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25 March 2014 Natalie Dormer vs Troian Bellisario

Page history last edited by Vassago 10 years ago

AHW: THE HONEYMOON SUITE WITH NATALIE & TROIAN

Posted by Cessna N-101BL on March 25, 2014, 5:40 am

The Restaurant, 1:57 p.m.

Her papaya salad was long since finished and her Thai iced tea nothing but muddy dregs when the chair opposite was drawn back and occupied. Troian Bellisario tapped the screen of her tablet and flipped the cover into place before she even bothered to glance at her lunch date. “You’re twenty-seven minutes late.”

“And you can tell time.” Natalie Dormer said without missing a beat. “Really, Troian, pouting about the wait? I thought better of you, albeit only slightly. As I recall the usual grace period extended to these sort of luncheons is a full half hour. Is our relationship so unpleasant you’d deny me the courtesy given the likes of dear Ms. VanCamp?”

The brunette dipped her head slightly, acknowledging Dormer’s point if not actually agreeing with it. “Emily may have her faults but she’s a maniac when it comes to punctuality. And if we’re being honest--”

“When are we not honest with each other, dear? It seems wrong to lie to anyone I’ve reduced to blubbering tears on so many occasions.”

Troian’s lips pressed together in a thin, pale line that was the only sign of anger. After a moment, she resumed, “As I was saying, I wouldn’t have minded if you’d chosen to make me wait a full hour.”

Natalie’s left eyebrow went up, her expression straight out of the Ian Fleming femme fatale handbook. God, Troian hated that woman. “And why is that, dear? I’d like to know, strictly for future reference.”

“With that much time I could have perused our last FCBA bout a full six times or gone over the Pretend House footage at least twice.” Bellisario answered with a lack of malice that was itself hateful.

The blonde’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Did you call me here to gloat, Troian? That’s hardly becoming of a fluke winner.”

Bellisario didn’t answer for a moment and Dormer knew she was remembering the sound of her screams echoing off the walls. God, Natalie hated that woman. “I called you here because we need to end this. Now.”

Natalie looked surprised, though not at all displeased. “Here? If you insist, but I would have thought someone so delusional would have grander aspirations for her last stand.”

“If you made so much as a move I’d slam your face into the tabletop.” Troian smiled when Natalie smiled, then reached into her purse and removed a small key attached to a slightly oversized plastic tag. “I booked us a room for tonight. The Honeymoon Suite, in fact.”

“Certainly not the Bellagio, judging from that key ring,” Dormer sighed dismissively, “that’s a shame, I’d been looking forward to making you scream in that oversized hot tub of--”

“Dream bigger, Natty. It’s the Honeymoon Suite at Coldheart Canyon.”

There was the briefest flicker of surprise and fear in Natalie’s eyes and Troian smiled just enough to let her know it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Dormer tapped a well-manicured finger against the table before she deigned to answer. “For someone who’s fighting career consists of so little, you’re risking a great deal. Are you really willing to throw it all away against me, sweet Troi?”

“I really am. Are you?”

“You made me scream like a rabbit in a snare. Of course I accept you silly bytch.”

A word on the venue. The Honeymoon Suite in the hotel snuggled against the far side of Coldheart Canyon had played host to some of the most vaunted confrontations in Hollywood’s history not because of a spectacular view or some staggering price tag, but because of a feature that was, as far as anyone knew, entirely unique. Thanks to some freak of architecture and acoustics, sounds made in the Honeymoon Suite carried perfectly all throughout the rest of the building.

The original owners had been horrified by this lurid accident and were very close to remodeling the room when the head of a certain major studio (which shall remain nameless) stepped in and bought the hotel for three times its actual value. Sensing a creative answer to a vexing problem, this fellow began renting out the Honeymoon Suite to actresses who were willing to fight for a choice role, just not in front of the usual leering crowd. At the appointed time the combatants would go up to the Honeymoon Suite while the agents, casting directors and other interested parties would convene in the bar two floors below. Shortly thereafter the sounds of combat would fill the room and though none of the guests ever saw the participants throw so much as a slap, there had never been a doubt as to who won a fight in that particular arena.

And now Troian had booked it for the night.

The Kitchen, 9:07 p.m.

What was supposed to be an artistic drizzle of balsamic fig reduction instead looked like an idiot’s finger painting and the executive chef was not pleased. “C‘mon Frank!” he barked across the clattering room. “What’s with this shit? You can do better in your sleep!”

The sous-chef grimaced and looked up from yet another salad he was trying not to ruin. “Yeah, I can. But I’ve never had to do it when it sounded like there was a murder going on up--”

CRAAACK! “Is that all you’ve brought tonight, you puling wretch?” the haughty, disembodied and unmistakably British voice snarled in his ear. “You summoned me to this charming little curiosity, the least you can do is provide a few moments of genuine UNNNNNGGGGHHH!”

An invisible someone backpedaled into something large and heavy, then squeaked to the floor with a dull thump. Then another voice muttered, “Did you actually call me a puling wretch? Christ, and they say I’M arrogaNNRRGGHH!”

Far more worried about the salad course than what was going on upstairs, the executive chef nudged Frank out of the way and said, “Look, I can handle this. You can finish up the mashed potatoes and if I hear even one word from a guest about lumps it’s coming out of your paycheck. Got me?”

“I gotcha boss.”

The Billiards Room, 9:20 p.m.

“Give it to me straight, Shay.” Missy Peregrym said while the other brunette lined up her shot. “How well do you and Troi get along?”

Mitchell smiled, but didn’t look up from the table. It didn’t matter the circumstances or the crowd, eventually someone was bound to ask. Figuring Missy deserved something better than the usual rote answer, she replied with a question of her own. “Do you know why the CW hasn’t been able to field a tag team that can hang with Troi and I? Nine ball, corner pocket.”

There was brisk ‘snak’ and a loud shriek of anger, the latter of which covered up Missy’s curse of disgust when the ball went exactly where Mitchell said it would.

“Ego’s always been the problem at the CW,” Peregrym said as Shay stalked after her next shot. “You’re telling me that’s not a problem for the two of you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Troi and I aren’t competing for the same spot because we’re two very different kinds of fighter. I’m the sledgehammer and she’s the scalpel. I smash holes. She cuts to pieces. It’s a different formula but if you need proof just remember who beat Lotz and Law last month.”

“That’s not really fair,” Peregrym countered, “Katrina didn’t even get to tag in.”

“My point exactly.” Shay smiled. “Five ball, side pocket.”

She drew back to sink it and this time the scream from upstairs caught her by surprise. The ball skidded across the felt, bounced off the edge and caromed out into the middle of the table. “Dammit Bellisario,” Mitchell said to the ceiling, “a little warning next time?” Then to Missy, “Mulligan?”

“And let you walk off with even more of my money? Hell no.”

The Bar, 9:29 p.m.

Emily Blunt sat alone with her third glass of zinfandel, her mood growing darker and darker with the disgustingly familiar sound of Natalie’s palm SMACKING vulnerable brunette flesh. “I swear Troian, if you let that smutty little chav leave that room under her own power I will make sheer hell of what little remains of your professional existence.”

The Pool 9:44 p.m.

Thum-THUMP! Thum-THUMP! Thum-THUMP!

Lucy Hale couldn’t stand that noise.

It sounded like it was coming from the deep end of the pool which was bullshit because she KNEW it was coming from a few floors overhead, but #### all if she wasn’t starting to believe Coldheart Canyon had developed a sick, arrhythmic heartbeat. “What the hell are they doing up there?” she asked of no one in particular.

Sarah Carter looked away from a surprisingly cordial conversation with Amy Jo Johnson and said, “That’s Muy Thai Knees from the clinch, kid.” She paused, listened to another Thum-THUMP, then nodded confirmation. “Whoever’s working them is doing ‘em right too. Not too fast, not too slow, hitting the same place every time, she’s hunting jug if I’m not, pardon, that’s tummy she’s after. Getting a lot of it too if I’m not mistaken.”

Hale was simultaneously impressed and weirded out by the blonde’s expertise on the subject. Her nerves were not settled when the thumping transitioned to a series of wheezing squeaks. “Nuuuhh… NO!” huffed a voice so breathless she couldn’t make it out. “STOP THAT! DON’T YOU DARE YOU CHEAP b###h, THAT’S NOT FAIRRRAAAAAHHHHH GAAAAAAAAHHH!”

“Any idea what THAT was?” she asked Carter in the ominous silence that followed.

Sarah smiled prettily. “That? That’s end game, kid.”

The Honeymoon Suite, 9:55 p.m.

“Grrhhhhhh…guuhhh… get OFF of me.” Natalie’s words were slurred, not because she was exhausted (though she was) but because Troian was squatted heavily on her left cheek. The blonde’s willingness to tug her opponent’s togs came back to haunt her now as the distended material meant there was far more nearly bare ass on her face than she would have liked. There was no answer from above save a single rude fist PWAAAKED deep into her navel. The insolence of that blow jangled the blonde’s nerves and she bucked ferociously, an impressive show of flailing limbs and jostling jugs that did nothing to loosen the bras that bound her wrists and ankles.

“This is tainted….. you know that, don’t you?” Dormer hissed as the brunette continued to hold her silence. “Everyone down there knows you tied me up. They know there’s no way you could beat me without OOOOOOWWW I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH YOU SAVAGE TWAT!”

Troi set her fingers against Natalie’s tummy and raaaaaaaaaaaaaked all the way up the undersides her breasts. Not quite done, she took the Englishwoman’s nipples between thumb and forefinger and twisted in a sadistic corkscrew. “Maybe.” Troian finally answered. “They also knew you jumped me in a limo the moment I’d stepped off a cross country flight. Didn’t stop them… or you, from enjoying my pain any more, did it? Now look at the ceiling, Natalie. Don’t make me make you.”

Natalie blanched, knowing full well what the American intended. “Never. Never, you gawky cunt. I’d lick Blunt’s feet before I’d kiss your AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH FAAAAAAAAAHHHHK YOOOOOOOOUUU!”

Bellisario finally avenged the half a dozen or so wedgies she’d suffered when she snatched a handful of white bottoms and yanked them into the blonde’s clefts fore and aft. The sheer pain of it arched Dormer’s back and turned her gaze toward the ceiling. She had a moment to admire the miniature chandelier directly over the bed before Troian slid back and sat upon her upturned nose.

“That’s right, fight it Natty.” she huffed over the blonde’s muffled shrieks. “Tell yourself it can’t be happening. Tell yourself it’s all a lie. Tell yourself you’re better than me one more time, then take a deep breath and BEG FOR MERCY ANYWAY!”

With that Troian bore down on the Reverse Face Sit and reefed up on the blonde’s unmentionables with more force than she thought possible.

Natalie keened. Natalie wailed. Natalie might’ve begged, but Troi didn’t know for sure, she couldn’t make it out through the dense filter of her own backside. Eventually the blonde’s struggles subsided, as did her shrieks. When both had been quelled for more than ten seconds, Bellisario relinquished her perch, snagged those defenseless briefs from the other side and tugged them down around Dormer’s thighs on principle alone.

The Kitchen, 10:00 p.m.

Frank was just putting the finishing touches on some dessert cocktails when a weary voice called, “Could someone bring the key and a bucket of champagne up to the Honeymoon Suite? I’m in the mood to celebrate. Oh and bring a pair of gloves, I’ve got some garbage that needs to go to the curb.”