An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Her name is Fleur and she doesn't wear knickers. In the venue's immaculate ladies' room, the photographer she's supposed to be questioning the furthest thing from her mind, Tonks lets her thumb stray into the cleft of Fleur's lovely arse. Fleur moans something in French.
“I want to fuck you,” Tonks says, her other hand on the back of Fleur's beautiful neck. “Come home with me?”
Fleur shakes her head.
“No,” she says, her smile wicked. “Here.”
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I tried my hand at Flonks. Also <3 <3 <3 Kraftwerk.









