her height. She felt her face beginning to flush in panic as she grabbed a carafe of water and found herself a seat on an isolated chaise lounge. On a nearby table sat an unattended glass of wine, which she commandeered, dumping its contents into a potted bush of some sort and refilling it with cool water. She downed the glass and poured herself another, putting the carafe down so she could nurse the glass in both her hands. Contemplating the ripples of the water, she lost herself in thought as she tried to wrap her head around everything going on.

“I'm proud of you, you know.”

Bonnie snapped to attention, the Countess's lips a hair's breadth from her ear. She could smell the wine on the Countess's breath.

“To be quite honest, I thought that I had pushed too far by insisting you attend as my guest, rather than as my bodyguard.”

“I am out of my league here, my lady.”

“Oh I do so love it when you call me that, dear Bonnie, but tonight you don't have to be so formal.” Lady Seneca finally leaned away from Bonnie, and Bonnie felt herself relax. “Come, let us go onto the balcony. The fresh air will do us wonders.”

Suddenly Lady Seneca’s hand was in Bonnie’s and she was being pulled up and away, being led through the crowd, and an invisible weight was lifted from Bonnie’s shoulders as they emerged from the loud claustrophobia of the party into the relative quiet of the night. The balcony they were on was blessedly unoccupied, the nearest group of party goers a stone’s throw away on a balcony of their own, allowing Bonnie to appreciate the view that spread out beneath her. The twinkling of street lamps and illuminated windows from the dark city below captivated Bonnie, her eyes tracing the curve of the city around the bay until it faded into dark silhouettes in the distance. Off on a great rock in the middle of the harbor, the Chapel Bay Lighthouse shone like a bright star against the rippling black water of the night.

“Was I right, dear Bonnie?”

“Very much so, my lady.” Bonnie said, but Lady Seneca coughed expectantly, frowning. “Lady Seneca?” Another cough. “Remadia?” Bonnie said hesitantly, and was met with an excited grin. Bonnie smiled back.

“Close enough, my dear Bonnie. You didn’t hesitate to call my name earlier, though, did you?”

Bonnie felt her face heat with embarrassment. “First of all, my, wait, Lady, no,” Bonnie felt her thoughts twisting up in her brain, “Remadia. First of all, I remained as courteous as I could. Then, uh,” Bonnie averted her gaze from Remadia’s smiling eyes, “I was panicking.”

“You’re not panicking anymore, are you?”

“Not currently, no. I definitely had been until you intervened. So, um, thank you.” Bonnie’s mouth felt dry and tight, remembering the glass of water in her hand, drank the full glass in a single mouthful. She saw Remadia smiling wide again out of the corner of her eye and wished she had another glass of water.

“I dare say, Bonnie; impressive. What are you drinking?”

“Water, m’lady- I mean, Remadia.”

Remadia gave her a playful punch on the arm. “Oh, please, Bonnie, how are you supposed to get into trouble if you’re only drinking water?”

“I don’t like to drink, and I really don’t want to, uh, get into trouble.”

“Nonsense! I had this absolutely wonderful port brought in this morning - though that scrawny weasel Lord McKinsey could barely handle the scent of it, let alone a full glass - I’m sure that it’ll do wonders for your disposition, and-” Remadia had begun to wander away from Bonnie as she rambled, only to be halted by Bonnie’s hand, large enough to almost fully envelop her bicep.

“Please, Lady Seneca.”

Remadia was taken aback by the unexpected desperation in Bonnie’s voice, and turned her head to contemplate the knuckles of Bonnie’s fingers, so very gently wrapped around her arm. She felt the protest she had been going to say melt away in her throat as her eyes followed up Bonnie’s arm to meet her pleading gaze. Her eyes looked golden in the light from the windows behind Remadia, dark eyelashes blending in against the dark eyeshadow the twins had given her. Remadia felt her heart soften and reached up to pull Bonnie’s hand from her arm. Bonnie opened her mouth to say something, but Remadia didn’t hear it as she wrapped her own arms around Bonnie, hugging her tightly, face buried fully in the warmth of Bonnie’s bosom.

Shocked, Bonnie hesitantly returned the hug with one arm, her other coming up to gingerly stroking Remadia’s hair. “Remadia, are you drunk?”

There was a mumbled response, but Remadia’s words were muffled by the fabric of Bonnie’s dress.

“Sorry, couldn’t hear that.” Bonnie stopped petting Remadia’s hair to gently grip it and pressure Remadia into tilting her head back and out of Bonnie’s chest.

“Perhaps moreso than I thought, dear Bonnie, but not hideously.” Remadia’s eyes wandered across Bonnie’s face before they narrowed, darting around conspiratorially, before she said, “Come here, love, I have a secret I wish to share with you and being eye-level with the underside of your tits makes that difficult. Lean down to me.”

Bonnie was confused, and somewhat surprised by Remadia’s bruskness. “Remadia, we’re alone here, you can speak.”

“Yes, but secrets are no fun unless they’re whispered! Come down to my level.” Remadia had a mischievous grin on her face that she was struggling to conceal.

Bonnie rolled her eyes and acquiesced, leaning down to Remadia’s level, before her face was suddenly grasped between Remadia’s hands, and she felt soft lips against hers. In a moment of shock, Bonnie froze, mouth slack and eyes wide, and in that moment she felt fingers cradle her chin and grip the back of her head as Remadia’s tongue parted her lips. She could taste the wine Remadia had been drinking earlier, bittersweet and something she would normally find disagreeable.

In this moment, however, she wasn’t sure if she found it unpleasant.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Remadia’s eyes were unfocused as she pulled away, a light flush on her face, before meeting Bonnie’s stunned gaze, letting go of Bonnie’s face with one hand and patting her cheekily with the other. She winked at Bonnie. “I have a party to return to, dear Bonnie. Weren’t you glad you leaned down?” She wiped the sides of her mouth with her thumb, swiping away a smear of lipstick and spittle, before turning the same attention to Bonnie’s mouth with that same thumb. She patted Bonnie’s cheek again. “To trouble?”

With that, she was gone, and Bonnie was left dumbfounded as Remadia disappeared back into the party. Bonnie looked around, still not processing what had just happened. The other balcony either didn’t notice what happened, or had, and were gossiping quietly amongst themselves about it.

“Uh, yeah. To trouble,” Bonnie said to the open air, “I guess.”

-To Trouble?-

It took her the better part of thirty minutes to regain her senses and reenter the party, catching sight of and chasing down one of the men with serving trays of drinks, someone who in any other situation was her peer, and as she approached him, she noticed a change in how she was carrying herself. Her back was straighter, and she felt more confident, no longer shying away from the curious and judgmental gazes being cast her way. She still felt out of place, but no longer did she feel like a sheep amongst wolves. To trouble, she thought to herself as she grabbed two glasses of some sort of foreign juice, confirming with the serving man that it wasn’t wine. She turned around to perhaps find someone to talk to, only to discover that someone had come to her as she nearly walked in to him, managing to keep her glasses of juice steady.

“Forgive me, my lady, I didn’t mean to startle you,” The man said, offering a sweeping bow as Bonnie stepped back from him, eyeing him carefully. His dark, thick lashes lifted to reveal wondrous hazel eyes, which rose to meet her own. He quirked an eyebrow as a playful grin tugged at the corner of his lips, and Bonnie felt her heart flutter. He was beautiful.

“No, please, forgive me!” Bonnie managed to say, panicking. “I should have looked before I started walking.” She was at a loss for words, unsure of how to proceed. She could feel her new confidence fading rapidly. She faltered, stumbling for words. She noticed he didn’t have a drink, and held out one of hers. “Juice?”

The man took her awkwardness in stride, accepting the glass graciously. “Thank you, my lady.” He sniffed it, swirling the glass before taking a sip. “Not wine?”

“Oh, no, I don’t care much for drinking.”

“Do you care much for dancing?”

He asked it so idly, it took Bonnie a moment to pick up on what his question implied, and she felt her face grow hot as she blushed. She stammered, mouth searching for a response, as she watched the look on the man’s face grow concerned.

“Have I asked something wrong? Do I offend?”

“Oh, n-no! You don’t, I don’t, nobody’s ever, uh-” she stuttered, words stumbling out of her mouth, “I’m too big.” The area from her neck to her ears felt as if they were on fire, she was so flushed in embarrassment.

The man grinned wolfishly at her, worrying in its similarity to Remadia’s. “Am I to understand that nobody has ever asked you to dance?”

Bonnie finally managed to get her mouth under control, though it felt dry “I’ve never been taught, and I, uh,” she paused, taking a drink from her glass “most people find my, uh, size,” she paused again, “to be intimidating.” His grin softened, and she couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with him. She finished drinking the rest of her juice.

“I don’t find your size to be intimidating.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly his hand was in hers, and the empty glass was divested from her fingers, and for the second time that night Bonnie was being led away. Before she knew it they were standing on the dancefloor surrounded by other dancing pairs. The music seemed too loud and her heart pounded in her throat. Her new companion, however, remained calm as he took her left hand and placed it on his right arm, placed his right hand just below her shoulder blade, took her right hand in his left, and with a shout of “move with me!” he raised their conjoined hands and confidently began to move them both to the rhythm of the music. Bonnie struggled to keep to the simple steps he was guiding her through, always being led by his assertive but gentle directions. After a minute of stiff shuffling, however, Bonnie began to relax into the dance. Eventually, she became less aware of the loud music, and was finally able to focus on the face of her companion, who was confident and relaxed, despite her clumsy, so-called dancing.

Those enchanting hazel eyes met hers, glittering jewels of amber and emerald set against deep, olive skin; dark, perfectly coiffed hair, shaved down on the sides; a handlebar moustache and the dark patch below framing a pair of impressively shapely lips, plump and dusky pink. Those soft-looking lips lifted into a smirk as her gaze lingered upon them.

“See something you like, my lady?” He said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

Bonnie felt herself blush reflexively, but there was something in the quirk of his mouth and the words he said that reminded her again of Remadia, and the words, to trouble, floated to the forefront of her thoughts. She felt a rush of confidence and the words, “Maybe I do, little man,” spilled out of her mouth before she could think about what she was saying. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what she had just said - how she said it like a challenge - and she was terrified of his response.

It was like she had cast chum into shark-infested waters.

His hand tightened around hers firmly, and the hand on her shoulder blade dropped to her waist, pulling her in tightly to him. He began to move their dance between the other couples, twisting and turning, his eyes locked to hers and the intensity between them building as he led them away from the band and eventually off the dancefloor, just as the orchestra finished playing.

“Might the lady tell me what it is she likes?” He said, his gaze no less intense now that they were away from dancefloor. He was still holding her to him.

“How honest do you want me to be?” Bonnie said, raising her eyebrow. She hoped the question sounded confident. She felt reckless. Excited. She felt his hand slide down below her waist, coming to rest at the top of her rump.

“At least as honest as I am.”

Bonnie felt a throb of lust pulse through her. To trouble!

-To Trouble!-

The door hadn’t even fully shut behind them before he had pulled her down into a passionate kiss, and, unlike earlier, Bonnie didn’t just let the kiss happen to her in shock. She bent down, wrapping her hands under his ass, and lifted him, pinning him against the wall. Bonnie could feel his cock through his pants, throbbing against the underside of her breasts as she leaned into him and he wrapped his legs around her. “Just a little further down the hall now, pretty boy.” She said against his lips, her forehead pressed against his. He kissed her again as she pulled him away from the wall and began to carry him down the corridor, his mouth moving from her lips down her cheek and along her jawline. “I don’t even know your name,” she said, kissing the nape of his neck and fumbling with the doorknob to the receiving room she had been leading him to.

“Pretty boy will do.”

“I like it,” she said as she opened the door, following it inwards, thankful that there wasn’t anybody inside. “I like you, pretty boy.”

“Absolutely wonderful. Would you mind if I showed you my own form of appreciation?” Pretty boy asked as he unwrapped his legs from her, lowering himself down her body, laying kisses along the way. Then he reached her waist and one hand began to lift up the hem of her dress as the other cupped her large backside, fingers digging into the dense flesh there. He began to guide her backwards towards the wall, and, when he felt her back connect, disappeared under her dress. She gasped as she felt soft lips greeting her clit, her knees going weak as he sucked hard and his tongue moved against her.

“Oh, pretty boy, I like that,” she moaned hard as he answered her praise with his tongue, penetrating her, licking shallow and and then deep.

He stopped for a moment, and from beneath her dress she heard, “Tell me, what is your name?”

“Bonnie.” She whimpered as he sucked gently on her. He paused.

“The Goliath of Chapel Bay?”

“The very same,” she managed to trill out - a confident, no, a pleased thrill running up her core at the recognition - as he ate at her with renewed vigour. She tried to pull his head into her with her thighs, but she couldn’t regain control of her legs, barely managing to stay upright as she felt the hand on her ass dig aggressively into her flesh. His other hand ran along her skin, gently teasing at the sensitive skin between her pucker and her cunt before his fingers worked their way up, parting her and gently playing at her slick, sensitive and swollen opening.

He pulled away, breathing heavily. “I never thought I’d meet you like this. You’re so much bigger than I could have imagined.”

“You like them big, pretty boy?” she managed to gasp, before suddenly his fingers were inside her, and his mouth was working her clit and her breath was knocked from her as she came, shaking against his face. Her abdominal muscles tensed as the orgasm rocked through her and she lost control of her legs, her hips grinding forward as her hand clamped down against the back of his head to hold him in place. Guttural sounds managed to escape her throat as she choked on air, trying to regain some sense of composure and failing wonderfully. Trembling, she sank against the wall and down to the floor.

As she struggled to lower herself, he remained in this crouched position, and the weight of her body drew her dress off him, revealing his smiling face, moustache damp and unstyled with her juices.

“Like is a bit of an understatement, methinks. A man does not climb the highest peaks for mere like of the mountain.” He said it so earnestly Bonnie felt her heart leap in her chest. She tried to respond, but her mouth was dry and her eyes unfocused. She reached out to drag him in for a kiss, but he grabbed her hand, suddenly attentive to something outside the room. She couldn’t hear anything over her own heartbeat. He leaned in and kissed her, and when he pulled away, her face was sticky with her own come. “Forgive me, Bonnie. My companions call for me.” In a blink, he was standing up and moving towards the door.

“You’re leaving?” Bonnie whined pathetically as he walked away. He stopped before opening the door, and took a deep bow.

“I swear to you, Bonnie, Goliath of Chapel Bay, our paths will cross again.” And with that, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a click!

“Damn it,” Bonnie said, as she began to pull herself together. She stood up, still shaky, and began to pat down her dress, making sure she hadn’t soaked through her clothes. “Oh I bet I reek.” She muttered to herself. Her head was muddled with afterglow, but she felt confident that she at least looked presentable.

Now to do something about the smell, she thought as she left the room, making a stumbling detour away from the party and towards the twins’ quarters.

-Back to the Party-

Bonnie took longer than she had expected to return to the party, and not in the way that she had wanted. She was still horny and had been hoping the twins were amenable to resolving that particular issue, but they weren’t in their quarters, so Bonnie found their perfumes and spritzed herself with one that smelled strongly of roses before she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The careful makeup that the twins had given her was smeared horribly, the color applied to her lips spread about her mouth, so she found a kerchief and set about cleaning up her face as carefully as possible, trying to preserve what she could.

By the time she made it back to the main hall, the party was drawing to a close and Remadia’s guests were filing out the doors. Bonnie scanned the crowd, expecting to see the Countess somewhere bidding her guests farewell, but she was nowhere to be found amidst the rabble. She looked elsewhere throughout the main hall, and almost walked past the door to the balcony that they had gone out onto earlier, when she stopped, turning to peer through the glass. Remadia sat on a bench that hadn’t been there earlier, arms at her sides and feet idly kicking as she looked out over the balcony ledge.

Bonnie pushed through the doors, not acknowledged by Remadia until Bonnie was sitting next to her. “Bit lonely out here, isn’t it?”

Remadia waved off the comment, unfazed by Bonnie’s sudden appearance. “Pshaw, my dear Bonnie. It’s a lovely night in my city, and I knew you’d find me eventually,” she said as if it were a matter of fact, her voice thick and worn from the night. She yawned, stretching herself out before commandeering Bonnie’s arm, pulling it around her like a blanket as she leaned into Bonnie and rested her head fully against Bonnie’s breast. “You stink hideously of roses, my dear, and I know that’s not the perfume I gave you earlier,” she remarked,  before cuddling deeper against Bonnie, nuzzling her face against Bonnie’s breast as much as she could from the side.

Bonnie had felt a flush creeping across her face from the moment Remadia had started touching her, but she blushed fully in response to her statement. “I, well,” Bonnie gulped as Remadia looked up from her tit, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. “I took your toast to trouble to heart, and found myself a little trouble.”

Remadia raised both of her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh really? How utterly droll, my dear.” Remadia purred, only moving her mouth from its position against Bonnie so that she could speak with relative clarity. “Was it a scuffle? A row? Or was it romantic trouble? Did you dance?”

Bonnie smiled down softly at Remadia. “We danced, yes.” Then she smirked, looking out towards the lighthouse in the bay. “Then he ate me out in the receiving room off the back corridor.”

Remadia purred with delight, wrapping her arm around Bonnie’s waist and hugging her tightly. “Nothing further?”

“Left me quivering on the floor. The beautiful bastard scarpered before I could beg him to fuck me.”

“Beg? I think the word you use is too strong, my dear.” She pulled her arm off of Bonnie’s waist and used it to secure Bonnie’s arm more tightly against her. “You were far too much woman for him to handle. I, on the other hand, could show you what begging for a good fuck is really like,” she said, as casually as one would contemplate the weather, “though I would never dream to be so rude as to just abandon you on the floor.”

Bonnie choked, sputtering as her heart ground to a halt in her chest, her entire body tensing. She could feel lustful warmth resurging back into her loins, but her brain was frozen in panic. When Remadia spoke, her words were too loud, startling Bonnie.

“You know what I absolutely adore about you, dear Bonnie? How honest you are. Sometimes you talk yourself in circles, but your face and your body always tell the truth.”

Bonnie remained still, unable to move. Remadia let go of her grip on Bonnie’s arm and moved her hands instead to and around Bonnie’s waist, turning her body in to Bonnie’s. She hoisted one leg dramatically in the air, twisting herself further so that she could straddle Bonnie’s lap with it, supporting herself almost entirely against Bonnie’s sturdy frame. Then, once that was settled and her leg was locked firmly around Bonnie, heel digging into the cleft of Bonnie’s butt, she used it as leverage to awkwardly lift her other leg so that it could be wrapped around Bonnie’s waist as well. Her face never left Bonnie’s chest, and Remadia had situated herself in such a way - arms slung under Bonnie’s bust and around her waist, with her hips cocked upward against Bonnie’s stomach - as to allow her face to now be fully buried in the fabric of Bonnie’s bosom. Bonnie hadn’t budged an inch throughout the endeavor, and Remadia began to moan, her head lolling from side to side.

“Remadia, are you okay?” Bonnie asked, concerned.

Remadia rolled her head against the top of one breast, so that she was peering up at her through a heavily squinting eye. “I’m drunk and the world has begun to spin, and all I want,” she was interrupted by a yawn, “is to use these big, lovely tits of yours as my pillows so that I may regain my composure and fuck you silly.” She returned her face to the crevice she had burrowed into the fabric of Bonnie’s bosom, lifting her arms to squeeze Bonnie’s breasts around her ears.

Bonnie felt her face heat up for what felt like the hundredth time that night, but felt the need to take control of the situation. “Let’s get you to bed, then.” Bonnie could hear Remadia’s muffled response of “yes, let me bed you,” and sighed.

Bonnie had had enough.

“All right, you foul fuckin’ mess, let’s go.” Bonnie wrapped her arms underneath Remadia’s rump, lifting her so that Bonnie could stand up. Remadia squealed, briefly lifting her face from Bonnie’s cleavage to speak, eyes and smile excited as she kicked her feet gleefully against Bonnie’s butt.

“I feel like a child in your arms, this is wonderful!” and then her face was buried away again. Bonnie could barely make out her continuation of, “Why haven’t I had you do this before?” as she walked back to the door.

“Because, you embarrassment of a woman, I’ve been your personal bodyguard, and we have had an otherwise professional relationship.”

“But I don’t want that now. I was a fool!”

“Was? Are.”

“Bonnie,” she whined, drawing it out as long and as pathetically as she could and flailing her heels ineffectually at Bonnie’s hips.

Ignoring her, Bonnie made her way through the hall, paying no attention to the curious looks of the people cleaning up and making her way towards the corridor that would lead to Remadia’s quarters.

As she walked through the corridor doors, Remadia squeezed Bonnie, both hands slapping her back in urgency. “Wait!” she cried out from Bonnie’s chest, with a tone of panic so intense that it stopped Bonnie in her tracks.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

Remadia loosened up. “Privy. Hurry.”

“You wretch.” Bonnie picked up the pace. “Are you going to hurl all over me or do you have to piss?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Bonnie hurried to the privy as quickly as possible, being careful not to jostle Remadia more than necessary. She threw open the door and - gently - deposited Remadia on the burnished wood of the privy, quickly turning around and leaving her to do her business, despite Remadia’s mournful whine of, “Don’t abandon me.”

-She Doesn’t Abandon Her-

“You do know that if you don’t cuddle with me, I’m going to follow you to your room.” Remadia sat, now naked, on her bed, patting the space next to her. Somewhere between the privy and her quarters she had managed to regain a modicum of composure, though she had a tendency to overbalance from one side to the other as she attempted to maintain her posture.

Bonnie, still fully dressed, groaned, frustrated and refusing to look at her. “You petulant brat.”

“I told you my plan on the balcony, Bonnie. You have yet to tell me no.”

“We’re not,” Bonnie spluttered, “I am- you,” too many words tried to make their way out of her mouth at once. “You’re drunk.”

“Is that your only complaint?”

“Well-” Bonnie hesitated.

“Speak frankly, if you’re looking for permission.”

“I wasn’t, but-”

“Then we can cuddle ever-so-chastely tonight, and tomorrow I can fuck you in the way your beautiful companion was too cowardly to.”

“Remadia, I keep saying this: I am your bodyguard,” Bonnie shouted. She could see Remadia out of the corner of her eye. Remadia clapped her hands over her mouth, and Bonnie turned, finally looking to meet her eyes. She hoped that Remadia finally understood the predicament Bonnie was in.

Bonnie was taken aback by the fawning adoration in her eyes, like how a child looks at a newborn puppy.

“Oh Bonnie, is that truly it? Truly?” she clapped excitedly, like a child receiving a gift. “Oh how I adore you! It’s no wonder the twins are so infatuated with you, you’re so earnest.”

“I- what? You know?”

Remadia callously waved away Bonnie’s shock. “Oh, of course I know, dear, the twins tell me absolutely everything, and it is the absolute sweetest thing. They’ve never been so enamoured with a person before, let alone the same person. Their infatuation with you is so thorough as to be infectious!”

Bonnie was at a loss for words, her mouth stuttering out, “propriety!”

Remadia gave Bonnie a withering glare. “Bonnie, propriety has its place, and that is with those who make it their life. If I were a woman concerned with propriety, I would have married some petulant merchant skunk and left my own desires to fall to the wayside instead of becoming one of the most powerful women in the country.” Remadia stood up, suddenly full of fire, marching up to Bonnie. “If I were a woman concerned only with propriety, I might have married the Duke of Braugh instead of throwing his letters into the cesspit where they belonged, and he may never have tried to wage his foolish war on me, and he might have been sitting here, in my manor, this very night, instead of cowering in his shit-caked castle in the muddy lowlands with half his land given to me in surrender. And you,” her finger delivering a vicious tap to Bonnie’s sternum, “would never have become the oh-so infamous Goliath of Braugh, and I would have never shown up in your village after hearing of your exploits, and I would never have asked you to serve as my bodyguard, and claimed you as my Goliath, the Goliath of Chapel Bay. My Bonnie. Do not speak to me of propriety!” Her voice had become unexpectedly shrill.

Bonnie, overcome with emotions too conflicted and struggling against each other that she couldn’t put words to how she felt, wrapped her arms around Remadia tightly in a hug. She understood Remadia’s passion, but Remadia couldn’t understand what she’d lost, especially as she was now, and she didn’t want to spoil it with any of the grim thoughts that came to mind. Remadia’s fists were balled, arms tight to her sides, before reluctantly wrapping themselves around Bonnie and returning the hug. Bonnie rested her chin on Remadia’s head.

“Perhaps I’ve been going the wrong way about it, because it’s never something that I’ve consciously given thought to.”

“What’s that?”

“My overtures towards you, maybe I’ve been too unthinking with them, drink and lust clouding my mind, instead of me trying to be as honest as you are with me.”

“How do you mean, Remadia?”

Bonnie could feel Remadia swallow against her before she spoke, her voice soft and croaking, worn from the night and the sudden rush of emotions. “What I’ve been trying to say with so many words is, Bonnie, that I’m very lonely, and I’m very tired, and the year you’ve been here has frankly been the most wonderful - no, memorable part of my life. I went to war against so-called propriety, my Bonnie, and I got you in return: something, someone, so much more valuable than any land or titles given to me by that reprehensible waste of human existence.  I want you to spend this night with me because I want to feel comfortable in someone else’s presence, truly comfortable with someone for the first time in my entire life”

Bonnie’s hummed reassuredly, tightening her arms around Remadia as she rubbed her cheek against the top of her head. She pressed her lips and began to rock softly from side to side. Moments passed and she felt a single, silent sob rack Remadia’s body. She slowly loosened her grip, rubbing her fingers gently into Remadia’s back as she allowed herself be pulled away. Remadia attempted to maintain her facade of composure in vain as her arms fell limply to her sides, her reddened eyes locked to Bonnie’s chin to avoid looking at the soft smile on her lips. Bonnie’s hands still rested on Remadia’s shoulders as they stood there in a comfortable silence. Bonnie sighed and leaned down so Remadia was forced to look her in the eyes, giving a cheeky grin as Remadia gave a single, defiant sniffle.

“Okay, you needy bitch, get this girdle off me. I’ll hold your wee, simpering form in my big strong arms and whisper sweet-nothings in your ear.”

Remadia’s facade broke, a wide grin splitting her face as she slapped Bonnie’s arm. “Oh, why thank you, my big, strong knight.” She giggled gently, her hands wiping the sudden tears of relief that had welled in her eyes. “Whatever would I do without you?”

Their laughter continued, growing, as Remadia moved behind Bonnie and began to untie the lacing of her girdle. Bonnie relaxed as the pressure of the restrictive garment was relieved, her skin prickling where the girdle had been. The lacings holding up the dress came off next, and Bonnie felt freed as she let the dress fall from her shoulders to her waist, and she heard a soft gasp from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Remadia’s eye, smiled cheekily, then brought her arms above her head and flexed, causing the muscles of her back to bulge.

Bonnie had never seen Remadia blush before.

Bonnie pulled the dress off her waist and down her body, slowly, deliberately; milking the attention she was being given for all it was worth as she showed off her powerful build for Remadia. She pulled the dress tight so that it bit into her thick, muscular ass, slowly dragging it down so more and more flesh muffined out over the top of the fabric before it all popped out, flexing each cheek and dancing her hips from side to side as she pulled the dress down her corded thighs; her thick calves. She turned to face Remadia with a confident grin, hoping that she had enjoyed the show.

Remadia looked like a cat who had just discovered a bowl of rich cream.

“Shall we retire?” Bonnie gestured towards the bed, raising an eyebrow as suavely as she could muster.

“Oh,” Remadia purred, “my dear, I have been waiting for you to ask me that all night.”

Remadia didn’t move, however, and Bonnie was confused. Guessing that Remadia was waiting for her to go first, Bonnie crawled onto the bed, and was rewarded with an appreciative hum from Remadia. As she had with the dress, she crawled across the bed deliberately, stretching out her legs and arms and moving so that her muscles rippled and bulged with the shifting of her weight, prowling across the mattress. She reached the pillows, finishing her show for Remadia with a wink, and gracelessly flopped onto the bed.

“All right, my lady. Time for bed.” Bonnie turned to find Remadia staring at her, eyes barely focused and doing nothing to hide the lustful delight on her face as she bit excitedly at her lower lip.

Bonnie’s words snapped Remadia out of her thoughts. “Oh, right. Bed.” Remadia crawled hastily onto the bed, before she stopped. “I forgot the candles,” she muttered, turning around and busying herself snuffing out the lights around the room. Bonnie had seen Remadia in various states of undress, but had never really appreciated Remadia’s body until now.

She paid particular attention to how Remadia’s pear-shaped backside, broad and dimpled, jiggled with every step she took, rocking from side to side with the movement of her hips. Bonnie watched as the orange light of the candles played against Remadia’s pale skin, following the curve of her body up her arm to her delicate fingers holding the snuffer.

The last candle went out, and Remadia made her way back onto the bed, where Bonnie was waiting for her eagerly on her side, waiting to play the big spoon. She felt the shifting of the mattress as Remadia moved, but instead of crawling inside Bonnie’s embrace she pushed Bonnie over onto her back, and sprawled herself on top of Bonnie, her face resting on the soft skin of Bonnie’s sternum.

“Is this uncomfortable for you, dear Bonnie?” Remadia whispered, laying a small kiss against the inside of Bonnie’s breast. “Gods, you are so warm.”

“It’ll do, seeing as I doubt I have a say in the matter.”

“Good girl,” she said, shifting her head and kissing the inside of Bonnie’s other breast.

Bonnie had to restrain a giggle as she felt Remadia’s arms come up along her sides and around each breast, hugging them together to smother her head. “You like those, don’t you.” Remadia squeezed her arms tight several times in succession, jiggling Bonnie’s breasts so they slapped against her head, before letting them fall to the side.

“They’re quite nice, yes,” she mumbled. Bonnie brought an arm up to gently stroke Remadia’s head. “That’s quite nice, too.”

“Mm,” Bonnie hummed, taking long, slow breaths, her hand stroking Remadia’s hair and down her back, rubbing small circles with strong fingers. Remadia let out pleased hums when Bonnie rubbed in the right places. She felt Remadia beginning to relax, her head rising and falling on Bonnie’s broad chest. Soon Remadia’s body was slack with sleep.

Bonnie stared into the darkness, mind still whirling from the night’s events.

To trouble, she thought, as sleep began to take her.

-To Trouble! This Time, with Feeling-

Bonnie awoke to the sounds of drawers being shuffled through.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying on her side, and partially under the covers. Beyond the bed, she could see Remadia busying herself with something in front of the mirror, clad only in a garterbelt and stockings, eliciting a small, “oh!” of appreciation from Bonnie. She watched Remadia’s shapely behind as she bent over to pull something out of a basket next to her. Remadia, hearing Bonnie, snapped upright, excited.

“Bonnie, you’re awake. Are you ready, my dear?” she asked, slapping something against her palm. It took Bonnie a moment, and sitting upright, to recognize that Remadia was holding a riding crop. “I have already cleared my morning plans, so we have some time to ourselves.”

“O-oh,” Bonnie stuttered, feeling a thoroughly surprising, but not unwelcome, thrum of lust roll through her body. Her eyes wandered from the riding crop to her narrow shoulders, across creamy skin to the pale areolae of her gently-sloped breasts, and down Remadia’s stomach, soft handles hugged tightly by the black lace of the garter belt, stretched over broad hips. The straps that held Remadia’s stockings up framed her coppery bush. “I wasn’t, uh, expecting this to happen so quickly.”

“I remember being quite forthright with my intentions, dear.” Remadia looked at the riding crop in her hands. “Is it the crop? Is that too much?”

“Oh, uh, no. I don’t think so. You’re just, um,” Bonnie struggled to find the words to the feelings of arousal and intimidation she was experiencing. She felt like the emotions should be at odds with one another, but instead they fed into one another as she stared at Remadia in her scant lingerie. “You’re more, well, dressed up for this than I guess I’d expected?”

The clear ring of Remadia’s affectionate laughter reddened Bonnie’s ears in embarassment. “Oh, Bonnie. Dear Bonnie. I adore every innocent fiber of your pure and earnest soul.”

She spoke with such fondness Bonnie couldn’t bear to look at her. She felt like a child being condescended as she contemplated the edges of the woven rug behind Remadia’s feet. “I don’t see what’s so innocent about fucking,” she muttered, her mouth pursing into a pout.

“Oh, my love, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, please!” She took a few soft steps towards the bed. “I just enjoy the presentation of it all. The showmanship sets the scene, my dear. Forgive me, my love, and come sit closer for a moment?”

Bonnie sighed apologetically as she released the petulant anger she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing as she nodded in assent and scooched herself along the bed so that she was sitting on the edge closest to Remadia. She couldn’t bring herself to actually look at her, because now she was embarrassed over how she reacted. She wanted to do this, she just was not used to this level of ceremony in the bedroom. Bonnie was used to more carnal, base affairs; or, preferably, gentle, loving intimacy. Never something so directed.

Remadia strolled towards Bonnie with hard, deliberate steps, swinging her hips with every movement, and snapped the riding crop up under Bonnie’s chin. With gentle pressure, Bonnie let her chin be lifted ever-so slightly and turned so that her eyes were level with Remadia’s. “Am I forgiven, my Bonnie?”

The look she was being given sent a trail of liquid fire through her, melting her insides, pooling in her loins. Her mouth was dry, but she managed to voice a soft, “yes, of course.”

“Then, tell me, love, is this all right?”

Bonnie nodded, slack-jawed.

Remadia leaned forward, lips barely touching the shell of Bonnie’s ear. “Tell me, my dear, what it is that you don’t want me to do,” she whispered.

Bonnie struggled to collect her thoughts, her mind forgetting its previous embarrassment and now racing with lust. Her hands were balled in her lap, and with Remadia’s shoulder just in front of her face, she was having a hard time resisting the urge to kiss the base of Remadia’s neck. “I, uh, can’t seem to think of anything that I’d say no to at the moment.”

Remadia laid a kiss in front of her ear. “Then I’ll be very gentle with you, my dear,” she murmured against Bonnie’s skin, laying a soft trail with her lips towards Bonnie’s mouth before capturing it in a passionate kiss. When she pulled away, Bonnie’s skin was flushed and Bonnie was left with a lazy grin. “I know what I like, but I don’t know what you like, beyond what the twins have told me. Do you like tender?”

Bonnie could feel the tip of the riding crop sliding down her neck. She swallowed dryly. “I do. Definitely.” The wide leather piece tickled at her throat before sliding between her breasts, causing her skin to prickle with gooseflesh and her pectoral muscles to spasm. The piece trailed across the heavy curve of one breast, and lingered at the sensitive ring of her areola before giving a sudden, stinging flick across her perked nipple. Bonnie gasped.

“How about that, my dear?” Remadia said as she kissed Bonnie’s lower lip, taking it between her lips and gently sucking on it. Bonnie moaned as the crop continued to gently play with her nipple. Remadia pulled away, pulling Bonnie’s lip as far as it could go before it slipped from between her lips with a wet pop!

“I,” Bonnie stumbled, “wow.”

“Talk to me, my dear, tell me what you’re thinking.” As Remadia spoke, the riding crop had resumed its trail south, tickling at Bonnie’s stomach, and Remadia licked her lips as she watched Bonnie’s powerful gut muscles twitch and dance under the crop. Then, Bonnie’s muscles still tense, the crop teased down lower, slipping behind where Bonnie’s balled fists had remained in her lap, not knowing where to go.

Bonnie could feel the crop playing at her bush, and then with a gentle push from Remadia, she felt the broad, flat leather of the bit rub slickly down her mound, the rod of the crop cool and hard against her clit. She hissed between clenched teeth, shuddering as she unclenched her hands to grip her thighs. “Sheesh,” she paused to take a breath, “wow, you really, uh-” Bonnie was at a loss for words.

“I what, darling?”

“You put much more showmanship into this than the twins do,” Bonnie said. “Artemis and Apollo are much more about throwing themselves at me and figuring it out from there.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, dear. Those two are very,” she took a moment, toying with the crop against Bonnie’s crotch, making Bonnie shudder against it, before finishing her statement, “impatient.” Remadia gripped Bonnie’s chin firmly before kissing her again. “Now, my dear, I need you to turn over onto your knees and present your lovely fat ass to me.” She withdrew the now-slick crop from the crevice of Bonnie’s thighs.

“Yes, my lady,” Bonnie said as she began to turn, moving around so she was on all fours.

“I’m so glad you’re getting into this, my dear Bonnie, but I must ask, how do you feel about being lashed with my crop?” Bonnie could hear the crack of the crop against Remadia’s hand.

“What? Why?” Bonnie looked behind her to find Remadia with a look of disappointment on her face.

“I ask because, although I adore your sense of propriety, I thought I was quite clear last night with how I want you to address me when we’re not bound by formalities,” she said, before she began to play at Bonnie’s exposed sex with the crop.

Bonnie understood that it was intended as some sort of punishment. “Oh.” She let out a moan as the leather danced between her sensitive folds, “I guess give it a try and I will, uh, let you know, Remadia.”

Crack! Bonnie gasped as her body rocked forward involuntarily away from the blow, happening so much more quickly than she had been expecting. Tingling waves of pain and pleasure blossomed from where the rod had connected at the bottom of her raised rump. “Are you alright, dear?” She heard from behind her. She was still reeling from the blow. It stung, and the lingering pain was beginning to overtake any pleasure she might have felt from it. It stung in a way that hurt differently from any blow she’d ever weathered. It was humiliating.

“Can we, um, maybe not with the rod?” she said, sheepishly. She tried to control the hurt in her voice, and she didn’t know why there was suddenly tears in her eyes. Immediately, the riding crop was gone, and there was movement on the bed as Remadia climbed onto it and around to Bonnie’s side, pressing her full body against her in a hug as she shushed and apologized to Bonnie. She leaned down to Bonnie’s face, gently kissing her.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, it’s all right. It’s all right.” Soft, gentle kisses from Remadia between each word. “We are here for pleasure, our pleasure.” More soft kisses as Remadia stroked her hair and hugged Bonnie’s head to her. Remadia tipped Bonnie’s head back, and peppered her mouth with apologetic pecks, her lips moving to kiss the small tears of shame that had beaded on Bonnie’s eyelashes. She mouthed her way down Bonnie’s cheek until she found her lips again, moving against them and feeding into more passionate, longer, slow kisses as their mouths opened against each other, her tongue playing softly with Bonnie’s.

The stinging of the welt on her backside faded quickly from Bonnie’s mind as she lost herself in the kiss, one hand moving to cup the back of Remadia’s head, the other coming up along her side to cup Remadia’s hip, large fingers digging into the ample flesh of her backside. Bonnie massaged Remadia’s butt, earning a series of small moans from Remadia as she leaned into the kiss.

After a moment, Remadia broke the kiss, panting. “Do you mind, my dear, if I spank at your ass with only my hands? Not as punishment, but because I wish to play with it.”

“That’s,” Bonnie paused, considering it. “That’s fine. I don’t know why I started crying like that, I’m sorry.”

Remadia put a finger against Bonnie’s lips. “Shush, now, dear, you need not apologize. Sometimes you do not enjoy a thing because it comes with emotional baggage, and sometimes you do not enjoy a thing simply because you do not find the thing enjoyable.” She laid a gentle kiss to Bonnie’s forehead. “You do not need to explain yourself, either, just tell me when I’ve crossed the line.”

Bonnie was grateful for that. She didn’t know how to explain the pain to Remadia, because she herself wasn’t sure why it had affected her so much.

“Now, if you would lie down so that I might play with your butt, my dear.”

“Oh, right.” Bonnie said, stretching herself out and propping her head up on her arms.

Remadia moved herself so that she knelt at Bonnie’s hip. “You have such a lovely, powerful ass, my dear,” she purred, taking a cheek under each hand and squeezing hard before massaging them firmly. “I wish you could see it the way I do, Bonnie. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Her heart swelling in her chest, Bonnie moaned as Remadia dug into her flesh, working it with gentle force, pushing and pulling, kneading her meaty ass with practiced care. Bonnie felt like so much dough beneath Remadia’s skilled fingertips. She imagined Remadia could feel the intense heat radiating from between her thighs, and as she relaxed even further into Remadia’s ministrations, she imagined those fingers sliding between her cheeks to explore the slippery heat building there.

“My dear, I’m going to smack your ass now so that I can watch it ripple and redden. Is that okay?”

Bonnie nodded, brought back from her fantasies, and hummed her assent as she braced herself.

Smack! Bonnie felt her butt move under the blow, but it didn’t sting like the riding crop had; Remadia’s hand was much softer and lacked the whip of the crop’s flexible rod. Without the weight of punishment, her mind didn’t lock itself up lingering on the blow. She could feel Remadia hesitate beside her, waiting for something.

“Are you alright, love? May I strike again?”

Bonnie hummed her assent again, more confident than before, anticipating and even looking forward to the spank as Remadia’s hand smacked down. Remadia hesitated again, and Bonnie just nodded, arching her back and lifting her butt to meet the next blow. This is almost fun, Bonnie thought, as another spank rang out, this time on the inside of her cheek. Then another, and another, and then another. Each smack began to sting more and more, until after one blow Bonnie shifted her hips to avoid it. Immediately, Remadia began to massage her reddening, swollen skin, and Bonnie moaned. Her moans grew louder as Remadia poured some sort of oil on her sore skin, her busy fingers continuing their ministrations as Remadia whispered loving sweet-nothings to her.

“You are so beautiful, Bonnie; you’re so big and so beautiful,” Remadia murmured. Her praise comforted Bonnie, warmth flooding her chest. “I adore you so much, and you’re doing so well.” Remadia laid a kiss on Bonnie’s butt, and then another, her fingers sliding from the cheeks of Bonnie’s ass and down in between them, pushing and rubbing and kneading. “Thank you,” she murmured against Bonnie’s skin. Then her fingers, well-oiled, slid between Bonnie’s thighs, and toyed with the damp hair they found there, fingertips lightly tickling Bonnie’s folds.

Bonnie had a moment to realize what Remadia was doing before Remadia slipped her fingers inside her, forcing Bonnie to cry out, “Remy!” as pleasure flowed through her body.

“Yes, my dear, finally!” Remadia purred, working her fingers inside Bonnie.

Bonnie gasped and struggled to regain her senses as every thrust of Remadia’s fingers made her squeak and moan. “Please, Remy. Please,” she whimpered. Begged. “Please fuck me.” Then she was empty and Remadia was pulling on her hips and she mindlessly raised herself back onto her knees, obeying her silent commands, and she could feel Remadia moving around behind her. She moaned at the loss of Remadia’s fingers inside her, only to cry out as they were replaced by Remadia’s eager tongue, dancing across her folds with practiced care before diving inside her with long, passionate strokes. Bonnie began to lose focus, her world becoming Remadia lovingly devouring her cunt, her mouth hanging open mindlessly as Remadia began to work Bonnie’s clitoris with her fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut as every muscle in her abdomen twitched in sporadic spasms, before everything tightened at once as she came screaming against Remadia’s face. Remadia didn’t pull away from Bonnie’s orgasm, prolonging it with her expert tongue and gentle fingers. It pulsed through her in waves, and every time Bonnie thought she was done, another pulse would roll through her core, guided by Remadia. A sob escaped her mouth and her arms gave out as yet another wave of soul-shattering pleasure coursed through her, tears welling in her eyes; her mind going blank as Remadia pushed her over the edge and so much further beyond, eyes rolling back into her head as she lost herself, only knowing overwhelming pleasure.

When she was allowed to finally rest, she sobbed in relief as her brain began to reassemble thoughts, piecemeal, and she was able to make sense of her surroundings again. Her upper body was being cradled in Remadia’s lap and sweet words were being whispered into her ear. She could feel Remadia’s fingers tracing gentle circles across the soft muscle above her breast; a mindless, soothing motion.

“You did such a wonderful job, my dear. Thank you.” Gentle kisses were placed along the side of her face. Bonnie leaned into them, turning her head so her lips met Remadia’s, and let their tongues twist together in a languid dance. Remadia pulled back. “You’re so good. You’re wonderful.”

Bonnie grinned, her eyes struggling to focus on Remadia’s, her breathing still shaky. “So, Remy.” Remadia beamed at her, and Bonnie could see a tear well in Remadia’s eye. “How can I return the favor?”

Remadia wiped the tear away with her knuckle. “Oh, well, I can think of some ways, but I think the quickest would be for me to mount your face.”

Bonnie’s brow furrowed in confusion, not expecting such a blunt answer after being given such a thorough fucking. She couldn’t stop herself from pouting. “It doesn’t have to be the quickest, you know.”

“Oh, but dear,” Remadia laughed, “your enthusiasm is wonderful. I do, however, have to return to my duties as the Countess of Chapel Bay at some point today.”

“Oh,” Bonnie huffed, “I guess we can do that. But why ride my face? Why not let me use these big meaty mitts on you?” She cocked an eyebrow, wiggling the fingers of one hand. “I’ve got more in two fingers than most men do in a whole cock.”

Remadia’s laugh was hearty and pure. “My dear, I do so love your way with words.” She caressed Bonnie’s cheek, still smiling. “You might be able to devastate me with those so-called meaty mitts of yours, but me riding your face offers me much more,” she leaned in to whisper in Bonnie’s ear, “control.”

The word sent tingles of warmth fluttering through her loins again. “You do like control, don’t you, Remy?”

“I do so like control.” Remadia began shifting herself out from underneath Bonnie’s shoulders. “Now, on your back and face up, love. Time is of the essence.”

Bonnie complied, rolling over, face up and expectant. Remadia was on her knees above her, and Bonnie was staring up at Remadia’s coppery bush and big, soft thighs that led to the curves of Remadia’s fat ass.

Remadia balanced herself with one hand against Bonnie’s heavy breast, her rough grip making Bonnie gasp, as she spread the lips of her cunt above Bonnie’s eager face. “Bonnie, tongue out and working efficiently. One hand dug firmly into my ass, the other toying with my tit. Your nose might be sore, but I won’t break it, I’m sure.” She looked down between her legs at Bonnie, waiting.

Bonnie felt her heart race as she moved her hands into their prescribed positions. Remadia’s nipple hardened against her palm, the breast weighty and soft against her rough skin. I wonder, Bonnie thought as she gazed at Remadia’s other breast as it hung, heavy and free, pinching the tissue around the areola with her thumb and forefinger and stretching out her pinky and ring finger towards the other areola, capturing it between the first knuckles of her fingers. Nice, she thought, bringing the two breasts together.

Remadia slapped her hand. “I love your proactive attitude, but you can play later.”

Bonnie readjusted her hand so that she firmly gripped only the one breast.

“Ready?”

Bonnie stuck her tongue out so that it laid broad and flat against her chin, upper lip curled over her teeth. “Ready,” she struggled to say with her tongue out.

“Let us begin.”

Bonnie was not as ready as she had thought when her entire world became the soft, hot, damp dark of Remadia’s thighs. Remadia rode hard, driving the wet mouth of her opening against Bonnie’s tongue. Bonnie recovered by arching her tongue into it, firming it so that it drove itself inside Remadia as she ground against Bonnie’s face, and Remadia froze, hands gripping Bonnie’s breasts too hard as she took a second to readjust before bouncing against Bonnie’s stiffened tongue. Suddenly the world was bright as Remadia adjusted herself again, turning herself around so that Bonnie was looking up the front of Remadia’s body. They locked eyes.

“Tongue hard. Suck clit. Hand: thigh. Support me,” Remadia commanded, her gaze unfocused and her mouth open, breath quickened.

Bonnie didn’t bother attempting to reply - and wasn’t give time to - as Remadia picked up right where she had left off. Bonnie complied as best she could as Remadia fucked herself on Bonnie’s tongue. Remadia managed between thrusts to cross her feet beneath Bonnie’s head, and Bonnie lost the ability to breathe as her mouth and nose were sealed against Remadia’s loins. Bonnie, being proactive again, loosened her tongue and began to let it play inside and and against Remadia, licking eagerly at Remadia’s wet hole.

“Gods, Bonnie,” Remadia cried out, “your tongue - fuck!” she bit her lip as she continued to grind against Bonnie’s face. “I don’t think I’ll need your fingers, Bonnie.” She choked for a moment as Bonnie’s tongue dove deep and hard. “Fuck, Bonnie, why’s your tongue so big?” Remadia’s face was red, eyes crossed, and loud, erratic gasps escaping her slack mouth.

Bonnie kept trying to catch breaths through her nose, but Remadia locked her legs behind Bonnie’s head and sat back on her chest, her eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open in a silent cry as she curled herself around Bonnie. Slick juices filled and spilled out of Bonnie’s mouth, but she obediently kept working at Remadia, as Remadia had done for her. When she was allowed to pull her head away, she realized just how soaked she was, her hair matting and stuck to her face and the inside of Remadia’s thigh. The mattress beneath her was not spared, dampened by Remadia’s passionate flood. Shaking, Remadia unhooked her legs from behind Bonnie’s head and stretched them out as she laid backwards atop Bonnie, the joints of her knees cracking harshly in her ears. Her arms fell bonelessly to her sides, resting atop Bonnie’s breasts as she languished in the afterglow of her orgasm, panting heavily. She toyed limply with Bonnie’s nipples, weak fingers pulling at them and slapping at the breast, letting them bounce and jiggle in idle, giggling amusement. Bonnie tried to return the favor, taking Remadia’s breasts roughly in hand, pinching the areolae beneath the nipples and squeezing the whole breast tight. She could feel Remadia spasm against her in response, Remadia’s ass clenching and abdomen tightening as she drew her legs back in against Bonnie’s head. Bonnie was intrigued.

Remadia slapped Bonnie’s hand, hissing, “stop it,” startling Bonnie.

Bonnie let go.

“Thank you,” she said. “Sorry to snap, I get very sensitive post-coitus, and I’m a touch overstimulated, dear.”

Bonnie nodded though Remadia couldn’t see her, and gently massaged the tissue of the breast instead.

“Much better, love. Thank you.” After a moment of enjoying the massage, Remadia lifted Bonnie’s hands off her and had Bonnie readjust herself as she clambered gracelessly around her, so that Bonnie was on her side holding Remadia against her, and Remadia had her head buried into Bonnie’s sternum, sandwiched between her breasts.

Bonnie sighed, tolerating the uncomfortable heat as she started tracing circles against Remadia’s back.

Bonnie had no frame of reference for the time, but the sun seemed like it was getting very late in the morning. She craned her neck down to an uncomfortable degree to put her lips against Remadia’s scalp. “Remy,” she mumbled, kissing her head and pulling back before she strained her neck, “as much as I love cuddling with you, you did say time was of the essence.”

Remadia - who had started drifting in and out of sleep in Bonnie’s warm embrace- stilled, fists balling themselves up against Bonnie’s side. “Damn it,” she muttered, glaring up at Bonnie from between Bonnie’s tits.

Bonnie couldn’t help but to laugh at the sight, letting her go and rolling away. No longer in the moment, Bonnie became aware of the strong and distinct reek of sweat and sex. She stood, stretching her tall body out and groaning with every pop and crackle of her spine. “Let us get going, my lady,” Bonnie said, a cheeky smile on her face as she turned and bowed low, “your Countessness is needed.”

Remadia chucked a pillow at Bonnie’s head. Bonnie laughed as she caught it, throwing it back at Remadia, guffawing as the pillow caught Remadia across the face, knocking her over and making her cry out in surprise.

“Fine!” Remadia laughed, pulling the pillow off her face and making a noise of mock disgust. “I’ll bathe and let my couturiers make me presentable to the world.” She rolled off the bed, turning to consider the dark, damp spots across the mattress left over from their lovemaking. “I’ll have to have this cleaned thoroughly, as well.”

“Indeed,” Bonnie said.

They stood there. A minute passed and Bonnie shuffled her feet, not sure what else to do. Remadia opened her mouth as if to speak, and then closed it. Bonnie curled the toes of one foot, cracking the joints.

“Bonnie, I-” Remadia started.

“Remy, that was amazing.” Bonnie interrupted. “That was incredible. I, uh,” Bonnie was reaching for words to say, “well, that is, I’d like to maybe-?”

Remadia smiled. “Oh, absolutely, Bonnie.” Remadia moved around the bed, closing the distance between her and Bonnie. She reached up and caressed Bonnie’s cheek. “Did you honestly think after all that, I didn’t intend for this to be a regular occurrence?”

Bonnie blushed, embarrassed. “I hadn’t been sure what to to think.”

“Bonnie, I told you I wasn’t going to just abandon you on the floor - the floor being metaphorical in this case,” Remadia stroked Bonnie’s lip with her thumb, “and, anyway, it’s not like I could piss off and away from you, anyway. You are my bodyguard, afterall.”

Bonnie beamed, and Remadia beamed back. “Oh, yeah. I guess I am that, yes.” Bonnie leaned down to Remadia, and Remadia rose to meet her in a soft kiss.

“Okay, my dear, go on and see about cleaning yourself up,” Remadia said, pulling away and giving Bonnie a playful swat on the rear.

“Can’t I see about bathing with you instead?” Bonnie joked as she picked up her dress, still kicked to to the wayside in a careless pile from the night before.

“Please, Bonnie, it’s hard enough to keep my hands off your skin as it is. On! Away with you!” Remadia kept swatting Bonnie’s butt, pushing Bonnie towards the door as Bonnie was scrambling to slip her arms inside the sleeves of the dress.

Laughing, Bonnie managed to get her arms into the dress and over her bust, Remadia unrelenting in her jovial assault. Bonnie turned away from Remadia so that she could wrap the train of the dress around her waist, providing mild modesty down to mid-thigh.

“Bonnie,” Remadia groaned, “if the twins catch sight of you-”

“If they catch sight of me.”

“Take a moment to put the dress on at least somewhat properly, Bonnie. You look like a fool.”

Bonnie gasped in mock horror. “My lady, do you-?” She interrupted herself with another gasp. “Do you presume to lecture me on - dare I say it? - propriety?”

Remadia pursed her lips and made a sound somewhere between a shriek and a strangled roar as Bonnie laughed herself out of the room.

[mewhenhorrormovies]

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As we

say in Texas, you couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions

printed on the heel. You are a canker, an open wound. I would rather

kiss a lawyer than be seen with you. You took your last vacation in

the Islets of Langerhans.

You're a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little

worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a

cad, and a weasel. I take that back; you are a festering pustule on a

weasel's rump. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench,

a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same

species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at

the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut.

Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are

a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. You are a technicolor yawn.

And did I mention that you smell?

You are a squeaking rat, a mistake of nature and a heavy-metal bagpipe

player. You were not born. You were hatched into an unwilling world

that rejects the likes of you. You didn't crawl out of a normal egg,

either, but rather a mutant maggot egg rejected by an evil scientist

as being below his low standards. Your alleged parents abandoned you

at birth and then died of shame in recognition of what they had done

to an unsuspecting world. They were a bit late.

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting

to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a

nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able

to access it ever so much more rapidly. If cluelessness were crude

oil, your scalp would be crawling with caribou.

You are a thick-headed trog. I have seen skeet with more sense than

you have. You are a few bricks short of a full load, a few cards short

of a full deck, a few bytes short of a full core dump, and a few

chromosomes short of a full human. Worse than that, you top-post. God

created houseflies, cockroaches, maggots, mosquitos, fleas, ticks,

slugs, leeches, and intestinal parasites, then he lowered his

standards and made you. I take it back; God didn't make you. You are

Satan's spawn. You are Evil beyond comprehension, half-living in the

slough of despair. You are the entropy which will claim us all. You

are a green-nostriled, crossed eyed, hairy-livered inbred

trout-defiler. You make Ebola look good.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid,

nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an

ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with

you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in

a land that reality forgot. You are not ANSI compliant and your markup

doesn't validate. You have a couple of address lines shorted together.

You should be promoted to Engineering Manager.

Do you really expect your delusional and incoherent ramblings to be

read? Everyone plonked you long ago. Do you fantasize that your

tantrums and conniption fits could possibly be worth the $0.000000001

worth of electricity used to send them? Your life is one big

W.O.M.B.A.T. and your future doesn't look promising either. We need to

trace your bloodline and terminate all siblings and cousins in order

to cleanse humanity of your polluted genes. The good news is that no

normal human would ever mate with you, so we won't have to go into the

sewers in search of your git.

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and

obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living

emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a

loathsome disease, a drooling inbred cross-eyed toesucker. You make

Quakers shout and strike Pentecostals silent. You have a version 1.0

mind in a version 6.12 world. Your mother had to tie a pork chop

around your neck just to get your dog to play with you. You think

that HTTP://WWW.GUYMACON.COM/FUN/INSULT/INDEX.HTM is the name of a

rock band. You believe that P.D.Q. Bach is the greatest composer who

ever lived. You prefer L. Ron Hubbard to Larry Niven and Jerry

Pournelle. Hee-Haw is too deep for you. You would watch test patterns

all day if the other inmates would let you.

On a good day you're a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are

deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of

wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted.

Spammers look down on you. Phone sex operators hang up on you.

Telemarketers refuse to be seen in public with you. You are the source

of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

May you choke on your own foolish opinions. You are a Pusillanimous

galactophage and you wear your sister's training bra. Don't bother

opening the door when you leave - you should be able to slime your

way out underneath. I hope that when you get home your mother runs

out from under the porch and bites you.

You smarmy lagerlout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock.

You grotty wanking oik artless base-court apple-john. You clouted

boggish foot-licking half-twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You

gormless crook-pated tosser. You bloody churlish boil-brained clotpole

ponce. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You cockered

bum-bailey poofter. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You

dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. May your

spouse be blessed with many bastards.

You are so clueless that if you dressed in a clue skin, doused yourself

in clue musk, and did the clue dance in the middle of a field of horny

clues at the height of clue mating season, you still would not have a

clue. If you were a movie you would be a double feature;

_Battlefield_Earth_ and _Moron_Movies_II_. You would be out of focus.

You are a fiend and a sniveling coward, and you have bad breath. You

are the unholy spawn of a bandy-legged hobo and a syphilitic camel.

You wear strangely mismatched clothing with oddly placed stains. You

are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just knowing that

you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go

away. You are jetsam who dreams of becoming flotsam. You won't make

it. I beg for sweet death to come and remove me from a world which

became unbearable when you crawled out of a harpy's lair.

It is hard to believe how incredibly stupid you are. Stupid as a stone

that the other stones make fun of. So stupid that you have traveled

far beyond stupid as we know it and into a new dimension of stupid.

Meta-stupid. Stupid cubed. Trans-stupid stupid. Stupid collapsed to

a singularity where even the stupons have collapsed into stuponium.

Stupid so dense that no intelligence can escape. Singularity stupid.

Blazing hot summer day on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one

minute than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. It cannot

be possible that anything in our universe can really be this stupid.

This is a primordial fragment from the original big stupid bang. A pure

extract of stupid with absolute stupid purity. Stupid beyond the laws

of nature. I must apologize. I can't go on. This is my epiphany of

stupid. After this experience, you may not hear from me for a while.

I don't think that I can summon the strength left to mock your moronic

opinions and malformed comments about boring trivia or your other

drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped

away most of your of what you wrote, because, well ... it didn't

really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was

pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a

load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after

you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more

success. True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal"

people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering.

But we sometimes forget that there are "challenged" persons in this

world who find these things to be difficult. If I had known that this

was true in your case then I would have never have exposed myself to

what you wrote. It just wouldn't have been "right." Sort of like

parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the

emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a

demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful,

cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable,

belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal,

fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic,

brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame,

self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, fraudulent,

libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, EDLINoid,

illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking,

devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic,

fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased,

suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim,

crazy, weird, dyspeptic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim,

unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive,

mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive,

abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, and Generally Not Good.