Note: This story was written with assistance by an AI. I provided prompts and edited the results to make sense, creating something resembling a full story.

The Georgia sun hung thick as molasses over the dusty canyon, a heavy, golden blanket that made the very air seem to swim. Yosemite Sam, a walking powder keg in a ten-gallon hat, stomped his boots so hard the scorpions scattered. “Consarn it, varmint! When I get my hands on that dern rabbit, I’m gonna tan his hide and use his ears for dusters!”

His latest scheme—a convoluted plot involving a fake deed to the entire canyon and a nitro-glycerine-laced carrot—had, predictably, backfired. Spectacularly. Now he was out five hundred dollars and the last shred of his already threadbare dignity.

From behind a large, conveniently placed saguaro cactus, a pair of long, grey ears twitched. Bugs Bunny, leaning against the prickly plant with an air of utter nonchalance, finished polishing a carrot on his chest fur. “What a maroon,” he muttered around a crisp bite. “Always with the nitro. So unrefined.” He chewed thoughtfully, his eyes glinting with that familiar, dangerous merriment. Sam’s ranting provided the perfect soundtrack for a new plan to hatch in his brilliant, devious mind. Cross-dressing? A classic. A southern belle? Now that had panache.

He ducked into his rabbit hole—which was, on the inside, far more spacious than any law of physics should allow, complete with a full-length mirror and a walk-in wardrobe—and got to work. It wasn’t just about throwing on a dress; it was about becoming the character. He selected a gown of ruffled peach chiffon that would make a Georgia peach blush with envy, its bodice laced tight to create a suggestion of a figure he most certainly did not possess. A wide-brimmed hat, adorned with silk flowers and a delicate veil, obscured his face and, crucially, his ears. He practiced his walk, a delicate sway of the hips that felt utterly alien, and pitched his voice into a high, honeyed drawl.

“Mah stars and garters,” he whispered to his reflection, fluttering his eyelashes. “Ah do declare, this ol’ canyon is just dreadfully parched. A lady could simply faint from the heat.” He smirked. It was perfect.

Emerging from a different rabbit hole exit further down the canyon, near the trickling stream Sam was currently polluting with his furious spitting, Bugs arranged himself on a sun-bleached log as if he’d been there for hours, a delicate lace fan fluttering in his hand.

Sam, mid-tirade, stopped dead. His bushy eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. He blinked, once, twice, as if trying to clear a mirage. There, in the shimmering heat haze, sat a vision. A woman. A lady. The most beautiful, refined creature he had ever laid his bloodshot eyes upon.

He immediately yanked off his hat, crushing it against his chest. “M-Ma’am,” he stammered, his voice losing its customary bellow and dropping into an awkward, gravelly whisper. “I… I do beg your pardon. I didn’t see you there.”

Bugs looked up, allowing the veil to obscure just enough. “Why, land’s sakes, don’t you worry your handsome little head none,” he cooed, the southern accent dripping like warm syrup. “A big, strong fella like you, workin’ so hard out here in this dreadful heat. It’s a wonder you ain’t all tuckered out.”

Sam puffed out his chest, his mustache bristling with pride. “Workin’ hard is what I do, ma’am! Name’s Sam. Yosemite Sam. I’m a… a prospector. Of justice!” He had no idea what that meant, but it sounded impressive.

“Is that a fact?” Bugs fluttered his eyelashes again, peeking over the top of his fan. “Well, Ah am just a poor, lonely thing, travelin’ through these parts. Mah name is… Lulabelle. Lulabelle LaFleur.” He nearly broke character at the sheer absurdity of it, but managed to turn the laugh into a delicate, tinkling cough.

Sam was entranced. He shuffled closer, his boots kicking up little clouds of dust. “Ain’t safe for a lady out here, Miss Lulabelle. There’s a varmint… a rabbit… a dangerous, deceitful critter on the loose!”

“Oh, my!” Bugs gasped, bringing a gloved hand to his chest. “A wabbit? How perfectly dweadful! Ah’m simply terrified of the fuzzy little things.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, the motion causing the peach chiffon to rustle enticingly. “But you look like you could protect a lady from just about anything, Mistah Sam.”

That was all the encouragement Sam needed. For the next hour, he regaled “Lulabelle” with wildly exaggerated tales of his own bravery, while Bugs listened, nodding and gasping in all the right places, all the while slowly, subtly, leading the lovesick cowboy back towards the secluded shade of a nearby rock overhang.

“It’s so much cooler in here,” Bugs purred, sinking down onto a soft patch of dry grass. “So… private.” He let the fan drop to his side, his gaze holding Sam’s.

Sam’s brain, never his primary organ, seemed to short-circuit completely. The combination of the heat, the isolation, and the seemingly willing beauty before him overwhelmed every last one of his defenses. The thought of Bugs Bunny was a distant memory, vaporized by the potent cocktail of lust and southern charm.

“Private… yeah,” Sam breathed, his voice husky. He dropped to his knees before her, his hands trembling as he reached out, not with his usual violent intent, but with a shocking, clumsy tenderness. One calloused hand cupped Bugs’s cheek through the veil. “You’re… you’re the purtiest thing I ever did see, Lulabelle.”

Bugs’s internal monologue was a screaming siren of ‘Oh no. Nonononono. This has gone too far. Abort! Abort mission!’ But externally, Lulabelle merely let out a soft, breathy sigh. “Why, Mistah Sam… Ah do believe you’re gonna make a lady blush.”

It was too late for retreat. Sam surged forward, his mouth crashing against the veil in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Bugs recoiled internally, the scratchy wool of Sam’s mustache a unique form of torture. But then Sam’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back onto the grass, and the sheer, absurd physicality of the situation took over.

Sam fumbled with the intricate lacing of the gown’s bodice, his fingers all thumbs. “Consarn this fancy frippery!” he growled, and with a grunt of impatience, he simply grabbed the neckline and tore. The peach chiffon gave way with a loud rip, revealing the flat, furry chest of a very alarmed rabbit.

There was a frozen moment. Sam stared, his mind trying to process the anatomical impossibility. The smooth, grey fur. The complete lack of… well, anything he was expecting.

Bugs held his breath. The jig, as they say, was up.

But then, a miracle born of pure, unadulterated horniness occurred. Sam’s eyes, glazed with desire, simply reframed the evidence. “So… so delicate,” he rasped, as if the fur were the finest silk. “Like a… a baby bird.”

Bugs’s jaw nearly hit the floor. ‘A baby bird? He thinks my chest fur is like a baby bird?! This guy is dumber than a box of rocks and hornier than a jackrabbit in July!’

Any further coherent thought was driven from Bugs’s mind as Sam’s wandering hands slid down, hiking up the voluminous skirts of the gown. The cool canyon air hit Bugs’s bare legs, and then his cotton tail. He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘This is it. This is how I go. Not with a bang, but with a Yosemite Sam.’

He felt Sam fumbling with his own trousers, the clink of a belt buckle, the rustle of coarse denim being shoved down. And then… contact.

Bugs’s eyes flew open.

All the tall tales, all the bluster, and Yosemite Sam had never once lied about this. The man was, to put it in the plainest terms possible, hung like a damned stallion. The sheer, daunting size of the member now pressing insistently against him made Bugs’s own reproductive strategy feel woefully inadequate. A cold dread, entirely separate from the ruse being discovered, washed over him. This was going to hurt.

“Mmph! Nnngh—wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute, partner—” Bugs started, the southern accent slipping into his normal Brooklyn cadence.

But Sam was beyond listening. He was a force of nature, a volcano of pent-up frustration and newfound passion finally erupting. “I gotta have ya, Lulabelle!” he grunted, his voice a raw, animalistic thing.

There was no more finesse, no more pretense. Sam positioned himself, and with a single, powerful thrust of his hips, he sheathed himself to the hilt inside the disguised rabbit.

“HNNNGGGGGGGGGGH!”

The sound that ripped from Bugs’s throat was not a moan of pleasure. It was a strangled, guttural cry of pure, unadulterated shock and violation. It was a sound that started deep in his soul and scraped its way out, tearing his vocal cords to shreds on the way. His entire body went rigid, back arching off the ground, his gloved hands scrabbling uselessly at the dirt. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The world telescoped down to this one, searing point of impossible, stretching, burning fullness.

Sam, meanwhile, was in heaven. “Yeeeee-HAW!” he roared, his voice echoing off the canyon walls. He began to move, a brutal, piston-like rhythm that shook Bugs’s entire frame. Each thrust was a seismic event, pounding into him with the force of a runaway locomotive.

“Ooooh! Aaaah! Ggggghhh! S-Sam! Ya great galoot! Unhand me! Nnnngh!” Bugs’s protests were broken, fragmented things, lost between the overwhelming physical sensations and the remnants of his failing disguise. Tears of pain and utter humiliation pricked at the corners of his eyes.

But Sam just mistook his cries for ecstasy. “That’s it, sugar! Sing for me!” he bellowed, driving into him even harder, faster. The rock overhang seemed to tremble with the force of his passion. “Hoo-wee! You’re tighter’n a knothole in a lumberyard!”

Bugs could only gasp and wheeze, his mind a whirling carousel of regret and surreal agony. He’d wanted to outwit Sam, to make a fool of him. He had never, in his wildest, most twisted scenarios, imagined it would end with him getting brutally, magnificently sodomized by the very man he was trying to deceive. The peach chiffon was ruined, his dignity was in tatters, and his insides felt like they’d been rearranged by a mining explosion.

Sam’s pace became frantic, his breathing ragged. He was close. He wrapped his arms around Bugs’s torso, crushing him in a sweaty, hairy embrace. “I’m a-fixin’ to… to… GIDDYUP!” he screamed, and with one final, earth-shattering thrust, he emptied himself deep inside the cross-dressing rabbit, a long, shuddering groan of release tearing from his lungs.

For a full minute, the only sounds were Sam’s heavy panting and the faint, pathetic whimpering coming from Bugs.

Slowly, Sam pulled out, collapsing onto the grass beside him with a satisfied sigh. “Well, I’ll be hornswoggled,” he mumbled, a blissful smile on his face. “That was… that was somethin’ else, Lulabelle.”

Bugs lay perfectly still, staring up at the cracks in the rock ceiling. He felt… used. Defiled. And strangely, profoundly aware of a deep, throbbing ache that was going to make sitting down a challenge for a week. He slowly, painfully, pushed himself up on his elbows. The torn dress hung off him in rags. The hat was crushed. The veil was askew.

Sam, his sense of post-coital clarity returning, finally took a good, long look. At the long, grey ears now fully visible. At the twitching pink nose. At the familiar, utterly horrified expression on the face of his newfound love.

The color drained from Sam’s face. His mustache seemed to droop. His eyes widened in dawning, apocalyptic horror.

“…varmint?” he whispered, the word barely audible.

Bugs Bunny smoothed down what was left of his dress, cleared his throat with a wince, and in his normal, perfectly calm voice, said, “Well, what did you expect in a Looney Tune, doc? A happy ending?”

He then stood up, adjusted his shredded attire with as much dignity as he could muster, and began the very, very slow and painful walk back to his hole, leaving a utterly broken, traumatized Yosemite Sam staring blankly at the canyon wall, his entire world view shattered into a million tiny, confusing pieces.