one sunday morning by somnatic
At that moment, Ilya knew he was hallucinating, and that he’d hit his head a lot harder than he thought. Because here was Shane fucking Hollander— in his fucking kitchen, wearing his fucking clothes. He was making borscht. “What the fuck,” Ilya croaked. (Ilya takes a rough hit. Shane is there to take care of him.)
Somehthing super disgustingly cute. Yeah.
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti