bakerstreet | THE KISSING BOOTH MEME

[Kissing Giorno is new. It still catches him offguard when it happens, even when it's as intentional, calculated even, as this. His heart pounds and his stomach flutters. For one perfect moment, everything is just Giorno; the smell of his hair, the taste of his gloss, the pressure of their mouths together, the grounding contact of their fingers together. Fugo honestly doesn't know how anyone in this house manages, if this is what it's like to kiss someone you love every time.

Giorno doesn't pull away far. There's still room for Fugo to rest their foreheads together, which he does. He feels off-balance in the best of ways, like the only way he's able to hold himself upright is because of those little points of contact. He's smiling too, soft and a little strange and entirely unselfconscious.]

You usually are. [They ... were talking about something. Oh, right. Kiss economics. Some theory. The details are sort of escaping him at the moment. Fugo blinks, trying to recall them, and instead only coming up with the thought that oh, I was right because of the way Giorno's lip gloss is smudged from kissing.] About what?

[Fugo's breath always smells a little like he spends too much time brushing his teeth. Like he's trying to scrape bad dreams off his teeth with fluoride. Even now there's a tired freshness about him. A sweetness, too. His smile is just as silly as the rest of him.]

[It's the kind of smile you have to kiss, so Giorno does, just briefly and quickly enough that Fugo doesn't have time to think about it too much. Talking is so overrated, he tells himself, when he could be kissing.]

About everything.

[This sighed out very quietly, because of course he is. It's still mostly teasing, though, because he wants to keep Fugo smiling. He's got such a good smile.]

My theory was--it's different. More, kissing someone like you. But I can't put a number to it. The difference is qualitative, not quantitative. It's not . . . a measurable variable. There aren't even words, really, I don't think.

It's just . . .

[Hm. He shrugs a little, very gently so as not to disrupt the way they're leaning together.]

Perfect.

[What. Was he even worrying about, to begin with? Giorno has already kissed him again, quick and soft, bringing their tally up to two. What Giorno says does make Fugo smile and even laugh, the sound coming from the back of his throat. Because here is a rare moment when Giorno is wrong and needs to be briefly reminded of the true authority in the house:] No, that's Trish.

[Trish is a force of nature. Who is always right all of the time. Which is occasionally sometimes frustrating to deal with, because one does not just tell Trish Una "no". But right now, there's no room left in him for anything but a fizzy, bubbly swell of affection. He loves that unstoppable girl, who mercilessly bullies him in one breath before letting him borrow a bottle of lip gloss and sending him on his way with a laugh in the next.]

That's so imprecise. [It's not a complaint, for once. It is what it is. Kiss economics are a sham and they both know it. Fugo reaches for Giorno's face, tucking a wispy flyaway back behind his ear where it belongs, and affectionately kisses the corner of his mouth.] That's three. Out of ... [He has to think for a moment. Kissing Giorno is wonderful, but extremely distracting.] Nine, you said?

Ah--

[Fugo kisses him again. Fugo kisses him again, and he feels so adrift and lazy from it, he absolutely can't remember what he was going to say. He just stares at Fugo's mouth, his lips parted a little as he tries to focus. Fugo has gloss on his mouth. That's . . . Giorno's, not his own.]

[Nine? Nine isn't so many. He squeezes Fugo's hand, the fingers of his other hand coming to tug a little at the hem of that awful jacket.]

Nine is unlucky. One after eight.

Do you know how much that lip gloss costs? It's a lot. You've made a sizable donation to the pudding agenda today.

Ten, then. [He amicably concedes, too pleased by the current state of affairs to mind that counting the numbers after (and before?) the number four and its multiples are altogether too many unlucky numbers to remember and avoid.] But you'll have to help me keep track.

[Fugo is an excellent manager. The combination of his excellent memory and detail-oriented personality means that there isn't much that gets past him. But he can't possibly be expected to remember how many kisses he's swapped with Giorno, especially when he's the middle of kissing him. His fingers continue to trace the edge of Giorno's hairline, thumb brushing the slope of his cheek.]

I have no idea. I told Trish I'd pay her back later. [Fugo thoughtfully pulls his lips together, smoothing out the smudged impressions left behind by Giorno's mouth. His mouth feels different, with a little bit of gloss on it.] It's worth it, though. The color's good on you. Very chic.

[He blinks. Oh, right. Pudding agenda.] So it should take you far.

[Oh. Oh, it takes him a second, because Fugo says that the way he says everything else, thoughtful but deliberate, purposeful, an observation presented as fact. The color's good on you. Oh. Oh, that was--oh.]

[His eyes go a little wide. He's so torn. God, but he wants to call attention to it, to make sure Fugo realizes what he's done and demand more of it. Yes, what else, tell me other things that you like about the way I look--but at the same time he knows, knows, that if he does that Fugo will never, ever do it again. Or at least not for ages.]

[Damnit. He's sort of breathless.]

It's good on you, too.

[Damnit. He laughs a little, very obviously at himself, quiet and embarrassed.]

I was going to say something a lot wittier than that. Something about how it's very expensive, so you bought a lot of kisses, if you want them. Pretend I said it and you were very impressed.

[It's Fugo's turn now to be puzzled. He can tell that Giorno, shamelessly greedy and brilliantly confident, is embarrassed by something. It can't be the kissing or the prospect of kissing, because the entire purpose of this business endeavor is that Giorno wants to collect as many kisses as he can. Could it be something he said? Fugo briefly thinks back on what he said and can't find anything out of the ordinary that would have provoked such a reaction. It doesn't occur to him that it was the compliment because, to him, it's less of a compliment and more a simple statement of fact. Giorno wears chic lip gloss, Giorno has a soft mouth, Giorno's smile is warmer than the sun. All of these are things Giorno has to already know about himself, so why would it be embarrassing to hear it from Fugo?

He doesn't mean to laugh, when Giorno sheepishly explains I was going to say something a lot wittier. He tries, very much, to pull himself together and hold the laughter in by clamping his mouth shut, bowing his head, and dropping the hand fiddling with Giorno's hairline to hold himself up on Giorno's shoulder. His own shoulders shake for a moment and he's almost able to hold it all back, but then he thinks about his own stupid joke about the ethics of them kissing right here, right now and he laughs, breathlessly and helplessly.

Because that's ridiculous. That's absolutely ridiculous that the two of them, who are usually very articulate, are so easily flustered and overwhelmed that they miss the timing of their own jokes.]

What--don't laugh at me!

[He was embarrassed before; he's frowning and flushed now, sitting up straight in his indignance. He was trying to be honest and this is what he gets! And he isn't just embarrassed anymore, either. No, if Fugo's going to laugh at him he'll make him regret it. Nobody laughs at him with impunity.]

[His hand snakes out, fingers wrapping around Fugo's tie and yanking him close. He's still pink in the face, but that danger is back in the edge of his smile, which is close enough that it's nearly a kiss in any case.]

I'm not Trish. But I can do a pretty good impression sometimes. So if you're going to laugh at me, you'll need to be ready for me to be totally honest with you about what I like about you, Fugo, all fundraising aside.

It's not-- [just you, he means, except it gets lost in another peal of laughter because Giorno's so peeved and that just makes it so much worse. The laughter bubbles out of him and he can barely keep himself upright, until Giorno's hand is on his tie and he's abruptly pulled up and forward and it's sort of a wonder that their foreheads don't clonk together.

Giorno is so close again and he's all sharpness under his softness, incredibly dangerous despite his kiss-smudged lip gloss. The contrast takes his breath away, or at least holds it tight in his chest for a moment until he remembers to push the old air out and pull in the new. It's very hard in moments like this, but he has to remember to keep breathing.]

Ethics, [he finally admits, voice still colored with the promise of laughter. In his effort to resist laughing again or to close the tiny distance between them with their unlucky fourth kiss, he pulls his lower lip between his teeth and tangles his fingers in the fabric of Giorno's jacket before bravely forging on:] I wanted to make you laugh about the ethics of policymakers buying and selling kisses, because it's sort of like money laundering because I work for you. But you surprised me, so I missed my chance.

[Very seriously:] So don't bully me.

[He knows he won't be able to fight back, at all, not when they're face-to-face and he's already so happy. He would probably just fall over and be unable to move for the rest of the afternoon.]

. . . Oh.

[It's a bad precedent to set, letting Fugo get away with laughing at him with no repercussions. Even so, his fingers loosen a little in Fugo's tie, his expression softening--not much, but a bit. He still doesn't like being laughed at, but this is a very Fugo sort of thing, isn't it. Thinking too much about the way to do something, then being tripped up when things don't go according to his script.]

I still really want to bully you. But you're so silly, it's like you just bully yourself. It would be unsporting.

[Also, he's too focused on Fugo's lip caught between his teeth and the feel of fingers in his jacket. When his eyes drift up to meet Fugo's again, he blinks, then pokes him in the shoulder.]

It would have been a prohibitively long list anyway. But I won't always be so nice to you.

[Oh. Giorno's looking at his mouth, isn't he, the way he was looking at Giorno's mouth before. That sends a flutter, pleased and embarrassed, from his stomach down to his toes. Giorno doesn't kiss people he doesn't want to, but knowing that and seeing little signs that Giorno enjoys kissing him, specifically, are always so different.

He still doesn't quite know what to make of it, other than watching Giorno look at him like that makes a hard to resist task impossible. So Fugo gives in to the inevitable and kisses Giorno again, once and then twice, so no one has to worry about the number four.]

How gracious of you, Giogio. [He tries to settle his expression into something more stern, but he can't seem to stop smiling. His cheeks hurt from all the smiling he's done today.] But that's not true. You're always nice to me.

[Too nice, some days. But the days where Fugo feels like Giorno's been too kind to him seem to happen less and less, lately.]

Am I?

[It's so hard to focus. Fugo is looking at Giorno looking at him, and Giorno is looking at the looking, and--it's just nice. Fugo is nice, this is nice, being close to him is nice. All that smiling is nice. Fugo has the best smile, but he never seems to believe it when Giorno tells him.]

[He sighs a little, so happily, when Fugo kisses him again. When Fugo kisses him for the ever-important fifth time. He would be perfectly content to just slide onto the grass and give up on the booth entirely for dramatic purposes at this point. On the other hand, he wants more kisses, so. Nevermind.]

I don't think always . . . [He fiddles with the edge of Fugo's jacket.] Sometimes I really want to make you embarrassed. That's not very nice. But it's fun. I like the way you look at me when you're embarrassed.

You're safe, though. Because I like the way you're looking at me now even better.

[Maybe not totally safe. Because Giorno just looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, then, his lip caught between his teeth in contemplation. And then he kisses him again, except it's sort of the kiss equivalent of those conversations where Giorno is trying to make Fugo as embarrassed as possible. He's still smiling, but he's also playing, which is what that has always been: a game, a chase, him always looking over his shoulder and hoping Fugo will catch up.]

[Fugo is getting better at that, lately.]

[The thing is, those words are enough all on their own to fluster Fugo a little. He knows very well how Giorno can be; how he, like Trish, takes a certain delight in embarrassing him. They're both awful bullies and, honestly, Fugo is incredibly lucky that Mista is around to be his perfect distracting self because otherwise he would probably spend most of his days entirely overwhelmed. His eyebrows come together and he pulls himself together for a retort, but then--

But then, Giorno kisses him.]

[Up until now, the kisses they've passed back and forth have been perfect and entirely too distracting gestures of affection--but they've been short, simple. Little kisses. Sentimental kisses. This is... a superlative kiss, a long and drawn out kiss, that makes him gasp and forget that they're outside and anyone could see them. He holds tightly to Giorno's jacket and leans forward to meet him and respond because if he lets himself lean back at all, he'll just tumble off of his stool into the grass. The sort of kiss that even if he wipes Giorno's gloss off of his lips, if Sheila sees him she'll wrinkle her nose and Mista would smile crookedly at the sight of him because there's some has-been-kissed quality to his mouth. An amazing kiss. A distracting kiss. But then I also just wanted to kiss her more, Giorno had described it, and isn't that just the problem?

He should, theoretically, go back to work at some point. But how can he, when Giorno leans in and kisses him like this.]

[At first, when they pull back and he remembers how to breathe again and where they are, all Fugo can manage is a feeble:] You said. [Fugo lets go of Giorno's jacket, covering his mouth with one hand because he doesn't quite trust Giorno to not laugh and lean forward to kiss him again and besides Giorno shouldn't get to see him smiling if he's just going to be a bully anyway. His words, deeply embarrassed and distinctly accusatory, are muffled a little behind his fingers. He's red all over and deeply flustered] Giogio, you said I was safe.

[Rationally speaking, that is a factual statement that he knows and believes to be true: Fugo never feels safer or more like himself when he's around Giorno, Trish, and Mista. It's safe to smile around them. Safe to play the piano for them. Safe to walk away from his work and debate kiss economics with them, although he has the distinct feeling that neither Mista or Trish would put up with that kind of discussion for very long.]

[Oh. Not good enough at catching up, apparently, not yet--which is fine, really. It's not a bad thing. No, it's . . . nice, actually, because if Giorno wasn't breathless already he would be now, looking at Fugo looking at him like that. It really is like being in an echo chamber, the two of them trading kisses and glances and getting more and more overwhelmed. Except the different between him and Fugo is . . .]

[Well, he doesn't feel the need to hide it. That's the difference. Fugo's all red and covering his mouth, and the glimpse of his mouth, his all of him, leaves Giorno breathing in quick and sharp, a little dizzy. Fugo always gets angry when he says he's cute, so he can't imagine the fuss he'd kick up over a word like pretty. But that's the truth of him all the same.]

I didn't mean to . . . not really . . .

[Maybe a little. Not this much. Except he wants to do it again and worse. He wants that a lot, he thinks, blinking slowly. It's taking him ages for his words to catch up with his brain, but action is easier, so he reaches out to wrap his fingers around Fugo's wrist, to pull it away from his mouth, to see.]

Come back. You can get revenge, if you want to.

[Common sense dictates that if he is embarrassed and overwhelmed, the first step to resolving the issue is to remove himself from the situation until he's calmed himself down. That's a trick Bruno taught Fugo, years and years ago, when he was struggling with his temper and with Narancia: it's fine to step back if you need to, is what Bruno told him. It's good advice. But it's not something Fugo follows today; the farthest he goes is turning his face when Giorno tugs his hand away, only letting him see his soft, silly smile in profile before he sets his mouth in what's meant to be a resolute line.

But when he turns back to look at Giorno, that resolution crumbles. Come back, Giorno says and offers him a chance for revenge. He stares at Giorno's mouth and thinks about what Giorno said, about how the color looked good on him too. Their mouths are the same, he realizes, smudged from all this kissing. Giorno doesn't look very chic at the moment, but the color is still very good on him. Fugo wiggles the hand Giorno pulled away from his mouth out of his grasp to reach out and hold his face, cradling the soft curve of Giorno's jaw in the palm of his hand.]

You are, without a doubt-- [He leans in and kisses Giorno on his left temple, his voice an embarrassed, fond murmur against Giorno's hairline.] -- the greediest person -- [He shifts and kisses Giorno again, this time on the forehead.] -- in all of Italy. [He kisses Giorno for the third time on his cheek, straying dangerously close but not quite reaching his mouth. It's a little mean. Giorno didn't go to all this trouble just to collect kisses on the cheek. But this is revenge, so Fugo doesn't feel too bad about it.

Finally, Fugo rests his forehead against Giorno's and looks him straight in the eye. It's almost a kiss again; the sort of kiss Giorno wants, the sort of kiss Fugo very much wants to give him. But not yet. First he has to express one last, vitally important opinion:] I don't know how you get anything done.

[Then, and only then, does Fugo close the distance for kiss number-- well, number something. He's stopped keeping track.]

[It takes Giorno perhaps too long to realize that Fugo is being incredibly wicked. But, in fairness to him, it's difficult to realize. Whether he means to be or not, Fugo is very distracting, very distracting. Even just the touch to his jaw--Giorno has to lean into it, has to close his eyes against it, has to focus hard to remember to breathe. Fugo's fingers are long and cool, and even with his eyes closed he can see them: in the darkness behind his eyelids they file papers, write notes in a scratchy hand, card through his hair, leap inscrutably after a melody on black-and-white keys.]

[When he realizes, somewhere around the kiss on his cheek, he whines a little. That, at least, he's not embarrassed about. Fugo knows he's greedy. There's no point in hiding it, if everyone here knows; there's no point in hiding it ever, but especially not now. So he cracks his eyes open right as Fugo looks at him and punctuates it with a sharp little frown, his eyes shifting helplessly from Fugo's eyes to his mouth and back again. Back and forth.]

[Fugo is pretty good at revenge. That's the last thing Giorno thinks before they're kissing again, and then he's got his fingers tight in Fugo's collar, his heart beating too fast to keep track of anymore, a soft sound slipping out of him that he wouldn't have any particular control over even if he wanted to. Which he doesn't.]

[He has no idea what number they're on. But he also doesn't care, really. There are some things more important than quotas.]

You l--, [he manages, sort of, after a moment, and then tries again.] Like me greedy. Don't lie. You do.

[Giorno is... at a loss for words. It's nice. Is it nice? It's mostly just embarrassing. Even if that's-- not rare, or even so unusual between the two of them. Sheila disdainfully calls the two of them stupid boys, but she's never really seen them when they're being this stupid. Fugo doesn't know how they manage it, but there are times when either he or Giorno crosses some inscrutable line of getting flustered and then the other catches it. And then they become the awful mess of two people trying to pass off one enormous feeling between them except that every time it passes hands, it gets bigger and more overwhelming until neither of them can look properly at each other. Trish thinks it's absolutely hilarious but it's not funny at all.]

I do. [He can't pretend to be put off, play that. Not with Giorno looking at him so honestly, when all he wants to do is kiss and be kissed. The words just thoughtlessly and carelessly spill out of him, before he has a chance to second-guess himself.] I love that you're greedy.

Oh . . .

[The word love shouldn't affect him so strongly, he knows. Especially when it's not I love you but I love that you. He can't help it, though, he can't, not when it's Fugo saying it. Fugo could read the phone book and he'd be fascinated, so hearing him say that leaves Giorno a little dizzy.]

[He might fall off his stool, actually. He sort of hates these stools right now. If it weren't for them, he could snuggle up close, tuck his head under Fugo's chin and his body against his side. All he can do with these stools is cling desperately to Fugo's shirtfront, lick his lips to remember the pressure of every kiss, and try to remember how to breathe.]

I'm--extra greedy about you. You know?

[Remember how to breathe, remember not to say I love you, not in a kissing booth, that's ridiculous--but that's as far as he can keep himself dignified, as well as he can do before his breath hitches a little and he leans forward delicately until his face is buried in Fugo's neck.]

Because you're mine.

[Fugo shifts under Giorno's weight, managing as carefully as he can to keep the two of them balanced. Their seating situation has gone from convenient to oddly perilous. Maybe he should have taken lightheadedness into account before taking a seat next to Giorno in the kissing booth. He hopes, distantly, that they don't fall because neither of them would want to get up and that would mean at least one of them would end up with grass stains on their clothes. It would be entirely silly.]

I know. It's okay. [As Giorno moves forward, Fugo moves his hand from Giorno's face to rest it loosely around his shoulders in a one-armed sort-of hug. There. That's... a little more stable, at least.] Because I promised you all of me, back then. So you can be as greedy as you want to be. And, you--

[Fugo can't say it, at first; instead of words his throat produces an embarrassed, overwhelmed mggghghghh sort of sound. But he swallows, pulls Giorno closer, and bravely continues on, heart pounding in his ears.]

... when you're greedy, it-- [His voice drops to a quiet, barely-audible mumble, syllables crashing and colliding in his haste to just spit the words out.] Makes me want to be greedy too.

Ahh . . .

[Now that's something. Giorno can't quite help smirking a little at that; it's a little overwhelmed, like everything else about him right now, but it's still there, a sharp sliver of a smile against the curve of Fugo's neck.]

I like the idea of that. Fugo being greedy. My Fugo being greedy.

[The way he shifts a little closer, really as close as he can get now without overbalancing them and deliberately toppling them to the ground, it's overtly possessive. He tries not to be, but the moment he says it, you're mine, it's like he realizes it all over again and has to point it out to the world, too, just in case anyone's forgotten. This one is his; no one gets to bother him except Giorno, no one gets to take care of him like Giorno does, no one gets to bully him like Giorno does. He's happy to brag about it, verbally or otherwise, if he gets the chance.]

You can be greedy whenever you want to. I like it when you're greedy. I like it when you take things for yourself, no matter what they are.

[He can't see it. But he can feel a sharp little smile in the crook of his neck and-- well, remembers where they are with alarming clarity and how silly and stupid they're being in front of anyone crossing by. This is it. This is what does him in. Not the inherent dangerousness of Purple Haze or the rumors that he's betrayed the Boss that still float around-- but Giorno's dangerous smile, the breath of his exhale, and the possessive circle of his arm. There's absolutely no mistaking the way they're holding onto each other, if there ever was any confusion to outsiders about what sort of relationship they had.

If Trish comes out he's going to die. If Mista wakes up he's never going to live it down. If Sheila shows up she's going to-- he doesn't know, probably find some important documents to crumple up and throw at them.]

Giogio, careful, I'm going to fall. [His warning is a sort of feeble protest. Something to fill up the space while he tries to think of something a little more clever, a little more-- something. Anything. Even if he's not wrong in that his position on the stool already feels precarious and wobbly. Fugo rests his head on Giorno's curls and tries to clear his head. This is so stupid.] Well, I. You.

You're a bad influence. [There are so, so many things he never knew he wanted or needed until Giorno Giovanna came into his life. And now he has them and he doesn't think he can ever go back to living without. It's terrible and wonderful all at once.]

Edited 2016-09-23 00:10 (UTC)

You won't fall. And if you do, I'll catch you.

[He can't stop grinning. It probably seems terribly smug, because it is. He is in absolute awe at his own luck; his fingers toy with one of the buttons on Fugo's shirt, which is as possessive as the way he leans against him, which is as possessive as his smile, which is--and so on. Just because he's smug doesn't mean he doesn't mean it, though. Mine means lots of things, with him. One is that he keeps the people who are his safe.]

[He hums a little under his breath and sighs, a quick soft delighted little sigh, and blinks slowly, his lashes fluttering against Fugo's neck.]

If I'm a bad influence . . . I think you like that, too, Fugo. I think you like being mine and you like my bad influence and you like kissing me. You like kissing me a lot.

[Which is good. He thinks he might die a little if Fugo didn't want to kiss him, to be close to him like this. In that it goes both ways: he was fine going without, back before he knew what going with felt like.]

[Glancing up, he cups Fugo's cheek in his hand and regards him intently. Admittedly, he is mostly regarding Fugo's mouth, but still: everything is covered eventually. After a moment, he wipes the gloss off Fugo's lower lip with his thumb and very carefully ruins it immediately by kissing him again.]

You're lovely. So very. Sometimes it's hard to believe how lovely you are. I like you very much. So much. I don't have a number for how much. Bigger than numbers.

[He's falling, again. Past all of the cautious words he spends so much time deliberating over, head over heels over the careful way he presents himself around others. All it takes is looking at Giorno looking at him and, oh, there he goes. There's no holding back this thunderous feeling, or pretending it's anything but what it is: the only reason it doesn't bubble forth from his mouth is that as he starts to shape it Giorno kisses him again. I love you, he thinks, in the moment that can't have been more than an instant but stretches on and on, so much, too much, more every day.

He's not physically falling. But he feels dizzy after that kiss regardless, enough that this time he's the one to tip forward and try to hide away in the comfort of Giorno's collar. Giorno, who he's fallen hopelessly in love with; who he can't imagine not being a part of his life. Giorno, who's so certain about his rightness that it should be annoying except that he's entirely correct about all of those things.]

This was a mistake. [Normally, when Fugo's complaining his words sting. These are just an overwhelmed mumble into Giorno's shoulder and, even as he says them, he's holding more tightly onto him.] Coming out here when I still have work to do. When I like being yours so much. Because when I'm with you, I don't want to be anywhere else.

[When he likes being kissed so much. When he likes just being with Giorno, whether they're working or talking. Or even in the morning after Giorno has spent the night reading with him, before either of their alarms go off and one or both of them is still half-asleep. There is no way he'll be able to go back to his office. It just isn't happening.]

Mm . . .

[He's all soft comfort now, at least for the moment. Probably in another few he'll turn back around and be wicked again, but for the moment he can be sweet, his hand coming up to rub gentle circles between Fugo's shoulderblades. He leans his cheek against Fugo's temple, then buries his nose in his hair. It smells good, like dust and ink and the ocean. For all his spikiness, Fugo feels good in his arms.]

So don't go anywhere else. Stay with me. Your work can wait a little while. Long enough for you to kiss me another hundred times.

[Maybe two hundred. Or maybe they can just stay like this, with his eyes closed and his nose buried in Fugo's hair, so comfortable and so safe. He hums again, and it's nearly a purr. So happy.]

I want you here with me. So stay. This mistake is . . . approved. Rubber stamped. I'm your boss, so it's fine.

THE KISSING BOOTH MEME

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject