i think quite often about the implications of shane growing up in nowhere ottawa, a cottage at the edge of the woods, and ilya hailing from the cold, salt-stained streets of moscow. the way those two childhoods never stopped existing inside them. the way they surface in quiet, domestic moments.
shane kills the bugs in their house without thinking. he doesn’t even hesitate. just a folded paper towel, quick and clean. ilya, who flinches at the sound of loons on the lake, watches from a safe distance, faintly horrified. he has never been an exterminator. he has never needed to be.
ilya offers to hire someone to change a lightbulb. to replace a lock. to fix something small and ordinary. shane just blinks at him, slow and confused, because it costs ten dollars at home depot and then you do it yourself, ilya... that’s the whole point. that’s how it’s always been done.
but ilya knows how to endear himself to the local bakery. he leans on the counter, soft voice, easy smile, and every time they leave there is something extra tucked into the brown paper bag. being a millionaire means nothing here. every grandmother pinches his cheek anyway. every owner insists he take more.
he doesn’t need google maps when they drive through the city. he knows instinctively how streets bend, how neighborhoods breathe. he has every app for taxis, deliveries, reservations, tailoring. he knows how to argue, too -- sharp and precise -- when someone tries to take advantage of shane. no, you are not ripping off my husband. no, you will not get away with it (shane's no idiot, but yuna famously handles all his business, simply taking his interests in mind).
(by the same vein) shane, who barely knows how to negotiate a contract because someone else always did it for him (yuna, an agent, etc), knows the sky instead. he knows the constellations. he learned them standing beside his father, neck bent back, the dark stretching endless above them. (he was a boy scout for exactly 1 year before quitting bc it cut into hockey time). sometimes they lie on the patio furniture now, deep in thought, and shane points them out one by one, voice soft with certainty, and ilya listens like he’s being told a story (it reminds him, at first with a shock, of his mother, of bedtime folk stories told once by the first russian mother to the first russian child. of cannabilism and children being stolen by devils in the middle of the night, but it was still funny & sweet anyway, bc irina swore to always protect him before tucking his little toes in)
ilya fills their kitchen with beautiful, lavish, complicated things. heavy clay pots. expensive japanese knives. a coffee machine that hisses and gleams like something alive. the tv room with state of the art speakers & a remote system that takes shane 3 days to figure out how to use. shane brings the deck pillows inside before the first snowfall. he checks the seals on the windows. he knows which mornings the frost will come early.
they are both, in quiet ways, teaching each other how to live.
(and, more quietly still, carrying small, invisible pieces across that shared space between them. ilya learns to rotate his own tires. shane cooks his first stir fry. and what a beautiful thing that is -- for someone to look inside you and, somewhere in the shape of who you’ve become, recognize the person you love most).
it is strange, sometimes, to see the ghosts of who they were before this. the boy in the woods & the boy in the city. all those instincts, all those small private competencies, surviving into this shared space
and maybe that’s what love is. not becoming the same thing, but making room for the person shaped by somewhere completely different. letting their world fold into yours until neither of you is ever alone inside it again.
Or how John Logan claimed every single day of your week—first as a milestone, now as a minefield.
word count : 3k — part 1/7 — the angst is cominggg — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
Chapter one — monday
The rain in Briar U always felt personal on Mondays.
You sat in the darkest, furthest corner of the coffee shop just off campus, tucked away in a small wooden booth where the shadow of a large decorative pillar partially blocked you from view. The oversized hood of your sweatshirt was pulled up so low it practically cut off your peripheral vision, anchoring you in your own tiny, isolated bubble. You were hiding in plain sight, your fingers tightly curled around a ceramic mug that had long lost its warmth. You didn’t want to be seen. You didn't want to talk to anyone. More importantly, you didn’t want him to know you were there.
Two tables away, a group of hockey players was laughing, their loud, easy confidence echoing against the brick walls and rising above the hum of the espresso machine. You didn’t need to look up to check. You knew the exact cadence of that deep, gravelly laugh. But today, it sounded entirely off. He was smiling at whatever story his teammate was telling, but his eyes weren't bright. They looked completely hollow. He was putting on a damn good show for the rest of the room, giving the perfect change to everyone around him, pretending everything was fine. You knew he was faking it. You knew it because you had spent countless Mondays sitting right across from him after that very first afternoon in this café, learning every single detail of his face.
You, on the other hand, couldn't even manage to fake it.
John Logan was sitting just a few feet away, and the simple act of breathing the same air felt like inhaling broken glass.
Don't look, you told yourself, forcing your eyes strictly back to the open notebook in front of you. You tried to focus on the text, but the lines of ink had blurred into a meaningless mess minutes ago. You couldn't sit here much longer. Hearing his voice, knowing the heavy, shifting undercurrent of whatever had actually happened between you, was utterly suffocating. Every memory, every quiet look shared in the dark, now carried a strange, cold weight you couldn't fully parse. It felt like walking through a house where the mirrors had suddenly been tilted—everything looked familiar, but entirely distorted. You just knew that the ground beneath your feet had given way, and the boy who used to be your anchor was now the very thing making you sink.
Before everything shattered into a million bitter pieces, Mondays didn't feel like a punishment. Back when the weather was just starting to turn and the leaves were first hitting the pavement, a Monday was just the day a stupid, rusty bike chain started everything.
The chain on your bike hadn't just slipped; it had completely jammed itself between the gear and the frame, leaving your hands covered in streaks of black grease and your frustration hitting its absolute peak. You were already late for class, the sky was starting to open up into a steady, annoying drizzle, and you were aggressively tugging at the cold metal, muttering every single curse word you knew under your breath.
"Need a hand, or are you just trying to paint your bike black?"
The voice was smooth, laced with a quiet amusement. You snapped your head up, your jaw set, ready to fire back a biting, sarcastic remark to whoever was bold enough to mock your misery, but the words caught directly in your throat.
Standing there was John Logan.
You recognized his face instantly. Just a few weeks prior, your roommate had practically dragooned you into following Fifth Line and you’d then scrolled past pictures of the boys a dozen times. But while players like Di Laurentis or Graham were legendary for their very public escapades, Logan was different. It wasn’t that he had a reputation for being difficult or totally unattainable—people just knew less about his private life.
And right now, that exact guy was standing over your broken bike, wearing a backward Briar cap, a damp grey hoodie, and a soft, genuinely amused smile.
"I've got it," you lied flatly, wiping your forehead with the back of your arm, which undoubtedly just smeared black grease across your skin.
"Sure looks like it," he chuckled, completely unbothered by your defensive tone.
He didn't hesitate for more than a second. Dropping his duffel bag onto the damp grass, he knelt down right beside you, completely ignoring the dirt and moisture soaking into the knees of his sweatpants. His hands were large, his knuckles slightly scraped and heavily calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they were surprisingly deft as he reached into the tangled metal.
"Name's Logan, by the way," he said casually, his shoulder brushing against yours as he leaned in to get a better angle on the gear.
"I know who you are," you muttered, watching his fingers work.
He glanced up at that, his piercing eyes locking directly onto yours from just inches away. A playful, unexpected glint danced in his dark pupils. "Should I be worried, or are you just a hockey fan?"
"In your dreams, hockey boy. Just fix the chain."
Logan let out a laugh that vibrated straight through the damp air and right into your chest. With one quick, expert wrench of his wrist, the chain popped back into place with a loud, satisfying click. He stood up smoothly, pulling a white rag from his back pocket to wipe his stained fingers. He leaned in just close enough for you to catch the sharp scent of mint and cold winter air. "There. Good as new. You owe me a coffee for the rescue. Next Monday. Same time?"
You looked at him, then down at your bike. He was a complete stranger, a star athlete, and entirely out of your usual social circle. Between the sheer intimidation of having his full attention and the dark cloud of your upcoming final exams looming over your schedule, you didn't have the time or the energy for whatever this was. So you chose safety.
"I can't. I have exams coming up and I really need to focus," you said, grabbing your handlebars. You gave him a small, too formal nod. "But thanks for the help, Logan."
You wheeled your bike away, keeping your eyes straight ahead, though you could still hear the low, faintly amused chuckle that followed you down the campus path.
During the days that followed, you spent an embarrassing, deeply frustrating amount of time thinking about that brief interaction. You tried to force him out of your mind, but every time you closed your eyes to study, you saw that easy, dimpled smile. You were completely certain you would never cross paths with him again anyway. Briar U was a massive campus, and even if you happened to attend a game, it wasn't like you'd ever actually interact. At most, you’d just find yourself staring a little too much from the upper decks. It had just been a random, meaningless fluke.
Until Sunday night, when your phone buzzed with an unknown number.
You unlocked the screen, eyebrows knitting together as you read the message.
Unknown: Hey. You left your book behind at the quad last Monday. I picked it up so the rain wouldn't ruin it.
You stared at the text, completely baffled. You tapped out a quick reply, your mind racking through everything you had been carrying that day.
You: Who is this? And I didn't lose any books.
The response came back almost instantly, making your chest tighten slightly with an odd sort of anticipation.
Unknown: Pretty sure it's yours. It has your name written clearly at the top of the page.
A second later, a photo message popped up. You clicked it, your breath hitching. It was a close-up shot of a crisp, white page, and your name was indeed written at the top in neat, precise ink. But the framing of the photo was so tight and the lighting so specific that it completely blocked out the title or any actual text. You couldn't see what the book was about at all. A spike of pure bewilderment hit you. Were you losing your mind? Was this some kind of elaborate prank? Or were you just so completely exhausted by the crushing weight of your approaching finals that you had genuinely forgotten buying and losing a completely random book?
And then, it clicked.
The quad. Last Monday.
There was only one person who fit that timeline. Only one person who had been anywhere near you while you were fumbling with a broken bike chain. Your mind immediately flashed to a backward Briar cap, grey sweatpants, and a lazy, dimpled smile.
John Logan.
But a heavy wave of skepticism immediately followed the thought. It was impossible. You hadn’t given him your number. You hadn't given him anything except a sarcastic attitude and a flat refusal to grab coffee. How on earth could he have tracked down your contact info?
Determined to call his bluff, your fingers flew across the keyboard.
You: What the hell? What book is that, Logan?
You held your breath, staring at the screen as the little typing bubbles appeared, vanished, and then appeared again.
Unknown: So you do remember me. I’m flattered.
A small, uninvited smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you quickly bit it down. He was deflecting.
You: Answer the question. And how did you even get my number?
Unknown: Come to the coffee shop tomorrow at two and find out. I'll bring it. Both the answers and the book.
You chewed on your bottom lip, staring at the flashing cursor. Part of you was entirely intrigued, but that same wave of hesitation from the week before washed over you. Looking into those intense brown eyes without the distraction of a broken bike made your stomach do a nervous, complicated flip. You didn't want to deal with the distraction, especially with your GPA on the line.
You: I told you last week, I have exams coming up and I need to focus. Just leave it at the library front desk or something.
You locked your phone and shoved it under your pillow, determined to ignore it. But three minutes later, it buzzed again. You swiped it open, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Unknown: It'll take ten minutes. Two o'clock. Don't flake on me.
You let out a frustrated, breathless laugh, throwing your head back against your pillow. He was relentless. Yet, as you stared at the cryptic message, you knew you were going to go. It was a crowded coffee shop in broad daylight—it wasn't like you were walking into a dangerous trap, and you desperately needed to know how he'd pulled this off.
When you walked into the café the next afternoon, your eyes scanned the crowded room until they landed on him sitting in a back corner booth. John Logan didn't look like a guy holding lost property. Instead, he had two steaming porcelain cups already waiting on the table and a lazy, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
As you slid into the opposite chair, you dropped your heavy bag and leveled him with a steady look. "Alright, hand it over. Because I checked my notes twice and I definitely didn't lose anything."
With a soft chuckle, Logan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brand-new, crisp paperback book, gently sliding it across the wooden table toward you.
You blinked, looking down at the cover. The title read: It's All About the Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels.
You picked it up, flipping it open to the first page. There, written in bold, neat handwriting at the very top, was your name. You lifted your eyes to him, completely stunned, realization washing over you. "You bought this. And you wrote my name in it."
"Technically, I didn't lie," Logan said with a modest shrug, a massive grin breaking across his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It is your book. It has your name in it. I just hadn't officially given it to you yet. But I knew a regular text invitation would get me another 'I can't, I have to study' excuse," he shrugged. "I had to innovate."
"You are completely absurd, you know that?" you sighed, though a warm flush was rapidly creeping up your neck, your heart doing a stupid, uninvited flutter against your ribs. "And how did you get my number?"
"I asked around," he admitted smoothly, leaning his forearms on the table, bridging the distance between you without forcing it. "Turns out we have mutual friends." He pushed one of the steaming cups toward you. "Black coffee, right? Figured you'd want something strong enough to get you through all that studying."
You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, your defenses beginning to crack under his easy, attentive demeanor. "Don't get cocky, Logan. You're barely pushing past mildly annoying right now."
"Mildly annoying?" he chuckled, leaning in a bit closer, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Ouch. Come on, give me a little credit. I got you a book. I'm a local superstar, you know. My ego is fragile."
He placed a hand over his heart, mocking a look of deep, tragic injury, though his tone was entirely sarcastic.
You let out a genuine laugh, leaning your chin on your hand, a sharp, playful smirk matching his. "Oh, please. A superstar? No. I have a much better title for you now. I'm calling you Mavis."
Logan blinked, thoroughly amused. "Mavis? Like someone's grandma? Alright, what's the breakdown on that?"
"Mildly Annoying, Very Irritating Superstar," you proudly declared. "Since you insisted on it."
He threw his head back, a rich, booming laugh escaping him that made a few people at the counter turn around. He shook his head, looking down at his coffee with a warm smile. "You’re brutal. But honestly? I'll take it." He looked back up, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, quiet intensity. "What about you? I'll need a counter-acronym."
You spent the next hour trading sharp, playful barbs. You found out he was surprisingly intelligent, matching your wit at every single turn. Before you left, you noticed a small, neon-yellow post-it note sticking out from the middle of the pages he’d given you. Intrigued, you opened it to the marked page, your eyes landing on a heavily underlined quote:
“It was always scary, Charlie replied, but that was why you did it, right? If it was safe... it wouldn’t be fun.”
You had looked up at him, the comfortable, electric chemistry between you becoming so heavy it was almost dizzying. You had smiled then, thinking about the thrilling, terrifying rush of letting someone like him into your life.
The loud, obnoxious sound of a hockey player throwing a crumpled napkin at Beau snapped you brutally back to reality, the warmth of the memory instantly evaporating into nothingness. It was replaced by the freezing, hollow ache currently rotting your chest from the inside out.
If it was safe, it wouldn’t be fun.
God, what a joke. You had jumped right off the cliff with him, thinking the thrill was worth the fall. But it hadn't been safe. Not even close. And now, you were left completely alone, staring at the wreckage of a shattered heart, realizing exactly how unsafe John Logan truly was.
Shoving your laptop into your bag with trembling, rigid hands, you pulled your hood even lower over your face, zipped your jacket all the way up to your chin, and finally stood up to leave. You couldn't be here anymore. You couldn't listen to him exist, laughing with his friends as if he hadn't completely destroyed you.
You kept your head down, navigating the narrow, crowded space between the tables, intending to slip through the front door like a ghost. He hadn't noticed you earlier, tucked away in your dark corner, and you wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. But as you passed the exact edge of his table, a sudden, involuntary shift in the air pressure made you glance up through the shadow of your hood.
Logan’s head had turned.
Up close, the easy smile he’d been forcing for his teammates vanished instantly. He just looked tired, the tight set of his jaw giving away the exhaustion he was trying to hide from the rest of the room.
The moment his brown eyes locked onto yours beneath your hood, he froze.
The color drained from his face instantly, his chest hitching in a sharp, subtle yet audible gasp. For one agonizing, volatile second, the entire noisy coffee shop stopped spinning. His lips parted, trembling slightly, looking as if he wanted to jump up and shatter the space between you.
You didn't give him the chance. You tore your gaze away, a sharp, suffocating sob catching in your throat, and pushed past the heavy glass doors of the coffee shop, stepping out into the rain.
You walked fast, the icy drops hitting your face as you crossed the quad, your chest aching so badly you could barely draw a full breath. The moment you rounded the corner of the building and found a bit of shelter under the concrete awning, you stopped, trying to force the freezing air into your lungs.
You were still shivering, rain dripping from the edge of your hood, when a sudden vibration buzzed against your thigh.
Your fingers trembled as you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Just as the screen lit up, a fresh notification popped up across the glass. It was an unread text message from an unlisted, nameless string of digits—a quiet reminder of the night you had finally deleted his number.
Unknown: Don't run. Just give me five minutes, please. - Mavis.
Your thumb hovered over the screen, your heart hammering a wild, painful rhythm as you stared at the short message. No desperate pleading, no grand explanations—just that familiar nickname, a sharp echo of the days when things were simple.
With a shaking hand, you locked the phone without typing a single letter, shoving it deep into your pocket. You pulled your wet hood tighter around your face and kept walking into the storm.
One day down. Six more to survive. Then repeat.
But a few strides later, your phone buzzed in your pocket again.
Summary: Amidst an epidemic of stomach bugs, Yn believes she's being affected… She just didn't expect the bug to bring to light some secrets… And surprises.
Warnings: vomiting, stomach bug, cryptic pregnancy, YN has relationship problems, Jack is adorable, childbirth, surprise babies, bets… I think that's all.
The night shift had its own rhythms—a different breathing, a heart beating at a different frequency. It was a parallel universe, invisible to the "normal" people who slept while others bled, cried, or died.
Quieter than the day shift, yes. But the silence there weighed differently.
The fluorescent lights hummed in a deep, constant tone, like bees trapped inside the ceiling. The smell of antiseptic mixed with reheated coffee—so old that no one remembered who had made the first coffee of the night. The mugs piled up on the counter, silent witnesses to entire shifts.
It was in this world of shadows and distant sirens that Yn felt at home.
She arrived in Pittsburgh with a simple goal: three months. Just three months. To cover Robby's sabbatical, a favor between friends, and return to her usual night shift at the general hospital. Nothing more.
But Pittsburgh had other ideas.
The city embraced her with the stubbornness of someone who knows what they want. The hospital swallowed her up in the first few days, not as a visitor, but as someone who had always been there. She learned the technicians' names, the shortcuts in the hallways, the specific way the coffee machine on the third floor dispensed its black liquid.
"You seem to be fitting in," Robby said one night, while they were talking on the phone.
"I'm easy, Robby… You know that," he laughed, loud and clear.
But when Robby returned from his sabbatical, and she already had her bags open on the bed, the phone rang.
HR. The hospital wanted her. Head attending. Night shift. Permanent.
Yn looked at her bags. She looked at the window overlooking the hospital parking lot. She thought of Pittsburgh. She thought of home.
She unpacked her bags.
Jack showed up on the first day of his new contract.
He was at the nursing station, hunched over a chart, the monitor light illuminating his face with harsh angles. Tired eyes. Coffee in hand. The posture of someone who has seen everything a hospital can offer.
"New attendant?" he asked, without looking up.
"Yn."
"Jack."
The handshake was quick, professional. Neither of them knew, at that moment, that they were sealing something much bigger than a working partnership.
The romance wasn't planned.
Those things rarely are, on a night shift. You don't choose when your heart decides to beat out of rhythm. It happens. Like a cardiac arrest in the middle of the night. Like a patient arriving without identification. Like death that never warns before knocking on the door.
In their case, it happened after they lost the boy on the motorcycle.
Eighteen years old. New helmet, bought the day before. His mother arrived before the ambulance, running after the stretcher, her flip-flops clattering on the plastic floor. "He always wears a helmet," she repeated. "He promised."
Nothing helped. Nothing ever helps when the aorta ruptures.
Yn found Jack on the hospital roof.
She didn't go after him, not consciously at least. Her feet simply led her there, as if they knew something her mind hadn't yet processed. The roof door was ajar. The night air had that damp smell of rain that never came.
Jack leaned against the windowsill, looking at the city. The weariness on his face wasn't physical; it was deeper. It was the weariness of someone who carries the dead on their back, piles them up in some internal storage, pretends they don't weigh anything.
Yn didn't say anything.
She just moved closer. She leaned against him. Their shoulders almost touching.
The entire city stretched out before them: yellow lights, dark buildings, the river flowing like an open vein. The sun was still a while away, but there was already a timid light on the horizon, a reminder that the world kept turning even when theirs had stopped.
"You don't need to be here," he said finally.
"I know."
"You don't need to pretend you're okay."
"I'm not pretending."
He turned his face to look at her. She held his gaze. There, on the hospital roof, with the city watching in silence, something broke between them, or perhaps something formed.
It wasn't love. Not yet. It was recognition. It was "you too?" said without words.
It was that morning that she slept in Jack's bed for the first time.
For weeks, it was just that.
Casual, they said. Stress relief. Bodies that met in the dark and separated before the light. The hospital was full of stories like that, nobody paid attention.
But the body lies badly. And the heart lies worse.
They started exchanging glances in the middle of their shifts. A quick touch on the back as they passed each other in the hallway. A mug of coffee left on each other's desk with an invisible note that only they understood.
"No labels," Yn said one night, sitting on his bed, her clothes still wrinkled from her shift.
"Agreed," he replied, lying on his back, his eyes on the ceiling.
"Nobody can know."
"Nobody."
The problem is they were terrible at keeping secrets.
"Yn? Jack needs a hand in bed south-two."
Lena didn't take her eyes off the computer. Her voice was monotonous, professional, as if she were reporting the weather or reading a bulletin. But there was a glint in her eyes, small, restrained, dangerous.
Yn dropped the paperwork and went.
As soon as she passed through the curtains of bed south-two, Jack's arms enveloped her. He pulled her against his chest, his hand moving up to the nape of her neck, and stole a deep, lingering kiss, the kind that tasted like a challenge.
'Did you really need help?" she whispered against his mouth.
"I did."
"Liar."
That's how the bet appeared, and it spread through the hospital corridors like wildfire.
It started small, just the ER. Then the reception got involved. Then orthopedic surgery. Then general surgery. Then pediatrics, obstetrics, the lab, radiology. Even the parking lot security guard wanted to participate.
"How long can Jack and Yn keep the secret?"
The jackpot was nearing three digits. Carol, from the third floor, led with the most optimistic bet: "Three months, and she'll ask for a transfer." Lupe, from reception, believed in the power of love: "Two years and a marriage proposal." Some radicals (mainly those who worked the night shift and saw the two exchanging glances every day) bet on "they'll never admit it, but they'll die together."
The problem, for the bettors, was that time passed. And passed. And passed.
One month. Six months. One year.
Two years.
And Jack and Yn continued there, exchanging hidden kisses, thinking no one saw, firmly convinced that they were the greatest masters of disguise the hospital had ever produced.
They were two lovestruck idiots.
And the whole hospital loved them for it.
They had just finished their shift.
The sun was already high, that aggressive nine o'clock sun that should be invigorating but only seemed like an accusation. The hospital parking lot was almost empty, only the cars of the stubborn ones who stayed past closing time remained.
Yn felt every bone in her body. Her legs were heavy, her back ached, that slight tremor in her hands from running for twelve hours. Jack walked beside her, his step dragging, his hair disheveled from running his fingers through it.
"Shower or breakfast?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Neither." She reached into her pants pocket, fumbling for her car keys. "I need to go home." He stopped walking.
"Your house?"
"My house."
"Why?" The surprise in his voice was genuine, almost offended.
"Because it's been over a week since I've been there, Jack." She finally found the key, raising it triumphantly. "And I need clothes that aren't the size of a six-foot-three man."
"If you'd agree to live with me…" He crossed his arms.
"Living together?" she stopped, her arms crossed now, her gaze fixed on him. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
The question hung between them, heavier than he probably intended. Yn felt her heart race, not from tiredness, but from something older. Fear. Not of Jack. Of what he represented.
"We don't do that…" she said, more quietly.
"Do what?"
"Change." He took a step forward. His shadow covered hers on the hot asphalt.
"We've already changed, Yn. We just pretend we haven't."
For a second, she almost gave in. Almost said "then yes." Almost dropped her bag and threw herself into his arms right there, in the middle of the parking lot, with the hospital cameras watching and God knows how many colleagues at the windows.
But she was who she was. And she had two years of secrets behind her.
Instead, she leaned in just close enough to leave a quick, almost chaste kiss on his lips.
"See you later, Abbot."
She got into the car before he could answer. In the rearview mirror, she saw Jack still standing in the same spot, his hands in his pockets, shaking his head with a small smile.
Yn had exactly twenty minutes at home.
Enough time to open the refrigerator, discover that the milk had expired a week ago, and take a sip of water straight from the tap. Enough time to take off her bra and groan with relief. Enough time to sit on the sofa, close her eyes and almost, almost, fall asleep.
The phone rang.
"Yn, It's me." Dana. The voice was different, higher-pitched, faster. "I need you."
"I just left," she replied almost whimperingly.
"Langdon caught the stomach bug. He just called. The shift is a mess, the red zone has three patients waiting for forty minutes, Robby is in trauma 2 with a cardiac arrest, and I'm…" she took a deep breath, "…I'm begging you, Yn. Pleading."
Yn closed her eyes.
She knew that tone. It was the tone of someone holding on to the limit. She had used it many times before.
"How much time do you need?"
"Until Shen arrives. Four hours. Maybe six."
Six hours. After twelve. Yn calculated the numbers in her head, added up the risks, weighed the exhaustion against the guilt. Guilt won. It always won.
"Twenty minutes to take a shower."
"You're an angel."
"An exhausted angel."
"An exhausted angel who's going to get a coffee from the best coffee shop... In the hosptal."
"I'm going."
The shower was quick, five minutes of almost cold water, just to wash away the sweat from her shift and the smell of death that still clung to her skin. She put on clean scrubs and grabbed her phone to text Jack.
"coming back. Langdon caught the virus."
The reply came in seconds:
"Good luck."
"♥️"
She almost smiled. Almost.
The hospital was hell.
It wasn't a metaphor. Yn was sure that hell, if it existed, would be like this: stretchers crowding narrow corridors, patients writhing in plastic chairs, the sound of heart monitors mixing with groans and the high-pitched cry of a child somewhere no one could locate.
The air was thick not only with illness, but with despair. You could feel it in the metallic taste in her mouth, the dampness in her clothes, the way the nurses moved: too fast, as if they were running from something.
"Finally!"
Dana came to meet her. Her hair, which must have been neatly styled in the morning, was now tied in such a desperate bun that it seemed to be running away from her own head. The dark circles under her eyes were deep enough to plant potatoes.
"What do I have?" Yn asked, already heading towards the counter.
"Red zone: three patients have been waiting for forty minutes. Two with severe abdominal pain, one with Respiratory distress. Robby's in trauma 2 with a cardiac arrest since eight. Mel, Whitaker, and Santos have triage packed. Mohan and McKay are taking turns back here because one of them needs to vomit every twenty minutes."
"This bug is knocking everyone down."
"Everyone…" Dana confirmed. Her eyes gleamed for a second. - "I called Parker too. She hasn't answered yet." yn held her gaze.
"And Jack?"
"Jack too. " Dana smiled, that small, dangerous smile. "Why did you ask?"
"Because… It seems we're going to need help."
"Hmm."
"Dana".
"I didn't say anything."
Yn sighed and sprang into action.
The first two hours were a blur.
She attended to an elderly man with severe dehydration, his skin looked like parchment paper, his eyes sunken like wells. She started intravenous hydration, ordered tests, and still had time to hold his hand while he murmured the name of his wife, who had passed away ten years ago.
She rushed to a young woman with dyspnea. Her oxygen saturation was at 88% on room air, too low, too dangerous. She firmly placed the oxygen mask on the patient, ordered a blood gas analysis, and ignored the panicked look in her eyes.
"Everything will be alright," she lied. That's what she was told. That's what she needed to hear.
Meanwhile, she answered residents' questions, checked medications, wrote the necessary progress notes…
And in the midst of all this, the first sharp pain came.
It was low. In her abdomen. A small, almost delicate twinge, which she ignored with the same nonchalance with which she ignored hunger, thirst, and the urge to cry.
"It's hunger…" she told herself. She hadn't eaten since the previous night.
Three hours later, the twinge turned into cramps.
She was documenting a patient's progress when her hand involuntarily went to her stomach. A small, quick gesture, but Robby saw it.
He appeared beside her, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes with a weariness that transcended the physical.
"How many times have they thrown up on you today?" Yn asked, trying to divert her attention. "I bet I beat my record."
Robby laughed, a tired, slightly desperate laugh, the kind that escapes when you no longer have the strength to laugh for real.
"Three times," he replied. "And counting."
"Amateur."
He was about to answer, but she felt another pang, stronger now. Her face must have contorted, because Robby immediately changed his expression.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes," the answer came too quickly. "I think the virus is coming after me."
"yn…"
"Robby." She placed her hand on his arm, squeezing. "I'm fine. Go do your job. There's a patient screaming in corridor two."
He hesitated. The "big brother" mode (as she liked to call it) was about to kick in. But the scream in hallway two grew louder, more urgent, and he sighed.
"If it gets worse, let me know."
"I will."
He squeezed her shoulder and left.
She didn't.
The pain worsened.
Around noon, Yn could no longer stand without leaning on something: a table, a wall, the arm of an unsuspecting resident. She was at the nursing station, reviewing tests on her tablet, when the wave came.
It wasn't a stab. It wasn't a cramp.
It was a brick. A hot, giant brick being shoved through her insides by an invisible hand.
The tablet slipped from her fingers. It fell to the floor with a dry crack, the plastic shattering, the screen cracking into cobwebs. Dana looked up from the computer.
"Yn?"
"I…"
The word died in her throat. Yn doubled over, both hands pressing against her abdomen as if she could hold the pain with her fingers. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The world blurred, not black, but a wavy gray, like a television with no signal.
"Robby!" Dana shouted. The voice seemed to come from very far away.
"No need…" Yn tried to straighten up. She managed to get halfway between the fetal position and a normal person. "No need for Robby. I'll… I'll just sit for a minute."
"You're green, girl" Dana held her arm firmly, like a worried mother.
yn sat down.
The pain didn't let up. It got worse. It went from cramps to a continuous contraction, a tightness that rose from her lower abdomen to her diaphragm, as if someone had wrapped a steel cable around her insides and was pulling. Pulling. Pulling.
"Seriously…" she gasped, her face pale. "Don't worry. It must be my period… or the virus…" she forced a smile that came out more like a grimace. "If I know the universe well, it'll be both."
Dana smiled weakly. She accepted the answer. But she didn't let Yn get up for a few more minutes.
The following hours were a blur of pain.
Yn worked between the waves. A patient came, she attended to them. The chart arrived, she signed it. The pain came, she waited for it to pass. It passed. It returned stronger.
"Just a few more hours…" she repeated.
And at two, yn could no longer hide it.
She was leaving the isolation area when the pain hit her with such violence that her knees buckled. She leaned against the wall, her nails scratching the covering. She took a deep breath. Counted to ten. Then to twenty.
It didn't help.
She needed air. Air that didn't smell of vomit and antiseptic. Air that didn't carry the weight of twelve hours of misfortune.
With faltering steps, she went to the ambulance entrance doors. She pushed the door open with her shoulder. The outside air hit her face, humid, warm, but different. Free.
She leaned against the outside wall, her eyes closed, her forehead pressed against the cold concrete. The city was there, somewhere, living its normal life. People having lunch. Children playing. People who didn't know what it was like to see daylight through the windows of a hospital.
The next wave came without warning.
It was different from all the others. Stronger. Deeper. A giant hand squeezing her organs and twisting them.
Yn's throat released a sound that wasn't human—a groan that rose to a scream, a scream that split in two halfway through. Her legs gave way. The world tilted.
And then Jack's arms were around her.
"Honey? Hey. Hey, look at me."
He caught her before she fell, one arm behind her back, the other holding her face to force her to look at him. His eyes were wide, and Yn had never seen Jack scared. Tired, yes. Frustrated, yes. Never scared.
"What happened?"
"I don't know!" The words came out broken, wet. When had she started crying? "Jack… I'm scared."
"We'll take care of you." He was already moving, one arm sliding under her knees, the other behind her torso. "We'll take care of you now. I'll take care of you."
She rested her head on his shoulder. Her whole body trembled. Waves of pain came one after another now, without pause, without mercy.
"This…" she gasped. "This isn't a virus."
Jack quickened his pace.
He passed through the ambulance entrance doors with her in his arms.
The entire corridor stopped.
It wasn't an exaggeration. People simply… froze. A resident with an open chart. Even an outpatient, sitting in a wheelchair, turned his head to look.
Yn no longer cared about secrets.
She screamed.
It was a sound that tore through the silence of the hallway, a primal, raw scream that came from somewhere so deep she didn't even know existed. Her hands gripped Jack's neck with a force that must have hurt.
"Dana!" Jack shouted.
"Trauma two!" She was already running ahead of them, opening doors, pushing back curtains, preparing the stretcher. "Robby!" Dana shouted over her shoulder.
Jack placed Yn on the stretcher with a care that belied the urgency. The nurses were already surrounding her, attaching the oximeter to her finger, adjusting the heart monitor, preparing the IV access.
"Blood pressure 160 over 100. Pulse 135." Princess's voice was calm, professional. The mask of professionalism that everyone wore in situations like this.
"Can you tell me where it hurts?" Jack asked, bringing his face closer to hers. His hand found hers and squeezed.
"Stomach," she groaned. "The whole stomach. Since…" the pain interrupted her. Her body arched on the stretcher.
"She had a stomach ache before…" Dana informed. "Said she thought it was the virus."
"This morning she was fine…" Jack said, more to himself than to the others. His face was pale, paler than Yn's, almost.
Another wave. Stronger.
Yn screamed again, a wet, guttural sound that even made Santos pale. Her body forced itself upward, as if something inside her was pushing to get out. She strained. A lot.
Her eyes met Jack's.
"Something's happening," she whispered. "Jack, something very wrong is happening."
She let go of his hand. Slowly, with fingers trembling like leaves, she shoved her hands inside the scrubs pants.
What she touched was warm. Moist. Soft.
"No," she murmured. "No, no, no…"
Her fingers recognized the shape before her brain processed it. Small. Round. A head.
"What is it?" Jack asked. "Yn, what are you feeling?"
She looked up at him. There was no more panic in them. There was something worse.
"Jack," she said, her voice strangely calm. "There's a baby."
The whole room fell silent.
The monitors beeped. The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a phone rang.
But nobody moved.
"What?" Jack whispered.
"There's a baby coming out of me," Yn repeated, as if she herself were trying to believe it.
She looked at her own hands, still inside her pants, still touching that tiny head.
"I didn't know," she repeated. "How could I not know?"
No one answered.
"Robby," Jack said, without taking his eyes off Yn. "You're going to deliver the baby."
Jack's voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.
Robby blinked. Twice. Three times. The words entered through his ears, traveled the path to his brain.
The room exploded in motion.
Robby took command as if he had done it a thousand times (because he had). But never with Yn. Never with someone he considered family.
"Princess, prepare the neonatal emergency cart. Santos, oxygen for the mother. Dana, stay with me in the field." The orders came out quickly, precisely. "Jack…"
"I'm not leaving," he replied without even knowing if that's what Robby was going to say.
"I wasn't going to say that," Robby replied, putting on his gloves.
Jack was beside the stretcher, Yn's hand gripping his with a force that must have already left marks. Her face was red, wet with sweat and tears, her eyes glazed with pain.
Robby looked at the two of them. At their intertwined hands. At the way Jack leaned over her as if he could absorb the pain with his own body.
He sighed.
"I was going to tell you not to faint, Dad," he joked, sitting on the low stool and beginning his work.
The first contraction after the diagnosis came like a train.
Yn arched her back, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes wide. The monitor went off, heart rate soaring, blood pressure rising.
"Jack," she whispered when the wave passed. "Jack, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"For everything. For not knowing. For not realizing. For…" she paused, her lips trembling. "…for being afraid."
"We don't need to talk about that now."
"I want to live with you!"
Jack stopped.
The world stopped. Robby, who was positioned between her legs, looked up for a second. Dana pretended not to hear. Santos didn't pretend anything.
"What?" Jack asked, his voice faltering.
"I want to wake up with you every day." Yn gasped, her eyes filled with tears that weren't just from pain. "I want your clothes in my closet. I want your toothbrush next to mine. I want to argue about who left the toothpaste cap open. I want everything, Jack. I want everything. I just…" another contraction interrupted her. She screamed, a smaller sound now, more tired, but still heartbreaking.
"You don't need to talk about that now, darling." Jack said, taking a cloth that Dana offered him and wiping the sweat from her forehead. His hand trembled. "We'll deal with it later."
"No!" She grabbed his wrist, preventing him from pulling away, not from leaving. "If I don't say it now, I never will. You know me, Jack. I'll keep this inside until it turns to stone, and in five years you'll be packing your bags because I couldn't tell you I love you."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"I love you?" Jack repeated, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.
Yn closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were resolved.
"I love you. For a long time. From the ceiling, maybe. And that scares me, Jack. It scares me because I've never done this before. I've never let anyone stay. Never…" she sobbed, her body trembling. "I don't know how to be like this. I don't know how to be vulnerable. I don't know how to trust that someone will stay."
"I will stay."
"You don't know that," she cried.
"I know," he leaned his forehead against hers. "I know because I've stayed. I'm here." And I'm not leaving. I promise.
"And now?" she whispered, looking at the middle of her legs "Now there's a baby. A surprise baby… Doesn't that scare you?"
"It terrifies me." Jack laughed, a wet, trembling laugh. "But we're together. We'll do this together. Together, darling."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Did you know that cryptic pregnancy is much more common in women who are close to menopause?" Ogilvie said, observing the birth.
"FUCK YOU, OGILVIE!" she yelled in the middle of another contraction. Now her head was completely out of the mouth.
"Yn!" Jack interrupted, his face divided between despair and laughter. "Focus on breathing. Please."
She was about to answer, but the next contraction came differently this time. Lower. More pressing.
"Robby," she groaned. "Robby, I need to push."
Robby exchanged a look with Dana. His face changed, something settled there, something Yn knew well. It was the same look he used when a patient was worse than they seemed.
"What is it?" Jack asked, noticing the change before Yn did. "Robby, what's happening?"
Robby didn't answer immediately. His hands were between her legs, feeling around, assessing. The silence stretched on too long.
"Robby!" Jack insisted, his voice rising. "What's happening?!"
"My shoulder is stuck," Robby said finally. The calm in his voice was forced. "I need to turn."
"THEN TURN ALREADY!" Yn screamed. The scream was of pain, but also of fear. A new fear, different from anything she had ever felt. It wasn't fear for its own sake. It was fear for the tiny life she didn't even know existed until minutes ago.
"I need you to push on the next contraction," Robby instructed, his hands already positioned. "Hard. Harder than you think you can. Dana, prepare the neonatal aspirator. Princess, confirm if the pediatric team is already on their way."
"What if it doesn't work?" Jack asked.
Robby didn't answer.
"WHAT IF IT DOESN'T WORK, ROBBY?!" At that moment, Jack didn't remember that he knew what had to happen. At that moment, Jack wasn't Dr. Abbot. He was a father. A scared and desperate father.
There wasn't time to answer; the next contraction came, and Robby needed to help his best friends' child be born.
Yn pushed.
It wasn't a polite push, the kind you learn in childbirth class. It was a primal, animalistic push, coming from a place so deep she didn't even know existed. Her arms trembled, her face was purple, her teeth grinding.
"Again," Robby ordered. "Again, Y/N. More."
She pushed again. The scream that escaped wasn't human; it was the scream of someone being torn apart from the inside.
"You can do it," Jack whispered in her ear. His hand was bloody where she had gripped her. "You're the strongest person I know. You can do it."
"I CAN'T!"
"You can. You can." He kissed her head. "You can bring our baby into the world. You need to do this." She nodded, pushing even harder.
Another contraction.
Another push.
Another scream.
"It's coming out," Robby announced, his voice changing. "It's coming out, Yn. One more. Just one more."
"Jack…" she cried. "Jack, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. For being afraid. For not knowing." "Because it took me so long to say it."
"There's nothing to apologize for."
"Yes, there is. I should have said it sooner. I should have…"
"Yn." Jack interrupted, his forehead against hers, his eyes as wet as hers. "I love you. Okay? I love you. I've loved you since that night on the roof, maybe even before, since the first day you walked into my shift and looked at me like you already knew me. I love you. And no matter what happens now, no matter if we never sleep again, no matter if this baby comes with both of our personalities, I'll be here. I'll stay. Just promise you'll stay too."
"I'll stay." she sobbed. "I swear I'll stay. I love you. I love you, Jack. I love you."
"PUSH, YN!" Robby yelled.
She pushed.
And the world split in two.
The crying came before the body.
A thin, angry cry, terribly alive. The most beautiful sound Yn had ever heard in her life.
"Is the baby okay?" Jack asked, even before seeing. "Is the baby okay, Robby? Say he's okay."
Robby didn't answer immediately. His hands worked quickly, wrapping the baby in a sterile drape, checking the airway, listening to the heart.
"Spontaneous breathing," he announced, and the whole room let out a collective sigh. "Heart rate one hundred and sixty. Muscle tone preserved. Adequate cry." "She's okay," he translated, smiling. "The baby is okay."
Yn collapsed onto the stretcher as if all the ropes holding her up had been cut. The cry then came not from pain, but from relief. From a fear so immense it couldn't fit in her chest and now leaked out through her eyes, her nose, her open mouth in a sob.
"She's okay," she repeated, as if she needed to believe it. She's okay.
Jack kissed her forehead. Her cheek. Her mouth. Every part he could reach.
"You were amazing." he murmured. " You are amazing. I love you."
"You already said that today."
"Get used to it."
Robby examined the baby with a meticulousness bordering on obsession.
"There was no prenatal care" he explained to no one in particular, while checking the newborn's reflexes. "We need to assess weight, length, signs of respiratory distress…"
"How many months is she?" Yn asked, her voice still trembling.
"Judging by the size, I'd say between thirty-six and thirty-eight weeks" Robby looked up at her. "Your daughter is a fighter, YN. She's been hiding in there for months and decided to show up today."
"She has her mother's personality… " Jack commented, a tired smile on his face. "She doesn't warn you when she's coming, she does everything her own way."
"And she's going to give you trouble" YN added.
"She already is."
Robby finished the exam. The baby had stopped crying and now looked at the world with clear, confused eyes, as if asking:
"Where did I end up?"
"She's healthy," Robby announced. "We need to monitor her for the next few hours, of course. But for now… everything's normal."
He approached Jack.
"Your daughter… Congratulations, Dad."
He looked down. At her tiny face. At her little hands clenched into fists. At her bald newborn head. At her lips already forming a grimace of discontent.
"Hi…" he whispered. "Hi, baby. I'm your dad. I know, I'm surprised too." Yn's crying, why was she crying again, when had it started? It caught Jack's attention.
"Do you want…?" he asked, not knowing if she would have the strength for it or not.
"Please," she replied.
He sat on the edge of the stretcher, his body pressed against hers, and transferred the baby with such care it seemed as if he were handling a bomb. Yn finally received her daughter in her arms, and the world stopped again.
"Hi," she said to the baby. "Hi, love. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not knowing you were there. I'm sorry for not feeling you. I'm sorry for…"
The baby grumbled.
It wasn't a cry. It was a grumble, low, guttural, almost irritated. The sound of someone who had just been expelled from a warm and comfortable place and wasn't at all happy with the change.
Jack laughed. Yn laughed. Dana laughed. Even Robby, who was removing his gloves, let out a smile.
"She's already complaining," Jack said. "Definitely your daughter."
"Our daughter," Yn corrected. "Ours."
He looked at her. At her tired, sweaty, swollen, beautiful face. For the red eyes from crying so much. For the small, frightened, and amazed smile.
"Our daughter," he agreed.
"She's a beautiful stomach bug…" Yn joked, running her fingers over the baby's pink cheek.
Robby looked at Dana. Dana looked at Santos. Santos looked at Princess. Princess looked at the ceiling.
"I think," Robby said, pulling back the curtains around the stretcher, "they need a minute."
"Or five," Dana finished.
"Or ten," Santos added.
They left one by one, leaving Jack, Yn, and the baby in the center of that small, improvised universe.
Robby went straight to the break room; he needed a coffee after this.
After he left, the whole team was gathered in the security room, trying to figure out who had won the jackpot after all.
The list was still there.
Well, not the list. The original list had been replaced by a digital spreadsheet, which then became a shared spreadsheet, which then became an online form with categories and subcategories and a comments field that people used to write things like "they'll get married before committing" and "I bet she gets pregnant first."
Robby opened the spreadsheet on his phone. He scrolled to the end.
Payment pending: 947.00
He smiled.
"You won, didn't you?" she asked suspiciously.
"I bet they'd last more than two years and that we'd find out on a stressful day." Dana raised an eyebrow.
i didn't want to put this on op's post because i’m sure they were mostly joking and i'm not trying to call them out or anything, but it just made me think about the queer subtext surrounding jim and how that often gets overlooked in favour of the 'kirk drift' narrative. so here are some of my thoughts on that:
Spock is very easy to read as queer-coded, not only are there multiple moments in the show where he explicitly isn't attracted to women (at least in a human context), but there's also the factor of his Human/Vulcan heritage which makes him feel like he must repress his emotions. This has queer subtext in the general sense that it can be an allegory for otherness/queerness, but also literally because a lot of the feelings that we see him repressing are feelings for Jim.
In Jim's case it can be more subtle. Most of the subtext revolves around duty and, subsequently, loneliness.
In ‘The Naked Time’, the same scene in which Spock says “Jim, when I feel friendship for you, I’m ashamed” (LOVE MANKIND) Jim starts to talk about the ways he isn’t permitted to love freely because of his duty as captain:
KIRK: I've got it, the disease. Love. You're better off without it, and I'm better off without mine. This vessel, I give, she takes. She won't permit me my life. I've got to live hers.
Then, at the end of the episode:
SPOCK: […] We can go back in time, to any planet, any era.
KIRK: We may risk it someday, Mister Spock.
i.e. They may risk loving, someday.
This brings to mind this quote from Gene Roddenberry:
RODDENBERRY: Yes there’s certainly some of that [closeness of friendship, feeling that they would die for one another], certainly with love overtones. Deep love. The only difference being from the Greek ideal, we never suggested physical love between the two in the series. We certainly had the feeling that the affection was sufficient for that, if that were the particular style of the 23rd century.
Homosexuality was illegal in the US when the show was made, and was heavily censored in media. Homosexuality in the US military, which is the specific focus of Jim’s queer subtext here, has only been legal for the past decade. Both within and without the story, they look forward to a future where they can love openly and freely.
In ‘The Menagerie’, when Spock steals the Enterprise to take his former captain, Pike, to Talos IV, Jim is faced with sentencing him to death for mutiny:
KIRK: And in all the years of my service, this is the most painful moment I've ever faced.
Later during the trial, Commodore Mendez, in a hostile tone, accuses him of being biased towards Spock:
MENDEZ: You have that right, Captain, but just because the prisoner is your First Officer and your personal friend-
Kirk has to defend himself against being emotionally compromised due to their relationship. Would Mendez be so accusatory if they weren’t so close? In the TMP novelisation, written by Gene Roddenberry, we learn that there are rumours about Kirk and Spock’s relationship. In the context of a trial where Spock may be sentenced to death for (in act of what Kirk describes as ‘flagrant emotionalism’) taking Pike to Talos IV, it’s not a stretch to suggest that Mendez is accusing them of something more serious. We don’t know if ‘that is the particular style of the 23rd century’ (i.e. if homosexuality is legal/accepted then), so perhaps it is just subtext of the era it was written, but this always strikes me as the underlying threat in Mendez’ words.
In ‘The Apple’, they visit a ‘paradise’ where the people are not free to love and only live to serve a machine. When they meet the people they find out that love is forbidden by Vaal, then each male crew member is given a bracelet made of flowers. (Yeoman Landon is given a flower to wear in her hair.) Spock comments that it makes him uncomfortable. In the next scene, we see both Kirk and Spock, and only them, remove their bracelets. Perhaps a rejection of their way of life? A silent protest for freedom to love?
The episode ‘This Side of Paradise’ also shows how Kirk feels tied to duty, at the expense of his happiness and love.
(After Kirk is infected by the spores.)
KIRK: I've joined you. I understand now.
SPOCK: Wonderful, Jim.
[...]
(He packs a suitcase with a smile on his face, then goes to the safe and gets out his medals. He loses the smile.)
---
SPOCK: I have a responsibility to this ship, to that man on the Bridge. I am what I am, Leila, and if there are self-made purgatories, then we all have to live in them. Mine can be no worse than someone else's.
---
MCCOY: Well, that's the second time man's been thrown out of paradise.
KIRK: No, no, Bones. This time we walked out on our own. Maybe we weren't meant for paradise. Maybe we were meant to fight our way through. Struggle, claw our way up, scratch for every inch of the way. Maybe we can't stroll to the music of the lute. We must march to the sound of drums.
‘March to the sound of drums’ is a very clear reference to the military. The emotional outburst that breaks Jim free of the spores’ influence comes from looking at his medals and being reminded of his duty. He loves his ship, and yet as long as he has her, he can never be free. Similar to Spock, this is his self-made purgatory.
Kirk and Spock were written as two halves of a whole, and Spock is only one half of the K/S equation. While Spock is fighting his emotions, Jim is struggling against his duty. He often faces the choice between Spock and his career.
When Kirk is put through the neural neutraliser in ‘Dagger of the Mind’, Adams includes sacrificing your career and reputation in the ‘symptoms’ of being madly in love.
ADAMS: You're madly in love with Helen, Captain. You'd lie, cheat, steal for her, sacrifice your career, your reputation.
In 'Amok Time', when Spock is forced to return to Vulcan to ‘take a wife’ or die, Jim sacrifices his career, and later almost his life, to get him there.
KIRK: I can't let Spock die, can I, Bones? And he will if we go to Altair. I owe him my life a dozen times over. Isn't that worth a career? He's my friend. Bridge. Navigation.
---
KIRK: Bones. He's my first officer and my friend. I disregarded Starfleet orders to bring him here.
This is paralleled in 'Star Trek III: The Search for Spock', when Jim risks his career – literally blowing up the Enterprise – for a chance to bring Spock back to life.
KIRK: What I have done, ...I had to do.
SAREK: But at what cost? Your ship. Your son.
KIRK: If I hadn't tried, ...the cost would have been my soul.
As for Kirk’s reputation as a womaniser, many people have written about the ‘Kirk Drift’. Out of 20 kisses in 80 episodes, only three were fully consensual and had no ulterior motive: Areel Shaw in ‘Court Martial’, Edith Keeler in ‘The City on the Edge of Forever’, and Rayna in ‘Requiem for Methuselah’. When he isn’t being coerced, and has full control over his mind, he is usually trying to use his sexuality to escape capture. (Which is a whole other conversation.) Very rarely is he doing it for only pleasure, and yet he gained the reputation as a ladies’ man. In contrast, if you look at the text, Kirk is incredibly lonely.
In ‘Metamorphosis’, Jim tries to convince the Companion to release Cochrane:
KIRK: Companion, do you love the man?
COMPANION: I do not understand.
KIRK: Is he important to you, more important than anything? Is he as though he were a part of you?
COMPANION: He is part of me. The man must continue.
KIRK: He will not continue. He will cease to exist. By your feeling for him, you are condemning him to an existence he will find unbearable. He will cease to exist.
[…]
KIRK: But you can't really love him. You haven't the slightest knowledge of love, the total union of two people. You are the Companion. He is the man. You are two different things. You can't join. You can't love. You may keep him here forever, but you will always be separate, apart from him.
[…]
MCCOY: What did you hope to gain by that, Jim?
KIRK: Try to convince her of the hopelessness of it. Love sometimes expresses itself in sacrifice. I thought maybe if she loved him, she'd let him go.
I had always read this scene as a parallel to Spock, where Spock is the Companion and Jim is the man. However if you consider Jim as the Companion and Spock as the man, it makes even more sense. Jim can keep Spock with him forever as his First Officer, but in doing that they can never be together. By loving Spock in this way, a way in which he finds unbearable, it’s destroying him. This parallel is made again in ‘Requiem for Methuselah’, through the android Rayna who is pointedly very similar to Spock:
SPOCK: [Rayna] loved you, Captain. [...] There was not enough time for her to adjust to the awful power and contradictions of her new-found emotions. She could not bear to hurt either of you. The joys of love made her human, and the agonies of love destroyed her.
We know that eventually Spock leaves to complete the Kolinahr to purge himself of his emotions.
'Star Trek: The Motion Picture' is mostly about Spock’s realisation that without his emotions, he is barren and cold, there is no mystery and no beauty. However, once again, we see Jim struggling with loneliness. After the five year mission, he was pressured into a promotion as Admiral, grounding him on Earth, and also manipulated into a contractual marriage. Although he has managed to retake command of the Enterprise, Jim is still unhappy and lonely. Throughout the film, he is constantly reaching out, and as Spock has this profound epiphany, they hold onto each other.
'This simple feeling' is two hands searching for each other. T'hy'la, by nature, cannot be one sided, it is shared between them.
Warning! This post is between Consenting adults! This post includes Fauxcest, no one is actually related!
I swear I had an anon like this but I can't find it.
Mom who ties her daughters up. Arms up, legs wide, and cunts exposed. Teaching her girls what real pleasure feels like. How both of them deserve to be treated and how good it can feel.
Both girls start with soft touches on their cunts. She's dragging her hands through the folds and getting the wet. Lazy circles on both girls clit to get them worked up. As her daughter's begin to squirm and want more she upgrades them to vibrators. Holding them on their clits and maybe even pushing the vibes inside them. She's smiling the whole time as her daughter's squirm and cum.
Slowly introduces them to dildos. This time she's standing up and making her girls open their mouths. Slowly making her daughter's suck on the toys and even deep throat them. Watching as her daughter's struggle to take it down their throats. Drool dripping from their bottom lips and onto their tits. Eventually pulling them out and swapping the toys. Hope your sister got the toy nice and wet for you. As she slowly pushes the toys inside her girls.
She watches as her daughter's gasp and whimper at the feeling. Smiling as both girls react differently, one being able to take it so easily, and the other struggling to take it. Fucking her daughter's with the dildos until they cum on the plastic. Pulling the toys out and bringing one into her own mouth with a moan. Then the other, tasting her daughter's cum on them. Putting the toys down and leaning close to her oldest daughters cunt. Softly kissing her clit then taking it into her mouth.
Cleaning up her oldest while the youngest watches with a whine and need. Making her oldest cum in her mouth before popping off and going over to her youngest. Doing the same thing until she also cums in her mouth. Both her daughters are panting, thinking that maybe their mother is done for now. Mom isn't nearly done, her girls need to learn true pleasure.
She's grabbing the two fuck machines set up and pushing the dildos inside each girl. Her daughters are visibly nervous but she just smiles and turns them on. Both girls are moaning messing as they squirm and have to take it. Mom watches them as she plays with her own tits. Eventually she grabs a toy of her own. Setting it down on the floor and riding it. She watches her daughter's cum multiple times before grabbing a vibrator and placing it on her own clit.
She's moaning alongside them before cumming hard. Squirting on both her girls, her daughter's gasp. Mom finally turns their toys off and unties them but they don't get a break. She lays back and spreads her legs once again. Both her daughters are out of it for a second before they crawl over. Both quickly going to eat her out. Their tongues brushing against each others as they focus on their moms cunt. Both girls wanting to show her that they do know about pleasure. That they know how to make someone cum so good.
Moms open wide legs start to shake as she feels herself getting close again. She lets out a loud content moan as she slams her daughters once again. Both girls drinking up their mother's cum quickly and eventually start kissing each other sharing it. Mom coming down from her high while looking at her daughter's proudly.
coming home to you was simon’s favourite part of any mission. even the fun ones. he liked to joke around, exchange shitty one liners with soap and learn new ones from price- and, at the bones of it, he actually sort of loved his job.
but he loved you so, so much more.
hence why he put a baby in you. your son was almost ten months old, now, and he was coming on leaps and bounds, especially when his father was around to teach him new things. but it was often the case that by the time simon returned home from running combat drills, or even long stretches abroad, it was late at night, so any dad-ing would have to wait until the morning.
daddy-ing, on the other hand, was a different story.
“oh, fuck.” you whined, hips shuddering upwards against simon’s tongue as it dragged over your core. “babe, fuck-”
“missed you.” he hummed against your spit-drenched clit, making you shiver again and slip out another whine. “missed the fucking taste of you, darling, thought about it every day while i was gone.”
you dropped your head back, able to moan as loud as you wanted, because your son’s room was down the hall, equipped with the mother of all white noise machines. you kept the baby monitor close by, but tried not to think about it too much.
it was almost enough for you to get off just from the things simon was saying to you. he prided himself on his filthy mouth, still frequently bringing up the time that you actually came completely hands free- just from the sound of his voice and what he was saying with it.
“so pretty f’me, mumsy, think i wanna put another baby in you tonight.” simon drawled. his big hands were pressed to the insides of your thighs, holding your legs spread open for him because they had a tendency to snap shut when you got close.
“you think it’ll stick?” he asked sarcastically, plunging two fingers into your soaking cunt. “you want me to make you a mummy again? fuck you deep, so my cum sticks in you?”
“yesss, please-”
simon laughed at your begging, not mockingly, but as if he found it endearing. cute. he kissed you when he was level with your lips again, and you moaned as you tasted yourself on his tongue.
he let you get lost in the kiss for a while, because he knew how much you enjoyed it. one of his big hands, the one that wasn’t holding him up above you, reached down between the junction of your bodies and started to press slow, hard circles into your clit.
you moaned against your husband’s lips, your body going completely lax against his, just drinking in the pleasure you hadn’t experienced for the last six weeks whilst simon had been away. you could make yourself cum as a quick fix, of course, and for a while, you thought that was the extent of the satisfaction you were capable of. then, the first time you met simon, he blew you away, and nothing was ever the same.
“s’it feel good, mummy?”
“mhm,” you hummed, voice cracking. “fucking fantastic, my love, don’t stop.”
you had no idea how you could always relax so heavily whenever he was working you over with his fingers like this. sure, he could really make you scream, but every so often, he just wanted to level you out.
it might have been the unconscious feeling of safety you got when he came home. after being subtly on edge the whole time he was away, being back in your husband’s immediate proximity was enough to make anyone feel zen. or, it was the fact that you knew you were delivered from parenting duties, so you didn’t have a single thing to get up for in the morning.
whatever it was, it was bloody relaxing, and it was damn near making you cum.
“oh- fuck, don’t stop.” you breathed, fluttering your lashes so that your vision could focus again, your glassy eyes landing on simon’s face.
he looked utterly exhausted when you saw him this close. he probably could have passed out. he probably was going to pass out, as soon as his cock was in you, and forget about all his talk of breeding until the morning. and yet, here he was, two fingers in your cunt, thumb dragging lazily over your clit, refusing sleep until he’d given you an orgasm.
you felt yourself starting to tense a little more as your orgasm built, but that was over as quickly as it began. your thighs trembled as you came, walls clenching around simon’s fingers when he pressed the spongy spot inside of you for the final time.
“fuck, yes!” you cried, a shiver running down your spine. your slick coated your thighs and soaked the bedsheets, creating a wet spot that you would make simon sleep in later because it was ‘his doing’.
you knew it absolutely wasn’t over for you, but your husband was gracious enough to give you a moment. he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and then stood up from the bed.
“m’going to check on the boy,” he said, adjusting his stiff cock in his trousers. “then you’re in for it, mummy, y’hear?”
you giggled, nodding as you tried to haul a little further up the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows. you gave simon the once over with your eyes, smirk spreading across your face as you checked him out shamelessly.
warning!! ⚠️Miles held captive for a brief moment, sex, slowburn(not really but kinda.) Creampie, petname, and more sex!)⚠️
A very special fic for my beloved husband @daydaydayrk420. Happy birthday my love and my closest friend ever.
The sun dipped low over the lush canopy of Pandora, casting long shadows through the bioluminescent undergrowth of the Hallelujah Mountains. You, a seasoned warrior of the Omatikaya clan, had been patrolling the borders ever since the Sky People returned with their recombinant abominations. Rumors spread like vines—whispers of a demon in Na'vi skin, leading raids with the precision of a thanator but the cruelty of a machine. You'd seen the destruction firsthand: scorched earth where sacred sites once stood, clans scattered like leaves in the wind.
Your mission was simple: scout, report, and if Eywa willed it, eliminate threats. But fate twisted like a neural queue when you stumbled upon him—Miles Quaritch, or what was left of him in this stolen blue form. He was alone, separated from his squad after a skirmish with your kin. His recombinant body, tall and muscled like any Na'vi but marked by the faint scars of his human past, lay slumped against a glowing tree root, his queue severed in the fight, blood trickling from a gash on his side. He wasn't dead, though. Far from it. Those yellow eyes snapped open as you approached, knife drawn, his lips curling into a sneer that screamed defiance.
"Well, well," he growled, his voice a rough rasp laced with that alien accent, even in Na'vi tongue. "Another blue monkey come to finish the job? Make it quick, kid. I ain't got all day."
You hesitated. Killing him outright felt too easy, too merciful for the butcher of your people. Instead, you bound him with vines infused with paralytic sap, dragging his heavy frame back to a hidden cave deep in the floating rocks—a place only you knew, far from the clan's eyes. Eywa's will, you told yourself. Interrogate him. Learn the Sky People's plans. But as the days blurred into nights, something shifted. Quaritch was no mindless drone; he was sharp, unyielding, spitting barbs that tested your patience.
"You think tyin' me up makes you the big hero?" he'd taunt during your interrogations, his massive form straining against the restraints, muscles rippling under azure skin striped with those telltale patterns. "I've faced worse than some forest boy playin' soldier." His eyes, fierce and unblinking, would lock onto yours, a challenge in every glare. Yet, beneath the bravado, you saw cracks—the disorientation of his new body, the flicker of something almost vulnerable when he spoke of his "old self." He hated the Na'vi ways, mocked the connection to Eywa, but he adapted fast, his survival instincts kicking in like a predator cornered.
You fed him, tended his wounds with healing salves from the forest, all while prying for intel. He gave little at first, just enough to keep you coming back—hints of RDA movements, veiled threats. But isolation bred tension. Conversations turned from hostility to reluctant exchanges. He spoke of Earth, a dying world you'd only heard horrors of; you shared tales of Pandora's harmony. One night, as atokirina seeds drifted lazily through the cave's entrance, illuminating his features in soft glow, he cracked a rare, bitter laugh. "You know, in another life, I'd have put a bullet in you without blinkin'. But this body... it's messin' with my head. Makes everything feel... different."
That "different" hung in the air like pollen. You noticed how his gaze lingered on you longer, tracing the lines of your warrior's build—the broad shoulders honed from vine-swinging, the lithe strength in your limbs. Your own eyes betrayed you, drawn to the way his tail flicked in agitation, or how his ears pinned back when you got too close. The air thickened with unspoken energy, the kind that sparked between two warriors testing boundaries.
It happened on the fifth night. You'd unbound him partially, trusting—foolishly, perhaps—that he wouldn't bolt. The cave's warmth from a small fire pit amplified the humidity, beads of sweat glistening on both your skins. Quaritch paced like a caged ikran, his queue regrown but twitching with pent-up fury. "You gonna keep me here forever, or what? This ain't no vacation, blue boy."
You stepped forward, your voice steady. "You're free to leave. But you won't. Not yet."
He snorted, closing the distance until his breath ghosted your face. "Oh yeah? And why's that?"
"Because you need this," you replied, your hand pressing against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart—Na'vi now, alive with Pandora's pulse. His eyes widened, a flash of surprise before that trademark smirk returned, but it faltered when you didn't back down.
"Big words," he muttered, but his voice dropped an octave, rough and laced with something darker. "You think you can handle me?"
The challenge ignited you. Your lips crashed against his in a fierce clash, all teeth and dominance, your hands gripping his braids to pull him down. He resisted at first—pure Quaritch stubbornness—growling into the kiss, his larger frame shoving back. But then he yielded, just enough, his tongue battling yours in a war he was losing. You pushed him against the cave wall, the bioluminescent moss lighting up under the impact, your body pinning his.
"Damn it," he hissed between breaths, his hands—finally free—clawing at your loincloth, but not to fight. "You... you're somethin' else."
You stripped him methodically, your fingers tracing the ridges of his abdominal muscles, down to the hardening length between his legs. He was massive, even for a Na'vi, his cock throbbing under your touch, the bioluminescent freckles along its shaft glowing faintly in the dim light. Quaritch bucked into your hand, a low groan escaping him, but his eyes burned with that unyielding fire. "Don't get cocky, kid. I ain't breakin' that easy."
But he was. You shed your own coverings, your own arousal evident—thick, veined, and ready—pressing against his thigh as you ground against him. He cursed in his human tongue, a mix of English expletives that sounded foreign yet fitting from his lips. Your queues connected in a rush of tsaheylu, the bond flooding you with his sensations: the raw hunger, the confusion of pleasure in this body he still fought against, the grudging submission bubbling under his tough exterior.
You prepped him carefully, your fingers slick with natural lubricants from the cave's flora, probing his entrance. He tensed, hissing through clenched teeth, but didn't pull away. "Easy there, marine," you teased, echoing his own bravado. One finger, then two, scissoring inside him, stretching the tight ring of muscle. His walls clenched around you, hot and velvety, his cock leaking precum onto his stomach as you curled your digits to hit that sensitive spot. Quaritch's head fell back, a strangled moan ripping from his throat— so out of character for the colonel, yet so raw.
"Fuck... you," he panted, but his hips rolled into your touch, betraying him.
When he was ready—slick, open, and trembling—you positioned yourself, the head of your cock nudging his entrance. You pushed in slowly at first, inch by agonizing inch, feeling the exquisite tightness envelop you. Quaritch's breath hitched, his hands digging into your shoulders, nails drawing blue blood. "Shit—too big, you bastard," he growled, but his legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you deeper.
You bottomed out with a groan, buried to the hilt in his heat, the bond amplifying every pulse, every flutter of his inner walls around your length. He was vice-like, gripping you as if to reclaim control, but you set the pace—slow, deep thrusts that had him arching off the wall. "That's it, Colonel," you murmured against his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. "Take it like the warrior you are."
His responses devolved into grunts and curses, his body betraying his words. You picked up speed, pounding into him with rhythmic force, the slap of skin echoing in the cave. Each thrust dragged along his prostate, making his cock twitch and spurt more precum, smearing between your stomachs. Quaritch's tail thrashed wildly, his ears flattening as pleasure overrode his defiance. "Harder—fuckin' harder," he demanded, ever the commander, even as he submitted.
You obliged, angling your hips to hit deeper, your hand wrapping around his neglected cock, stroking in time with your thrusts. He was a mess—sweat-slicked, moaning incoherently, his recombinant body quivering under you. The bond let you feel it all: the building pressure in his core, the way your cock stretched him perfectly, filling him completely.
"I'm gonna—ah, shit—" he warned, but you didn't stop, driving into him relentlessly until his body seized. He came first, ropes of thick, glowing cum painting his chest and yours, his walls spasming around you in waves that nearly pulled you over the edge.
But you held on, fucking him through it, prolonging his orgasm until he was oversensitive, whimpering—actually whimpering. "Too much... kid, too damn much."
"Not yet," you growled, your own release coiling tight. A few more brutal thrusts, and you buried yourself deep, flooding him with your seed. Hot spurts filled him to the brim, the creampie overflowing as you ground against him, ensuring every drop stayed inside. Through the bond, you felt the warmth spread, marking him from within, his body milking you dry in greedy contractions.
You collapsed together, queues still linked, breaths mingling. Quaritch's eyes, hazy with afterglow, met yours. "Don't think this changes a damn thing," he muttered, but there was no bite left—just a ghost of a smirk, and something almost like respect.
Reader asking Logan if they could try free use ;) like him just doing her whenever around there apartment and Logan teasing reader and having her continue what she was doing like dishes or something
this got me in a horny haze.
logan x f!reader, 1.1k SMUT MDNI (pwp, free use obv, toys, sort of double penetration, not proofread)
You had talked about it. So much.
Not just you you, but you and him. He had questions that needed answers. What if you were cooking, or working on something important? You reassured, explained, coaxed. “I can still say no,” you answered, “and so can you.”
Behind every rationalization was the unshakable confidence that eventually swayed him to a yes—despite the way his eyes had darkened when you first brought it up.
After the discussion, realization steeped in, almost like day-old tea, yet completely the opposite of cold:
You trust him enough to do this—to offer him a thing so precious as your own freedom—and that was the bottom line.
The fact alone was enough to break him.
But then the clothes you wore around the house started shrinking, and he crumbled even more.
The first time it happened nearly overloaded the air with static. His eyes were electrified by promises as they roamed your body (if your shorts barely covered your ass, why did you wear them at all?), and you felt his gaze like hands on skin. You tried to do what you were supposed to on a slow day: wash the dishes, water the plants, change the sheets—except he loomed behind you just as you got started on that last one, breath fanning the back of your neck.
A jolt paralyzed you with pleasure when fingers traced a delicate line down your spine. Then they shoved the waistband of your shorts and underwear, sliding underneath to touch your pussy.
Your knees gave way.
He played with you, just like that. You, knelt at the edge of the bed, palms gripping the sheets you were supposed to change; him behind you, fingers scissoring into your heat, mouthing against your ear: “Fuck, baby, already so wet—have you been waitin’ for this? For me to fuck you like you wanted so badly?”
At your pathetic whimper, because yes you have been waiting for this, his breath shook.
“Uh-huh. Knew it. Gotta stretch her open first.”
You came, him three fingers deep.
Then big broad palms spread your cheeks, enough for him to rut his cock into you, and you came again not long after.
At least he was considerate enough to fuck you before the bedsheets got changed.
The times after the first were a slippery slope of sin: not that he was a saint, more that he was exceedingly patient. Unsurprising for a man over two hundred years old. He hunted with more stealth, the hunger in his gaze well-masked, the fire in stomach well-trained. You were a pretty thing doing chores like you had no idea, like nothing was different—and really, that was the whole point of this exercise: for him to understand how much you liked to be useful, even if you had to be surprised.
Like when he lifted you up to sit on a running washing machine, the perfect height for him to kneel between your legs and eat. The vibrations of his mouth and the spin cycle brought you to ruin even before the laundry was done—so of course Logan gave you more. A second orgasm, then a third, followed by an impossible fourth in a row.
By the end of it, you were crying. His heart nearly sank, and then he saw the hint of a smile on your parted lips—the ones on your face, not the one dripping a mess down your inner thighs.
Your shared apartment quickly became a defiled sanctum.
He learned how to take like an animal: selfish with unabated hunger. Made you grip the edge of the sink as he took you from behind, panties pushed to the side, white-knuckling your hips as he fed your cunt with his veiny inches. Slowly. Because “she’s taken a lot of fucking lately, huh, sweets?”, like he wasn’t responsible for the ache you now felt whenever you were empty.
Slowly never lasted long. It always ended in tangled limbs and sweaty bodies, a pool of you and him on the kitchen floor.
Once, you woke up with his balls in your mouth. He’d dragged you there in your sleep. You only opened your jaws wider for him despite the slumber barely leaving your eyes, letting him bob your head up and down his shaft with a hand curled sternly around your hair.
Then, on the thirtieth day of your lasting arrangement, a package arrived.
A toy. Your purchase. Something discreet for you to slip into your cunt, and for him to control. He liked it so much, he started buying more. Different ones. Bigger ones. For your pussy, for your ass, for both.
Libido and productivity were inversely proportional.
You were quickly running out of panties, what with him ruining them so often—it was only logical that you stopped wearing them around the house.
He found out while you laid on the couch, busy with a book.
“Keep reading, sweetheart. Been a while since you got to, yeah?” he purred, flipping your (his) oversized T-shirt up, only to find nothing where shorts and underwear would usually be.
A toy was already inside you, glistening with lube around the flared base. Something to keep your hole stretched and ready for him—something he didn’t even ask you to do.
“Smart girl,” was his growled response, along with the roar in his bloodstream. In one heated second, he sprung free from yanked-down jeans, blunt tip pressing just below where the dildo rested in you.
He didn’t take it out.
You looked at him, then down at what he was doing, then back at him, eyes hazy with lust that never seemed to leave no matter how many times this happened.
Stop was a word that hadn’t passed your lips in a while—at least by itself. You screamed don’t stop pretty often.
Head tilted back, you felt him stretch to an almost painful point, but in a twisted turn of events, the way it burned seemed to fuel your pleasure more. The book in your hand flopped, pages flipping to a close as your palms find his biceps, feeling the coil of muscles under them as he worked you open—more than he already had for the past week or so.
“I said keep reading,” he spat, shoving the book back in your grip and his fat cock deeper in your cunt. You cried out as two, three, four inches sank in, the pulsing heat of him a delicious contrast against cool silicone.
“Can’t,” you shook your head, voice thin as a reed, “too f-f-full—”
“Your fault, lettin’ me have you like this.”
“Ah—” Another inch. Your vision blurred.
“But I know you like it. She likes it,” the words were fed into your mouth in-between kisses, tongue seeking out depths just like his dick. “Bein’ my plaything. Yeah, sweetheart?”
Then he bottomed out, and your pussy replied with a noisy squelch. Full. Sore. Used.
