Broken Vows
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ONE
Grey light filtered through the barred window, creating faint lines in the dusty air above her head. The little clouds made by her less than steady breathing eddied around her mouth as she sat on the cold stone floor.
She gazed out through the iron lattice, to the courtyard which formed the nucleus of the prison complex.
A pre-dawn glow lit the stones, and lent a slight colour to the bonsai firs which stood clustered around a lone figure in the centre of the circular space. One might have been forgiven for thinking the silhouette was that of a statue, it was so still. To her, though, this scene was familiar. Every morning he came here at dawn to relieve the night guard, and he began each day with the same routine of exercises; and unfailingly, every morning, her body woke her with the first light, to lie and watch him from the confines of her cell.
She didn't know whether he was aware of her silent observation. If he knew, he didn't show it. But then, he didn't show much. She supposed it was part of his training, to be so constantly stoic. His apparent inability to feel any emotion besides disdain, presented a challenge which she was itching to meet. Imagine the thrill of breaking his carefully maintained façade, to expose the raw human core within. To see some expression on those fine chiselled features.
In the few weeks she had been here, he had spoken to her perhaps twice? The first time, was the night after they brought her in. Her "handlers" had been less than gentle with her, tearing shreds out of her white linen shirt. Still, she supposed it was partly her fault for putting up such a fuss. She recalled being walked through the adjoining cell blocks with her wrists bound behind her, the pathetic rag which had been her best blouse, hanging limply from her shoulders. She had fallen into an exhausted sleep, curled up on the stone flags, when a voice roused her, and she felt rough wool against her legs. She took the blanket with a grateful mumble, shivering as she wrapped it around herself. It smelt like sweat and old food, but at that moment she didn't really care.
She had no quibbles regarding his motive, this prison was for containment, not death by cold. He had done it out of duty, not compassion. The Cassiline brotherhood's hatred of her kind was a well known fact.
Now, in the courtyard, the figure moved. Removing his heavy grey robe, he folded it neatly and placed it on the ground nearby.
He wore woollen trousers of the same grey, precisely cut and fitted to his lean frame. Naked from the waist up, he was muscular, but wiry, the tendons in his chest undulating beneath his pale skin as he began his exercises.
It was the same cycle of movements practiced by every guard of the brotherhood. Part military formation, part stretching, part meditation. He flowed from one position to the next with an ease born from years of repetition.
She leant back against the stone wall, and watched him. The cold seeped through the woollen blanket that hung around her, cooling her flushed skin.
This was the best hour of her day.
Beads of sweat had begun to form on his milky skin. She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of his breathing, somewhat quicker now. She felt that familiar warmth spread through her, starting as a slight tingle between her thighs, and spreading up to form a knot in her stomach. Her own breath came fast as she envisaged him leaning over her, chest slick from exertion, a look of agonised hunger on his beautiful face.
The sound changed, and she opened her eyes to see him kneeling on the white pebbles, murmuring the end-prayer. He stood and reached for his robe.
“Joscelin?”
He paused mid-movement and glanced up, looking for the source of the sound. She crawled forward toward the gate, dragging the chain which held her ankle to the ring in the far wall of her cell. His pale gaze fell on her and he straightened, expression sombre.
“What?” he spat the word.
She bit her lip and looked down. “I know we aren't to be fed till noon, but the rats got my bread yesterday. I wondered if there was any leftovers. Just something small, maybe?”
He regarded her coolly. “Rats got your bread.” he repeated. “I'm afraid that's what happens when you leave it lying around.”
“I was asleep.” she protested, “I was feeling ill.”
He took half a step back. “What kind of ill?”
The last thing they needed in a place like this was an epidemic.
“I don't know, nothing serious I guess, probably just from the cold.”
He let out his breath in an irritated sigh. “I'll see is there's anything out the back.” he picked up the grey robe and slung it around his shoulders, striding back toward the guards quarter.
He soon returned, thrusting his arm through the grate and waggling a stale crust at her.
“Here.” he said impatiently. “Don't leave this one on the floor.”
Hoisting herself up onto her knees, she quickly reached out and took hold of his wrist. The woollen blanket slipped to the floor, exposing her slim shoulders. The once-white rags of shirt still draped around her chest, barely covering the swell of her breasts.
She met his gaze evenly. “Thank you Joscelin.” she murmured his name, rolling it along her tongue, toying with the sound of it.
His eyes narrowed and he dropped the bread, turning his wrist in her grip.
“Let go.” there was a calm warning in his voice.
Keeping hold of him, she pulled herself forward against the iron grate. Their faces were almost level now, and he regarded her with barely concealed disgust.
“What's the rush? Everyone is asleep still.”
He tugged his wrist, but she clung on, knowing full well that he was not using even half of his strength against her.
“Let. go.” he repeated in a low growl.
She considered him for a moment, his eyes full of challenge, then released his arm with a smirk, and sat back on her heels.
“Off you go then. I'm sure you have duties to attend to.”
He cast her one last contemptuous glare before stalking off, grey robe swishing about him.
As soon as he was out of sight, she lifted her prize from the folds of the blanket. From the large brass ring she clutched, there hung a collection of keys, maybe fifteen in total. Somewhere amongst them, were the blessed tools which would grant her liberation.
TWO
Joscelin rolled over in his half-sleep, vaguely aware that the room had become uncomfortably warm. He knew he shouldn't have put that last log on the fire. The air felt close and clammy. He struggled drowsily with the sheet, twisting out of it and draping one leg over the side of the bed.
He wondered whether he should get out and do something about the stove, but the thought was fuzzy and distant, and he knew that if he opened his eyes, the dreams would vanish. He was loathe to leave them, just yet.
Had he been more awake he might have disciplined himself, for the dreams in which he currently lay wreathed were of a nature not entirely suitable for one sworn to chastity.
The warm air teased his skin, raising the hairs on his naked flesh, and sending hot shivers down his spine. On his closed eyelids, images moved and changed; the curve of a breast, glossy with sweat, hips moving against him, hands sliding up his chest, brushing over his nipples...
A sharp jolt of pain brought him out of his reverie, and he gasped, reached for the knife under his pillow and pushing himself up to a sitting position. He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with the subject of his nocturnal musing. As his brain swung into gear, the realisation of what he had been doing dawned on him and he swallowed hard, and felt the colour rising in his cheeks.
She sat straddling him, one hand still on his chest, her fingernails applying a slight pressure, a smirk on her perfectly formed features.
In one fluid movement, he swung his forearm up against her neck, shoving her backwards and launching onto his knees, knife in hand. She fell back against the bed post with a thud, the air escaping her lips in a gasp.
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then straightened her shoulders and lifted her head to regard him with a slight smile. “What were you dreaming about?”
“None of your gorram business.”
She tilted her head to one side, her gaze slid down the length of his body. “Isn't it?”
He became suddenly aware of his nakedness, and reached for the sheet to cover himself. But she was faster, pulling the fabric toward herself, and out of his reach. He grimaced and closed his eyes. He could feel her gaze on him, almost as tangible as her touch...like the sensation of her slim fingers on his chest...
He gave himself a mental shake. The very thought of it should repulse him, he'd hated her since the day she arrived. She was the lowest of the low, a woman of the night, selling her dignity to any filthy sluggard with a clinking purse. He had always been a man of strict morals, and he despised her kind and all they stood for.
At least, that was what his mind told him. His body had different ideas.
He shifted his grip on the knife, and tried to focus on maintaining a steady hand. A life of rigorous and brutal training had instilled in him a strict discipline, and he prided himself on his powers of self control. But this did nothing to quell the rising tide of heat which he now felt in his nether regions.
“Get out. I know how to use this thing. The scripture says nothing to prohibit killing in self defence”
She laughed as she slid toward him, to press her neck lightly against the blade, Her eyes slipped up to meet his furious glare. “I'm sure you do.” she purred.
As she spoke, her ragged shirt slipped from one shoulder. He glanced down before he could stop himself, and realised that he could see right down through the draped cloth. Her skin was smooth and honey toned, her breasts were full, with two perfectly formed pink nipples which swelled hard against the fabric.
He caught his breath and dragged his gaze up to meet her eyes. She was still watching him with that knowing smile, and it made every hair on his neck stand up. He shivered involuntarily.
He still held the knife steady against her neck, but his hand was becoming clammy. He breathed deeply and summoned his will.
“Don't make me slit that pretty throat of yours, whore.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn't dare, you book-hugging craven.”
He roared and shoved her violently onto her back, bringing the point of the knife across her skin. A tiny pearl of blood formed at the hollow of her throat. Her eyes widened as she inhaled with a surprised gasp.
“Don't fuck with me!”
She laughed softly then, as she lay beneath him. The sound of it created in him an uncomfortable mix of rage and slow simmering desire.
It was at that point that he became aware of her thighs wrapped around his leg, and the warm, wetness of her flesh...
“Y-You're not...”
She laughed again, and arched her back ever so slightly, moving against him. His breath quickened despite his best efforts. His hand loosened on the knife, and she used this moment to reach down and slide one hand up his leg. When the tips of her fingers brushed his member he gasped as though struck.
“Well well...i thought you hated me, cassiline?”
He fought to control his breath as her fingers continued to stroke him teasingly.
“It's...It's just an animal reaction, I swear.” he whispered. Distantly, his mind told him to move, but it felt as though he was frozen in place, his whole body pivoting on that one delicious point of contact.
“Drop the knife, there's a good boy.”
“Fuck you.” he panted, but even as he said it he felt his resolve slip. He frantically tried to reign himself in, his hand tightened on the hilt of the knife.
Carefully avoiding the lethal point, she shifted deftly beneath him, sliding one leg around him so that he knelt between her thighs.
“Drop it.” she repeated, her voice calmly insistent.
He could feel that tide of heat surging in his veins, threatening to overwhelm him. He knew that once he dropped the weapon, that would be it. His resolve would crumble under the building wave of feverish desire.
She moved ever so slightly, and he felt the wetness of her against his cock.
“Mm,” she murmured, “you're this hard already and I've barely even touched you. I guess that's what a life of chastity does to a man, eh?”
Chastity. His vows. It was possible they were already broken, the texts expressly forbid any sexual contact, even looking at a naked woman would bring down the wrath of the gods upon him.
“I-I can't...” he faltered as she wrapped her legs around him and began to pull him down toward her. He felt the tip of his member slide into the hot wetness between her thighs and he moaned softly.
The knife clattered to the floor.
“Good boy.” she whispered, arching her back as she pulled him closer, his hips moved of their own volition, pushing urgently, further toward rapturous damnation. She began to run her hands over his chest, teasing his nipples, sending shock waves of pleasure through his veins.
Oh god, he didn't want this, but every inch of his body ached with lust. He strained against her, and she let out a soft moan of pleasure as her body tightened, increasing the sensation. His breath was coming hot and ragged. “I don't want...”
She dug her nails into his shoulder blades, stopping him mid sentence with a wash of pain. He cried out, caught between torment and ecstasy.
“You do want. Your body betrays you, Joscelin.”
The whore spoke truth, his brain was flooded with a lifetime worth of pent-up hunger. But oh god he hated himself for it.
With a cry of desperation, he grasped her shirt and tore it open violently, exposing the length of her, all taut, glistening smoothness. Gods she was beautiful. How could he have ever hoped to keep his vow?
“My God, you fucking minx, I'm going to kill you for this.” He gasped, grabbing a handful of her hair as she moaned in a delirious frenzy. He felt the wave begin to peak. He threw back his head as the pulsating haze filled his vision
“No!”
He felt hot tears of rage sting his eyes. This wasn't meant to happen. All those years of faithful servitude and discipline, all for naught. He pressed both hands on her breasts, pushing her away from him, struggling for any scrap of self control.
“No! Oh god, no!”
In a flash she had flipped him onto his back, her hair fell onto his chest and her eyes gleamed with triumph as she whispered those last fatal words
“Cum for me, you son of a bitch.”
And he did, damn it all to hell, he did. He grasped her desperately as he came, letting out a choked cry of pleasure, burying his shameful face in her neck. The climax consumed him. He shuddered and ran his tongue over her skin, tasting the sweet saltiness of her. As his chest heaved, he whimpered softly against her, and a distant part of his mind laughed ruefully and said;
Cowards or not, at least no one can say we don't do as we're told.
**
Please Note: The character of Joscelin is loosely based on "Kushiel's Dart" by Jacqueline Carey hence the tag "fan-fic". Also, read it, it's friggin awesome.
Grey light filtered through the barred window, creating faint lines in the dusty air above her head. The little clouds made by her less than steady breathing eddied around her mouth as she sat on the cold stone floor.
She gazed out through the iron lattice, to the courtyard which formed the nucleus of the prison complex.
A pre-dawn glow lit the stones, and lent a slight colour to the bonsai firs which stood clustered around a lone figure in the centre of the circular space. One might have been forgiven for thinking the silhouette was that of a statue, it was so still. To her, though, this scene was familiar. Every morning he came here at dawn to relieve the night guard, and he began each day with the same routine of exercises; and unfailingly, every morning, her body woke her with the first light, to lie and watch him from the confines of her cell.
She didn't know whether he was aware of her silent observation. If he knew, he didn't show it. But then, he didn't show much. She supposed it was part of his training, to be so constantly stoic. His apparent inability to feel any emotion besides disdain, presented a challenge which she was itching to meet. Imagine the thrill of breaking his carefully maintained façade, to expose the raw human core within. To see some expression on those fine chiselled features.
In the few weeks she had been here, he had spoken to her perhaps twice? The first time, was the night after they brought her in. Her "handlers" had been less than gentle with her, tearing shreds out of her white linen shirt. Still, she supposed it was partly her fault for putting up such a fuss. She recalled being walked through the adjoining cell blocks with her wrists bound behind her, the pathetic rag which had been her best blouse, hanging limply from her shoulders. She had fallen into an exhausted sleep, curled up on the stone flags, when a voice roused her, and she felt rough wool against her legs. She took the blanket with a grateful mumble, shivering as she wrapped it around herself. It smelt like sweat and old food, but at that moment she didn't really care.
She had no quibbles regarding his motive, this prison was for containment, not death by cold. He had done it out of duty, not compassion. The Cassiline brotherhood's hatred of her kind was a well known fact.
Now, in the courtyard, the figure moved. Removing his heavy grey robe, he folded it neatly and placed it on the ground nearby.
He wore woollen trousers of the same grey, precisely cut and fitted to his lean frame. Naked from the waist up, he was muscular, but wiry, the tendons in his chest undulating beneath his pale skin as he began his exercises.
It was the same cycle of movements practiced by every guard of the brotherhood. Part military formation, part stretching, part meditation. He flowed from one position to the next with an ease born from years of repetition.
She leant back against the stone wall, and watched him. The cold seeped through the woollen blanket that hung around her, cooling her flushed skin.
This was the best hour of her day.
Beads of sweat had begun to form on his milky skin. She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of his breathing, somewhat quicker now. She felt that familiar warmth spread through her, starting as a slight tingle between her thighs, and spreading up to form a knot in her stomach. Her own breath came fast as she envisaged him leaning over her, chest slick from exertion, a look of agonised hunger on his beautiful face.
The sound changed, and she opened her eyes to see him kneeling on the white pebbles, murmuring the end-prayer. He stood and reached for his robe.
“Joscelin?”
He paused mid-movement and glanced up, looking for the source of the sound. She crawled forward toward the gate, dragging the chain which held her ankle to the ring in the far wall of her cell. His pale gaze fell on her and he straightened, expression sombre.
“What?” he spat the word.
She bit her lip and looked down. “I know we aren't to be fed till noon, but the rats got my bread yesterday. I wondered if there was any leftovers. Just something small, maybe?”
He regarded her coolly. “Rats got your bread.” he repeated. “I'm afraid that's what happens when you leave it lying around.”
“I was asleep.” she protested, “I was feeling ill.”
He took half a step back. “What kind of ill?”
The last thing they needed in a place like this was an epidemic.
“I don't know, nothing serious I guess, probably just from the cold.”
He let out his breath in an irritated sigh. “I'll see is there's anything out the back.” he picked up the grey robe and slung it around his shoulders, striding back toward the guards quarter.
He soon returned, thrusting his arm through the grate and waggling a stale crust at her.
“Here.” he said impatiently. “Don't leave this one on the floor.”
Hoisting herself up onto her knees, she quickly reached out and took hold of his wrist. The woollen blanket slipped to the floor, exposing her slim shoulders. The once-white rags of shirt still draped around her chest, barely covering the swell of her breasts.
She met his gaze evenly. “Thank you Joscelin.” she murmured his name, rolling it along her tongue, toying with the sound of it.
His eyes narrowed and he dropped the bread, turning his wrist in her grip.
“Let go.” there was a calm warning in his voice.
Keeping hold of him, she pulled herself forward against the iron grate. Their faces were almost level now, and he regarded her with barely concealed disgust.
“What's the rush? Everyone is asleep still.”
He tugged his wrist, but she clung on, knowing full well that he was not using even half of his strength against her.
“Let. go.” he repeated in a low growl.
She considered him for a moment, his eyes full of challenge, then released his arm with a smirk, and sat back on her heels.
“Off you go then. I'm sure you have duties to attend to.”
He cast her one last contemptuous glare before stalking off, grey robe swishing about him.
As soon as he was out of sight, she lifted her prize from the folds of the blanket. From the large brass ring she clutched, there hung a collection of keys, maybe fifteen in total. Somewhere amongst them, were the blessed tools which would grant her liberation.
TWO
Joscelin rolled over in his half-sleep, vaguely aware that the room had become uncomfortably warm. He knew he shouldn't have put that last log on the fire. The air felt close and clammy. He struggled drowsily with the sheet, twisting out of it and draping one leg over the side of the bed.
He wondered whether he should get out and do something about the stove, but the thought was fuzzy and distant, and he knew that if he opened his eyes, the dreams would vanish. He was loathe to leave them, just yet.
Had he been more awake he might have disciplined himself, for the dreams in which he currently lay wreathed were of a nature not entirely suitable for one sworn to chastity.
The warm air teased his skin, raising the hairs on his naked flesh, and sending hot shivers down his spine. On his closed eyelids, images moved and changed; the curve of a breast, glossy with sweat, hips moving against him, hands sliding up his chest, brushing over his nipples...
A sharp jolt of pain brought him out of his reverie, and he gasped, reached for the knife under his pillow and pushing himself up to a sitting position. He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with the subject of his nocturnal musing. As his brain swung into gear, the realisation of what he had been doing dawned on him and he swallowed hard, and felt the colour rising in his cheeks.
She sat straddling him, one hand still on his chest, her fingernails applying a slight pressure, a smirk on her perfectly formed features.
In one fluid movement, he swung his forearm up against her neck, shoving her backwards and launching onto his knees, knife in hand. She fell back against the bed post with a thud, the air escaping her lips in a gasp.
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then straightened her shoulders and lifted her head to regard him with a slight smile. “What were you dreaming about?”
“None of your gorram business.”
She tilted her head to one side, her gaze slid down the length of his body. “Isn't it?”
He became suddenly aware of his nakedness, and reached for the sheet to cover himself. But she was faster, pulling the fabric toward herself, and out of his reach. He grimaced and closed his eyes. He could feel her gaze on him, almost as tangible as her touch...like the sensation of her slim fingers on his chest...
He gave himself a mental shake. The very thought of it should repulse him, he'd hated her since the day she arrived. She was the lowest of the low, a woman of the night, selling her dignity to any filthy sluggard with a clinking purse. He had always been a man of strict morals, and he despised her kind and all they stood for.
At least, that was what his mind told him. His body had different ideas.
He shifted his grip on the knife, and tried to focus on maintaining a steady hand. A life of rigorous and brutal training had instilled in him a strict discipline, and he prided himself on his powers of self control. But this did nothing to quell the rising tide of heat which he now felt in his nether regions.
“Get out. I know how to use this thing. The scripture says nothing to prohibit killing in self defence”
She laughed as she slid toward him, to press her neck lightly against the blade, Her eyes slipped up to meet his furious glare. “I'm sure you do.” she purred.
As she spoke, her ragged shirt slipped from one shoulder. He glanced down before he could stop himself, and realised that he could see right down through the draped cloth. Her skin was smooth and honey toned, her breasts were full, with two perfectly formed pink nipples which swelled hard against the fabric.
He caught his breath and dragged his gaze up to meet her eyes. She was still watching him with that knowing smile, and it made every hair on his neck stand up. He shivered involuntarily.
He still held the knife steady against her neck, but his hand was becoming clammy. He breathed deeply and summoned his will.
“Don't make me slit that pretty throat of yours, whore.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn't dare, you book-hugging craven.”
He roared and shoved her violently onto her back, bringing the point of the knife across her skin. A tiny pearl of blood formed at the hollow of her throat. Her eyes widened as she inhaled with a surprised gasp.
“Don't fuck with me!”
She laughed softly then, as she lay beneath him. The sound of it created in him an uncomfortable mix of rage and slow simmering desire.
It was at that point that he became aware of her thighs wrapped around his leg, and the warm, wetness of her flesh...
“Y-You're not...”
She laughed again, and arched her back ever so slightly, moving against him. His breath quickened despite his best efforts. His hand loosened on the knife, and she used this moment to reach down and slide one hand up his leg. When the tips of her fingers brushed his member he gasped as though struck.
“Well well...i thought you hated me, cassiline?”
He fought to control his breath as her fingers continued to stroke him teasingly.
“It's...It's just an animal reaction, I swear.” he whispered. Distantly, his mind told him to move, but it felt as though he was frozen in place, his whole body pivoting on that one delicious point of contact.
“Drop the knife, there's a good boy.”
“Fuck you.” he panted, but even as he said it he felt his resolve slip. He frantically tried to reign himself in, his hand tightened on the hilt of the knife.
Carefully avoiding the lethal point, she shifted deftly beneath him, sliding one leg around him so that he knelt between her thighs.
“Drop it.” she repeated, her voice calmly insistent.
He could feel that tide of heat surging in his veins, threatening to overwhelm him. He knew that once he dropped the weapon, that would be it. His resolve would crumble under the building wave of feverish desire.
She moved ever so slightly, and he felt the wetness of her against his cock.
“Mm,” she murmured, “you're this hard already and I've barely even touched you. I guess that's what a life of chastity does to a man, eh?”
Chastity. His vows. It was possible they were already broken, the texts expressly forbid any sexual contact, even looking at a naked woman would bring down the wrath of the gods upon him.
“I-I can't...” he faltered as she wrapped her legs around him and began to pull him down toward her. He felt the tip of his member slide into the hot wetness between her thighs and he moaned softly.
The knife clattered to the floor.
“Good boy.” she whispered, arching her back as she pulled him closer, his hips moved of their own volition, pushing urgently, further toward rapturous damnation. She began to run her hands over his chest, teasing his nipples, sending shock waves of pleasure through his veins.
Oh god, he didn't want this, but every inch of his body ached with lust. He strained against her, and she let out a soft moan of pleasure as her body tightened, increasing the sensation. His breath was coming hot and ragged. “I don't want...”
She dug her nails into his shoulder blades, stopping him mid sentence with a wash of pain. He cried out, caught between torment and ecstasy.
“You do want. Your body betrays you, Joscelin.”
The whore spoke truth, his brain was flooded with a lifetime worth of pent-up hunger. But oh god he hated himself for it.
With a cry of desperation, he grasped her shirt and tore it open violently, exposing the length of her, all taut, glistening smoothness. Gods she was beautiful. How could he have ever hoped to keep his vow?
“My God, you fucking minx, I'm going to kill you for this.” He gasped, grabbing a handful of her hair as she moaned in a delirious frenzy. He felt the wave begin to peak. He threw back his head as the pulsating haze filled his vision
“No!”
He felt hot tears of rage sting his eyes. This wasn't meant to happen. All those years of faithful servitude and discipline, all for naught. He pressed both hands on her breasts, pushing her away from him, struggling for any scrap of self control.
“No! Oh god, no!”
In a flash she had flipped him onto his back, her hair fell onto his chest and her eyes gleamed with triumph as she whispered those last fatal words
“Cum for me, you son of a bitch.”
And he did, damn it all to hell, he did. He grasped her desperately as he came, letting out a choked cry of pleasure, burying his shameful face in her neck. The climax consumed him. He shuddered and ran his tongue over her skin, tasting the sweet saltiness of her. As his chest heaved, he whimpered softly against her, and a distant part of his mind laughed ruefully and said;
Cowards or not, at least no one can say we don't do as we're told.
**
Please Note: The character of Joscelin is loosely based on "Kushiel's Dart" by Jacqueline Carey hence the tag "fan-fic". Also, read it, it's friggin awesome.
Hester
- 29.08.2022
- 7
- 0
- Category:
- Reluctance
