You are viewing bagira

Previous Entry | Next Entry

A picnic--Erotic Fanfiction, Take Two

default
This wrote itself last year, after a lazy bored afternoon by the pool when I'd burned half to coals. This was posted on the old HG. I don't advise reading this if you don't like erotica or are a member of my immediate family.


“A picnic,” Darcy whispered in Elizabeth’s ear, his arms coming about her from behind.

“Indeed.” Elizabeth bit her lip and tried her hardest not to tremble so hard at the mere tickle of his lips near her ear.

“Shall I leave it to you to make the announcement to all the guests?” she asked, keeping her voice nonchalant and light, then gasped at the touch of his fingers on her breasts, gently caressing.

“There will be no announcement,” he said, kissing her neck.

“A private picnic,” she murmured, giving in and beginning to tremble in earnest.

“Indeed,” he confirmed.

“Oh!” was all she could manage, as she gasped and breathed and shivered uncontrollably as he teased her.

Then, he said, his seductive lilt changing back to his usual relaxed tone, the very same he used to give orders to his steward: “Be ready in a quarter of an hour, Elizabeth,” and left her, standing there. Still, pathetically, trembling.

She was, indeed, ready in a quarter of an hour, coming down dressed in a spencer over her pink muslin dress, and a bonnet, a pretty straw confection decorated with silk roses. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking very purposeful, a laden picnic basket at his feet.

“What is in there?” Elizabeth pointed at the basket. He cocked on eyebrow at her.

“Behave, Mrs. Darcy, and I shall show you.” She giggled like a girl and put her hand in his. He shushed her, affecting a great mystery. Then, he took the basket in his other hand and they walked out the door, quietly, hosts hiding from their own guests, bent on mischief and pleasure.


They walked quickly, at first, and then, when they could no longer see the house—and, Elizabeth surmised—when their guests could no longer see them—their gait became more rambling and far more leisurely, stopping from time to time to smell the flowers or to marvel at a particularly pretty bird.

Darcy took a forest path, away from the main road, leading Elizabeth behind him.

“Where are we going?”

“Have some patience, love, and you will see.”

The clearing, snuggled neatly between a copse of stately pines and a bubbling, clear brook, was lovely, a perfect little hideaway. From the basket, Darcy produced a blanket, which he spread upon the grass, near the brook, anchoring it to the ground by a couple of stones. Curious, Elizabeth looked inside the basket, to find a fresh loaf of bread, a large wedge of apricot Stilton, some of Mrs. Reynolds’ delicious cold cuts. There were also strawberries for dessert, and a bottle of champagne.

“What a feast!” she exclaimed, pleased.

Darcy quickly shed his coat and undid the complicated knots in his cravat with a practiced movement. Sitting down on the edge of the blanket, he took off his shoes and stockings, turning up the edges of his trousers until they cleared his ankles. Elizabeth looked away, feeling her face flare with sudden shame. She had only seen her husband naked twice; and both times, it had been within the confines of their bedchamber, in semi-darkness.

Granted, he was not naked now, but she suspected, at some point during their frolic, this might be the logical conclusion. She felt uncomfortable, embarrassed, painfully shy.

Darcy must have sensed her unease. Looking up at her, he smiled and held out his hand.

“Come, Mrs. Darcy.” It was strange he still called her thus, despite their recent intimacies… not because it was too formal, but because it was not. The way he said it, he seemed to hint at things passionate and forbidden, to remind her that she was his wife, and also—his lover.

She thought about it for a moment, before taking off her bonnet and spencer. She also kicked off her shoes, but could not quite think of a way to take off her stockings without having to bunch up her skirts in a manner that was both unseemly and graceless. Tucking in her feet, she sat down across from her husband, who smiled at her encouragingly.

“Hungry, Lizzy?”

She was, ravenously so; still, she balked a little when he insisted she let him feed her. She protested feebly, but as she opened her mouth to say that she could feed herself perfectly well, thank you, he popped a piece of Stilton into her mouth. She was so surprised, she had to close her mouth, and chew, and swallow. And then, a small piece of ham. And then, discarding the fork as useless, he finger-fed her all the choicest morsels.

Elizabeth had no breath left in her to protest. She craved his touch. Every time she felt the tips of his fingers graze her lips, waves of heat washed over her, making her skin flame, making her nipples hard under the thin muslin of her dress, making her wet between her thighs.

She returned the favor, then, feeding him in turn. He groaned softly as he took the food from her. After she held the champagne flute for him to drink from, he put one hand on the back of her neck and pulled her closer for a kiss. Elizabeth froze on a gasp, his willing quarry. She could still taste champagne bubbles on the tip of his tongue, when he let her go. Reaching back, she rested one hand on the grass for support, as her head was spinning mercilessly. A strawberry was shared, from his lips to hers, and blended seamlessly into another kiss. A kiss, which lasted so long they were forced to part for lack of air.

“Let me put all this away,” Darcy murmured. Elizabeth watched him hide away the remainders of the food, the half-finished bottle of champagne—champagne, which now fizzed and roared in her head. Elizabeth sighed and leaned back on her arm, feeling her hold on the reality slip away at an alarming speed.

Task finished, he reached for her once again, impatiently this time. They kissed in warm sunlight, truly savoring each other, until their lust got the best of them. The kiss deepened, their hands became more frantic, more impatient on each other’s clothing. Elizabeth gasped as Darcy dragged the dress off her shoulders, his lips warmer than sunlight on her open skin.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly the tender skin of her neck. Elizabeth, brazen, mad to feel him under her hands, tugged his shirt out of his trousers. Slipping her hands underneath, she heard a rough growl escape him at her touch, and a second later, she found herself splayed flat on her back, with him towering above her, watching her raptly.

She essayed a feeble protest, even as she felt his hand on her thigh, fumbling blindly with her garter.

“Not here,” she said, even as she lifted her leg to help him tug the stocking down. He did not stop; instead, he pushed her dress even lower, then peeled off her stays, quickly pushing each tiny hook out of its tiny hole.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said, weakly. “Will. Not here.” He lifted his head, to gaze at her with lust and intensity and something even more passionate.

“But I shall never make it to the house,” he said plaintively. She sighed, bowled over by this admission of his desire. And neither will I. She wanted him, so much, more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Relinquishing all control, she sank back against the grass. Let him have his way with her.

He was so gentle with her, his mouth a warm sweet heaven on her breast, his hands stroking all of her parts, slowly, until she relaxed, blissfully, opening to him like a book, like a flower, like a window into a fragrant garden. Until she forgot, where they were, and even who she was, her own name. The only thing she remembered, was how much, how fiercely she wanted him.

Somewhere along the way, his touch, his caress of her changed, became more urgent and purposeful. She felt him part her, moving her legs apart, settling between them. Kissing each knee, each damp thigh in turn as he slid down slowly. She gasped and reared up, watching him in shock, her first instinct to dovetail her knees, closing her legs. He held her thighs apart forcefully.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh,” he said sternly, as he bent his head to her, still holding her gaze. Elizabeth was breathing, quick hard gasps, trembling as mortification, desire, curiosity all mixed. Unable to take her eyes off him as his tongue darted out, touching her, sharp, pointed flicks—she gasped again, covering her mouth in disbelief, watching him. He put one hand against her stomach and gave her a gentle push. “Lie down, Mrs. Darcy.” She gave a passing thought to the possible infamy of a passerby…and then, she thought no more, giving herself up to the raw sensation. Giving herself up to him.

Later, as she lay, gasping and shuddering, in his embrace, hazy with the pleasure bestowed upon her, she whispered, more to herself than to him:

“What wicked things you teach me, Fitzwilliam.”

He shrugged faintly, holding her against himself. He was still dressed, the lawn of his shirt soft and warm against her bare back. After he finished pleasuring her, he did not take her, but came back and held her in his arms, tightly, while she came back down to earth.

“You did not enjoy it?” he asked, mildly, placing gentle kisses at her nape, at the margin of her hair, over the fragile vertebrae in her neck.

“Of course I did,” she reassured him. “More than you could imagine.” She took a deep breath, seeking and not finding the words for what she was feeling. “It was lovely… more than lovely.”

“Well, then,” he said, and it seemed to her as if he would say something else, but then he said nothing, cutting himself off. They were quiet for some time, an unspoken question between them, and then, she dared.

“Is our picnic finished, then? Have we eaten everything there is?”

He laughed quietly behind her and cradled her tightly against him. “Maybe,” he said at length. She caught a note of wistful yearning in his voice. He cradled her in his arms, nuzzling her neck.

“Will,” she whispered. “Will, I want to do the same to you.” He was quiet for some time, and then he whispered, his lips tickling the top of her ear:

“I cannot ask it of you.”

“Why not?” She turned, quickly, in his embrace, burying her face against his neck, inhaling against his skin. It was easier to speak of such things if she did not have to look him in the eye. “Is it so—“

“ ‘Twould be an imposition,” he said. His hands caressed her naked back, picked straight blades of grass out of her unwinding hairdo.

An imposition!” she murmured, then said, with heartfelt conviction. “How can pleasing you can be an imposition?”

“Sweeting,” he whispered, touched. He pressed her tightly against himself, letting her feel just how much she had pleased him.

“It would not be an imposition,” she repeated, firmly.

“You have never done it.” She heard hesitation in his voice.

“Never,” she agreed. “But there is a first time for everything. How difficult can it be?”

He laughed, quietly. “It is not thought politick to impose oneself upon a lady in such a manner.”

She gave a little frustrated snort and pushed him away. “Very well, then. If you do not want me—“ She rolled away, and started to reach for her discarded corset, when, putting one hand upon her shoulder, he pulled her back into a tight embrace. His mouth covered hers, carnal, and she gasped and held her breath as he kissed her, moaning and straining against him as she kissed him back. She felt his hand, on hers, pressing it below the waistband of his trousers. Shocked, she felt his flesh through the fabric. It was amazing how a man’s body worked; how she was able to make him writhe and moan with a simple press of her hand.

Oh, but it was not all that simple. For as he released her and leaned back on his arms, taking deep shuddering breaths, Elizabeth was at a loss as to her next move.

“What do I do?” she asked, feeling somewhat idiotic. “You have me at a disadvantage, Will.”

He grinned at her. “Well, I suppose, undressing me somewhat…further would help.“ He grinned again and rolled his eyes, and—oh wonder—blushed. “Just a little bit further, Lizzy.”

“Ah,” she said, faintly. She banished modesty and embarrassment and set upon following his direction. The buttons on his falls were tight and small, and she frowned over them, laboriously pushing them out of their holes. That accomplished, she pulled the trousers down his legs and off, then, thoughtfully, pulled up his long-tailed shirt. Immediately, he whipped it over his head, reclining before his in all his naked glory. Elizabeth shivered, deliciously, feasting her eyes on his form, stretched out before her.

“Oh what a handsome fellow you are,” she murmured, gently swirling one finger around and around his belly-button. He smiled back at her, and even attempted a little bow, which, in his present position and considering his present lack of any attire, looked rather comical.

“Why, thank you, ma’am.”

Elizabeth turned her attention to the evidence of his desire for her and studied it carefully and at length. She had seen it before—once, to be exact, if a whole night of feverish lovemaking could count for “once”—but seeing it in bright sunlight was somehow different. As was seeing it as a project to embark upon. Quite focused upon her task, she knelt between his open legs.

“Where?” she asked him.

“Oh, everywhere, Lizzy.” He leaned up on his elbows, staring at her. Then, taking her hand, he pressed it, once again, over his arousal. “Here,” he said, “here would be good.” He released her hand. “Please.”

It was certainly there, she thought, quivering a little at her touch, hardening ever further under her curious fingers. He drew in his breath at the way she caressed him, up and over the heavy pliable stalk and its silky head. He sighed, gratified, when she fingered a ridge on the inside. She looked up at him, shy:

“Is this good?”

He nodded, slowly, eyes still closed.

Stretching out on his back, he gave himself up to her ministrations. Elizabeth, growing ever bolder, leaned lower over him, brushing him with her hair, now unwound. A spark shot through her as he brushed her naked breast; she tried doing it again, moving it to please them both. All the while listening to the sounds that came from him, which ranged from quiet contented sighs, to gasps, to outright groans.

She felt his hands in her hair, gently pushing her forth. Anchoring his hips with her hands, she carefully touched him with the tip of his tongue. Her hair fell around her, concealing his face from her, but the sound he made was eloquent enough. She licked him up and down for some time, listening attentively to his moans. Flipping her hair out of her eyes, she reared up to look in his face and found him staring at her, watching her with eyes that were desperate and anxious.

“Now what?” she asked, softly. His eyes drifted closed, as he took her hand, pointing blindly to the spot that most pleased him. She followed his directions, flicking her tongue, over and around him, focusing on the bits and places he showed her. She wrapped one hand around him, holding him firmly in place, and gasped when his hand came over hers, squeezing even harder.

Catching his eye, she saw him wink at her:

“You cannot hurt me like this,” he said. She bent her head to him again, and watched his rapt expression, eyes lidded, lips parted, drinking in her every touch. She was beginning to find favor with this particular method: it was exhilarating to feel such control over him, when one little flick of her tongue seemed to send him to such frenzy. Holding him with one hand, she kissed the tip of him for some time. Slow, noisy kisses he seemed to love, if the soft sounds of pleasure emanating from him were any indication. Inspired, Elizabeth swirled her tongue around the head, so that a drop of clear salty liquid melted on her tongue, gently licking the veined underside, lashing her tongue against his silky hardness. His back arched, and he could not stop moaning. His fingers were entangled in her tresses, pressing her on.

Then, rearing up, he said, plaintively:

“Elizabeth!”

Lifting her head, she looked at him. He was trembling, a fine nervous shiver that went through his entire large frame. Elizabeth flicked her tongue again over the head of his penis and watched his body jerk quickly.

“What is it?” she murmured. “What do you want me to do?”

He drew a sharp breath, and she was surprised to see him blush deeply. “I want you—I mean—would you kindly—“ He rolled his eyes and swore under his breath, drawing an amused smile from her. His voice rumbled, low and hoarse, when he said: “Would you take me in your mouth?” He sighed, and added: “Please?”

She blinked at him. “What?” His shoulders shook as he laughed, but his laughter dissolved into a groan halfway through.

“Take me,” he repeated, slowly. “Put your mouth over me. It is how this is done. You wanted to know, did you not?”

“Oh,” she said, lost for a moment. She furrowed her brow. “I thought it was—“ She had thought it was exactly what he had done to her; but apparently, different measures were called for in his case.

“You have to account for the differences in physique,” he explained, one hand cupping her cheek. “Do you think you could, Lizzy?” he asked longingly. “I told you it was a bit of an imposition,” he added, seeing her somewhat long face.

Elizabeth exhaled.

“No imposition,” she said. “‘Tis only that… you will need to direct me a little more, sir. I do not know how.”

He groaned again and reached for her hand. “Look,” he said. “No, do not look. Rather close your eyes and feel.”

She obeyed, greedily devouring every sensation as his mouth engulfed her middle finger, in a move that was so incredibly erotic, she well-nigh swooned on the spot. His demonstration was illustrative enough, and by the time he finally released her, they were both panting with lust. She opened her eyes, slowly, only to see him resting on his back, one arm flung across his eyes. He was inviting her to continue, she saw, offering himself to her, and begging her indulgence. Elizabeth leaned her head to him.

Slowly, she did to him exactly what he had done to her a moment ago.

At first, the exercise proved somewhat awkward. His size itself presented a challenge, as was the rocking motion of his hips he seemed unable to contain. Still, she knew, he was holding himself back. His hands moved in her hair, fingers stroking gently, but did not truly push her. She could lift her head, if she so wished, she could stop altogether. He was shuddering with each breath he took. One hand entangled in her curls, the other was grasping the blanket; casting it a quick look, Elizabeth noticed how white his knuckles were, how fierce his grip. Still, he held himself in check; and soon, it became a challenge to her to upset his dearly-bought equilibrium. Feeling more and more at ease with every moment, Elizabeth delighted in hearing him take deep, hoarse breaths. She moved her mouth as far down as she could (which was not, admittedly, so very far), all the while swirling her tongue around him in a slow, luxurious, tantalizing manner. Experimentally, she drew her teeth over him, ever so lightly. She was satisfied to notice that he gave in, finally, letting go of all control, his hips thrusting wildly.

Then, he made a sound above her, a quick, urgent groan deep in his throat.

“Lizzy!” he murmured. His hands tugged, frantically, on her hair and shoulders. “Please, stop!”

She looked up to see him leaning up on his arms, staring at her wildly. He was shaking visibly, his chest heaving.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked. Her jaw ached, and she rubbed it, unthinking. He laughed, ruefully, reaching for her, pulling her into a close embrace, kissing the top of her head.

“I told you it would be an imposition, Lizzy. I am sorry for it…”

She sighed as she arched against him. “Not an imposition. A pleasure,” she murmured. “I adore you,” she whispered against his shoulder. “And I am mad about this.” Her hand brushed, lightly, the engorged tip of him, and he gasped. He looked down at her, surprised and gratified.

“Truly?” he asked, disbelieving.

Elizabeth sighed. “Perhaps, if I cannot convince you, this can.” She took his hand and slipped it, quickly, between her legs. It was a bold thing to do; and for a second, she held her breath, wondering if he would be offended. But he gasped as his fingers sank into her slick wetness.

“You did enjoy it,” he murmured, shocked.

“More than I can say,” she whispered.

“Oh my love,” he said, moved, and kissed her mouth lingeringly. “What am I to do with one such as you, my darling?” he murmured against her cheek. His fingers caressed her below her ruched-up skirts, deftly, making her lose the track of everything but their sinuous movement upon her flesh.

“Will?” she murmured, against the sensuous reverie that threatened to consume her. “Why did you stop me just now?”

He sighed above her ear, just as her hands took possession of him again. “Do you know how close I was?”

“Close?” she repeated, dumbly, before realizing what he meant. “Oh!”

“Yes. Another moment of this, and I should have spilled myself in your mouth.”

“Oh,” she repeated, again. “But is it not… good? Do you not want to?”

He gave an amused little snort. “Very urgently, after all your ministrations,” he confessed. “But—“ He sighed again. “It could be quite overwhelming for you. I did not want to frighten you away.”

She pushed him away and sat up. “I always finish what I’ve started, sir,” she said, sounding important. She wondered whether she was making a mistake; she had never even seen it, much less tasted it. (She did not know whether it was fit for drinking, either.)

To her surprise, this time, he did not put up any resistance. “You’ve had your warning,” he said, laughing, and plopped backwards on the grass. But, before she had taken her position, an idea struck him. “Come here,” he said, urgently, and a second later, she found herself in quite an untenable pose, on her hands and knees, turned the other way from him.

“Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, feeling her face flare red. “This is so—“

“—very sweet,” he completed her sentence, as, to her further mortification, he drew her one leg over his chest, so that she was now straddling him. “Well?” he asked, his fingers parting her, his tongue making its first light, tentative flick, so that she moaned and arched above him. “What are you waiting for, Mrs. Darcy?” He sounded almost stern. “Finish what you’ve started,” he ordered, hoarsely, even as Elizabeth felt ready to melt. She forced herself to focus on him, on his pleasure, his release long overdue. Arching over him, she took him in her mouth again.

This time, it was even harder, for she was torn between her own pleasure and his. He drove her to distraction, making it well-nigh impossible for her to concentrate enough to set any kind of rhythm. Elizabeth fought the tide of her own desire, trying, in vain, to pay more attention to him. Still, eventually, she simply gave up, laying her head against his hip. His skin there was very tender, very warm, and it smelled of sun and bitter grass. She kissed him there as she closed her eyes, feeling his grip tighten on her from behind, feeling the pleasure grow and grow until it consumed all of her. It left her winded, breathless, mindless. She cried out; she must have, for there was no-one else from whom that sound might have come. Later, coming to, she would wake from her sensual reverie and wonder at her own shamelessness.

But that would be later. Right now, she felt him tremble under her.

“Please.” It was all he said to her, his voice husky and full of yearning, but his meaning was exceedingly clear to her. She did not stop to consider either the fact that they were outside, or her rather incongruous position. Instead, she took a deep breath and rose to her knees, reapplying herself to the task at hand. She did so with unconditional vigor, slipping off him, easing herself back between his legs, putting her mouth over him. He cried out, softly, when she took him, his hands grasping the blanket frantically. Then, one hand flew to her head, caressing her scalp, guiding her, urging her forth. It was easy enough to follow, and she continued, reveling in his gasps and moans and low visceral growls and sensual shivers that went through him, reveling in the way he sounded, and felt, and tasted. On an instinct, thinking he might enjoy it, she slipped one hand under him, gently palming his drawn-up testicles, drawing from him another sharp gasp. Looking up at him, she released him briefly, intending to ask him how he liked it. His eyes were wide and dark, trained upon her as she gently swirled her tongue around the head of his erection. He reached, frantically, for her, his hands anchoring tightly in her hair, pushing her head down, making her continue. Well, she thought with all the philosophy afforded to her at the moment, I suppose this is riposte enough.

Soon enough, his movements quickened and became erratic, losing all rhythm, and his hands clenched on top of her head. Hold on, Elizabeth thought, wryly, as he bucked and shuddered, moaning with each thrust, his flesh throbbing against the roof of her mouth. Perhaps a more experienced lover would read those signs for what they were; but to Elizabeth, they did not serve a warning. When, with a cry that seemed ripped from his chest, he spilled himself in her mouth, her fingers dug, bruising, in the skin of his hips, as she received him, swallowing convulsively.

Elizabeth felt him sigh, deeply, and relax, coming back to earth. His hands rested, gentle, on her shoulders, pulling her up to lie in his embrace. So this is how it is. She could still taste him on her tongue when he held her chin in one hand and kissed her deep and lingeringly. Shocked, she gasped to protest, and he only deepened the kiss even more, sliding his tongue in her mouth.

“Thank you, my sweet,” he murmured, releasing her. He was looking at her, a drunk, impassioned smiling gaze, eyes lidded heavily. She shrugged, demure.

“My pleasure,” she said. He grinned.

“We should do it again sometime, Mrs. Darcy.” She felt herself growing red in the face, both with embarrassment and pleasure.

“I take it you are pleased, then?” she inquired shyly.

“So much that I am afraid, I shall trouble you for it again before long.”

All of a sudden, she became aware of the summer day around them, of the birds chirping gaily just above her head, and the baking sunlight on her bare back. She felt no shame for what had transpired, only joy that she had been able to please him so well. She laid her chin on his chest, on her folded hands, staring in his eyes.

“You only need to ask,” she whispered.

Comments

( 10 comments — Leave a comment )
zakat451
Apr. 5th, 2005 04:49 am (UTC)
Haha, yes!More porn!
bagira
Apr. 5th, 2005 04:50 am (UTC)
Go away!!! 'Tis not for you!!! If you don't stop making fun of me,I'll cut you out of this group!!!
zakat451
Apr. 5th, 2005 04:54 am (UTC)
Lulzzz
bagira
Apr. 5th, 2005 04:57 am (UTC)
Be-be-be. :P Going to sleep now. Good-night!
margarit
Apr. 5th, 2005 04:56 am (UTC)
Note to self 1: do not read this at work :)
Note to self 2: add to favorites
Note to self 3: try to think of something else than having a picnic with Mr Darcy (or Colin Firth for that matter)
Note to Bagira: thanks for a very pleasant evening! Indeed :)

bagira
Apr. 5th, 2005 04:58 am (UTC)
YW :) thanks for reading. :-)))
vasechkin
Apr. 5th, 2005 05:54 am (UTC)
афтар жжот! )))))
goldenapple82
Apr. 5th, 2005 05:56 am (UTC)
wow...this goes into memories immediately. :) thanks for anice distraction from studying
carthia
Apr. 5th, 2005 08:58 am (UTC)
Ah, I remember this story! Indeed, it would be hard to forget, since I reread it every few weeks :P Yummy!
cannibal
Apr. 19th, 2005 04:42 pm (UTC)
Better, much better, more foreplay. My goodness, such sensual writing from such a comely wench! Only one thing rang slightly untrue, the line, "Why, thank you, ma’am." I would use the term ma'am to an older lady, but that's a southern thing, and in England, servants or the lower class would use Mum to a lady, (also short for Madame) but it jangled against my nerves for an upper-class husband to use it to a wife that he was either romantically involved with or who was slightly younger or of slightly lower class than he. If he used the word, he would say Madame, since he was well-bred enough to know french, but would be much more likely to say Mademoiselle, Miss, My Dear or even My Lady... I would use 'demoiselle, but that may be mostly a New Orleans thing. A Brit of that time period might use Mam'selle, but again, that might be more lower class. I might use Milady, but I'm afraid that is more pretentious and put on... probably okay for regency romance, but not sure if it is actually how they talked.
( 10 comments — Leave a comment )

Profile

default
bagira
Три орешка для Золушки
I am deranged, but so, so playful! (c)

Latest Month

August 2014
S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930
31      

Tags

Powered by LiveJournal.com