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[fratttymatty]

Debate Clubbed

(All characters are 18+)

“Are we really doing this?” Matt adjusted his glasses, fidgeting with the sleeve of his Star Trek hoodie. “Charlie Kirk? On our campus?”

“He’s a meme with a podcast,” Kayla said, shoving a flyer into his face. “This is performance art.”

“Besides,” added Harry, strutting beside them in platform boots and a jacket that could blind a man in direct sunlight, “where else am I gonna wear this outfit and morally humiliate a pseudo-intellectual at the same time?”

The trio walked into the packed student auditorium at Marigold University. The air was thick with energy drinks, strong opinions, and the unmistakable scent of Mountain Dew and Axe body spray.

On stage, Charlie Kirk stood across from a jittery sophomore named Kyle Tremblay, a poli-sci major who dreamed of podcast stardom but had the charisma of a used napkin.

“I just think we need to stop censoring hat-based discourse,” Kyle said, stumbling. “I mean, why are we afraid of hats?”

A roar of applause. Laughter. Someone hurled a red hat onto the stage with the force of divine irony. Kyle caught it and looked like he’d just won the Super Bowl.

Charlie’s grin widened.

And then, he saw them.

Three queer students, standing like a wall of resistance at the back of the crowd: Matt, Kayla, and Harry.

Charlie tilted his mic down slowly. “You three.”

Silence.

“You came to listen. Let’s see if you can talk. Come join me.”

Matt’s knees nearly gave out. “I don’t want to go up there. I don’t even do public speaking unless it’s a Discord debate.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Girl, please. I was born for the stage.”

He strutted down the aisle like it was a runway, to a mix of cheers and snickers. Charlie gestured him up.

“So what’s your name?” Charlie asked.

“Harry,” he said proudly, tossing his braided ponytail over one shoulder. “Black, queer, fabulous. Let’s go, Pinocchio.”

The crowd tensed. Charlie only smiled. “Tell me, Harry. What do you believe in?”

“Freedom. Justice. Equal rights. And brunch. Especially brunch.”

The audience laughed.

Charlie leaned closer. His voice… changed. It wasn’t louder, but it felt like it carried. Deep, smooth, unnaturally calm.

“But what if the freedom you believe in… was just a cage built by people who never wanted you to think for yourself?”

Harry blinked.

Charlie kept going. “What if rebellion was just a marketing campaign? What if the truth has been quietly waiting for you—heavy, simple, real?”

Harry’s jaw tensed. He tried to roll his eyes, but something rippled beneath his skin. Like static. His jacket tightened around him, then shimmered—and shrank into a sleeveless American flag tank top.

“Wha—”

His boots melted away into white Nikes. His skin lightened shade by shade. His jaw squared. His brows thickened. Earrings vanished. Muscles swelled beneath the shirt as though time-lapse weightlifting was happening inside him.

“What… what is this?” he stammered. His voice had dropped an octave.

Charlie stepped back, triumphant. “You’re becoming who you were always meant to be.”

Harry staggered, gripping the podium.

His phone background (a digital collage of RuPaul, Angela Davis, and his dog in a rainbow sweater) flashed… and then changed. A Dodge Charger. American flag overlay. Captioned: “Faith. Freedom. Family.”

“I feel… I feel clear,” he said, stunned.

“Your name?” Charlie asked.

The man standing there thought for a long moment.

“…Axel,” he said finally, voice solid. “Call me Axel.”

A massive cheer broke out from the crowd. One guy threw a protein bar onto the stage like an offering. Axel caught it instinctively, unwrapped it, and started eating without even realizing.

Matt’s mouth hung open. “What the hell just happened?”

Kayla grabbed his arm. “He just got Turning Pointed.”

Matt turned toward her. “We have to stop this.”

Kayla narrowed her eyes. “Then it’s my turn.”

Kayla wasn’t afraid of being hated.

She’d protested outside a Chick-fil-A in a dinosaur onesie just to make a point about corporate fossil fuel donations. She once made a guy cry in her media studies class for calling Brooklyn Nine-Nine “non-political.” Confrontation was her cardio.

But this?

This was something else.

She stood frozen beside Matt, staring at Harry—now Axel—as he posed for a selfie with a group of frat guys who’d once hissed “soy boy” at him across the dining hall.

His tank top gleamed. His hair had conformed to something out of a grooming ad. He was glowing, like someone who had just found Christ or creatine—or both.

“This is so much worse than I expected,” Matt whispered, horrified.

“I got this,” Kayla growled, stepping forward like a soldier heading into war.

Charlie Kirk’s smile widened as she approached. “And you are?”

“Kayla,” she said, crossing her arms. “Lesbian. Feminist. Art major. She/her. And about this close to vomiting.”

The crowd chuckled nervously. Charlie didn’t blink.

“Do you believe you’re free?” he asked.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Kayla shot back. “Because I think critically. Because I question. Because I know who I am.”

Charlie tilted his head. “Do you?”

Kayla opened her mouth, but he kept going.

“What if you’ve mistaken rebellion for identity? What if you’ve been sold a persona—wrapped in defiance, but hollow inside?”

His voice did that thing again. That low-frequency pull, like a political ASMR channel possessed by the spirit of a protein powder salesman.

Kayla’s fists clenched. “You can’t—”

But something shifted. Her combat boots began to morph, the thick leather fading into… white cheer sneakers, clean and spotless. Her cargo pants shimmered, cinched, and shrank into a pink skirt so short it made her flinch.

“No. No no no no—” She tried to step back, but her jacket unzipped itself and puffed into a cropped varsity top, baring her suddenly toned midriff. Her nails glossed. Her hair lightened, curling into golden waves with the bounce of an Instagram reel.

“No, I’m still me,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Charlie said, gently. “Just… a better version.”

The microphone caught her next words, soft and confused:

“Like… what’s even happening right now?”

Matt gasped. Her voice had changed—higher, bubblier, breezier. Her posture relaxed into a casual pop of the hip.

She turned toward the audience and smiled nervously. “Wait, like… did my skirt just get shorter or am I, like, having a Jesus moment or something?”

“Kayla!” Matt cried. “Snap out of it!”

She turned. “Who’s Kayla?” Her brows knit in confusion. “That name’s, like, kinda cringe, no offense.”

She beamed. “I’m Cassie now. Isn’t that, like, way cuter?”

The crowd erupted into cheers.

Cassie posed. Somewhere, a ring light appeared. Her phone auto-generated a Reel: 📸 First debate ever lolz 💕 freedom is, like, super empowering 🦅✝️ #FaithNotFeminism

Axel fist-bumped her. “You look great, Cass.”

“OMG, thanks! You, like, totally get it now.”

Matt watched them laughing together like it was a pep rally from hell.

He backed away, panic rising in his throat like soda fizz.

Cassie looked at him, pouting. “Aww, Matty. You’re, like, so pale. You okay, babe?”

Charlie turned to him slowly.

“No need to be afraid, Matt. You’re next.”

Matt’s hands were shaking.

He hadn’t moved since Kayla—no, Cassie now—posed for a selfie in her cheer outfit, flashing a peace sign and a “Jesus saves” tote bag like it had always been part of her personality.

Harry was gone. So was Kayla.

In their place: Axel and Cassie. Popular. Straight. Smiling like everything made sense now.

Matt, meanwhile, felt like a file slowly being deleted while it begged for permission.

He stepped forward slowly, face pale, lips twitching. “I—I didn’t even want to come to this.”

Charlie Kirk’s smile widened. “And yet here you are.”

“I’m not like them,” Matt stammered. “I’m introverted. I’m gay. I can’t do a pull-up. I read footnotes for fun. I think political TikTok is stressful. I cried during the Paddington movie—twice.”

“Of course you did,” Charlie said, stepping forward. “You’ve built your identity around intellect. Around being ‘different.’ Around being safe. But what if that’s not who you are at all?”

Matt’s knees wobbled. “You can’t just—”

“You’re scared because deep down, you know you’ve wanted this,” Charlie said. His voice dropped an octave, now vibrating with that strange, almost physical hum. “To be admired. To be normal. To be free.”

Matt gritted his teeth.

“I like being gay,” he whispered.

Charlie nodded solemnly. “I know. But what if that, too, was just a layer? A costume. What if underneath the niche trivia, the awkward posture, and the musical theatre playlists… there’s someone who’s been waiting to come out?”

Matt’s stomach lurched.

And then—it started.

First, his hoodie began to shift. The fabric thinned and tightened, cinching around growing muscles. Threads pulled inward, morphing into a slim-fit white polo with a tiny American flag embroidered where the NASA patch used to be.

His baggy jeans melted upward, stitching themselves into khaki shorts with a perfect cuff.

His body surged with warmth. Shoulders widened. His posture snapped into something upright, easy, confident. A tan spread over his pale skin like a filter being applied in real time.

“No—no, stop, stop—”

But the transformation had only just begun.

His face sharpened—cheeks hollowing slightly, jaw squaring, chin gaining that effortless cleft you only ever saw in deodorant commercials. His eyebrows thickened. Freckles faded. Lips evened out into that boy-next-door, white-picket-fence smile.

Then came the hair.

His awkward side part unraveled like a ribbon coming loose.

Each strand softened, lifted, fluffed. His flat, greasy mop ballooned into a fluffy, tousled TikTok fringe, full of bounce and volume, curling just slightly at the ends like a boy band sent from above to preach about fiscal responsibility.

Matt staggered forward.

“I—what’s—”

Even his voice was changing. The awkward, nasal tone smoothed into a buttery, athletic baritone—charmingly confident with just a touch of Southern sweetness.

He looked down at his phone. The wallpaper had changed: no more “An Evening with Sondheim” promo. Now it was a blurry gym mirror selfie captioned:

📸 Grind hard, pray harder. 🇺🇸💪✝️ #NoDaysOff #OnlyGodCanJudgeMe

Cassie squealed. “Omg babe, you look, like, so hot now.”

Axel clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the team, man.”

Charlie stepped closer. “What’s your name?”

Matt tried to remember. His last thought of musicals, of arguments in queer film theory class, of staying up late to listen to obscure podcasts—all of it faded, like fog being burned off by a rising sun.

He smiled.

“Ethan,” he said confidently. “I’m Ethan.”

Cassie ran to his side, wrapping her arms around him. He didn’t flinch. He pulled her in like they’d always been dating.

“I feel amazing,” Ethan said. “Like I’m finally… who I was meant to be.”

Charlie turned to the cheering crowd, triumphant.

Three transformed students stood behind him. Popular. Attractive. Straight. Patriotic. Empty of doubt.

“Would you like to say anything?” Charlie asked them.

Ethan stepped forward, Cassie at his side, Axel behind them.

He lifted the mic with perfect poise.

“Yeah,” he said. “Can we get a hat?”

Two weeks later, the campus had adjusted.

The LGBTQ+ student union shut down, citing “lack of interest.” The gender studies bulletin board was mysteriously replaced with a whiteboard that just said “Hustle Harder.” Even the art students had started painting bald eagles and military jets.

And at the center of it all were the three rising stars of Marigold University:

Axel. Cassie. Ethan.

They were everywhere.

On the big screen at the gym. On TikTok, stitching videos of confused-looking sociology majors. In promotional flyers for the new “Faith, Freedom, and Fitness” student org they’d founded—complete with matching logo tank tops.

Ethan adjusted his collar in the mirror of the student union bathroom, running a hand through his fluffy, perfectly tousled fringe.

He tilted his head and gave himself a playful smirk.

“Gotta keep it messy, but, like, intentional,” he muttered, pushing the fringe into a casual swoop that would later receive 12k likes on a thirst trap captioned ‘Sundays are for gains and grace.’

Cassie popped her head into the mirror beside him.

“Babe, your hair’s, like, literal perfection.”

Ethan grinned. “I try.”

“OMG,” she said suddenly, pulling out her phone. “We’re about to hit 200K followers on @FaithFamFlex. Should we do, like, a prayer squat challenge or something?”

Axel entered behind them, protein shake in hand, nodding like a proud older brother. “We’ve got a campus speaking tour to plan. But yeah, we can squeeze in a ‘Jesus & Gym Bros’ segment between leg day and Bible study.”

Ethan fist-bumped him. “God’s gains, bro.”

They walked out into the bright campus quad, where students were already gathering.

A small stage had been erected under a “Live Patriot Panel” banner, sponsored by the Marigold Libertarian Alliance. Charlie Kirk was standing at the podium again, shaking hands, smiling like a shark who just bought a swimming pool.

When he saw the trio, he gestured to the crowd.

“And here they are,” he announced, “the future of this campus. Three students who saw through the noise. Who chose faith, fitness, and freedom.”

The audience erupted.

Cassie blew a kiss to the crowd. “Totes honored, you guys!”

Axel cracked his knuckles and flexed slightly, just enough for the stage lights to catch his biceps.

Ethan stepped forward, took the mic, and smiled with easy confidence.

“Honestly,” he said, his hand drifting up to casually fix his fringe again, “we’re just blessed. Like… I used to be super lost. Overthinking everything. Trying to be special. Now? I just lift, love my country, and keep it simple.”

He turned to the crowd. “You don’t need to be confused anymore. You don’t need to be different to matter. You just need the truth. You need faith. You need freedom.”

“And,” Cassie chimed in, twirling her ponytail, “you need, like… a really cute hat.”

Charlie Kirk nodded, stepping forward. “Which brings us to the real question…”

He reached under the podium again, pulling out three red hats, crisp and folded like relics from some ancient patriotic temple.

He handed one to each of them.

Cassie clutched hers to her chest like it was a bouquet.

Axel put his on backward, naturally.

Ethan flipped his hair one last time, then slid the hat on — perfectly balanced above his TikTok fringe, brim slightly tilted like a conservative teen heartthrob running for Homecoming King.

They turned to face the crowd.

Three red hats. Three megawatt smiles. Three brand-new identities, spotless and streamlined.

A girl in the front row raised her hand timidly.

“Um… can I get a hat too?”

Charlie grinned.

Ethan leaned into the mic.

“Only if you’re ready to become your real self.”

The crowd roared.

Above them, a drone camera hovered, capturing it all for a viral clip that would be titled:

“3 Woke Students TRANSFORM After Charlie Kirk Debate – What Happens Next SHOCKS Campus”

And honestly?

No one was shocked anymore.

[fratttymatty]

Cursed Stream

(All characters are 18+)

Jamie Blue was your quintessential 18-year-old liberal nerd. He had thick glasses, a slim frame, and kept himself so clean you could eat off his skin. His high-pitched voice often broke in the middle of words when he got excited about a new comic-book adaptation or a philosophical debate. He wore pressed chinos and vintage band tees. He was polite, always smelled of citrus-scented sanitizer, and was the type of kid who corrected your grammar without realizing it.

Sam Klein, his boyfriend of nearly a year, was similarly liberal and nerdy, but with a creative flair. He loved to dance, often spinning Jamie around in his bedroom while K-pop or Broadway numbers blasted. Sam was rail-thin, with curly brown hair, big earnest eyes, and a carefully organized backpack full of color-coded notes. They spent hours together watching documentaries or indie films, pausing to argue about politics or art.

They loved each other deeply, both out at school and fully accepted by their social circle.

One night, they sat on Jamie’s bed with a bowl of air-popped, lightly salted popcorn between them.

“Wanna watch something dumb?” Sam suggested, tired after dance practice.

Jamie nodded. “Let’s see what’s on Netflix.”

Scrolling past options, they found one with an absurdly tacky thumbnail:

MOVIE TITLE: “MetaMorph: The Curse of Change” Description: “Two souls watch and become what they hate most.”

They laughed at the cringe factor.

“Oh my god that’s so pretentious,” Sam said, pressing play.

“I bet it’s, like, a 2/10,” Jamie said, rolling his eyes.

The movie started with cheap VFX, a flickering title screen, and an ominous voiceover:

“You will not leave unchanged.”

They snorted at it, but as the screen shimmered and warped, they felt dizzy. The room spun around them.

Jamie blinked in confusion. “Sam…? You okay?”

But Sam’s body was already cracking and stretching. He let out a strangled cry as his clothes strained and tore in places. His wiry arms and legs thickened in some places but slimmed in others, taking on a feminine hourglass shape.

“Ja…mie—” he gasped, voice cracking and plunging lower, then soaring into a nasal, breathy, girly tone.

He scrabbled at his chest as his nipples swelled beneath his torn T-shirt, growing into large, round, jiggling breasts that strained the fabric before bursting through it.

“Ugh—OH MY GOD, like—seriously?” he squealed, suddenly sounding like a stereotypical Valley girl.

His hair lengthened into glossy brunette waves. His nose pinched slightly at the bridge, lips puffed up, skin clearing to a poreless, made-up glow.

His butt rounded out obscenely in the seat of his shorts before they ripped open completely.

Pop!

His boxers reformed into a lacy pink thong. He moaned in horror-turned-pleasure as his groin pulled inward, the new folds wetting the fabric.

“Like—EWWW, why is it all…wet? Grossss,” he whined in his new voice, flicking his hair.

Jamie watched, heart hammering. “Sam—”

But Sam wasn’t Sam anymore.

She was Daniella “Dani” Glossed.

She turned to Jamie, blowing an exaggerated bubblegum bubble (where had that come from?). She let it pop loudly.

“Ugh, what the ACTUAL fuck is this gross place?” Dani drawled. “Why are you, like, here? You’re a nerd or whatever? Ew.”

Jamie stared at her. “Sam?”

“Ugh. Who’s Sam? Bitch, I’m Dani. Dani Glossed. Get it right.”

She rolled her eyes and twisted her body to admire her massive cleavage. She giggled vacantly.

“Oh my gawd. My tits are, like, SO fucking huge. Love that for me. Bet all the, like, hot white conservative boys are gonna wanna rail me so bad.”

Jamie tried to speak but she held up a perfectly manicured hand.

“Shhhh. Don’t talk. You’re giving me, like, loser vibes. I only date, like, musky, white, Republican football bros now, ‘kay?”

She pulled out her phone (where had that come from?) and started texting with acrylic-tipped fingers, letters popping up wrong.

“Omgggggg. brb i need 2 tak pics 4 my story. lik sooo cute rn.”

She giggled and snapped a dozen selfies.

And Jamie realized with horror she didn’t even remember who Sam was.

And worse yet—she didn’t want to.

Jamie’s hands trembled as he watched Dani—the cruel, airheaded conservative cheerleader—snap selfies on his bed, popping her gum.

“Like, oh my god Mattyyy? Hurry up and get hot already. You’re so boring rn,” she whined.

“Sam… please… stop,” Jamie begged, voice cracking in terror.

Dani scowled, twirling her brunette hair. “Who’s Sam? Ew. Hurry up, loser.”

The TV flickered.

“You will become what you hate most.”

A searing heat bloomed in Jamie’s chest.

“NO—”

He gripped the desk, but his fingers thickened, calluses popping into place. Dirt and grime smeared under his nails. His wrists and forearms bulged with new muscle.

He felt his whole upper body explode outward, pecs ballooning with hard definition under his shirt, the seams creaking and then tearing. His ribs expanded, his stomach hardening into uneven abs caked with sweat and smears of dirt from who-knew-where.

His chinos split apart into worn, low-slung jeans with a belt barely holding them up, the denim faded and frayed.

His underwear morphed into old, cheap boxer briefs riding low on his hips.

He felt himself grow taller, his feet swelling into battered sneakers with flattened soles.

His voice cracked horribly—then settled into a deep, lazy, masculine drawl.

“Fuck… whassup…?”

He gasped, stumbling to the mirror.

His face was transforming.

His nose broadened slightly. His jaw squared. A faint line of scruffy stubble emerged.

But his hair?

It stayed perfect.

Longish, soft brown locks fell in shaggy curtains over his forehead—clean, fluffy, and somehow artfully messy without being greasy. It framed his face perfectly even though everything else about him screamed dirty jock.

He smirked at himself.

“Heh. Lookin’ sick.”

Jamie’s brain fuzzed out, replaced by crude, base thoughts.

Cars. Girls. Drinking. Street racing.

He suddenly loved cars. Not as a mechanic—he didn’t fix them. He just liked owning them, showing them off, revving the engine at red lights to piss people off.

His whole bedroom seemed to shimmer. Posters of indie movies and protest signs vanished, replaced by huge metal signs for Mustang and Camaro.

He flexed in the mirror. His tank top clung to his sweaty, muscular torso, dirt smearing in the ridges of his abs, but that hair never lost its smooth, irresistible bounce.

He sniffed his pits and grinned.

“Hell yeah. Fuckin’ ripe.”

Dani squealed in delight.

“Omgggg MATTY you’re sooo hot now. Like, actually bangable. Smell so manly.”

He scratched his stomach and belched.

“Heh. Yeah. Don’t even shower after football practice. Fuck that. But check the hair, babe. Always on point.”

He tossed his head so the hair fell perfectly back into place.

“Omggg so hot. You’re like, my big dumb conservative BF now. Take me to the football field and make outttt.”

Matt smirked, eyes dark with lazy lust.

“Fuck yeah, let’s go. Might race the Camaro after. Love makin’ that shit roar.”

Dani practically melted.

As they walked out, arms wrapped tight around each other, the TV flickered:

“Transformation complete. No return possible.”

Jamie Blue was gone.

Matt Bradley loved cars, hated showers, adored conservative politics, and was horny as hell for the bitchy cheerleader on his arm.

But his hair?

Always perfect.

Monday morning.

Jamie Blue and Sam Klein no longer existed.

No one at Ridgeview High remembered them.

Instead there was Matt Bradley.

He showed up late to first period in that same filthy white tank top that barely contained his massive, sweat-slick chest. His sculpted arms were dusted with dirt from “fooling around” in the parking lot.

He swaggered in, one hand absently scratching under his pec, the other lazily brushing his perfect, soft brown hair from his eyes.

He plopped into his seat and spread his legs wide.

He reeked—like sweat, old beer, stale cologne. And he didn’t give a fuck.

When Ms. Palmer called on him: “Matt? Analysis of the poem?”

He squinted. “Uh… poem’s gay or whatever. Iunno.”

At lunch, the whole cafeteria stared as Matt swaggered in with Daniella “Dani” Glossed practically glued to his side.

She wore an even tighter pink crop top, her massive tits straining the fabric. Her shorts rode so high her ass was basically on display.

She squealed with laughter at everything he said. “Omgggg MATTY you’re sooo bad. Stopppp!”

He’d slap her ass so hard it echoed in the room. “Fuckin’ love this bitch.”

She’d bite her lip and moan. “Mmmm do it again.”

He’d grin and squeeze her ass this time, fingers digging in possessively. “Yeah you fuckin’ like that, huh?”

They’d sit down at the jock table.

Matt would spread his legs, tank top stained and pulled so low you could see the trail of hair running down his abs.

He’d lean back, arms over the bench, pulling Dani onto his lap without asking.

She’d grind lazily against him, not caring who saw. “Omgggg I’m so wet rn,” she’d whisper in his ear.

He’d smirk, hand sliding up her thigh to grab a handful of inner leg. “Heh. Fuck yeah you are.”

The whole table would whoop and whistle.

“Bro you’re nasty,” one guy would laugh.

Matt would just grin and lick his lips. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

In the hall, Dani would press him against the lockers.

She’d smoosh her boobs into his chest. “Ugh, you’re so fuckin’ gross. I love it. You’re like my big stinky Republican daddy.”

He’d grab her chin roughly. “Yeah? Gonna be a good little conservative slut for me?”

She’d whimper. “Yesss omgggg.”

He’d kiss her so hard it bruised, then shove her away playfully.

“Go to class before I fuck you right here.”

After school they’d go to Matt’s beat-up Camaro in the parking lot.

He’d throw open the passenger door and slap her ass as she climbed in.

She’d moan, arching her back to show him everything. “Mattyyyy don’t be mean!”

He’d lean in, grabbing her face. “Shut up and suck my tongue.”

They’d make out so aggressively the windows fogged.

When she finally pulled back, smeared lipstick and glassy-eyed, she’d giggle. “Omggg I’m gonna let you do anything tonight. Like anything.”

He’d smirk, licking his lips. “Fuck yeah you are. But first I’m racing Ryan for pink slips. Gonna make this bitch roar.”

He revved the engine, the Camaro snarling.

She squealed in delight. “Ughhhh take me you dirty jock. I love you so much.”

He winked. “Yeah, whatever. Love you too, slut.”

They didn’t even remember being anyone else.

No guilt. No fear. No going back.

Just Matt Bradley and Daniella Glossed:

The dirtiest, most shameless couple in school.

Fully conservative.

Fully straight.

Fully obsessed with each other.

And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Transformation complete. No return possible.”

The TV in Jamie’s old room flickered its final words.

And then it went dark forever.

[bowtomeslutxx]

Always be a woman, it’s feels so safe being feminine 💐🌸💖

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