invisible_lift (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
invisible_lift) wrote2008-11-29 02:38 pm
invisible_lift) wrote2008-11-29 02:38 pm
It'll End in Tears #29: "Zero Sum"
Title: "Zero Sum"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Overall: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/Andy, with occasional guest cameos.
Rating: Series ranges from relatively safe to hard NC-17. This one is in the high R range for language and allusions to sexual acts.
Notes/Summary: Part #29 of the "It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #25 on the table. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sanginmychains and resourceress for giving this the sweet, hot beta-fu. However, please note that a fair bit of clearing up happened before post without their brilliant oversight. All errors in this version are, therefore, mine.
"Shame on us
Doomed from the start
May God have mercy
On our dirty little hearts
Shame on us
For all we have done
And all we ever were
Just zeros and ones"
-- Nine Inch Nails, "Zero Sum"
# # #
The man in the suit is oblivious, more intent on some sort of PDA or e-book reader than he is on the outside world while he waits in the queue. That more than anything makes it easy for Andy to get up the nerve to start across the café to say hello. Just a quick, “Hi, do I know you? You remind me of someone,” to satisfy his curiosity and he’ll move on. What could it hurt?
Out of nowhere, a memory of waking up alone in a half-familiar bed in an empty flat, except the flat isn’t really empty, is it? He’s on another man’s territory, and that man is waiting for him.
Andy falters. The half-remembered taste of chemicals fills his mouth, and he takes a step away. His heart hammers in his chest like he’s jumped into a freezing cold quarry lake, or like it does after a scuffle. There was something he wasn’t supposed to remember, and while he’s forgotten it again, he knows somehow that he remembered that thing once. It’s not the fact of the remembering that’s important, though. It’s the memory of what happened next that he needs, isn’t it?
He feels like he’s drowning in air. He can’t think. There’s so damn much in his head trying to beat the fucking door down that all he can do is back away while he tries to sort through the tidal mess of confusion. There’s a possibility that the voice he hears begging for its life in the midst of all that noise is his own. Who’s to say whoever left him in the park wasn’t leaving him for dead?
Andy rushes out the door and into the crowd on the pavement, his coffee and newspaper forgotten. There’s no rational basis for the terror that tells him to get away before the suit bloke sees him, but does there need to be? He’s got a hundred thousand missing moments, and any one of those could be the one urging him to flee.
I don’t want to die. This isn’t my fault. It was never my fault.
He ducks into an alley, presses his back against the brick, and breathes, tries to tamp down the buzz in his skull in favor of being lucid. It’s no use, though. He’s remembering things all in the wrong order. It feels like things are on fire behind his eyes. Desperate, he tries to run to safety (whatever that means), but his legs don’t work the way they’re supposed to. The best he manages is an ungainly scramble that sends him crashing down behind a skip.
This is where and how Andy remembers the fire, the brushed metal thermos, and the band of leather that meant everything until everything fell apart.
# # #
Jack is at his desk when Gwen arrives.
He’s a day behind in looking at the data, but Ianto hadn’t been joking about the level of surveillance he’s got on her. Jack doesn’t have all of the details, but he’s spent the last couple of hours going over all of the footage, and he knows what’s been missing from his safe since the night before last.
He is not pleased. He smiles anyway.
If Gwen were paying attention, and she isn’t, maybe she’d notice the way his feet land precisely where they’re intended to land. There is no spring in his step. Jack’s spring is too busy being wound tight and waiting to snap.
He stops a few feet behind her and crosses his arms. “How’s that extra-curricular reading going?” he asks, and she startles. “Learn anything interesting?”
Gwen tries to compose herself. She tries to arrange her things and close her bag to hide the spiral notebook, but he’s already seen it. It’s a safe bet she knows that, too. “Jack! You shouldn’t creep up on me like that!”
He raises an eyebrow and moves in closer. Frankly, he’s never been a fan of personal space, especially at times like this. “Oh? How should I creep up on you, then?” Without asking, he reaches for her bag and grins as she jerks it away, probably without thinking. She’s gone all wide-eyed and fierce at him. There was a time he’d have loved to push that much, much further. He isn’t proud of the way that thought excites him. Maybe Ianto isn’t as far off in his accusations after all.
“It’s not what you think,” she tells him, but the way she clutches at the bag tells him otherwise.
“Oh really? What is it, then? Because if it’s idle curiosity, I could probably arrange a demonstration.”
Gwen flushes, but it’s not all embarrassment. She’s engaged to Rhys, but Jack knows she’s not so committed that he couldn’t have her if he applied himself. He entertains the notion of tying her to a post and showing her how they used to do this sort of thing in the Navy. Better, he could push her down over the boardroom table and spank her and make her come. The scent of her cunt would be so strong, not just the faint hints he catches now and again, but something he could bury his face in while he –
They both turn to look as the entry alarm sounds to announce Owen’s arrival. Death has made him punctual in ways threats never could in life. While it’s improved the quality and consistency of his work, Jack wonders if maybe the two of them shouldn’t sit down and discuss things a little more in depth.
He turns back to face Gwen and holds out one hand expectantly. He watches as she reaches into her bag and reluctantly hands him the notebook.
“We’ll finish this later,” Jack tells her quietly, and then turns on his heel and returns to his office. He’s glad to have something in his hands. It keeps them still and stops them going into fists.
He storms across the threshold and discovers Ianto already waiting for him with coffee. “Productive conversation?” Ianto asks, and indicates the notebook.
“Not really.”
Jack slides into his chair and drops the notebook heavily onto his desk. Ianto isn’t wearing his jacket, and Jack lets his eyes linger on his body as he accepts his coffee. For his part, Ianto doesn’t seem to mind overmuch.
Ianto starts to speak, but Jack cuts him off.
“I’ll take care of it.” Jack snaps, and regrets it instantly when he notices Ianto’s hand hesitating just above the notebook.
Ianto puts his hands in his pockets. “Of course. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” he replies with practiced neutrality. He’s not looking at Jack any longer, or even anything in particular, and the implied ‘sir’ hangs unspoken between them. Something in Jack’s chest wrenches even tighter.
Fuck.
Without a word, Ianto takes his tray and leaves.
# # #
Ianto crosses the Hub in a silent temper. He doesn’t acknowledge the others on his way to the tourist office, and either they’re oblivious or wise enough to do the same. He supposes it’s counterintuitive to take refuge out in the open, but neither Jack nor Gwen typically invades that space unless they’re coming or going. That plus the proximity of the general public should be deterrent enough to keep them out of his hair for a while.
He sits down, logs in at his workstation, and digs a battered copy of NME out of his messenger bag. That’s the other benefit of working upstairs. Sometimes his only real responsibility is to be a warm body. Right now, he’s so angry he’s not sure he can do much more than that. He’s fucking furious at Gwen for her invasion of his privacy. Jack, too, though that’s a contorted sort of anger that he’d rather not articulate.
He stares at rather than reads an opinion piece about the absurdity of Oasis’ album titles. Even reading music press pap is unappealing. When he hears a little chime indicating that someone’s sent him an instant message he grits his teeth and grudgingly opens the chat box.
He sighs and pushes his magazine aside. For all he knows she’s probably watching him. Jack’s probably watching, too, and eavesdropping on the chat. So much for privacy.
There’s a pause. He can almost picture here sitting there, lips pursed, trying to decide what to type. Chewing on her pen, maybe. He rolls his eyes and considers going back to his magazine.
Nor yours, he thinks irritably, though that’s rather a moot point now, isn’t it?
The door chimes open and a woman with a little boy enters. Ianto forces a smile and greets them quietly. The little boy grins back while the woman – probably his mother – leafs through a guide to walking tours in southern Wales.
Ianto’s eyes narrow slightly, and he closes the chat box. He rounds the counter to greet his visitor and tell her about things to do on the Glamorgan Heritage Coast.
# # #
When Jack finally calls her down to interrogation, Gwen isn’t sure what to think. She still feels scolded and worried from this morning, but his summons is casual. “I need you to help me with something downstairs,” he says, so she goes.
Gwen is cautiously optimistic until she hears him lock the door behind them. She’s only just reached the bottom of the steps when he does it, and she whirls around to look at him, surprised.
“Sit down.”
She sits. And fidgets.
The lights are dim, and when he descends, he keeps to the far edge of the room. His arms are crossed, and she can’t see his face clearly. She doesn’t need to, though.
“Jack, I –“
He cuts her off. “Save the excuses, Gwen. I’m not interested.”
She folds her hands in her lap.
“The first thing you’re going to do,” Jack says as he leans against the far wall. “Is tell me why I shouldn’t sack you right here and now.”
Gwen opens her mouth, stunned. “What? Jack, no. That’s –“
“Completely appropriate, considering that you stole a sensitive article from my personal safe with the apparent intention of returning it to an individual we’re seeking to contain?” His voice sounds strained, and while he’s standing perfectly still, there’s enough pent up energy in his stance that Gwen is glad to be on the other side of the table from him.
“You know better than this,” he tells her, stern and disappointed. “What the hell were you thinking? That you know better about a situation that you weren’t privy to? That you can give him his stuff back without consequences for you both?”
She looks down at her hands.
“Do you think that maybe Ianto might deserve some consideration?” Jack continues as he pushes off of the wall to approach. “Did you think at all?”
Gwen flinches at that and shoots him a glare. “Of course I –“
Jack slams his hands palm down on the table. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I didn’t think,” she answers quietly and looks away. She feels nauseous and angry. She worries she might cry.
“No, Gwen, apparently you didn’t,” Jack snaps as he stands upright again. “Because whatever your opinion on the matter might be, I think I’ve had just about enough insubordination from you. You may be a crucial member of the team, but you’re not so indispensable that I’m willing to watch you sabotage my efforts at every fucking turn. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes sir,” She tells him. She can’t keep the tiniest hint of resistance out of her voice, but the expression on Jack’s face makes it more than clear that he’ll accept no disagreement.
“Good,” he says, and presses a couple of buttons on his wrist strap. She hears the lock click open. “Get out of my base. Take the lift, not the Information Centre. I don’t want to see or hear from you until tomorrow.”
Gwen stands, uncertain. Jack glowers.
“I’m waiting, Gwen. Unless you’ve got something else to say for yourself, that is.”
“No sir,” she says, and hurries out.
# # #
Andy does not go out with Trav. He doesn’t do much of anything. He spends the rest of the day on the settee pretending to himself that he can watch telly. He goes to bed early, where he lies awake pretending to himself that he can sleep. While he does eventually drift off, he wakes with the impression that he’s dreamt of nothing but an undifferentiated gray.
They never talk about this bit in films. They never tell you how awful the remembering is.
He showers and shaves and makes himself a bowl of cereal he doesn’t really taste. How is he supposed to parse all of this at once? How is he supposed to accept who he was (who he is?) just out of hand? It’s all too much. The idea of checking himself in somewhere is suddenly not at all out of the question.
Instead, he leaves his cereal bowl in the sink and goes back to his bedroom. He pulls the box out from under his bed and empties it out on the floor, and then dumps out his nightstand drawer into the same heap. What he’s looking for is proof. He needs something tangible to hold onto and carry while the world around him starts to feel real again.
He finds nothing in particular. Oh, there’s Ianto’s t-shirt, but that stopped smelling much like Ianto a few weeks back. Nice though it is, wearing it would just make it one of an army of t-shirts he keeps. He picks it up anyway and carries it out with him into the front room of his flat, where everything fell apart.
I would have died for you.
It’s such an alien thought, and a terrible one, bursting with loyalty and ardor. He worries over it, not just because he’s amazed he could ever be allowed to have felt that, but because he can’t fathom how he survived it. Those pills Jack gave him were real. He should be dead.
I would have died, and you would have let me.
He throws the shirt as hard as he can down the hall with a strangled yell.
---
Prev (Pt #28) (Warnings: language, smut.)
-
Next (Pt #30) (Warnings: language, smut.)
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Overall: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/Andy, with occasional guest cameos.
Rating: Series ranges from relatively safe to hard NC-17. This one is in the high R range for language and allusions to sexual acts.
Notes/Summary: Part #29 of the "It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #25 on the table. Thanks to
sanginmychains and resourceress for giving this the sweet, hot beta-fu. However, please note that a fair bit of clearing up happened before post without their brilliant oversight. All errors in this version are, therefore, mine."Shame on us
Doomed from the start
May God have mercy
On our dirty little hearts
Shame on us
For all we have done
And all we ever were
Just zeros and ones"
-- Nine Inch Nails, "Zero Sum"
# # #
The man in the suit is oblivious, more intent on some sort of PDA or e-book reader than he is on the outside world while he waits in the queue. That more than anything makes it easy for Andy to get up the nerve to start across the café to say hello. Just a quick, “Hi, do I know you? You remind me of someone,” to satisfy his curiosity and he’ll move on. What could it hurt?
Out of nowhere, a memory of waking up alone in a half-familiar bed in an empty flat, except the flat isn’t really empty, is it? He’s on another man’s territory, and that man is waiting for him.
Andy falters. The half-remembered taste of chemicals fills his mouth, and he takes a step away. His heart hammers in his chest like he’s jumped into a freezing cold quarry lake, or like it does after a scuffle. There was something he wasn’t supposed to remember, and while he’s forgotten it again, he knows somehow that he remembered that thing once. It’s not the fact of the remembering that’s important, though. It’s the memory of what happened next that he needs, isn’t it?
He feels like he’s drowning in air. He can’t think. There’s so damn much in his head trying to beat the fucking door down that all he can do is back away while he tries to sort through the tidal mess of confusion. There’s a possibility that the voice he hears begging for its life in the midst of all that noise is his own. Who’s to say whoever left him in the park wasn’t leaving him for dead?
Andy rushes out the door and into the crowd on the pavement, his coffee and newspaper forgotten. There’s no rational basis for the terror that tells him to get away before the suit bloke sees him, but does there need to be? He’s got a hundred thousand missing moments, and any one of those could be the one urging him to flee.
I don’t want to die. This isn’t my fault. It was never my fault.
He ducks into an alley, presses his back against the brick, and breathes, tries to tamp down the buzz in his skull in favor of being lucid. It’s no use, though. He’s remembering things all in the wrong order. It feels like things are on fire behind his eyes. Desperate, he tries to run to safety (whatever that means), but his legs don’t work the way they’re supposed to. The best he manages is an ungainly scramble that sends him crashing down behind a skip.
This is where and how Andy remembers the fire, the brushed metal thermos, and the band of leather that meant everything until everything fell apart.
# # #
Jack is at his desk when Gwen arrives.
He’s a day behind in looking at the data, but Ianto hadn’t been joking about the level of surveillance he’s got on her. Jack doesn’t have all of the details, but he’s spent the last couple of hours going over all of the footage, and he knows what’s been missing from his safe since the night before last.
He is not pleased. He smiles anyway.
If Gwen were paying attention, and she isn’t, maybe she’d notice the way his feet land precisely where they’re intended to land. There is no spring in his step. Jack’s spring is too busy being wound tight and waiting to snap.
He stops a few feet behind her and crosses his arms. “How’s that extra-curricular reading going?” he asks, and she startles. “Learn anything interesting?”
Gwen tries to compose herself. She tries to arrange her things and close her bag to hide the spiral notebook, but he’s already seen it. It’s a safe bet she knows that, too. “Jack! You shouldn’t creep up on me like that!”
He raises an eyebrow and moves in closer. Frankly, he’s never been a fan of personal space, especially at times like this. “Oh? How should I creep up on you, then?” Without asking, he reaches for her bag and grins as she jerks it away, probably without thinking. She’s gone all wide-eyed and fierce at him. There was a time he’d have loved to push that much, much further. He isn’t proud of the way that thought excites him. Maybe Ianto isn’t as far off in his accusations after all.
“It’s not what you think,” she tells him, but the way she clutches at the bag tells him otherwise.
“Oh really? What is it, then? Because if it’s idle curiosity, I could probably arrange a demonstration.”
Gwen flushes, but it’s not all embarrassment. She’s engaged to Rhys, but Jack knows she’s not so committed that he couldn’t have her if he applied himself. He entertains the notion of tying her to a post and showing her how they used to do this sort of thing in the Navy. Better, he could push her down over the boardroom table and spank her and make her come. The scent of her cunt would be so strong, not just the faint hints he catches now and again, but something he could bury his face in while he –
They both turn to look as the entry alarm sounds to announce Owen’s arrival. Death has made him punctual in ways threats never could in life. While it’s improved the quality and consistency of his work, Jack wonders if maybe the two of them shouldn’t sit down and discuss things a little more in depth.
He turns back to face Gwen and holds out one hand expectantly. He watches as she reaches into her bag and reluctantly hands him the notebook.
“We’ll finish this later,” Jack tells her quietly, and then turns on his heel and returns to his office. He’s glad to have something in his hands. It keeps them still and stops them going into fists.
He storms across the threshold and discovers Ianto already waiting for him with coffee. “Productive conversation?” Ianto asks, and indicates the notebook.
“Not really.”
Jack slides into his chair and drops the notebook heavily onto his desk. Ianto isn’t wearing his jacket, and Jack lets his eyes linger on his body as he accepts his coffee. For his part, Ianto doesn’t seem to mind overmuch.
Ianto starts to speak, but Jack cuts him off.
“I’ll take care of it.” Jack snaps, and regrets it instantly when he notices Ianto’s hand hesitating just above the notebook.
Ianto puts his hands in his pockets. “Of course. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” he replies with practiced neutrality. He’s not looking at Jack any longer, or even anything in particular, and the implied ‘sir’ hangs unspoken between them. Something in Jack’s chest wrenches even tighter.
Fuck.
Without a word, Ianto takes his tray and leaves.
# # #
Ianto crosses the Hub in a silent temper. He doesn’t acknowledge the others on his way to the tourist office, and either they’re oblivious or wise enough to do the same. He supposes it’s counterintuitive to take refuge out in the open, but neither Jack nor Gwen typically invades that space unless they’re coming or going. That plus the proximity of the general public should be deterrent enough to keep them out of his hair for a while.
He sits down, logs in at his workstation, and digs a battered copy of NME out of his messenger bag. That’s the other benefit of working upstairs. Sometimes his only real responsibility is to be a warm body. Right now, he’s so angry he’s not sure he can do much more than that. He’s fucking furious at Gwen for her invasion of his privacy. Jack, too, though that’s a contorted sort of anger that he’d rather not articulate.
He stares at rather than reads an opinion piece about the absurdity of Oasis’ album titles. Even reading music press pap is unappealing. When he hears a little chime indicating that someone’s sent him an instant message he grits his teeth and grudgingly opens the chat box.
GWEN: Hey, you there?
He sighs and pushes his magazine aside. For all he knows she’s probably watching him. Jack’s probably watching, too, and eavesdropping on the chat. So much for privacy.
IANTO: Where else would I be?
GWEN: Well, true.
IANTO: Did you need something? Out of coffee already?
GWEN: No, no. Nothing like that.
There’s a pause. He can almost picture here sitting there, lips pursed, trying to decide what to type. Chewing on her pen, maybe. He rolls his eyes and considers going back to his magazine.
GWEN: Did you two really do the things that Andy wrote about? Some of it sounds kind of outrageous.
IANTO: I wouldn’t know.
GWEN: ???
IANTO: I didn’t read his notebook because it’s none of my business.
Nor yours, he thinks irritably, though that’s rather a moot point now, isn’t it?
IANTO: Now that you’ve read it, do you still think he’d be happier knowing what happened?
GWEN: I don’t know.
The door chimes open and a woman with a little boy enters. Ianto forces a smile and greets them quietly. The little boy grins back while the woman – probably his mother – leafs through a guide to walking tours in southern Wales.
IANTO: Right. I’ve got legitimate customers. Enjoy saving the world while I witter on about traditional handicrafts or slate mining or whatever.
GWEN: Torchwood. Outside the government, beyond the police, out on the quay selling quality miniature tea sets.
Ianto’s eyes narrow slightly, and he closes the chat box. He rounds the counter to greet his visitor and tell her about things to do on the Glamorgan Heritage Coast.
# # #
When Jack finally calls her down to interrogation, Gwen isn’t sure what to think. She still feels scolded and worried from this morning, but his summons is casual. “I need you to help me with something downstairs,” he says, so she goes.
Gwen is cautiously optimistic until she hears him lock the door behind them. She’s only just reached the bottom of the steps when he does it, and she whirls around to look at him, surprised.
“Sit down.”
She sits. And fidgets.
The lights are dim, and when he descends, he keeps to the far edge of the room. His arms are crossed, and she can’t see his face clearly. She doesn’t need to, though.
“Jack, I –“
He cuts her off. “Save the excuses, Gwen. I’m not interested.”
She folds her hands in her lap.
“The first thing you’re going to do,” Jack says as he leans against the far wall. “Is tell me why I shouldn’t sack you right here and now.”
Gwen opens her mouth, stunned. “What? Jack, no. That’s –“
“Completely appropriate, considering that you stole a sensitive article from my personal safe with the apparent intention of returning it to an individual we’re seeking to contain?” His voice sounds strained, and while he’s standing perfectly still, there’s enough pent up energy in his stance that Gwen is glad to be on the other side of the table from him.
“You know better than this,” he tells her, stern and disappointed. “What the hell were you thinking? That you know better about a situation that you weren’t privy to? That you can give him his stuff back without consequences for you both?”
She looks down at her hands.
“Do you think that maybe Ianto might deserve some consideration?” Jack continues as he pushes off of the wall to approach. “Did you think at all?”
Gwen flinches at that and shoots him a glare. “Of course I –“
Jack slams his hands palm down on the table. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I didn’t think,” she answers quietly and looks away. She feels nauseous and angry. She worries she might cry.
“No, Gwen, apparently you didn’t,” Jack snaps as he stands upright again. “Because whatever your opinion on the matter might be, I think I’ve had just about enough insubordination from you. You may be a crucial member of the team, but you’re not so indispensable that I’m willing to watch you sabotage my efforts at every fucking turn. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes sir,” She tells him. She can’t keep the tiniest hint of resistance out of her voice, but the expression on Jack’s face makes it more than clear that he’ll accept no disagreement.
“Good,” he says, and presses a couple of buttons on his wrist strap. She hears the lock click open. “Get out of my base. Take the lift, not the Information Centre. I don’t want to see or hear from you until tomorrow.”
Gwen stands, uncertain. Jack glowers.
“I’m waiting, Gwen. Unless you’ve got something else to say for yourself, that is.”
“No sir,” she says, and hurries out.
# # #
Andy does not go out with Trav. He doesn’t do much of anything. He spends the rest of the day on the settee pretending to himself that he can watch telly. He goes to bed early, where he lies awake pretending to himself that he can sleep. While he does eventually drift off, he wakes with the impression that he’s dreamt of nothing but an undifferentiated gray.
They never talk about this bit in films. They never tell you how awful the remembering is.
He showers and shaves and makes himself a bowl of cereal he doesn’t really taste. How is he supposed to parse all of this at once? How is he supposed to accept who he was (who he is?) just out of hand? It’s all too much. The idea of checking himself in somewhere is suddenly not at all out of the question.
Instead, he leaves his cereal bowl in the sink and goes back to his bedroom. He pulls the box out from under his bed and empties it out on the floor, and then dumps out his nightstand drawer into the same heap. What he’s looking for is proof. He needs something tangible to hold onto and carry while the world around him starts to feel real again.
He finds nothing in particular. Oh, there’s Ianto’s t-shirt, but that stopped smelling much like Ianto a few weeks back. Nice though it is, wearing it would just make it one of an army of t-shirts he keeps. He picks it up anyway and carries it out with him into the front room of his flat, where everything fell apart.
I would have died for you.
It’s such an alien thought, and a terrible one, bursting with loyalty and ardor. He worries over it, not just because he’s amazed he could ever be allowed to have felt that, but because he can’t fathom how he survived it. Those pills Jack gave him were real. He should be dead.
I would have died, and you would have let me.
He throws the shirt as hard as he can down the hall with a strangled yell.
---
Prev (Pt #28) (Warnings: language, smut.)
-
Next (Pt #30) (Warnings: language, smut.)