Into The Bald Nads: The Salacious Setting Of Sunny, an into the badlands fanfic

INTO THE BALD NADS: THE SALACIOUS SETTING OF SUNNY

By Quillon42

Though civilization seemed to recede to a degree in the wake of some cataclysmic cleansing of synthetic progress, it appeared that humankind was advancing all the more in terms of the intensity of enmity from one to another, as well as in the energy that each expended to eliminate the next.

Caught in the epicenter of a mass transit of traumatic melees was an assassin named Sunny, a killer known in the parlance of this postapocalypse as a "Clipper" and was regularly anything but chipper. He took lives and toiled otherwise for his boss, a "Baron" named Quinn who appeared to be the output of Russell Crowe and either Gambit from the Uncanny Pecker-Mens or otherwise Bayou Billy—and unfortunately, one palpable absence in this latter-day livid landscape was that of any mouthy Maury who would be able to resourcefully resolve such an all-important inquiry of co-paternity.

Epically more pressing at present, however, was the advancing of the querulous Quinn's assassins most assiduous as the latter let themselves now onto the estate of that elusive echidna whose excellence at eliminating enemies was unmatched. Yes, this belle quite belligerent who went recently by The Widow, yet was known previously to most in these wastes as Minerva, she was prepping her fledgling babes in the woods (whom the dame had dubbed Butterflies) to join her in the campaign to cancel out all other owners of land in these terrifying times. Upon their evisceration of all virility in the universe, as was their absolutist and misandrist objective, this maroony miss and her maidens-metamorphosized-into-murderesses would score one for social justice in a way that no Buzzfeeding or Tumblring clapbacker of today could ever hope to effect or imagine.

Yet again, here was Baron Quinn, he aggressing against the gals all the same in this thirdly-chronicled episode of the Badlands into which amicable AMC viewers have diligently delved. Said viewers might recall that, in the official iteration of this manic martial installment, the Widow Minerva had escaped from the clutches of Clippers and Colts when she slipped into a secret passage that bound itself closed via a bookcase.

In this instant alternate offering, however, the pursuing Sunny had shunted most opportunely into the same exclusive alcove and thus kept up his chase of the sangria-scalped siren. As was always the dilio with the doings of these frenetic feudalists of the future, what occurred thereafter was an immediate and explosive engagement between this couple of chopsockily-swording warriors, which presumably only end in the expiration of one or the other (unless there were a distraction by a third person or a recurring fucking tumor-induced embolism, as both had happened infinitely with Quinn).

At any rate, now the tattooed toughy known across the crisis-cringing countryside as Sunny, now he closed in on the haughty hennaed hoyden whom his boss had for so long reviled and desired to do in most dirtily. And oh how sordid the sortie would progress now, amidst all the fists and feeticuffs bandied about by these jaunty jaded combatants.

The second that Sunny had entered the next consecutive chamber with the Widow, he flung forth a relic from a century less savage, a small paired manacle of metal that whirred through the getaway shelter space so urgently and interlocked instantly between the woman he was after and a steel support adjacent. Indeed, once Minerva could make out that it was a rusty pair of handcuffs that moored her to an upright pillar in the middle of the room, she endeavored at first to wrench free…then marking the advance of the enemy upon her, indulged in an evasion ever so ostentatious.

Verily, the threatening redhead now revolved around the gleaming beam to which she was instantly affixed, she warding off the worrisome Sunny with baneful bootings here and there as she twirled again and again around that interloping pole. For his part, Quinn's canny Clipper kicked back like a universally-unwatched Three Ninjas sequel, he tarrying on and on to take out, with his extraordinarily-trained toes, this auburn-follicled trollop once and for all, once and for the Fort which he served for such an aftersocietal age.

But it was a vicious madmadam indeed that the man faced down now, once who challenged him corporeally to his very core, one whom, he realized as he was now holding his own against her most marginally, had found to be rather ravishing and delectable in fact. It was, to be sure, ever the case that in the warmongering WWE that figuratively was this weary world, this Chinese Mandarin Punk had adored the Adept General-Practitioner Lee that was his lady Veil (and he'd earned far more victories in a massacring mix of martial arts than Phil Brooks ever could in any Octagon of Dana White's). Yet there was a furnace fuming from the form of Minerva whose heat Sunny could not help but absorb, an erotic ardor that he could not avoid.

And as much as the two were now extending limbs at one another ever so adversarially…each knew in his or her heart the wild wish to reach for the opponent in a far more amatory, if still so exasperatingly intense, manner.

So it was that Minerva would initiate a physical parley of passion between the two, as the adrenalin inside enabled her to wrench free of the cuffs making her cling to the column alongside her. Before Sunny could acknowledge anything with his mien of perpetual apprehension, the Widow then whisked a bizarre kind of bladed bolo of sorts into each hand, and then with infinite efficiency

[SFFSSSSSHHHHH] [SFFSSSSSHHHHH] [SFFSSSSSHHHHH] [SFFSSSSSHHHH] [SFFSSSSSHHHHH]

rended the threads binding her bodacious, perilous profile, as fleetly and as effortlessly as she wielded those severest of sai blades at the commencement of the Badlands' second episode, so that a beat following she stood before Sunny completely and arousingly stripped of all synthetic trappings save for her lethal pumps so very piceous. Another beat and the brick-maned bitch leapt lightly over her furious foe and, grabbing his shoulders as she passed above, hurled the man heavenward so that his spine struck the ceiling of that same cramped enclosure.

Then, just as Minerva had moseyed so casually soles-wise along the walls of the Quinn Catacombs near to the end of that first fierce season of Badlands lore, here too in the heat of this battle did she vault herself to a surface ordinarily considered strange for foot traffic. In other words, the Widow now popped upward abruptly and pinned her punchy opponent to the very ceiling to which he also remained attached, given Sunny's own physics-flouting prowess in deadly body arts.

Now while she was atop her enemy in this topsy-turvy configuration, the lovely Lady (both in biology and in nobility) sibilated into the stirrup of Sunny's auditory extremity as follows:

"You can witness plainly the way in which my…Bolovaries…have divested me of those fabrics that have bound me and my longings for so many months of misery." She whipped out said bladed bolos once more, their central spheres indeed fashioned from the female reproductive equivalent of a man's testes, the intimate orbs now swaddled in cruel chromium steel, they once belonging perhaps to a Butterfly who bade them donated to the Widow's mission upon the girl's expiration…

…or perhaps the gynecological globes were garnered from Minerva's very own interior design.

Whatever their actual origin here, this armament rather unmentionable was utilized to, somewhat phonetically true to its name, bowl over Quinn's hitbastard hard. Indeed, the brutal balls worked over Sunny with inimitable viciousness, they whipping over the Clipper from his duds to his very dermis underneath, they erasing everything from his leather togs to his lurid tattoos, to the point that there was not a dash of stitch or ink upon the man by the time the truculent temptress was through.

For some reason it was only at that point, when the savage slaying Sun was shorn of all that had corporeally encumbered him, that he beheld the comely coterie of exquisiteness that comprised this other irresistible assailant now. The long lychee legs that were set to accordion outward then inward again and again as Minerva would make her act of mantislike lust upon the man. The rambunctious rambutan belly that receded then roiled out at him repeatedly. The ponderous pectoral pomegranates that would throb tantalizingly before him, they teasingly buffeting his brow as he thrusted against her. Most conspicuously the borscht of the babe's face, features of beet beauty in fact as her countenance loomed flush in front of him in its upside-downness, awkward yet no less enthralling. In a time of so much slaughter and cruelty and doom, the Widow was a strawberries and cream dream, her glistening roseate flesh an inescapable snare of the senses.

They continued their suspension against the ceiling, the enticing redhead and the Asian reaver strong soldiers at the same time, they not unlike the passionate pair of Scarlett and Storm Shadow respectively…even though the Widow was of course also a Baroness by title.

Yea, for another unnecessary narrative analogy, as much as Jade from this pugilistic universe resembled Meredith Grey in that other invented reality regarding the latter's Anatomy (as well as, incidentally, sometimes the profession of medicine), it was Minerva who would serve as the nurse who needed the tenderest of treatments at this time…and we all knew in turn who the McSteamy was during this instant ecstatic experience.

(No, no, no, it's not this author…but thank you.)

Now Sunny permitted himself a furtive glimpse into the undercarriage of his slinky scarlet seductress. Expecting the exhilaration of a vermilion volcano, a cherry cordial ripe for consumption…

…he was instead shocked to see a far pearlier plateau in its place.

Whishing past his head once more were those treacherous weapons worked up by the Widow and her Butterflies. "I do so maintain myself rather…comprehensively with these implements, I must say." Then she drew one of the bolos to her hip, distracting Sunny a critical second.

She capitalized on this to hasten him into herself, the brazen sumptuous Baron now clam-clamping down on the colt, she pruriently prohibiting this Mandarin Chinese Steamy from stealing off.

It was a few minutes later when the somewhat innocent but all impulsive Matilda would make her way into the high-ceiling escape lounge, she seeking to reconnect with her mother and standing aghast as she watched her titian-topped parent hopping invertedly atop the heathen, Minerva moving down and up, down and up, down and up, the wideload watermelons of her blood-blush buttocks wrecking the colt's thoroughly-bred thighs as she worked against him again and again.

"Once you come into the bald nads," went the Widow, as her lower portion continued to fracture the femurs of her opponent-cum-paramour, "you never come out the same."

EPILOGUE

Though Sunny would graduate from colt to regent between Barons, upon his eternal union with the Widow as of now, his body would be rendered all but useless as Minerva had mauled him in their lovemaking to the point that the battler was battered beyond anything Waldo ever went through to end up in his wheelchair.

Yet the man had now found an enrapturing bliss never visited upon him by Veil, one that made the badass beam so much that Tilda stood by almost enviously. She wished to herself that that boy she longed for, that MK Ultra Genuine Draft Deadly Alliance or whatever, would have such eyes for her, rather than the unpleasant onyx ovals he had unleashed upon the world when cut.

It turned out that the mother's idyllic situation was not entirely utopic after all. The time would come when after conception of Sunny's child, the Widow's water would eventually break, the release of this fluid too causing her eyes to flood to black.