Oh youre "nonbinary"? Can i put you in a box please. Can i pleaseeeee put you in a box. We have two boxes and i really wanna put you in one. But dont worry. My boxes are very Woke and Nuanced. So its fine to put you in one. Pleaseeeee. Wow... youre such a bitch... not letting me put into one of two nuanced and essential necessary boxes... you obviously go into the box all those evil bitches end up in
A/N: I was bored, here's a Jacob Elordi thing
Pairing: Jacob Elordi x Reader
Summary: being the wife of a celebrity comes with it's own challenges, both in front of the cameras and behind them
Y/N had learned to inhabit the margins of Jacob’s world—not because he ever relegated her there, but because she chose it. The edges were quieter, softer, a pocket of calm amid the glare of lights and the bite of questions. Here, she could watch him shaphe shift into whatever version the public demanded without being consumed herself.
And strangely, these hectic press days—chaotic to everyone else—had become their own kind of sanctuary. In the swirl of assistants and timelines, this narrow strip of space behind the cameras was where they could simply be married: no performance, no pretense, just the two of them breathing the same air.
Jacob leaned against the high table just offstage, interview prompts fanned out before him. His eyes flicked across the pages while publicists murmured schedules and an assistant hovered with a tablet. Someone held a coffee he’d already forgotten about. Y/N stood pressed to his side, tucked under the natural drape of his arm as if the spot had been carved for her alone.
His arm was heavy across her shoulders, warm and certain, thumb tracing slow, idle circles on the bare skin of her upper arm—an unconscious habit, like breathing. Every so often, he dipped his head to brush a kiss to her temple or the edge of her hairline, the gesture so ingrained it required no thought.
She leaned into him just as naturally, her hand settling at his waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to rest against warm skin.
“Next hour’s tight,” his publicist said. “Two long-forms, rapid-fire, then the junket block.”
Jacob nodded, still scanning the page. “Anything new?”
“Nothing you haven’t handled a dozen times.”
“Good.” He handed the pages back, then glanced down at her. “Hungry?”
She considered it. “Maybe. A little.”
He lifted two fingers toward an assistant. “Something simple? Nothing spicy. She’ll eat half of mine anyway.”
Y/N gave a soft scoff. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” he murmured, smiling as he bent to kiss her cheek, lingering just long enough for her to feel the curve of his mouth. “You swear you’re fine and then my plate’s mysteriously empty.”
The assistant grinned, already scribbling, and vanished.Jacob shifted his weight, pulling Y/N with him, his arm tightening for a moment in a quiet, reflexive squeeze. People drifted past—greetings, quick compliments on his last interview. He answered warmly, politely, but every time, his gaze flicked down to her. A silent check-in.
Still here?
Still okay?
Still mine?
She always was.
She watched him the way only someone who knew the private corners of him could: the way his shoulders eased when her fingertips traced the line of his spine through his shirt, the way his jaw softened when she smiled up at him, the way he melted—just slightly—when he thought no one important was looking.
He leaned in again, voice low, meant only for her. “You good, love?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Just tired.”
His brows drew together faintly, and he pressed a longer kiss to her temple. “Long day.”
“Normal day,” she corrected, gentle.
He gave a quiet huff of laughter. “You married an actor. This was in the fine print.”
“And I married a very clingy one.”
“Rude.” His grin was small and private. “Accurate, but rude.”
The stage manager approached, clearing their throat. “Jacob? They’re ready.”
He exhaled—not dramatic, just resigned—and squeezed her shoulder. “Okay.”
He turned to face her fully, hands sliding down her arms, thumbs brushing slow paths across her skin like he was memorizing the feel of her before he had to let go. “Same spot?”
She nodded. “Right here.”
His eyes lingered on her face a beat longer, something tender and searching in them. Then he bent to kiss her—soft, quick, but unmistakably affectionate, the kind of kiss that made nearby crew members smile without meaning to.
“Text me if you need anything,” he murmured against her lips.
“I’m ten feet away.”
“Still.” He stole one more kiss, lighter this time. “Text me.”
She watched him walk the short distance to the set, watched his posture straighten, his expression settle into the easy, open charm the cameras loved.
Jacob took his seat opposite the interviewer, adjusting his jacket, flashing that practiced, disarming smile as the red light blinked on.
Behind the cameras, Y/N settled into her familiar chair, hands folded loosely in her lap.
From here, she had a perfect view of him.
From there, if he glanced just slightly left, he had a perfect view of her.
And he did.
Every time.
She smiled back.
Then, without warning, a slow, unfamiliar roll of nausea twisted low in her stomach.
She stilled, breath catching faintly, smile faltering as she pressed her lips together.
That’s weird, she thought, shifting in her seat and willing it away.
Across the room the interviewer opened with something gentle—routine praise for the performance, a question about process. Jacob answered smoothly, the words coming easily after a dozen similar interviews: preparation, emotional layers, the challenge of humanizing something dark. His voice stayed warm, his posture open, the practiced rhythm carrying him forward.Behind the cameras, Y/N fought the sudden, insistent churn in her stomach.
You’re fine, she told herself, willing it to be true. She shifted in her chair, uncrossing and recrossing her ankles, trying to find a position that eased the pressure. The room had grown warmer, the air thicker. Someone’s cologne drifted past—sharp and synthetic—and her throat tightened in protest.
She swallowed, pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, and fixed her gaze on Jacob. If she could just keep him in focus—the familiar line of his shoulders, the way his hands moved when he was deep in an answer—the wave would pass. It had to.
He was animated now, leaning forward slightly, fully engaged. The interviewer nodded, captivated. The cameras hummed. The lights buzzed.
Another wave rolled through her, stronger, more insistent.
Her fingers tightened around the armrest. Heat surged up her chest, her vision tunneling. She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, breathing carefully through her nose.
Not now.
Not here.
She couldn’t disrupt him. Couldn’t draw eyes, spark whispers, force assistants into motion. She would wait it out. She always waited.
But Jacob had learned, over years of shared glances and quiet check-ins, to sense the smallest shift in her. A sixth sense honed in green rooms and hotel corridors, in the stolen pockets of calm between obligations. Even mid-sentence, something tugged at him—an absence where her quiet smile usually anchored him.His gaze flicked left.
She wasn’t smiling.
Her shoulders were drawn in, chin tucked, face pale in a way that punched the air from his lungs. Her lips were pressed thin, eyes distant, fixed on some internal battle.His words stumbled, just barely.
The interviewer didn’t catch it. The crew didn’t notice.
But Jacob did.
He finished the thought on instinct, but his leg began to bounce beneath the table, restless. His eyes returned to her, longer this time, searching.
Then she moved—one hand rising swiftly to her mouth.
That was all it took.
“Y/N?” he mouthed, silent but urgent.
She shook her head, quick and desperate—keep going, I’m fine—but the plea never reached him. Not really. Because he saw the tremor in her breathing, the way she fought something visceral.
Another surge hit her, merciless.
She stood.
The chair scraped, a small, sharp sound that felt deafening. Heart hammering, she turned and hurried away, hand clamped over her mouth, steps uneven as she battled the urge to sprint.Jacob’s head snapped toward her.
His sentence broke off entirely.
“—sorry,” he said at once, already rising. “I need a moment.”
The interviewer blinked, startled. “Of—”
Jacob was already moving, stepping around the equipment without a backward glance, pulse thundering in his ears.
Because Y/N didn’t run.
She didn’t flee her own skin.
He found her just outside the restroom, bent forward, one palm braced against the wall as if it were the only thing tethering her to earth.
“Hey,” he murmured, instantly at her side, hand settling warm and steady between her shoulder blades. “Hey, love, talk to me.”
She shook her head, breath hitching. “I’m—it’s fine. Just… give me a second.”
But then her body rebelled again, and he moved without hesitation—pushing the door open, guiding her inside with the same instinctive gentleness he brought to every touch. He gathered her hair back in one hand, the other pressing firm circles against her back as she bent over the sink, retching quietly.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice low and steady, a lifeline in the sterile quiet. “I’m right here. Just breathe.”
When it eased, she sagged against him, drained, forehead damp, confusion flickering in her eyes.
Jacob eased her back gently, then crouched to her level, hands framing her face, thumbs sweeping softly beneath her eyes to catch the tears she hadn’t let fall.
“This isn’t nerves,” he said quietly, not asking.
Knowing.
She swallowed. “I don’t know what it is.”
He nodded, jaw tight with worry, but his touch stayed tender—fingertips tracing her cheeks, grounding her. “Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll find out. Together.”
He rested his forehead against hers for a long, still moment, breathing her in, letting the chaos outside fade to nothing.
Y/N sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on her knees, head bowed as she focused on pulling air in and out—slow, deliberate breaths that still felt too shallow. The fluorescent light above was harsh, buzzing faintly, but the cool porcelain under her palms grounded her. Jacob knelt in front of her, one hand resting lightly on her knee, thumb moving in small, steady arcs. He didn’t speak; he just watched her face, waiting for the color to creep back into her cheeks.
The door opened without warning.
“Jacob?” Sarah’s voice—his lead publicist, the one who’d been with him through every premiere and scandal for the last five years. She stepped inside, phone already glowing in her hand, eyes widening as they landed on Y/N.
“Hey, sorry—I just—the set’s in a holding pattern. They’re asking how long. Is everything—”Jacob was on his feet in an instant, moving with a quiet intensity that made the small space feel smaller.
He placed himself between Sarah and Y/N without thinking, his broad frame blocking the direct line of sight. His voice came out low, controlled, but laced with something unyielding.
“Sarah. Let's step out into the hall.”
It wasn’t a shout. It wasn’t even particularly sharp. But Sarah knew that tone—had heard it only a handful of times before, always when something crossed a line he’d drawn in the sand years ago. She nodded once, backing out immediately, and Jacob followed, pulling the door until it was open only a few inches.
He kept one hand on the frame, angled so he could still see Y/N through the gap.In the hallway, Sarah lowered her voice. “Talk to me. What do we need?”Jacob glanced back toward the bathroom, then fixed his gaze on her.
“Cancel the next hour. All of it. Push the long-forms to after four, move the junket block if you have to. Tell them whatever sounds plausible—voice fatigue, lighting issue, I don’t care. Just make it happen.”
Sarah’s thumbs were already flying across her screen. “We can do that. The outlets will grumble, but they’ll wait. You know they will.”
“Good.” He exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his jaw. “And the room—anyone who isn’t core team who saw her leave… venue staff, journalists, whoever. I need you to talk to them. Personally. Make it clear this doesn’t leave the room. Not a word, not a hint, not an off-the-record comment to a friend. Out of respect for her. She doesn’t need this turning into gossip.”
Sarah met his eyes, understanding immediately. “I’m on it. Most of them signed NDAs at check-in anyway—standard for these junkets. I’ll remind anyone who needs reminding. Quietly.”
“Thank you.” His shoulders loosened a fraction. “I owe you.”
“You don’t,” she said simply. “Take care of her. Text me when you’re ready to restart.”
She was already turning away, phone to her ear before she reached the end of the corridor.
Jacob slipped back inside and locked the door behind him. The click of the latch sounded final, like he’d shut the entire day out with it.
Y/N looked up as he approached, managing a faint, sheepish smile. “Was that Sarah? I heard… some of it.”
“Yeah.” He crouched again, resting his forearms on his knees so they were eye-level. “It’s handled. No one’s waiting. No one’s asking questions.”
“You didn’t have to rearrange everything,” she said quietly, though the relief in her voice betrayed her.
He tilted his head, giving her that half-smile that always felt like it was just for her. “Yes, I did. You’re pale as hell baby. And you just threw up in a hotel bathroom during my press day. Rescheduling is the least dramatic thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes.”
She huffed a weak laugh, then winced as her stomach gave another small protest. He noticed—of course he did—and reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He helped her stand slowly, keeping one arm snug around her waist when she swayed a little. She leaned into him without hesitation, her temple brushing his collarbone as they moved. In the hallway, it was mercifully empty; Sarah had clearly cleared a path. Jacob kept his steps measured, matching her shorter stride, his thumb tracing idle patterns along her hip through the fabric of her dress.
The elevator was waiting. He pressed the button for their floor, then guided her inside and turned her gently so her back rested against his chest. His arms came around her middle, loose but secure, palms flat against her stomach—not pressing, just there. She let her head fall back against his shoulder.
“You’re steady,” she said softly.
“You’re not,” he answered, mouth close to her ear. “So we balance.”
The doors slid open on their floor. Their suite was at the far end of the hall, and he didn’t rush her—let her set the pace, his hand never leaving the small of her back. Inside, the room was dim and quiet, curtains drawn against the harsh afternoon sun, the air cool and faintly scented with the eucalyptus candle she liked.
He steered her toward the bedroom, easing her down onto the edge of the bed. She kicked off her heels with a sigh; he toed off his own shoes and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a cold bottle of water and a damp washcloth.
“Here.” He sat beside her, twisting the cap off the water first and handing it over. “Small sips.”
She took it gratefully, drinking slowly while he folded the cloth and pressed it gently to the back of her neck. The coolness made her eyes flutter shut.
“God, that’s good,” she whispered.
He shifted closer, stretching out on his side next to her, propped on one elbow. When she lowered the bottle, he took it and set it on the nightstand, then guided her down until her head rested on the pillow.
She turned toward him instinctively, curling into the space he made. He adjusted without a word—one arm sliding beneath her neck, the other draping across her waist, pulling her in until her forehead tucked under his chin.
For a long minute, they just breathed together. His fingers found the hem of her sleeve, tracing the inside of her wrist, then up her forearm—slow, absent touches that weren’t meant to fix anything, just to remind her he was there.
“You scared me for a second back there,” he admitted quietly, lips brushing her hair.
“I scared myself,” she said against his shirt. “I’ve never felt anything like that. It came out of nowhere.”
He hummed, low in his throat. “We’ll call the doctor when you’re up to it. Or go in tomorrow. Whatever you want.”
She nodded, the movement small. “Okay.”
Another stretch of silence, comfortable and familiar. Outside, the faint sounds of the city filtered up—traffic, distant voices—but in here, it felt miles away.
His hand moved to her back, palm making slow circles between her shoulder blades. “You’re warm now,” he observed. “Fever?”
“No. Just… wrung out.”
“Then rest.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She let out a long breath, body gradually unclenching against his. “You have interviews.”
“They’ll wait.” His voice was firm, but gentle. “You’re more important than any of that.”
She tilted her head up to look at him, eyes soft. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on. He responded by tightening his arm around her, tucking her closer until there was no space left between them. His leg slid over hers, a casual entanglement that felt as natural as breathing.
-
Jacob returned to the suite later than he had intended—much later. The press junket had stretched into the evening, one interview bleeding into the next, handshakes and photos and carefully worded anecdotes about the film.
He had performed it all flawlessly, slipping back into the polished version of himself the cameras expected, but a part of him had remained tethered to that sterile hotel bathroom downstairs, to the sound of her ragged breathing and the way her body had trembled under his hands.
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. The room was dim, lit only by the small lamp on her side of the bed—its amber glow pooling across the duvet like warm honey.
Y/N was already asleep, curled on her side facing his empty half of the mattress, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting lightly over the gentle curve of her waist. Her hair spilled across the pillow in waves, a few strands caught against her parted lips with each slow exhale.
She looked small beneath the heavy covers, fragile in a way that tightened something low in his chest.
He stood in the doorway longer than necessary, jacket still draped over one arm, shoes in hand, simply watching the rise and fall of her breathing. The sight of her like this—peaceful, unguarded—unraveled the last knots of tension he’d carried up from the lobby.
All day he had been half-present, answering questions while his mind replayed the moment she’d stood from her chair, hand pressed to her mouth, color drained from her face. He had felt it like a physical pull, that instinct to abandon everything and follow her.
Now, in the quiet, the weight of the day settled over him. He set his shoes down silently, hung his jacket, and moved toward the bathroom.
The shower was necessary—hot water to scour away the residue of studio lights and small talk, to loosen the ache in his shoulders from hours of sitting under scrutiny. He let it run longer than usual, steam filling the marble space, head bowed under the spray as fragments of the morning resurfaced: her pale face, the way she’d tried to wave him off even as her body betrayed her, the fierce protectiveness that had surged through him when Sarah appeared at the door.
When he emerged, towel knotted low around his hips, skin still damp and warm, the room felt cooler, quieter. He padded barefoot to their open suitcases near the dresser—hers meticulously organized, his a respectful invasion of her system.
He was searching for his toothbrush, or maybe the face cream she always packed for him because he inevitably forgot his own. His fingers moved through the familiar layers: folded shirts, her silk sleep set, the small pouch of toiletries.
Then they brushed against something smooth and rectangular. He knew the shape before he even pulled it into the lamplight.
The box of tampons. Unopened. Still sealed from when she’d packed it weeks ago.
He froze.
Not dramatically. Not with a sharp intake of breath or widened eyes. The realization arrived softly, almost reverently, like dawn creeping through curtains. He turned the box over in his hands once, slowly, then set it back exactly where it had been, fingers lingering on the cardboard edge.
Jacob knew her body in the intimate, unspoken way that came from years of shared rhythms—how she would grow quieter and more affectionate in the days leading up to her period, how she’d reach for him in the night when cramps twisted through her, how he’d learned to keep chocolate in the freezer and the heating pad charged without ever needing to be asked. He tracked it not out of obligation or calculation, but because he paid attention—because loving her meant noticing the small, cyclical shifts that shaped her days, the way she shaped his.
This month, there had been none of the usual signs.No quiet complaints about bloating. No midnight requests for tea. No subtle retreat into herself.Instead: the bone-deep tiredness she’d blamed on travel. The way certain smells turned her stomach. The sudden, violent nausea this morning.
He leaned back against the dresser, towel still damp against his skin, gaze drifting to her sleeping form across the room. The pieces aligned themselves gently, without force, forming a picture that was fragile and luminous and entirely theirs.
A baby.
Maybe.
The thought didn’t explode in him. It bloomed—slow, warm, almost sacred. His chest expanded with it, a quiet wonder that bordered on awe. He pictured her body quietly rewriting its own rules, nurturing something new without announcement or fanfare. He pictured himself beside her through all of it: the exhaustion, the fear, the joy. He pictured tiny hands and her eyes in a new face, and the image lodged somewhere behind his ribs, tender and fierce.
He didn’t smile yet.
Not fully.
He simply stood there in the half-light, letting the possibility settle over him like the softest blanket. If this was real—if her body was already carrying the beginning of a life they hadn’t planned but would love beyond reason—then it belonged to her first. The knowing, the naming, the hoping. He would not steal that from her by speaking it too soon.
He moved to the bed with deliberate care, lifting the covers just enough to slide in behind her. The mattress dipped; she stirred faintly, a sleepy sound in her throat as she instinctively sought his warmth.
He curved around her naturally—chest to her back, knees tucking behind hers, arm sliding over her waist to rest low on her stomach. His palm spread there, broad and gentle, not pressing, simply covering the place where everything might already be changing.
She sighed in her sleep, pressing back into him, her hand coming to rest over his without waking.
Only then did the smile come—slow, private, luminous in the dark. Not triumphant. Not impatient.
Knowing.
Full.
Infinitely patient.
He pressed his lips to the warm skin just below her hairline, a kiss so light it was barely more than breath.
“Hi,” he whispered—to her, to the possibility, to the quiet miracle unfolding between them.
She hummed softly, burrowing closer.
And Jacob held her through the night, heart steady and wide open, willing to wait for the rest of his life to begin.
---------------
A/N: if this gets enough traction I might write another part who knows lol. just a fluffy Jacob elordi thing I thought up!
“The hunter did not hate the wolf. The wolf did not hate the sheep. But violence felt inevitable between them. Perhaps, I thought, this was the way of the world.”
a little spencer reid blurb cause I was bored enjoy <3 fem!reader insert
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and damp leaves, the open window letting in a cool October breeze that keeps tugging at the paper towels spread out over the counter. There are three pumpkins lined up on the table, their round orange bellies gleaming in the light. Spencer is already elbow‑deep in one of them, methodically scooping out the stringy pulp with a spoon like he’s conducting a delicate experiment.
Your little one is less precise. He’s digging both hands into the pumpkin you set in front of him, giggling at the slippery mess clinging to his fingers.
“Daddy, look!” he says, holding up a fistful of seeds.
Spencer peers over, glasses sliding down his nose, and smiles the way he only does for the two of you. “Wow. Did you know each of those seeds can grow into a whole pumpkin plant?”
Your son’s eyes widen. “This many?” He squeezes his little fist tighter, seeds slipping out between his fingers.
“That many,” Spencer confirms, pulling a bowl closer so the seeds don’t end up on the floor. “If we cleaned them and planted them in the ground, we could grow a whole pumpkin patch.”
You reach over with a napkin, gently wiping at the sticky mess he’s managed to smear on his cheek. “Or we could roast them and sprinkle a little cinnamon sugar on top.”
Your child gasps like you’ve just offered him magic. “Can we? Please?”
Spencer chuckles, settling the scoop aside. “We can. But first…” He tilts his head toward the paper with the design he’s been sketching; a careful outline of a perfectly symmetrical spiral with stars etched into the edges.
You grin knowingly. “Spence, it’s a jack‑o‑lantern, not a dissertation.”
He ducks his head, ears pink. “I just thought a Fibonacci spiral would be… festive.”
Meanwhile, your son has decided on a different approach. He takes a crayon to the side of his pumpkin, drawing a lopsided smile with two giant square teeth and circles for eyes. “I want mine to look happy,” he announces.
“Happy pumpkins are the best kind,” you say, pressing a kiss to the top of his curls.
Spencer studies the uneven drawing with mock seriousness, then nods. “I think it’s perfect.” He pulls the little saw out of the carving kit and passes it to you, saying, “Maybe Mom should do the cutting part.”
You catch the way his eyes linger on your son’s small fingers, protective as ever. He still remembers the tears from the oven burn a few weeks back; it’s in the way his hand twitches closer when the blade scrapes through the pumpkin’s skin, like he could catch any harm before it ever touched your child.
When the lid finally comes off and you pop the jagged smile into place, your son squeals with delight, clapping pumpkin‑slick hands together. “He’s so cute!”
“Just like you,” you tease, wiping your own cheek after he smears a streak of pulp there by accident.
Spencer leans back in his chair, glasses a little fogged from the warmth of the room, watching his family laugh in the golden light. He doesn’t even mind the sticky mess on the floor or the pumpkin guts clinging to his sweater.
Because the sound of your child’s giggles — and the sight of you brushing curls from his forehead — is better than perfect symmetry.
And by the time the sun slips low behind the trees, the three of you are bundled at the doorstep, your son bouncing in Spencer’s arms as you strike the match. The jack‑o‑lantern glows to life, its crooked grin casting soft orange light across your porch.
“There,” you whisper, stepping back to admire it. “What do you think?”
Your little boy leans forward until Spencer has to hold him tighter against his chest. His eyes go wide in wonder, reflecting the flickering flame. “He’s smiling!” he says, voice hushed like he’s seeing real magic.
“He is,” Spencer agrees, resting his chin lightly on the top of his son’s head. “And he’ll keep smiling all night, just for you.”
You glance at Spencer then--his sweater dusted with pumpkin pulp, his hair a little mussed, glasses slipping again--and the look he gives back makes your chest ache. He looks like home.
Inside, the kitchen smells sweet and toasty. You’ve spread the pumpkin seeds across a baking sheet, cinnamon sugar clinging to their shiny skins. Spencer helps your son up onto a stool so he can peek into the oven window, explaining in a low voice about heat conduction and caramelization while the seeds pop and crackle.
Later, the three of you curl up on the couch under a blanket, a bowl of warm roasted seeds between you and a mug of cocoa balanced in Spencer’s hand. Your son crunches happily, cheeks flushed, while his curls tickle Spencer’s jaw where he leans against him.
“Best pumpkin ever,” he mumbles around a mouthful.
Spencer smiles, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Best night ever.”
You stretch your legs across Spencer’s lap, brushing your toes against his shin, and his free hand covers your ankle without even looking. It’s such a simple, natural touch — like he couldn’t not.
Outside, the jack‑o‑lantern glows against the autumn dark, and inside, the three of you are wrapped in warmth, laughter, and the quiet kind of love that makes everything else feel small.
jbbartram-illu
2087
baratheonpilled
dededos
