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springsmile · 6 months

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the way it is.

[k. bakugo x gn reader]

18+

descr: a suicide attempt sends your captor reeling, and your mind deteriorates in isolation.

warnings: depression, kidnapping, suicide attempt, self-harm, abuse, dehumanization.

wc: 1.5k (tentative lmfao i don’t know)

There was fluid trapped in your sinuses.

Specifically, between your eyebrows and above your nose. It was sore, and tender to the touch. If you pressed on it hard enough, you could forget the humming in your ears and the iciness of the concrete beneath you, but the tantalizing fact would remain: you're shackled to the floor.

He'd put you there because you're... unmanageable. Unworthy of his time, unworthy to be dealt with. You're not important things, an important thing. You weren't even sure you were a thing at all. You felt like nothing. Besides a warm and wet hole to use and love until it broke, you were sure your existence was nothing more than abysmal.

Your last meal was 7 nail bites ago. You'd hit the tender skin underneath. Your eyes had long adjusted to the absence of light.

The heavy iron door creaks open, and you're met with his temperamental stare and gritted sharp teeth. You hand slithered to your neck, you'd had lingering marks from those canines.

"Are you ready to apologize?" He asks gruffly, and you wonder what happened to the rage that festered in your heart. Had it dissipated? You would've given it to him a few days ago, maybe even yesterday, but white noise has enveloped all sense and thought, and left you a portrait of inadequacy.

"I'm sorry." It's remorseless, and there's no tone. It wouldn't satisfy him. Bakugo loved nothing more than the sound of his own voice, and that of your begging.

"No, give me a real fuckin' apology." His footfalls reverberate through the concrete your ear is pressed up against, and ordinarily, you'd find that intimidating. Your joints would've gone rigid and you'd desperately reach deep within yourself to discard your dignity and beg, plea not to be beaten, but the switch was off and there was nothing but the white noise. You saw circular scribbles on the backs of your eyelids.

"I'm sorry." You repeat, no alterations added. It couldn't have been made even if you tried. There was no substance, no emotion left to grapple onto and inject into your empty words.

"Fuck, Y/n." He curses, dropping to his knees at your side. You don't want him to touch you, but much like everything else in this decrepit nightmarish reality, you didn't have control over what happened to you anymore.

His hand comes to thread itself in your hair, and he gives your scalp gentle scratches. You feel like a flea-infested dog at the pound, waiting to be euthanized. Your eyes trail over the marks on your arms, the deep lines in the dirt, waiting for the seeds of satisfaction to be planted and harvested. You smile, taking the sharp side of your nail and dragging it across the rows.

"I don't want to keep you down here. At all. It's not up to me right now, though. Just fucking apologize, and we can go back upstairs." He reasons searching in your eyes for a semblance of life, a trace of existence. "It's all up to you, Y/n."

You sigh, eyes leaden and thick with lethargy. "If I give you want you want, I'll be nothing forever."

The twitch of his eye isn't audible, but the disgruntled sound in the back of his throat was. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Your eyes roll to your hands--they're filthy. Just like the rest of you. Laying in your filth, your mess, whatever was left of your worth. Your nails are trimmed, it's deliberate. Wedged beneath the surface is grime and snot and muck; you contemplate ingesting it, maybe there's some intestine-destroying bacteria, maybe you'd get sick and maybe he'd care.

"I'm sorry," you say, mouth full of sand and bitterness, "I'm sorry, I hurt myself before you could."

"I don't fucking..." he stops, and he's on your level now. It's a little unsettling. He takes you into his arms, carefully, handling you like porcelain, and lays your head in his shoulder despite your state of vulgarity. "Look, I just... I don't want to do this. I don't hurt you on purpose, but you don't learn. You have to learn, Y/n. This is the way it is."

You don’t have the energy to glare, to be upset, to argue to do fucking anything but lay there in his arms though it sickened you and accept that your efforts were unparalleled. Katsuki was never charming, was never compassionate, not until it came down to the pinnacle of your suffering—and what that meant? You didn’t know. Your deathbed, maybe? Maybe if you’d cut deeper, he’d cried.

“Why don’t you care?” You found yourself asking.

His eyes could’ve been on you, on the blood on your arms and your tender inner thighs, or they could’ve been contemplative and remorseful. You don’t want to look at him anymore.

“You think I don’t care?” His voice is clipped and strained, you almost thought he sounded hurt. That’d be hilarious, wouldn’t it?

“I know you don’t care. That’s why you left me down here with inch long cuts in my arms and laying in my own fucking piss.”

Katsuki’s quivering, and you’re not sure whether to chalk it up to anger, upset, or pain. “What was I supposed to do, Y/n? You tried to fucking leave me, I’m pissed. You don’t know your place, you just—you don’t understand. It could’ve been worse.”

“What’s worse than being kidnapped, raped, and beaten half an inch to death?”

“Could you stop? Fuck’s sake…”

He carries you up the stairs with his effortless strength, the same that had been extended to your bones and eye-sockets. The floorboards echo with a familiar hollowness, and resonate with the husk of you, and the flickering mirage of the past.

Despite being well-acquainted with the sole place you’d inhabited for well over five months, after spending a few weeks(?) in that basement, your eyes happened upon minute details and decidedly insignificant idiosyncrasies in the walls and in Bakugo. Katsuki. Depended on the day.

The resistance had wavered, and so did your desire. You’re already nude, and set down in the bathtub gingerly—it’s eggshell white, and there’s a plethora of pubes gathered around the drain. The carpet matches the drapes, huh?

You lift your arms to the dull, bleak light overhead, observing the damage. And you smiled.

“What the hell are you grinning for?” He demands, and you’re unable to discern whether he’s concerned or appalled.

“This is the deepest I’ve ever cut, and it still wasn’t enough to get away from you.” You said emptily, dropping your arms. They ripple the surface with a soft plop. Katsuki shudders as the water smacks his face, and he’s hanging his head in resignation…unrelenting… You could only sense rage, that’s all you ever thought of Katsuki, that he was always pissed and always eager to rough you up if you didn’t listen well enough.

“Am I that horrible? You’d rather die than be with me? Huh?” His voice rises with each syllable. Your eyes roll to the side, watching his countenance crumble, and fuck, it made you happy. “I protect you, I love you, I fucking feed you— you have no damn reason to be miserable, let alone depressed—“

“I’m done, Katsuki. I have nothing left. You took it all. Kill me naked, kill me right now. I don’t care anymore.”

His eyes are shrouded, the snarl on his lips plain as day. “I won’t let you. I… I can fix this. I can fix you. I do care. I love you for God’s sake.”

Your laugh is grey, and it makes his gut wrench. Sickly and pale and spiritless. He’d done this. If he could, Katsuki would’ve done it differently. He would’ve wooed you traditionally, in a way he knew you would’ve liked, accepted, and you’d never turn to a razor blade, you’d never lose your color and your touch. It’d been too long since he’d been blessed by the rays of your smile and your harmonious breath, he couldn’t remember them anymore. He couldn’t remember you.

Katsuki has to accept that this was the way it is now.

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springsmile · 6 months

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attention <3

[t. oikawa x reader]

18+

descr: his pretty little housewife hasn’t been paying attention :(

cw: disassociation , noncon, smut, overstim (?)

the burn on your arm is slight— it stings, it's a furious dark pink, but you're not worried about it like you're worried about when your next menstruation will begin; if it will begin.

you've become exceedingly absentminded. vision goes fuzzy inadvertently, while handling the oven (hence the burn) or during toru's lovemaking. you don't remember who you are, where you are, or who you're with, much to your chagrin, and he's yet to catch on.

your disassociation is masked by compliance and obedience. you appear to be giving in, appear to enjoy your new housewife role, and content in imprisonment. the disassociation is highly advantageous in the bedroom, when toru's hands grip your hips too tightly, leaving black and blue in their midst. when he's rasping into your ear, insisting you're his possession, you're his sweet slut. and with words sharp and crass, his hands do the opposite: intrude the soft and velvety warm of your cunt, the heat sopping, pulsating with each knuckle-deep thrust of his digits, masterfully curling to kiss that spot, the one that makes you throw your head back and scream in ecstasy.

he touches you sweetly, and insults you to filth with his tongue. it's around then the fog clears, and it's around then you know exactly who's cock is lining up with your entrance.

"say my name." he's whispering, hips snapping forward with vigor. you're still embracing the veil over your sight, shrouding your senses and the better of yourself.

“hmm... what?" you murmur in reply, and his thrusting yields, a callous hand gripping your face with little gingerness. the murk of his eyes become less opaque, and your stomach begins to knot.

“what’s the point of fucking you if you’re not even gonna pay attention?” he tuts, where you’d expect frustration, toru was vexed. he sighs, thick and heavy, before his hands come to the intersection of your legs and push forward, pressing your thighs against your chest. “that’s okay, we’ll redirect your focus.”

now he’s impossibly deep, forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching yours. your mouth drops open, and everything becomes narrowed, you’re honed in on everything.

whimpers and whines drool from your mouth, soon occupied, and it’s too much. too fucking much.

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springsmile · 6 months

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removing the cancer

18+ | t. kuroo

descr: (how yandere kuroo deals with your overbearing mother) years of abuse from your overbearing, cancerous mother has transformed you into a feeble version of yourself & kuroo decides to take action.

warnings: parental death, murder, body shaming, emotional neglect from parent, kidnapping, mentions of suicide and self harm. (none of which is explicit or graphic, besides body shaming/neglect.)

how many times had he plucked you from your ball on the ground, a heap of tears, racked by waves of hysteria and betrayal, and cradled you back to security? had he kissed you, reaffirmed everything you needed to hear, and begged you not to return home?

its becoming clearer and clearer to kuroo that it’s not a matter of when but how.

how would he uncoil the roots of a possessive mother’s hold, tightening around your neck and yielding all oxygen flow, all room for movement and thought and choices? once he eliminated the cancer, then he could consider how to inject himself into your line of vision, of decision, of every thought and worry under the sun. when would you worry about what to make for dinner, and if kuroo was coming home late that day?

even now you’re panicked, teary eyed because you’re late to the family function, some crude fucking dinner with white claws leaving lightened rings on the polished wood tables, corn hole being set up on the opposing sides of the living area, and the incessant chatter and one-upping that he could tolerate, but he knew you couldn’t stomach.

“this is gonna be a shit show.” he’d huffed, inspecting your features closely from the corner of his eye. you’re the absolute opposite of elated, in its most extreme form. would that be dread? you’re dreading seeing your family, being trapped with them for an extended period of time. kuroo reaches for your hand.

“hey, it’s gonna be fine, babe. you know there’ll be a couple of jerky, offhanded comments but i’ll fend them off. no problem. i don’t have to worry about them not liking me.” he states, hoping to quell that troubled expression. he fails to address the growing concern, as bile bubbles in the pit of your stomach.

“it’s not them, tetsu, you know how my mom is. she likes my cousins more than me, and now that we’re late, she’s going to somehow manage to relate it to my worth as a human being.” your face crumbles, make-up creasing at the corners of your eyes, and your hands tremble. kuroo scowls.

“let’s ditch it then. fuck your mom. i’m sick of her treating you like this. she has no fucking right to tell you how you should be spending your money, how you should be dressing, what you should eat, how you should look— it’s bullshit, Y/n, and you know it.”

of course you knew it was bullshit, and yes, you knew it wasn’t true. but how are you to abandon your parent, the person you depended on for survival for the first integral years of your life? while she hurt you more than she helped you, you still loved your mother. her word is not truth, but it’s hard to accept it as anything else. there’s always a method to her madness, and if she sees you one way, who’s to say she’s wrong? maybe you were too chunky, maybe you did eat too much, and maybe the job you were working was a waste of time. and maybe you didn’t spend your money too responsibly. it was something to consider. your mother loves you, after all.

“i know she loves me. she just… has a tough way of showing it. she’s just concerned, that’s all.” you tell him, a weak smile on your lips as you push the car door open. kuroo grits his teeth, irritated as hell, because he can never, ever fucking win against your mother. the power you give that woman is astonishing.

as soon as you’re through the front door, your older cousin is shoving a can of hard seltzer in your hand. it’s already cracked open and slick. you take a sip, and ask where your mom is. she motions to the kitchen.

kuroo is quick to rejoin you by your side, idle conversation with your materialistic family was not something he preferred to engage in, and he’d much rather nip a breakdown following a conversation with your mother in the bud than exchange pleasantries.

“hi mom.” you greet feebly, watching her back as she pushes a glass pan into the oven. she throws her mitts off, and spins around to face you with an aggravated expression.

“christ, y/n, you knew i needed help in the kitchen. you couldn’t bother coming a little earlier to help me out? i can’t ever fucking rely on you, you’re too damn lazy.”

kuroo watches you visibly deflate, curling into yourself instinctively, taking the blow with heavy resignation. “i’m so sorry, mom, i didn’t want tetsurou to speed through the traffic. i didn’t mean to, but i promise, i’m here to help you now. what can i do?”

she scoffs, effectively ignoring you as she returns to the cutting board on the counter, removing the stem from bell pepper laying atop it.

kuroo is already sick of it, sick of the breakdown he would have to deescalate later, no thanks to your deadbeat, piece of shit mother, and sick of how quickly you accepted defeat.

“well hello to you, too, y/m/n.” kuroo gets in, your mother simply grunts at him in response. kuroo’s eye twitches, but for the sake of your happiness, he keeps his mouth shut.

you try to resurrect whatever mood had illuminated the kitchen before, examining the contents of the bowl next to the stove and observing it needed to be mixed. as soon as it’s in your hands, it’s ripped away from your grip, your smug mother is eager to tell you,

“quit being such a pig. you can have one serving like everyone else when i’m done. just go sit down and try not to eat all of the appetizers.”

you want to cry, so so badly. you wished you were shocked, you wished that you hadn’t been expecting this, that this was out of the ordinary, and that it hurt so much lesser than it did. you wear your emotions so immensely on your face, and kuroo barely manages to keep it together.

“oh shit, babe, i forgot how bad of a cook your mom is. let’s go grab something else to eat. go say goodbye to your family, alright?” he tells you, the smile on his lips is tight with rusted hinges, creamy ripples in the corners.

your family was trailer trash, he knew that. they were self-absorbed, petty, and materialistic—everything that you were not. within that frame of time, he decides that you weren’t going to be around that anymore for your own good, and he knew you probably wouldn’t be happy with it at first, but you’d come to realize that it was better this way soon enough.

kuroo was going to perform surgery.

it’s when you come home from an exhausting day of work, and you want nothing more than to be held in the strong arms of your boyfriend when you get the news: mom was dead. murdered, and brutally at that.

you’re not tearful. in fact, you feel nothing at all. there’s no dread, no sorrow, no relief. there’s nothing to process, and yet kuroo regards you carefully, cupping your face gingerly as he wipes nonexistent tear tracks from under your eyes.

“how are you feeling, princess?”

before, you’d noticed kuroo was a little more high strung than usual, more alert. you attributed it to anxiousness, having to deal with the explosive aftermath of the discovery, the realization and your shock, but you could also recognize that kuroo wasn’t all there. he was watching you attentively, genuine concern was evident, but he was fervent.

he continues to speak, despite your silence, “that old bitch had it coming, baby. one of these days, she was going to drop dead from her last cigarette, or someone was going to get her. it was inevitable.”

was it? she seemed lively enough the weekend prior. alive and well enough to tell you how much of a pig you are and how disappointing you were. you always neglect to acknowledge that side of her, the facade, the front of charisma that had others insisting that she must be a great mother; that you were lucky. you can’t imagine who wanted to hurt her…

“and, now that she’s gone, y/n, i think we should consider moving to the town over—“

“tetsu, no. no. i… i need to stay here. with my family, with my…” your saliva is thick, like honey, in the back of your throat, “mom. i want to stay here with my mom. i can’t leave her.”

his chest rumbles beneath you as he groans, the vibrations shook your core, “i was hopin’ you wouldn’t say that.”

how many times had he held you so closely following a nasty argument with your mom? when she shamed you for going up a size? how often was he the only ally in your corner?

he couldn’t understand what evoked this reaction; as your primary caretaker, he expected more trust from you. less fear, less anger, and certainly less crying.

the house is so cute, so you. it’s conveniently remote, tucked into a generously distanced suburban neighborhood. the houses aren’t on top of each other, and the grocery store is a good 20 minute drive. he furnished the house to mirror what he understood you liked, so why were you so unhappy?

you’re situated on the edge of the bed, it’s king sized, plush, and aesthetically pleasing. but you’re pissed. scowling, the cuff grating the skin on your ankle shrinks beneath the heat of your glare.

“this is fucking crazy. you’re fucking crazy.” you’re saying, too sick and too bemused to look him in the eye. he can’t stand it.

“yeah, i’m crazy. i’m the one who defends the person who has driven them to the point of near suicide and self harm and extreme depression, that i literally cannot function without support.” he spits. he was leant against the doorframe, observing for signs of life or perhaps forgiveness and resignation. he was met with neither. just that same pathetic anger, unmatched and unrivaled by his strength.

you falter at his words, and he smirks. he could dismantle any and all arguments you posed with an apathetic definitiveness, and it made the hair on your arms stand, and your heart fall.

“tetsurou, i don’t want to be here. i wanted to stay by my family. it doesn’t matter how badly they’ve treated me, and i fucking know the bad outweighs the good, but i… i just can’t. i can’t leave them behind. i don’t want to cut them out, they’re all i have. they’re my family.” you’re tearful, pleading, but you’ve gotten thus far without any retreat from kuroo. and that spoke volumes—this was the way it was going to be. you just couldn’t accept it.

in the midst of your plea, he had gritted his teeth and stalked toward you. his hand, rough and firm, grips your chin, guiding it upward. your eyes meet his.

he’s pained slightly, but his eyes are more stoney and unwavering than all else. he is eternally unyielding, and it’s painful.

“i’m your family, y/n.” he says.

“you’re right.” you concede. “you are my family, well, you’re like them, anyway. you’re making my decisions for me, you’re hurting me, and you don’t care. you rationalize it with a smile and some bullshit apology, some crap you tell yourself and you think i’ll just accept. but this? this is wrong. this is not love. i’m your prisoner.”

“jesus christ!” he swears, bringing his hand to his head to seize a fistful of hair. “everything i do, everything i’ve done, it’s been for you! i fucking love you, y/n. i would kill for you.”

oh. “kill?”

you fall back onto the bed, sickly. the soft cotton prickles your skin, and the pale ceiling, smoothed to perfection, is spinning in taunting circles before your eyes.

“y/n?”

kill, he’d kill for you. kill. kill. kill.

your ankle is bolstered to the floor, you’re fucking helpless. before you stands the master of your fate, the shaper of your past, the fucking killer of your mother. he’s the warden, and yet he is also the doting boyfriend.

you lick your lips. you could work with that.

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springsmile · 6 months

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thinkin abt needy yan bokuto who takes ur virginity for the first time

bokuto who roughly possesses you— takes your jaw into his hand and (with a bruising vigor) presses his lips to yours. there’s a momentary dink of your teeth meeting, before his tongue is acquainting itself with yours. slick and warm, mapping the expanse of your mouth.

your protests muffled—your head is immobilized but trembling with the effort to shake your head, recoil.

“cmon baby, wanna make you feel good.” he’s pleading, the sound floating into your mouth and you’re choking on its sheer saccharinity.

“you want this, i know you do.” your inner thighs are pulsing at the cupping of his impressive torso. it’s a hamstring stretch in itself. even worse, his fingers maneuver around the dampened lace of your panties and tug them aside. they’re sticking to the side of your labia, and the sensation has you responding viscerally.

his next movement is unceremonious. his thick and coarse fingers plunge inside of you— the pads kissing the sides of your walls, and nicking that spot—your eyes bulge, mouth glistening and agape in a soundless cry.

“see? look how wet you are.”

if you had the capacity, you’d be gritting your teeth, but your only outright means of defiance was a breathy gasp, “b-bokuto, stop.”

he pulls back from the countless open-mouthed love bites he’d carefully worked into your neck (glowing red, incomplete circles, shining beautifully), and tilts his head.

“but i don’t want to.”

it doesn’t sound malicious. it doesn’t even look like it. but it’s petulantly dangerous. more so, he wants something, and what he wants is wrapped up in his hands. he has unparalleled strength to covet it, so it’s his. you’re not going anywhere.

he can’t even understand why you’re begging him to stop.

the tempo is incomprehensible, absolutely nonsensical. you hope his fingers cramp—the strokes keep evolving. shallow, quick, slow, deep and curled. bokuto presses his lips to your ear, so warm and wet, the same stimulus expressed by every inch of your skin. he’s panting, mewling like it’s you who’s torturing him.

“please, please let me eat you out, princess. god, please. i need it.” he’s near whimpering. it’s downright pathetic. “we’ll feel so good. i swear, i swear baby. please.”

you can’t even breathe.

his head is lowering to that precious, sensitive space between your thighs, lips closing around your nervous nub. your hands leap to his hair, fistfuls gathered in each, and you’re pulling. you can’t figure out if you’re pushing him away or keeping him in place. his tongue scales the side of your clit, and with hollowed cheeks, he suckles tightly. air-tight, and pulsating under the muscle.

callouses are petting your sides, his fingers twitching as they reach the valley of your breasts, before climbing to your nipples. he’s pinching tightly, rolling them between his forefingers and thumbs with a passion akin to the same extended to your cunt.

a strangled gasp scratches your throat, you’re vibrating at the stimulation, and as soon as he releases the bud with a reverberating pop!, something so balmy and intense rips open at the pit of your stomach. chest heaving, you ride the high with fabric-clad fists.

he’s still slurping, varying between tantalizing kitten-licking to full on fucking you on his tongue. every part of bokuto was fucking jacked and graced by boggling strength, the bruises left on your tits and your thighs weren’t as jarring as the force behind each thrust of his tongue.

his head retreats unexpectedly, and you’re fervently grappling at this moment of reprieve— but before you can suck in much needed mouthfuls of air, he’s pressing his sticky tip to your hole. precum and your slick smears and trickles onto the sheets, yielding a sickening solution of lust. its warmth intermingles with that of your sweat, frigid with dread, leaving your skin crawling and begging to be satiated more than before.

you jerk, fear tightening your joints as your eyes snap open, “n-no, wait!”

your hips creak under his grip, and when your gaze languidly meets his, you’re resigned, blinking back tears of desperation. he’s not humping your leg all needy and pleading anymore. he’s not entertaining your begs or pleas of yield. he’s not begging or pleading with you anymore, either. he’s gonna take you. but don’t worry!! he’ll make you feel real good <3

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springsmile · 6 months

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GENSHIN HIGH SCHOOL AU — kazuha is high as fuck and keeps lookin atchu 👀 *QUICK IN BETWEEN BLURB*

your eyes meet.

oh, fuck. shit.

it wasn’t intentional— well, no, it was. did he notice?

you chance another glance— fuck. they’re burnt red, so is the sclera. what do they say? once is a coincidence, twice is you’re a fucking thirsty creepy stalker?

he scoots over in your direction, and your palms begin to create the world’s largest man made puddle in the world.

he’s high out of his mind. he’s close enough to conspicuously study the peculiar paleness of his hair, and the tight tie that holds it in place.

he’s still looking for your eyes that you’d torn away in your utter embarrassment.

“hey, did you want a hit?” he shamelessly lifts his cart in the air. you splutter—luckily, the class is rowdy enough to conceal your sheer bemusement.

“kazuha—jesus christ.” you breathed, wretching his arm down, whilst you watch him with an unconscious grin sliding across your lips.

“so you don’t?” he tilts his head to the side, adjusting the collar of his dress shirt. “oh, you wanna buy?”

you swallow anxiously, his eyes watch the bob of your throat. you chose to ignore that. it couldn’t mean anything—no, it was inconsequential. maybe it rang as loud as it had in your ears.

you chose this battle. “yeah, uh, do i zelle ya?”

his smile is lazy, and his words carry an soft, unstable lilt to them. “nah. you can test the product first.”

you raise your eyebrows. “so you let anyone just try a free ounce of your shit?”

he snorted, his head craning back in a gentle chuckle. and when his gaze returned to yours, something sultry flitted across his face.

“no, [name]. that was my mistake. i meant that we’ll test the product together.” his eyelids fall halfway, and he leant in closer—you can smell it on his breath. oreos he must’ve infused weed into. somehow.

your eyes flit around your acting class apprehensively—were you getting weird looks? did it look like the most sensual drug deal ever was taking place?

he nips this motion in the bud, taking your jaw in his palm. his eyes are soft. cotton soft, but still shining with recognition.

“that was a flirtation. we’re gonna get high together, and… i’m confident you’re smart enough to figure out what’ll happen next.”

“oh.” you’re blinking rapidly. oh. oh. those were stares of reciprocation. he made the first move— like you’d ever—

“[name]?” he murmurs into your ear, before laying his temple on your shoulder. “did i frighten you away?”

your lips curl. cute.

“no. i was just wondering what i’m going to tell my boss on saturday.”

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springsmile · 8 months

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springsmile · 9 months