The first rule of fandom is have fun. The second rule of fandom is find an enabler and become an enabler. Yes you should write that fic. What if it was even hornier? What if it was angstier? What if you wrote it just for me?
"-but for someone who rarely initiated contact" excuse me? jason todd would crack open your chest cavity and crawl inside your skin given the chance. his hands are on you every second of every day
All works relating to Ser Duncan the Tall as a father, or as my blog simply knows him as, Papa Dunk. Please enjoy! (Now dubbed the Dunkreaderlings!)
Dunkreaderlings Info
Rafe the Brave
Arlelle the Mystery Knight (COMING SOON)
Full Works
Dunk the Chunk
His Two Shooting Stars
Toy Maces and Heavy Furs
A New Companion
Papa's Helmet I
Papa's Helmet II
Give All You Got
Blurbs
Like an Egg
White Winged Dove
Snoring Babe
First Time Chunk Kicks
A Third! A Third?
Arlelle
Pudding
Seconds (And Maybe Thirds)
Watching From Afar (Targ!Reader)
Roughhousing
Keeping Chunk Happy
Uncle Egg (1/2)
Falling Pregnant Once More (Twins)
The Birth of Two Halves
A Wounded Hedge Knight And His Gentle Boy
Let's Go Stare At Mama
Let's Carve Wood With Papa
Trouble Sleeping
Little Terrors
Late Night Talks
Thoughts
Braiding Hair
Reading
Shadow Puppets
Modern!AU Ring Camera
Arlelle/Shield
7/24 UPDATED! Once more, newer posts are darker; this will go away after a week, but this is to help with navigating. Thank you for sticking around, please enjoy!
Content: As a kid, all Sukuna ever really wanted was to be around you. He did just that for 10 years, only to spend the next 7 years wondering why you just stopped picking up the phone one day [tw: MDNI, angst/comfort/smuț, porņ with plot, friends to enemies(?) to lovers, uncle!sukuna, mentions of depression and low self esteem, sukuna's tongue is pierced, so is his 🍆, nıpple sucking, humpıng, óral (f receiving), fıngering, squırtıng, dacryphılia, matıng press] word count: 15k
Sukuna isn’t the type to hold on to promises, especially one made in elementary school. But, he never would’ve thought that you’d break it like that.
The promise? That you’d be each other's best friends until the day you died. Looking back, it might be a little dramatic, but you were eight years old— all eight year olds are dramatic.
Exactly how did you break said promise?
You ghosted him.
You fucking ghosted him.
You were friends for over a decade and the moment you went off to college, poof— gone! You stopped calling, stopped texting, deleted all your socials. It was as if you had never even existed and that you were just a figment of the man’s imagination.
Now that’s dramatic.
He’s texted and called you multiple times, no response. He’s asked mutual friends, they never got a response either. It got to a point where he had finally had it and texted your mother. You could only imagine how hurt he was when she told him you were doing just fine, and not that you were missing or in a coma.
He’d never admit it, though.
The years came and went. The hurt he once felt inevitably dulled. Yet, you always managed to linger around in the back of his mind, like a little ghost haunting him.
To this day, he still has no idea what he did wrong. You may have ghosted everybody, but he wasn’t just anybody. If anyone deserved an explanation, it was him.
He still cares for you, sorta, but it’s been so long, he’s not sure if he’d even want to reconnect with you. Not with how you just dropped him like that.
. . . . . .
“Are you excited?”
“No,” you respond a little too flatly for Ieiri, who shoots you the look right after. “Ugh, I’m sorry. It’s just been forever since I’ve seen everyone.”
She sighs, redirecting her attention back on the road— there’s not much to look at. Most people stay home on gloomy Sunday afternoons.
The GPS says you’re nine minutes away from your destination, making you remind yourself once more to relax. Though, you really wish you could be one of those people staying in right now. Cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie.
Ieiri taps her finger on the steering wheel. “It’s like what I said—”
What didn’t she say?
She held you hostage on the phone for over an hour last weekend, threatening and bribing, and then threatening you again if you didn’t go with her to Kento’s surprise birthday party.
You thought you had a good argument at the time.
“Do you realize how annoying that sounds? Kento doesn’t even like surprises, could you imagine how irritated he’d be if I just randomly popped up, too?”
“If you were Satoru? Yes. You? Doubt it. If anything, he’d probably like the distraction from it.”
“Yeah– probably,” you murmured.
“Can you please get out of your fucking head for once?” she scoffed. “Yeah, it’s been years since you’ve seen everyone, but it’s not like it’s because of a falling out. I don’t know where you got this weird idea that they hate you now because of it. It was them who told me to bring you!”
“Who’s them?” you stubbornly responded.
“Suguru, Satoru, Yuki, Choso— even Toji said something about bringing Megumi so you could see him.”
As much as you’d love to meet his kid, it would also be another reminder of all the years that’ve passed— how everyone moved on with their lives. Getting married, buying homes, having children, starting families.
The most you’ve done is get the job. You’d include the condo if you actually got to enjoy it, but it’s been a year since you bought it and you haven’t even bothered furnishing the place despite all the money you've saved up for it. The last thing you want to do after work is look at a screen and make more decisions. Deciding between color palettes and aesthetics, deciding on what decor and accents you want— it all sounded exhausting. Hiring an interior designer was an option. Except, you barely want to talk to a stranger, let alone work with one.
It’s too many decisions to be made for someone that didn’t want to make them. You often wonder if you’ve simply just become someone that couldn’t make them.
You’re well aware of the things that are wrong with you, but it didn’t make it any less surprising. You, paralyzed by choices and options?
The people who knew you professionally would laugh. Hard. Any sense of certainty that could be felt in the air almost always emanated from you. You were decisive. Sharp as hell— honed to perfection. Someone that was more than capable of a task as menial as filling a space full of items they liked.
You know what you like, don’t you?
No, not really.
You are sharp, there’s no doubt about it. It’s what your boss favors you for, and sure, one could say you’re valuable to the company, too. It’s a nice feeling for a while.
Then you realize there is quite literally nothing more subjective than the value of something.
Luckily, you are very useful. It was simply a fact, and every single one of your quarterly reviews solidified it. A coworker, or god forbid a client, could spend an entire hour talking shit about you, and they’d eventually reach the point where they’d have to backtrack with a little ‘well’ or ‘however’, before giving credit where it was due.
The devil works hard and you stole his pitchfork. Ripped it right out of his hands, because apparently, you needed it more than him to become the youngest portfolio manager the company’s ever seen.
Who cares about the value of something when you need it? Mr. Yaga claims to hate black tea, but leave him out in the desert long enough and he’d easily drink gallons of it.
Having you at the company isn’t a matter of life or death, there’s thousands of others out there that are more than qualified for your role. More than half probably had resumes twice as long as yours, too.
But for Yaga, there is no guarantee that day to day operations would run this smoothly, ever again.
You may be a little blunt. At times, impatient. But in a world full of sexual harassment allegations and sleezy managers abusing their power, not once has there ever been a formal complaint made against you. You’re not always like that either, you’re great with the clients and stakeholders.
It’s a talent, really— remembering all the personal details people tell you, like childhood stories, the places they’ve vacationed to, a spouse's birthday month that was briefly mentioned months ago. It makes people feel special.
It was very handy, too. Especially in the case where the company might deal with someone that isn’t likely to give them their hard-earned money or signature. Your job was to either sweet talk or gaslight. No arguing needed.
Yaga may have not preferred you at first. You were essentially a kid compared to the people that applied for the position.
The plan was to let you down easily, tell you to keep working hard and you’ll eventually get there. You were already lucky enough to have your foot in the door as an employee.
Yaga had a list of goals he wanted to reach before his retirement, though. Any of the other candidates would’ve helped with that, but none would've given him the opportunity to make a second list and cross that off as well.
The decision took months.
In that time, he realized a few things.
One, he spent his entire adult life playing it safe, which is an obvious sign of fearing growth. You’re not sure who taught him that, but at least he realized it was okay to start over and try something new. It was like a rebrand for him and he embraced that the “new” him craved more profit and welcomed different approaches.
The different approaches being, finding more aggressive people because they bring in the money quicker.
He never saw you as aggressive, though. He never saw you at all, actually. It wasn’t personal, those under 30 usually come and go, so he didn’t see much of a point in remembering names. What he did see, when he finally opened his eyes, was efficiency.
You were straight forward in a way that saved time, had an air about you that screamed “don’t ask me how my day’s going or what I have planned for after work”, yet approachable enough for work related questions. Stellar reports, received every quarterly and year-end bonus. Sharp.
Making you one of the managers meant he could wield you like a weapon, now you are the one he uses the most. You had the salary to prove it, yet no time or energy to enjoy it.
You’re respected. The young interns, the girls in particular, look up to you more often than not. Eyes bright and filled with ambition. Romanticizing everything, from how much coffee you drink, all the way to your style that they labeled as “effortless”. They’re not wrong, it is effortless— always some variant of trousers, a t-shirt, heels, and a long coat. They’re never planned, yet they somehow always manage to work thanks to the lack of color in your wardrobe.
You overheard your lack of jewelry and unpainted nails being appreciated once for how “clean” you look. All you could think of was the girl that used to do her hair and paint her own nails at one point. Except for the ones on her right hand. She saved that job for her best friend who surprisingly had a steady hand, despite complaints flying out of his mouth the entire time. Even on the days he gave in and painted his own nails black, he’d find something to be grumpy and complain about.
It was always you choosing whose house to hang out at, which movies to watch, what places to grab food from. He was a big brat whose favorite answer to most questions was an inaudible ‘I dunno’ from the way he’d mumble it. So, you always led the way.
Now it’s you mumbling that same exact ‘I dunno’ when you’re all alone.
You’re tired. Worn out. If you were a blade, you end each day dull and chipped. Nobody sees it, not even those young girls with all the time they’ve spent studying you, blinded by their own dreams and aspirations to be just as important, not knowing the difference between being valuable and useful.
Maybe it’s better off that way.
Who were you to try to burst their bubbles when you never had dreams or aspirations to begin with? Your eyes were never as bright as theirs— not as a student, not as an intern, and definitely not as a new hire.
You never had a spark to begin with, what makes you think they’d eventually lose theirs?
Maybe you were the unlucky one here.
You were the one whose head went under water after one bad semester, after all. Even now, years later, it still feels like you’re stuck in the deep end while everyone else has moved on.
Toji chose to get married and have a kid.
You can’t even choose yourself on most days.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
Fuck. You have a hard time believing the GPS was that loud when it was telling Ieiri which exit to take and where to turn.
Her lips thin into a reassuring smile as she makes the final turn into the apartment building’s parking garage, and you fail to return it as you take a deep breath. Ieiri doesn’t say anything this time, figuring you’ll probably just have to see everyone's excitement for yourself to realize this wasn’t a pity invite. It’ll settle half of your nerves.
The other half should settle itself with time and a drink. Several drinks, honestly. She did the best she could with telling everyone that what you pulled during your second year of college was 100% a you thing and to not talk about it unless you brought it up. Which you probably won’t— everyone will understand. No one wants to talk about being in a dark place when they haven’t fully left it.
One moment, you’re sitting in the passenger seat with your seat belt still buckled. Next, your chest is tightening as you watch her open the door to Satoru’s apartment. There’s already chattering, which stops once she announces your guys’ arrival.
You barely get the chance to look around before Suguru’s peaking his head out of the kitchen to see if you really did show up and lets out a laugh once he sees that you did. It was light and airy, the kind that’s accompanied by the warm feeling that you should get in your chest when seeing an old friend.
He’s obviously changed, it’s been 7 years. Yet, he never lost that quality that managed to make people a little more comfortable.
“Hey stranger.”
Your lips thin into a shy smile, “Hey.”
“Well?” Suguru asks, holding his arms out. “I know it’s been ages but there’s no need to be shy.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, stepping forward and accepting the hug.
He lets out another laugh. “Don’t be— it’s nice to see you.”
“Where’s mine?!”
You easily recognize the offended, slightly childish tone. You slowly turn your head around to see a slightly less lanky Satoru. Aside from getting some much needed meat on his bones, he doesn’t seem to have changed much. He’s still as unserious as ever, still wears sunglasses indoors like an asshole.
Ieiri stood back the entire time, sipping on a drink she had already managed to make, patting herself on the back as she watched her little plan run smoothly: Show up early and let you build some confidence from awkwardly greeting the old friends you shared together one by one.
It’s funny, you told her that they’d eventually move on to talking to the friends they made after you, but they all seemed more interested in circling back to you, whether it be handing you a shot or introducing you to a new face.
If there was one burden she wishes she could take from you, it’d be the burden that has you walking through the world as if you were everyone’s last choice.
Today should be enough to prove that.
“Yeah, no— at this point, fuck Nanami and his birthday. This is a better surprise.” Satoru throws an arm over you, slightly swaying from the shots he’s already taken. “Pfft– he doesn’t even like his birthday. I’m sure he’d be happier to see her, too—”
“He’s coming up the elevator,” Suguru cuts him off.
“SHIT! EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP AND HIDE,” Satoru suddenly yells, as if he weren’t just talking shit just seconds ago.
No one would be surprised if Kento heard him yelling at everyone like that, and given how hesitant of a knock there was at the door. The blonde probably already knows there’s something up.
Suguru goes to open the door, and the moment he opens his mouth to greet him, there’s a loud wave of people yelling ‘SURPRISE’ behind him, with Satoru saying it a split second sooner than anyone else did.
Kento’s eye slightly twitches. Half surprised, half irritated. He fucking hates surprises and knows that’s the only reason why Satoru decided to throw him one. Before a complaint can leave his mouth, Ieiri hands him an old fashion. He tries to speak again, but gets interrupted once more when she tells him who’s here.
At first he scoffs, already having enough of people of fucking with him today.
“No, I’m serious!” she swears, looking around trying to see where you were at, eventually catching a glimpse of your head in the kitchen. “There she is— come say hi.”
Ieiri grabs his wrist and pulls him through the living room and into the kitchen, where you, Yuki, and Choso were talking. She turns back to look at Kento, who’s already surprised by her rare display of excitement, as she gestures towards you.
“See? Surprise!”
“Yeah, surprise!!” Yuki says right after.
“Holy shit.” Kento rarely curses, but finds himself unable to come up with better words. “It’s been ages!”
“I know!” You try to sound more apologetic, but ultimately fail from the nice buzz you had going on. “Happy birthday!”
And for once, he’s a little less uptight about it when he gives you a hug and says his thanks. It was a nice surprise, he had to admit. If only Satoru didn’t have to ruin the moment with the way he barged into the kitchen with some stupid, frilly party hat in hand, begging Kento to put it on.
“I said no!”
“C’mon, Nanamin!” Satoru whines, taking a step forward each time the blonde takes a step back. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“I don’t want to get any younger— I’m a grown man, and so are you. Maybe you should start acting like one.”
“I do! I’m just fun,” he continues to pester him, ignoring everything Kento mumbles under his breath.
You end up excusing yourself to use the restroom, somewhat bummed you couldn’t stick around longer to watch them bicker some more. You’re sure it went on for a while, though, unaware of how it was cut short when Shoko grabs Satoru by the arm.
He hisses at how tight of a grip she has on him, fingers digging into his skin as she pulls him aside.
“What is your problem?!” he asks through a clenched jaw.
“Sukuna’s here?!”
“Yeah?” He tries and fails to free himself from her grip as he answers. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise!”
She looks at him like he’s stupid, nails continuing to dig into his flesh. “A nice surprise? He fucking hates her. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I knew he was coming!”
“Ow ow ow— No he doesn’t?! Do you actually believe that?!” he groans in between each sentence.
“Yes! He says it every time someone brings her up!”
“Ow ffuck! You know how dramatic he can be sometimes— fuck, Shoko, please, you’re breaking skin.”
“You deserve it!” she responds in a clipped tone, despite finally letting go.
“Jesus Christ— you can’t just assault people like that,” he pouts, rubbing his arm. “It’ll be fine! It’s been years, he can’t hold a grudge that long.”
. . . . . .
Sukuna can absolutely hold a grudge that long.
Except, he was staring at said grudge like some fucking loser, and had to remind himself that it was still alive and well.
At first he thought you were just one of Satoru’s new friends as you walked through the living room, shyly making your way around everyone, but then you just so conveniently looked up in his direction.
His eyes nearly widened.
And yours actually did, looking as guilty as you should be.
The longer you two stood there, looking at each other from across the room in shock, the guilt you had in your eyes started to fade. He was sure everyone else welcomed you back with open arms, and in turn got irritated because you probably thought he’d do the same. So before you could even think to take a step in his direction, he wiped the shock off his face and replaced it with a look that’s able to make even grown men turn around and walk the other way.
Which is exactly what you did, stomach slowly twisting into a tight knot as you immediately began to replay the death glare he gave you over and over in your head.
Sukuna didn’t stay long and left shortly after. Not without pretending like he didn’t know you when he said goodbye to everyone, including Kento, who he never even got the chance to say hi to in the first place.
Shoko didn’t think that was enough to have a complete 180 in your mood. She then realized you were already quiet before that. You also decided to stay in the kitchen, where there was a wall in between you and him.
So yeah, she blames Sukuna.
“Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you?” Ieiri asked one last time as she pulled up to your apartment building.
“Nah— my stomach just started to hurt. I don’t drink alcohol that much.”
She still didn’t believe you, not with how big of an asshole Sukuna can be, which is why a certain someone got an earful over the phone the moment you got out of the car. He barely got a word out while she threw nothing but insults and threats so specific his way, that he had begun to believe them.
Of course Satoru felt bad! He didn’t want you to disappear again for another seven years and have it be all of his fault. So, he gives Sukuna a call, continuing the cycle of abuse started by Shoko.
The phone rings three times. Sukuna never finishes saying hello before Satoru tries to grill him. “Alright, what did you say to her?”
“Who the fuck are you even talking about right now?”
Sukuna knows exactly who he’s talking about, Satoru can just see his face crinkling in fake disgust over the accusation because he’s just a bullshiter at the end of the day.
“Shoko thinks you said something to her— she said she was acting all weird and shit when she came back from the bathroom.”
“She’s already fuckin’ weird,” Sukuna scoffs.
“So you did see her before you walked into the kitchen to say bye?”
“Yeah, I saw her. Doesn’t mean I said anything to her though, you fuckin’ moron.”
Satoru sighs and rubs his temple, knowing he probably looked at you like he wanted to skin you alive.
“What? Is looking at her a crime now?”
“With the way you look at people? It should be.” It’s clearly not the first time Sukuna’s managed to simply offend someone his face with the way it comes out as a complaint on Satoru’s end.
“Why do you even care?”
“Don’t turn this back around on me?!”
“Then quit trying to grill me over the way I look at people. Seriously— she comes back and you all are fuckin’ babying her like she’s some victim. It’s not that serious.”
“Well Shoko—”
“Shoko can fuck off.” Sukuna cuts him off. “Don’t bother me about something stupid like this again. If she can’t handle someone looking at her in a way that she doesn’t like, maybe she should stay home and lock herself in her fuckin’ room.”
“I– she already did!” he tries to come to your defense. “Shoko won’t tell me much, but she was going through it for years. She probably still is! She doesn’t go out at all. I tried telling you before and you wouldn’t listen.”
There’s a long pause before a disappointed sigh could be heard. Satoru could tell it was directed towards himself instead of you. “She was going through it, so she locked herself in a room for years?”
“Not literally,” he scoffs. “Look, all I know is she was dealing with depression and now she’s all anti-social because of it.”
“She should’ve fuckin’ said something then.”
“Well, she fuckin’ didn’t.”
“That’s–”
“If that’s an opinion, it doesn’t matter,” he cuts the man off, starting to grow impatient. Satoru has adhd— the severe, annoying kind. There’s only so much he could handle before getting the violent urge to scream out random noises. “I’m just gonna give you her number so you can talk to her if you want. Who knows, she might even open up to you more since you were the one closest to her.”
“I don’t want her n—”
“YES YOU DO.” Satoru yells, leaving Sukuna more appalled than annoyed. “I just sent it. BYE.”
click.
Sukuna glares at his phone for a moment as if it were an extension of Satoru, convinced he was dropped as a child or something and just doesn’t know it. He knows he definitely wouldn’t tell his kid if he dropped them as a baby.
He relaxes his tensed brows and shakes his head as he pulls up the number Satoru sent. For some reason, he expected it to be your old number that he still somehow knew by heart.
He hates that he remembers it.
He also hates that the actual reason why you disappeared isn’t as dumb and selfish as he wanted it to be.
. . . . . .
In the three weeks he’s had your number, he hasn’t tried reaching out. He also hasn’t accepted any invitations to hang out with anyone as a group, despite being told that you were okay with him showing up. Part of it was spite, the rest being him genuinely tired from work.
His old man’s been taking more time off under the guise of letting him ‘take over for the day’. He acts so gracious with it, too, as if Sukuna should be thankful for the opportunity, when really, Wasuke should just fucking retire already so he can hire someone else to take his place as site manager. He’s essentially working two jobs now and when he asked for a raise, that old piece of shit laughed so hard that he damn near coughed up fifty years worth of cigarette tar.
You’d think watching his father nearly hack up an entire lung would be enough to make him quit smoking himself, but that shit pissed him off so bad that he smoked three cigarettes in a row just to calm down before going back to work. It still pisses him off. He doesn’t regret taking $50 out of that old man's wallet on his way out to cover his gas for the day. He honestly should’ve taken more.
It’s been months since he’s gotten home at a decent time. Tonight was probably the worst thus far.
He drags his feet into his apartment and kicks off his boots, heavy eyes landing on the clock that’s two minutes away from 10:00 pm.
The next ten minutes are spent shoveling leftovers into his mouth, followed by a hot shower that was mainly spent just standing there, zoning out as the hot water hit his back. It’s been days since he’s jacked off, realizing it doesn’t even give him the urge, his sex drives plummeted all the way down to hell. He just wants to sleep at this point.
Except when his head hits the pillow, he’s wide awake. It doesn’t help that he ends up scrolling through instagram— there was hardly a point for someone that barely followed anyone to begin with.
There’s not much to scroll through. The most interesting thing being a recent post of Suguru’s night. He absentmindedly looks through them, then pauses at the 4th photo of you and Shoko with your little drinks in hand.
You were barely smiling.
Your lips curved just enough for the camera— nothing like the photos of you from before, grinning and laughing. That’s how he’s always remembered you.
Would it have even made a difference if he told you not to move so far away for school? It’s not like he could’ve known, you never said anything. He thought you were doing just fine and you deleted everything one day and changed your number.
He taps the photo to see who’s tagged. Just Shoko. You still haven’t gotten back on social media, no profile to see what you’ve been up to. All he knows about you is that you moved back to the area after graduation and scored a cozy finance job without telling anyone. The only reason why you got in touch with Shoko again was because she ran into you at some bakery and made you give her your number.
It didn’t even matter if you did have a new phone with no contacts by the time you moved back. You didn’t need to text him or call him, you could’ve just shown up. Sure, he might’ve been annoyed at first, but he wouldn’t have turned you away.
You’ve known each other since 8 years old, you disappeared at 19. That’s his whole childhood right there. You played together, ate lunch together, walked to school together until he got a car, ditched school together. You had your own shampoo and toothbrush at his and would just use his clothes if you didn’t have a spare set with you.
It’s just dumb.
Still thinking about it, that is. It’s been years. It may have been fine to still be thinking about it at 21 or 22, but now it’s just ridiculous.
. . . . . .
You aren’t expecting Sukuna to warm up any time soon. At all, really. You couldn’t blame him for the reaction he had seeing you at Kento’s birthday. If there was one person that deserved an explanation, it was him, and you’re just about seven years too late for that.
He wasn’t the same person you knew. You couldn’t just go up to him expecting that you’d get to have a conversation. A civil one, at least.
It’s been years.
And honesty, it might not even be about being several years too late. He’s a grown man, why would he care about a childhood friend that just up and left?
All there’s left to do now is to stay out of his way. You’re sure his temper’s the same and the last thing you want is to bug him. Hopefully being at a kids birthday party shields you from it in the case that you accidentally do. From what you heard, he seems close enough with Toji to know not to fuck with his sons special day.
It’s not all bad. Toji couldn’t come to Kento’s birthday since his wife and son woke up sick that day, so you were more excited than nervous for today since you’d get to meet them.
This time it was you that picked up Ieiri. You felt a little guilty for being the one that constantly got rides, despite having a running car of your own. Once you two got to the little park in their neighborhood, everyone was already there, including Sukuna, who was stuck having to watch his nephew that you’ve heard about through Choso.
The biggest plot twist of all was probably learning that Jin is now technically Choso’s stepfather. You knew Choso had a teen mom, you didn’t know she was that young, though. You also had no idea how much of a milf hunter Jin was, either.
Jin apparently didn’t know that was Choso’s mother. No one believes him, especially not Sukuna, who still looks at two like they’re a couple of fucking sickos for making him Choso’s step-uncle.
The kid’s name is Yuji, and he looks just like Jin and Sukuna when they were kids. He’s the same age as Toji’s son, who’s turning 3 today. Yuji acts nothing like his father or his uncle. Jin was always quiet and sensitive. Sukuna was sensitive, too, but he was always very vocal about the things that annoyed him. The toddler was more like Gojo, hopped up on sugar and bouncing off the walls.
Sukuna calls out to him like an angry mother at a grocery store, gritting his teeth as he tells the kid to, “get your ass over here, NOW,” all while Yuji pretends not to hear or see him…. up until Sukuna gets up from the bench, which is when the little boy decides to run back to him, whining about how he’s sorry and how he didn’t know.
Megumi’s more quiet and follows Yuji around. He even ran back to Sukuna with the boy, worried that his friend's uncle was going to leave him at the park too, even though his father was at the grill just a few feet away.
Watching the two boys play is adorable, but you try not to look too much in an attempt to avoid making eye contact with the grumpy uncle, which ends up becoming more difficult than you’d imagined. The kid eventually wore him out to the point where he managed to slip out his view.
Yuji didn't go very far.
“...es’cuse me?”
You feel a little tug at your shorts and look down to find an incredibly worried Yuji, who should’ve gone to an adult he knew, but here he was after quickly deciding you were the trusted adult for whatever problem he had.
“What’s wrong?” You crouch down, getting at eye level. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he shakes his head, pointing to his feet. “I donno how to tie my shoes.”
“You don’t?” you ask, sounding just as concerned. “Do you want me to tie them for you?”
He pouts. “Yes, please.”
Your heart melts at his little voice. “Aw, okay.”
Like any other kid, Yuji’s amazed at how fast adults can tie shoelaces, unable to keep up with the strings crossing and looping around each other to create the little bow at the end.
“Yay!” He claps his hands, jumping in excitement. “We can play again, Gumi!”
Megumi thinks to celebrate with his friend, but closes his mouth right after opening it.
Then you’re startled by a scoff made directly behind you. “You make a stranger tie your shoes and you can’t even say thank you?”
The last to freeze is Yuji, who side-eyes him, rather than turning to face him. “Um.. ya I did..”
“No you didn’t?!” The toddler's ability to lie over something so simple amazes and offends the man at the same time. Does Yuji seriously think he’s that stupid? “I watched you lie about not knowing how to tie your shoes and then I watched you try to run off with even thanking her.”
“I donno how to tie my shoe!” Yuji stomps a foot on the ground to prove whatever point he thought he was making.
“Yes, you do— now thank her, before I take your shoes away.”
“Oh no, not my shoes!”
“Yeah. Bye bye, shoes.” Sukuna snorts, clearly enjoying this. “You’re a big boy now, remember? You don’t need them.”
“Yes, I do!” Yuji whines.
“Then have some manners and say thank you.” Sukuna continues to glare at the kid while pointing at you.
“Thank you for tying my shoe,” Yuji tightly grabs the bottom of his t-shirt with both hands and bows at you, then turns to his uncle and starts whimpering. “Don’t eat my shoes, Unkakuna! I need them!”
Sukuna’s even more annoyed now at how specific that was. “Who said I was gonna eat them?!”
“I dunno! You eat everything!” Yuji claims, bottom lip quivering and all, making his uncle's eye twitch in disbelief. “It’s all stuck in your big belly.”
Sukuna’s face drops, as if he didn’t see a 6-pack in the mirror this morning with his own eyes.
“I don't have a goddamn belly,” he scolds him through a clenched jaw, then lowers his tone as he begins to crouch down. “Do you want me to hit your Papa Jin?”
“No!!!”
“Then quit acting like I eat everything in sight, you little shit.”
Yuji scratches the back of his head as he continues to whine, trying to force a couple tears out. Eventually he turns to you. “He’s gonna hit my papa with his big belly.”
“Uh-oh. That's not nice,” you begin to laugh, all while Sukuna grumbles something about Jin being the one with love handles.
“Papa gonna cry,” he claims, continuing to act distraught over the news, trying to get all the sympathy he can from you. “My poor papa.”
You giggle. “I don’t think he’ll hit your papa, though.”
“He’s gonna EAT my papa!” Yuji stretches his arms out, emphasizing how big of a meal that would be for Sukuna. As if it couldn't get any worse, Yuji finds a random basketball and tries to stuff it under his shirt. “Then his belly will be big like THIS.”
“Stop it,” Sukuna snaps, pointing off into the distance behind the kid. “Get out of here before I barbecue you on that grill Mr. Toji’s using.”
“Hey!” Yuji gasps. “You can’t do that!”
“You can barbecue anything when you have barbecue sauce, Yuji.” he informs the kid, then notices a mortified Megumi standing off to the side. “You’re next.”
“DAAAADDDDYYYYYYYY.”
The boys run to Toji at full speed. Yuji thinks it’s a game, but Megumi’s genuinely scared, sobbing as his father picks him. His dad’s obviously confused as to why his son’s crying like someone threatened to kill him. Once Megumi’s able to actually get a full sentence out as he points right as Sukuna.
If Megumi thought he was going to receive any sort of comfort from his father, he was dead wrong. Toji bursts out laughing and doesn’t stop, even when Megumi starts screaming and hitting him for not being more concerned over something so dire.
“Megumi says you’re not allowed to have any cake,” Toji yells out.
“I’m taking Yuji home if I don’t get a slice.”
Sukuna’s response has the two boys whining in the distance.
“NO barbecue me.” Megumi glares as he tries to strike a deal with the most difficult person he’s encountered so far in his short, yet stressful life.
“Give me three slices and I won’t barbecue you.”
“But Unkukuna, you’re belly!” Yuji rounds his arms out in front of him, emphasizing how detrimental those extra calories would be for his physique.
Everyone grows quiet as Sukuna stares him down, wondering who the fuck even taught him that. Whoever it was better pray to god that he doesn’t find out.
“I’m not gonna be your uncle anymore if you keep talking about my belly.”
Yuji reaches out in despair as he screams, “NOOO.”
“No? You don’t want that?” he asks, fighting back a smile.
Yuji throws his back dramatically, shaking his head. “NO.”
“That’s what I thought,” he barks, not bothering to hide how proud breaking Yuji down with a singular sentence made him. “Now ZIP IT.”
“KAY’.”
Yuji looks away for a moment to take a deep breath, trying to calm down, all while sneaking little peeks at Sukuna.
He quickly looks away after seeing that his uncle’s staring at him, then peeks again. It happens several times, yet his uncle hasn’t moved a muscle once as he continues to just look at the boy like he’s better than him.
What kind of a sick game is this?
Naturally, he grows irritated knowing Sukuna is winning whatever game this is, which isn’t fair since he’s already going to have three slices of cake later. Even one slice was pushing it, to tell you the truth. He was too young to put into words why it pissed him off. All he knows is watching Sukuna enjoy good things, that are meant for good people, will never sit right with his spirit.
By the time Sukuna decided to stop staring at the kid as a form of psychological warfare, you had already been awkwardly standing there for quite some time, unsure if you should leave or not. It was either look rude or look too comfortable, neither of which you wanted to come off as.
Sukuna wasn’t mad at you anymore. At least not since Gojo called and told him you were and still are dealing with some mental health stuff.
He wasn’t planning on talking to you today, either, purely because he didn’t believe he should have to apologize for giving someone a harmless look. But then he caught Yuji trying to get your attention and figured it would’ve been fine since 2 minutes with him would make anyone want to choose peace for the next hour.
You couldn’t tell what he was thinking when your eyes finally met his, but at least he wasn’t giving you that same disgusted look you got at Nanami’s birthday.
You weren’t the best at starting conversations outside of work, though, and quickly embarrassed yourself with how bad you stuttered while trying to find something to say, which ended up being an apology for tying the kids' shoe.
In turn, Sukuna looked at you like you were a fucking weirdo.
“What? No, it’s— that’s fine,” he waves a hand, still thrown off by the apology. “He just goes around annoying anybody he can.”
“Oh– don’t worry, he didn’t annoy me. He's adorable.”
You suppress a laugh as he shoots you a look saying he’s anything but that.
“He’s a pain in the ass,” he grumbles, already rubbing his eyes from how tired he is. “We passed around a baseball for an hour before coming here and he’s still running around trying to convince people that I’m a fatass.”
He has to be at least 200 pounds of pure muscle and has the ass of a baseball player, so you neither confirm nor deny the words out of fear that you’d make yourself look stupid again. “He probably just likes your attention.”
“That’s the problem— he’s probably taken 10 years off my life already because of it,” he smiles a little, obviously more fond of the kid that he lets on.
You avert your gaze as you find yourself smiling as well. “His poor parents.”
“They have good life insurance, he’ll be set.”
“Oh, I'm sure,” you laugh with him until it dies down into another awkward silence. You’ve barely looked at him and try not to think too much about it after the realization. Having a conversation with him was surprising enough. Difficult on your end, too, but you pushed yourself. “How’ve your dad and Jin been?”
“Jin’s been good, he’s—” he huffs out a laugh, “you know he went and made Choso his fuckin’ stepson right?” He openly points at Choso, not very worried about getting caught.
“Yeah,” you nod, just as surprised by it, more so by the fact that Choso and Yuji and brothers.
“Well. He’s still going strong with Kaori. Just bought a house,” he struggles to list things worth sharing— aside from the mommy kink, his brother’s pretty boring. Sukuna quickly moves on to Wasuke, who he has no issue talking about. “Old man’s driving me nuts. Says he wants to retire, instead he just takes a bunch of days off and pretends he’s doing me a favor by letting me play boss while he’s gone, so now I’m doing my job and his.”
“You’re working for the company?”
He sighs deeply. “Yeah.”
It pains him to say, remembering all that talk about him wanting ‘something of his own’ when he was younger. Now here he is, set to take over daddy’s company.
“I mean… it’s already there,” you try to offer some words of reassurance, being the one that heard most of the said talk. “All you have to do is maintain it once it’s yours.”
“Exactly,” his tone changes, less ashamed of pulling the nepo baby card. “I’m not tryna work any harder than I should at this point.”
“Does he pay you extra on the days he’s off, at least?”
“Fuck no.” He laughs, even though there is nothing funny about being exploited at his grown age. “Yeah— nope— he works me like a fuckin’ dog.”
Hence why he’s been helping himself to whatever cash is in the old man’s wallet and whatever food he has in his pantry when he visits. He makes good money to begin with, so it’s not like he can’t afford any of it, it’s just the principal.
He’ll take Wasuke’s toilet paper, too.
That old man has one year to either give him a raise or retire completely before couches and T.V.s start to go missing.
“Old man’s been good, though… still kickin’,” he mutters, then stops himself before saying something really fucked up, “What’ve you been up to?”
You shrug as you let out an indecisive hum, knowing you didn’t have much to share. “Nothing really— work usually has me pretty busy.”
He’s well aware of how boring of a life you have, but still tries to push for more details. “Yeah? Suguru says you’re in finance now.”
“Mhm,” you nod, growing shy, “portfolio manager.”
“You spend the day telling people what to do now?” he asks as if he were almost impressed.
“Not really,” you laugh. “A lot of it’s research, reporting, meeting with clients, I— yeah, I mainly just take care of more of the sensitive stuff. If my manager hat’s on, it’s usually just collecting reports from the other managers or figuring out what’s going on with their teams if they’re not performing the way they need to.”
He nearly barks out a laugh.
You look at him with confusion. “What?”
“So instead of managing a bunch of people, you just terrorize their managers?”
“I don’t terrorize them,” you murmur, shifting in place. “It’s their job to make sure that their teams are performing well and if they aren’t—”
“You ask them why they aren’t doing their jobs,” he finishes your sentence with an amused grin. “Then they sit there for the next hour, trying to come up with an answer for that.”
You pause for a moment, wondering if he has to do the same. “Well— kind of.”
You don’t have time to sit there and listen for an hour, nor do you want to. The longest one went just over twenty minutes before you had to stop her.
“Listen, Linda— I,” you stopped to think twice about what you were going to say, “I’m just asking why there’s been a dip in the performance, I really don’t need an entire life story for that. Why don’t we take a few steps back— how has your team been?”
“Well… uhm… well… they…” You nodded, thinking it’d encourage her, and it did, but 5 minutes later she went off course to talk about her failing marriage, again. “And then Dave, he—”
“Is Dave a new hire?”
Her eyes dried right up. “No… Dave is my husband.”
You knew damn well who Dave was, but she was starting to get on your nerves.
“Okay, let’s talk about your team right now… this is about work— Dave doesn’t work here.” You tried your best to be patient with her, but it was like teaching a kindergartener how to self regulate. “I wanna know things like how everyone’s been mentally— are they eating, are they getting enough sleep, are they taking their breaks? Are they having to work through them?”
She didn’t know. She just wanted to give you a sob story so you’d let her off the hook. So, when she mentioned Dave a third time:
“This isn’t working,” you murmur to yourself as you turn to your computer and start typing. “I’m going to make a little worksheet for everyone, including you. Think of it as a peer review. You’ll have one for each team member and each team member will have one for you. I think that’ll be an easier way to get to the bottom of things.”
Instead of excusing herself, she stares at you like a deer in headlights.
“There’s no need to wait on me by the way, I’ll have them emailed out to everyone within the next hour.”
On the rare occasion that you do have to ask performance related questions, you send them the same exact worksheet so they have an idea of what you wanted to talk about— which is the only part you mention to Sukuna. He’d probably accuse you of terrorizing Linda when you know you could’ve been ten times worse.
You’re just glad he didn’t ask about any of the other stuff you had to do.
Sometimes you wished you spent your days in Linda’s professional shoes— god forbid you ever had to deal with a man like Dave. Her job was less demanding than yours. More human. Working with others and collaborating with them must be great in terms of keeping you grounded— normal people, that is.
You wouldn’t consider any of the people you answer to now as normal. The stakeholders, clients, the higher ups, Yaga— they’re all fucking crazy. You couldn’t just pretend like they were normal, you had to match their energy and in some cases, you had to be worse to finish whatever job you were tasked to do, which drove you closer to their territory with each day that passed.
“Do you like it there?” Sukuna looks at you and asks, tone fond and filled with warmth, as if he were proud of you.
In the same moment you realize that you were only fooling yourself earlier when you tried to believe that he hated you.
You wish you could turn back time by just a few seconds to change the subject. You didn’t want to answer a question that he clearly wanted a yes to— you’re sure it’d make him feel better about knowing you chose to spend all those years alone, when you had someone would’ve easily stayed by your side.
You grew stiff, eyes glossing at the question because you hated the real answer to it.
“Not really,” you murmur, almost ashamed to admit it. “That’s kinda how I feel about most things, though.”
It was true. You don’t even know why you’re wishing for a job like Linda’s, you always came off as cold and hardly spoke to others before the big promotion.
He didn’t know what to say to that, he wasn’t even sure if there were any words you could give to someone as apathetic as you sounded when answering. It’s not like he was the type to offer anything encouraging to begin with. Instead, he stayed quiet, comfortable in the silence as he let his own mind run free for a bit.
Just as you were starting to think you made him uncomfortable—
“Did anyone have to drag you here today?” he asks.
“No.”
“So you chose to come to soot sprites' birthday?” he asks, as judgmental as ever.
You smile. “I did.”
He gently rests his hand on top of your head, leaving you with a familiar sense of comfort as he leaned in. “You’re not doing too bad then.”
“Uncle-Kunaaaaaaa!” The man looks up to see his nephew sprinting towards him. “My tummy growling!!”
“This kid’s always coming up with the most extra ways to say things,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls away. “So you’re hungry?”
Yuji slows down the closer he gets, until he’s skipping towards the man. “Yeah. Mr. Toji says he make chicken sticks.”
Sukuna looks at Yuji the way he always does whenever the kid decides to rename something. “You mean skewers?”
“Yeah, chicken sticks,” Yuji nods, confidently repeating himself, because Sukuna was obviously wrong, even though Toji said skewers, too. Both men obviously don’t know what they’re talking about.
The man actually looked to you for help, and given how it’s an issue between a 3 year old rage baiter and a grown man that will make time to argue with a child, you decide to stay out of it.
“That sounds yummy,” you say to Yuji, and you could feel Sukuna glaring at you for not even bothering to call them skewers, too. “You guys should probably grab some before Suguru arrives, he loves chicken and leftovers.”
Sukuna lets out a mixture of a scoff and a laugh since it’s true, but if anyone’s taking those skewers home, it’s him.
Which is why he lets Yuji start to pull him away to get some.
. . .
Getting to talk to you more, after being pulled away from Yuji, hardly counted since it was with groups of other people.
Luckily for Sukuna, your car’s parked right next to his and you’re leaving at the same time he’s trying to get the little brat in his car seat. He’s half asleep and won’t let go— each time he physically tries to pry Yuji off of him, he does this weird muted scream.
He’s about 2.5 seconds away from wrestling this kid when he hears someone.
“Bye.”
It comes off as a little unnatural, but it’s in more of an awkward ‘I don’t know if I should say goodbye to you right now’ way.
Sukuna turns around. “Oh, wait—”
His hand slides into his pocket, only to find it empty, then realizes it’s in the pocket of his jacket. The side where Yuji’s on and won’t leave. You stay in the place the whole time, wondering if he’s aware of how funny he looks grumbling to himself as he checks all his other pockets.
He eventually finds his business card, then rolls his eyes after realizing he’s about to give you a business card, because he’d rather not tell you he already has your number. To add salt to injury, he didn’t even need to pull his phone out, because the goal was to give you his number.
“Here.” He hands the semi-decent card over for you to take, surprised it’s not more broken down since he’s always leaving them in his pockets, even when he’s throwing his clothes in the washer. “You don’t have to of course, but feel free to reach out if you’re interested in catching up sometime over lunch or something.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You look at the card, flipping it over a couple times. “Um… I don’t actually… need this, though.”
He stares at you for a moment, wondering if it was just some pathetic, last minute excuse to turn him down.
“I already have it,” you shyly admit, handing the card back to him as if it were better off going to someone else. “Satoru gave it to me a couple weeks ago. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs, reluctant to say more— he might be down to catch up, but he’s still not apologizing for his face. “Shoot me a text sometime, then. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, I will.” You smile a little, trying to hide a bit of the excitement that was starting to bubble up. “Alright, well— it was nice seeing you.”
“Yeah, you too.”
. . . . . .
‘You’re not doing too bad.’
It took around 3 months after the words left Sukuna’s mouth to actually start believing them.
It’s not like your life was crazy interesting now. It just slowly started to fill up with things you looked forward to over time. Whether it be hanging out with others or simply sitting in your living room with a latte you took your time making. Your apartment started to feel more like a home with each new addition you added to it. You were nowhere near done, but you found yourself enjoying the process of casually looking through items and randomly falling in love with different ones.
The newest addition was a painting you saw a year ago and decided not to buy, despite how much you loved it. You stood in that gallery for over an hour, convincing yourself that it would never get that much attention from you again once you took it home. You were convinced that it’d find a way to collect dust in a space that felt as sterile as yours, and left it for someone that had a home where it wouldn’t.
You found it again in a consignment store with a big coffee stain on the side of the canvas. The person who ended up buying it probably got rid of the moment it spilled. They didn’t even bother hanging it up, and most likely had it on some counter before the accident happened. By the time you got to it, it was collecting dust with dozens of other paintings leaned against the wall since they weren’t good enough to be hung up.
You paid less than a quarter of it was originally worth, but a part of you thinks you would’ve purchased it for its original price if it meant you got to take it home. You’ve thought about it nearly everyday since you stepped out of that pristine gallery, after all.
Sukuna stared at it for a while before hanging it up. You can’t remember how the conversation started, but he came over and put it up for you after finding out you were going to do it yourself, claiming you didn’t have the right tools. You probably don’t.
It wasn’t until the canvas was up on the wall when he finally asked the question you had been expecting to get after you caught him looking at it funny.
“That brown stuff on the bottom corner is a part of the whole thing, right?”
“Nope.”
He just stood there and continued staring at the damn thing with you, waiting silently for an explanation that he soon realized he’d never get on his own.
“Are coffee stains some new trend I don’t know about?”
He was dead serious. It was almost funny how he couldn’t believe that you’d just buy something that was stained like that.
“Nope, not a trend.”
He continued to stare at you, so utterly confused as to why you want that thing hung up on your wall when you could just walk into one of those art shops and buy a new one. It’s not like you couldn’t afford it, he’s seen some of the shit you own and you’re clearly not bothered by commas on a price tag.
You eventually told him the story. He probably still didn’t get it, but that didn’t really matter.
“How cute,” he says rather boredly, wondering why you couldn’t just tell him that in the first place. “You didn’t buy it for more than 50% of its price, right?”
You shoot him an annoyed look. “I spent almost an entire year sulking over it, do you seriously think the price of it matters at this point? I wanted it.”
“You probably ended up cursing the damn thing so no one else could have it. People don’t usually spill coffee on paintings.” he says, starting to laugh the longer he thought about it.
You don’t laugh with him, but he does catch the proud look on your face as you walk away, just happy to have it. He walks after you with another question in mind, hoping now was an okay time since he always forgets.
“Mind me asking why you’re just now starting to furnish the place?”
You shrug. “I was just always too tired to get out of bed. If it wasn’t for work, I wasn’t getting up,” you remind him. “Too many choices to make, too. I’d get overwhelmed and stop looking for stuff.”
“Yeah, there’s a lotta shit out there,” he murmurs, helping himself to one of the white claws in your fridge.
The can cracks open and he takes a sip, looking over your living room that’s become a bit more filled in since the first time he came over to help you put your couch together. The place was so empty that he automatically assumed you had recently moved in.
He’s been helpful since Megumi’s birthday— at least he tries to be.
It never feels forced, most of the time it’s just him asking if you wanna come along to a place he was already going to, just to get you out of the house.
He also asks how you’re actually doing, a lot— figuring you were just someone that needed some extra support, given how one lonely, difficult semester made you isolate yourself to the point where you started to believe you weren’t worth missing.
Once, he almost asked how you could’ve ever put him into that category. He loved you, both platonically and not platonically. But he never asked, the past is the past and that’s probably just how it is when someone’s spirit’s in the dumps.
He’s far from a therapist and never has any advice to give, but he was surprisingly good at getting you out of your head— pull you back to reality, without the reality check. You’ve obviously had more than enough of them. It’s why he doesn’t bother being harsh with you, at all. Even during the times he’s come off as more straightforward, you don’t feel any judgement or malice behind his words. The last thing he wanted was to say or do something that made you think you couldn’t give him a call.
It’s probably why you’re so comfortable with having him come over and why you don’t mind telling him certain things, like the fact that you spent most of your free time sleeping at one point. He never bats an eye. He just wants to be around you, like he’s always had.
“Summers’ coming up. Getting anything for the balcony?” he asks, nodding in the direction of its doors.
You turn your head, looking over at the empty space. “What would I even get?”
He’s mid-sip when you ask, but hums in acknowledgment. “Some seating, a little table, maybe a fire pit if you’re feeling extra crazy.”
You fight back a smile, “Oh? Thanks, asshole.”
“You might be a grandma, but I never said there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I’m trying not to be, okay.” You give him the finger as you walk to the fridge, hoping he didn’t take the last seltzer. Seconds later you’re cracking one open yourself.
He chuckles at the little pout you get on your face when you’re offended. “I’m just fuckin’ with you— you’re fine.”
“I guess,” you murmur, leaving him in the kitchen to go take a seat on the couch.
He trails behind you, leaving enough space between the two of you as he takes a seat on the couch he nearly lost his mind trying to put together. The instructions were in a language so uncommon that most people go about their lives without knowing about it.
“What do you mean you guess?”
“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Kinda feel guilty for all the years I lost, I wish I could get them back.”
“I bet,” he leans back in his seat. “You ever considered making more time for yourself, now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Taking some time off. Could be a week, could be a couple months. You could even try working part time for a little. You have a savings, I’m sure you could get away with taking a break.”
“Oh— yeah, I have actually. The company has really good benefits, though. It’s kinda why I haven’t even tried to leave,” you turn towards him, leaning against the arm rest as you hug your knees. “I’ve been considering asking for a demotion, though.”
You’re not quite sure how Yaga would handle that. You’ve been coming up with different ideas all month— a hybrid schedule, switching to a 4 day work week, maybe leaving early some days, a demotion. You’re sure taking on another role would have its own difficulties, but it’d be easy to handle compared to all you do now. The workload you have really should be split between two people, maybe even three.
“That’d definitely be a lot less work,” he remarks, still shocked at all the shit he has you do.
“A lot less— I’m hoping Yaga agrees to one of them. If not, I might just find some place else. I could probably take a few months off then. Free time does sound nice.”
“Yeah you could sleep in, hang out with anyone who’s free, find a hobby, go on a date—“
His last suggestion gets shut down with a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
“What?” he smirks.
“I suck at dating,” you inform him. “I don’t even know how to anymore.”
He snorts. “That’s a little dramatic, no?”
“It’s true— last time I went on one was three years ago.”
He raises his brows, then flatly asks, “Three?”
“Don’t judge me,” you grumble.
“M’not. It’s just— 3 years of completely nothing?”
“God— obviously.” You hide your face in embarrassment. “You are judging me right now.”
“I’m not,” he laughs, taking another sip. “Just a long time to go without having someone take care of you.”
"Well I slept through most of it anyway so I'm fine,” you roll your eyes, annoyed at how he’d even make a joke like that when he knows you can support yourself just fine without anyone’s help.
“You’re awake right now, though.”
“So?” you scoff.
“I can take care of you, if you want,” he offers.
“Not funny,” you murmur, just about ready to kick his ass out.
At first, he’s confused as to why his little offer had you that offended. Then after a minute, it clicks. Since you refuse to look at him, you miss the amused grin on his face after realizing you two are thinking about two entirely separate things in terms of ‘being taken care of’.
You only finally look at him when he gets up from where he’s sitting and there’s a shit eating smirk on his face, making you think he’s just being a dick and leaving.
Then he takes a seat right next to you, leg just barely brushing against yours.
“What are you d—”
“I think you’re a little confused here,” he says a little too calmly, throwing his arm over the backrest and leaning in way too close.
“Listen, I looked forward to hanging up that painting of yours all day, same goes for all the other stuff I’ve helped you out with.” You feel your cheeks start to warm as a result of the low, honeyed tone he’s using on you. “I really like helping you. It makes you a little happier, and with all the assholes I have to deal with everyday, it makes my day a lot better. So, why not just let me do a little more?”
“I don’t— what are you even talking about right now?” Your words come out all nervous and jumbled, failing to stay calm from how close this guy is.
“I’m talking about all the times I’ve caught you looking at my dick print.”
Your eyes widen in horror and he laughs.
“Yeah, you’re not slick,” he tucks some hair behind your ear and leans in closer. “C’mon— you’re not even at work right now and your mind’s still all over the place trying to find stuff to be stressed about. Aren’t you tired?”
Your heart pounds against your chest as you hesitate to answer. “I mean— yeah.”
“Let me fuck you then,” he murmurs, tracing the backs of his fingers down your arm. “You won’t have to think about anything, won’t have to do anything— just gotta take it. Super easy. Sounds fun, huh?”
“I… I don’t know,” you just barely whisper, shifting in your seat from all the nerves, looking like a deer in headlights.
“I think you do know.” He continues to toy with you as he waits for you to say anything else. Surprise: you never do.
“I’ll stop if you tell me to.”
You look like you’re about to have a panic attack and it’s adorable. “Stop what?”
“This.” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss right under your ear, humming against your skin, not missing the way it makes your breath hitch. Then he presses another one on your jaw, then another, getting closer to your lips and pulling back right before he does, meeting your glazed over, half lidded eyes.
He snakes a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you in, making your lips meet his. The first kiss is slow and gentle, letting you warm up to it. You put your legs down trying to get closer, not expecting for it to grow more heated, too.
An arm wraps around your waist and you're being pulled in to straddle his lap. His big hands roam around your hips and ass as you start to full on make out, grinding you down against something long and hard until you’re desperately panting against each other.
He gives your ass one last squeeze before finding the bottom of your shirt and pulling it up over your head, rushing to unclip your bra and tossing it in whichever direction the shirt went. A soft gasp slips through your lips once you feel the wet heat of his pierced tongue drag a slow stripe over your nipple, not thinking much about the way Sukuna smiled at you afterwards.
You should’ve braced yourself for the level of greed you were about to experience.
Many minutes later, your tits are covered in spit and you’re failing to bite back moans out of self preservation.
And it’s fucking hard.
Sukuna’s groaning and dragging a heavy tongue over each nipple 1, 2, 3, 4 times before wrapping his lips around them and starts sucking. He goes back and forth between each, pulling away with a wet, lewd pop before moving on to the next. At first, he’d replace his mouth with his fingers— rubbing, rolling, and pinching on the sensitive bud so it’s not completely neglected while he works on the other one.
They’re now firmly planted on your hips, because apparently he needs the extra friction. So now your shorts are soaked through and you’re trying not to cum as he continues to push you down back and forth against his cock.
Your fingers are digging into his shoulders, the moans you’re struggling to bite back come out as whines and the one thing that actually pulls one out of you is when Sukuna’s palm cracks down on your ass.
“Come here.”
He pulls you in by the back of your neck and swallows all the little sounds you try not to make with a kiss messier than the last.
The air's hot and heavy once he breaks it. A small string of saliva hangs on and then breaks as you pull away, already looking like a mess while trying to catch your breath.
“Bed?”
“Yeah,” you nod, sounding more desperate.
“Thought so,” he stifles out a laugh as he suddenly gets up, easily taking you with him as he makes the short walk to your bedroom.
He sets you down on the mattress before pulling his shirt over his head. The buckle of his belt lightly clinks as he undoes it to take his pants off, leaving just his boxers on that leave little room for imagination. He leans forward, hooking his fingers over the waistband of your soaked fucking shorts, taking them off along with your panties in one go.
You don’t even get the opportunity to be shy around Sukuna because he's immediately grabbing the backs of your thighs and letting out a low whistle while pulling them apart to get a good look at how wet you already are.
“Shit— look at you,” he groans.
Without warning, he dips his head down in between your thighs, and he licks a long, fat stripe up your slit, not missing the extra friction from the metal ball on his tongue. There’s a shit eating smirk on his face when his head comes up, teasing you as he pushes you back further up the bed to make more room for himself.
“Told you this was fun.”
“Shut up.” You giggle as you watch him get settled back in between your thighs, only for it to die out once he dips his head back down.
He draws a long sigh out of you once he starts to slowly lap at your sensitive clit. He goes at an unhurried pace, just barely using any pressure and you’re sure he’s just doing it to fuck with you. With the way you are right now, the lazily licks are fucking torture, making you squirm around while you clench around nothing.
The more you move, the tighter his grip around the back of your thighs gets, until you find yourself pinned in place as he finally starts to pick up the pace, adding more pressure until that metal ball starts swiping across your clit like you need it to. You focus on it, until it gets ripped away once you finally feel his tongue press flat against your hole and begins dragging heavy stripes up to your clit.
Your breathing grows sharp and uneven, hand moving down to his head, locking strands of hair in between your fingers as drawn out moans start spilling past your lips. He goes from pressing his tongue against your entrance to pushing past it, dipping further and further until deciding to just stay there and fuck you with it.
The shallow thrusts have you squeezing and clenching, back arching off the bed, desperate for more. You nearly let out a pathetic cry when he pulls away, but then he fills the empty space right back up with not one, but two of his fingers. They’re long and thick, and he’s curling them in. The pads of his fingers rub right up against that spot inside that has you seeing stars.
Through half-lidded eyes, you watch as he starts to pump them in and out faster, until a light squelch can be heard. “Oh fuuuck.”
“You like my fingers?” he asks with a low, amused hum.
You nod. “Feels so good— oh my god.”
“I bet— look at how fuckin’ soaked they are from you.” He pulls them all the way out for you to see, then stuffs them back in. He starts curling faster, thumb pressing your clit and rubbing little circles until you’re clenching and whining. “Yeahh— that’s it, show me how good that feels.”
He keeps hitting your sweet spot until something in you shifts, making you close your legs out of instinct, only for him to keep them open so he can keep going.
“Oh my god— fuck— wait!” you cry out.
“What’s wrong, baby? Gonna cum?” Instead of letting up, he goes faster, letting the room continue to fill up with the filthy sounds of his fingers scissoring into your cunt, pushing you over the edge until you give him what he wants.
And he gets it quick. You let out a sharp cry as you gush around him, finally cumming after holding it in from earlier.
“Fuuck yeah, there you go,” he rasps, fingers slowing down as he works you through it.
He waits for you to catch your breath before leaning forward and kissing you a couple times, humming with each one.
“Tired or you wanna keep goin’?” he asks.
You’re still trying to catch your breath as you answer. “Yeah, keep going.”
“Atta girl.”
He pushes himself off the bed to take the boxers off and your eyes widen at his cock that’s bigger than you originally thought it’d be. It springs out of his boxers with multiple piercings and precum smeared all over his darkened red tip.
And of course, you stare for longer than you should.
“You alright?” he asks, sounding cocky as hell, and actually having the right to be.
Taking your eyes off feels impossible— 3 rows of barbells on the underside of his shaft right below his tip, and another one on the underside of his tip. It almost feels wrong, he’s already long and thick.
“Yeah— I just— holy shit.”
“I know.” He says with full confidence as he gets back on the bed and situating himself in between your legs. “Gonna be fun watching you take it.”
He grabs the backs of your knees and spreads your legs further apart, getting a better look at how wet you still are, fighting back a smile knowing it’s from him.
He gives his cock a couple pumps, then looks at you, not sure whether you’re excited or nervous. “You ready?”
You look at him, then back down to the absolute monster he has in his hand, then back up at him.
“Mhm.”
He stares at you for a few seconds, then casually shrugs. “Alright.”
You’ll get used to it.
He runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, tapping it over your clit a couple times, making you a bit more nervous after feeling the cold metal ball from his piercing nudging at your entrance.
He pushes in, and you both have the same reaction to how easy it slides in despite how tight of a fit it was. You take in a sharp breath as he starts to sink in, inch by inch, with no resistance, all while feeling an immediate stretch and the added friction from each piercing.
Once he’s halfway through, he slowly starts to rock his hips back and forth and you find yourself having to bite back on a moan, realizing those piercings were also rubbing back and forth against your walls.
“You doin’ okay?” he raises a brow, clearly enjoying the sight.
“You’re so fucking big,” it almost sounds like a complaint.
“I am,” he hums, leaning down and caging you in with his arms. “I’m gonna push the rest in.”
“How much is there left?”
“You’ll be fine.”
He thrusts right in and you're letting out a shattered gasp. At the same time, he’s humming in satisfaction since he got to watch the whole thing.
“Fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, giving you a moment to get used to how stuffed you are, stealing a few kisses while he’s at it since he’s not entirely an asshole. “Remember what I said, all you gotta do is take it.”
You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s pulling out all the way and sliding back in, working up a pace as he stuffs you over and over again, dragging those small metal balls right over the spot that made your toes curl.
It still took you a little bit of time getting used to him though, all words dying at your throat once he started to actually fuck you like it was nothing. Feeling betrayed by your body for letting him stretch you so easily like this.
Each drive of his cock has you moaning and gasping, making you cover your mouth trying to hold them in— something he did not like since he pushed your hand away.
Then without warning, he shoves two fingers in your mouth.
“Mmmh— you look good with my fingers shoved in your mouth like this. Now suck.”
You do as he says, swirling your tongue around his digit a few times before he presses them down it, making you softly moan as you sucked on them. He pulls them out with a wet pop and starts muttering in your ear.
“Don’t cover that pretty little mouth again, alright?”
Thrust.
“Fuck— okay,” you whine back.
“Good girl.” He gives you another rough thrust, pulling another choked noise out of you. “Don’t try to hold out on me thinkin’ snot and tears are gonna turn me off, cry on it if you have to. I like it ugly.”
At first you wanted to cry from how fucking mean that was, only to realize that urge to cry may have just been from that one spot he wouldn’t stop hitting, which eventually stopped being overwhelming once you finally get used to him.
“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asks, though it was more of a condescending remark rather than a question. “Bet this feels good now, huh?”
“It’s been a while,” you say in an attempt to defend yourself.
“Yeah, no kidding— pussy’s fuckin’ tight,” he says all smug, getting harder at just the thought. “Feels good like this.”
He brings your legs together and throws them over his broad shoulders. Moans start to spill out of your mouth the moment he starts hitting at an angle that manages to hit your clit too. His hips crack against your ass as he picks up the pace, slick spreading past your thighs as he pounds down deeper, bed steadily rocking from all the force behind each thrust.
“Shit— look at how much of a mess you made,” he groans once the wet squelch between you becomes unavoidably louder. “Did you squirt or somethin’? You’re fuckin’ soaked.”
“No. I don’t— nghh— who cares, just keep going.”
He looks at you in amusement, keeping the same pace as he pushes further back against your legs to go deeper, making you nearly squeal. “Is this what’s got you lying about squirting?”
“I didn’t squirt,” you say with an airy laugh. “Fuuck— just feels good.”
“Right,” he mutters slowly as he pushes back against you even more, slowing down until he’s just grinding against you. “What about this?”
It’s a full blown mating press at this point.
“Mhm— yeahh.” Your lips curl into a small smile. “Better, actually.”
“Good,” he hums.
He leans down to press his lips against yours while slowly picking up the pace again, soaking up all the sighs and soft moans he pulls out of you from the deep strokes of his cock, letting the base of it rub against your clit while his tip mushes against that special little spot inside.
The slow, lazy kisses go on for as long as they can, and for you, it’s when your teeth threaten to clash against each other each time his hips snap against you. By then, Sukuna’s going harder. He pulls all the way back, then drives back in— the force behind each thrust growing greater than the last.
“F-fuck— Kuna, that’s—”
“What? Too much?”
“No, no— keep going,” you damn near start pleading with him, feeling a little bit of pressure start build. “Don’t stop— please, I think I’m gonna—“
Your cunt stretches helplessly around him, feeling every inch and vein he stuffs into you over and over again as he fucks you with reckless abandon. The sight’s nothing but obscene as he fills the room with the sounds of him pounding you senseless.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, honeyed and condescending. “Can’t take it?”
“I don’t– fuck– I don’t know.” Your words are cut off by sharp sudden gasps, feeling something unfamiliar build up. It’s not until he gives you one particularly rough thrust when tears start streaming down your cheeks.
“You poor thing.” If you hadn’t known any better, he sounded quite pleased with himself. He leans down to lick a fresh tear streaming down your cheek before going back to business. “Look at you, getting fucked so good that it’s making you cry. You’re probably close, aren’t ya?”
You take in a sharp breath, wondering how bad it would be if you did. You already thought you came. Instead, Sukuna’s right and he’s letting one of your legs back down, leaning in close and cradling your head while he continues to absolutely ruin you.
“Cum for me,” he murmurs. His fingers trail down to your clit and starts rubbing over it with just the perfect amount of pressure, making clenching like fucking crazy. “Thaaat’s it— c’mon. Give it to me.”
He drags his heavy cock all the way out with a wet schlick, then slams back in— again and again and again— pushing you over the edge until your nails are digging into his back and you’re breaking out into a cry.
You’re gushing around his cock and he keeps drilling into you like he’s trying to work as much as he can out of you— just powering through it. This is the hardest you’ve ever cum in your life, you’re fucking sobbing and he’s just encouraging it with the way he licks a stripe up your cheek, groaning about how fucking hot you look crying on his cock.
“Oh my g-god— I-I can’t— ffuck it’s too much—” your nails start to claw down his back as he drives you into overstimulation.
“I know— I’m so fuckin’ close,” he husks out, and you can tell he’s not entirely all here anymore. “Shhiittt almost there— keep squeezing me like that, baby— yeahh just like that,” his hips desperately slam into you, deep groans start to rumble out of his chest as he chases his own relief. “Fuck— ffuuck.”
He lets out the most drawn out guttural groan once it hits him. He slams in, burying his cock deep inside of you and flooding your walls with so much cum that it starts to spill out while he grinds every last drop of it out.
He pulls out but keeps you caged in underneath you, pressing lazy kisses against your lips with short uneven breaths in between, skin damp and glistening from sweat. It takes a moment to come back to reality, and for someone that doesn’t even know where to start, you’re surprisingly comfortable with the silence between you.
It eventually ends, though. You’re the first to break it.
“Did you still want me to go out on those dates you were talking about?”
Immediately he lets out a breathy laugh. “If you don’t mind me trying to fight them, then sure.”
. . . . . .
Six Months Later
You walk step inside Sukuna’s office, giddier than usual with the small pink cake you bought after handing in your resignation letter to Yaga. His feet are kicked up on the cherry oak wood desk and you doubt he’s doing anything work related. But he’s the boss, who’s going to yell at him? He does sit up straight once he sees you, though, ready to hear the news.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to hear it right away since you just had to look at the wall shelves and catch sight of something that wiped the smile off your face.
“Why is Yuji’s face crossed off in that photo?”
He rolls his eyes, “don’t worry, it’s whiteboard marker.”
“But why would you do that?” you continue to interrogate Sukuna, because unlucky for him, you two are the best of friends now.
Jin visited him earlier today and brought Yuji along. He started off the visit strong by pointing to Sukuna and asking his father ‘Does Uncle have a reezding hairline, too?’ and eventually took a look at the protein snacks he had in the corner, which made him look Sukuna up and down, and go “you eat too much.”
Sukuna rubs his temple as he grows annoyed again. “He called me fat and bald, so I told him we weren’t family anymore and crossed his face out to prove it.”
Despite the words that come out of Yuji’s mouth, the kid loves him in all of his grumpiness.
“So you made him cry?”
Yuji cried so hard that started dry heaving and nearly threw up. “No,” he grimaces. “He just pouted and said sorry.”
You look at him rather suspiciously as you grab a couple forks from his little snack station in the corner, but let it go this time.
He takes your silence as an opportunity to change the subject completely. “How’d your boss take the news?”
“Oh my god, he was distraught,” you reveal, still surprised over how panicked he looked when you turned in your resignation letter.
He waves a dismissive hand, believing it’s the least he deserved for not trying to meet you halfway when trying to cut some of your hours down and refusing to demote you.
“You’ll forget all about it after sleeping in tomorrow,” he reassures you before taking his first bite of cake.
“Yeah— I,” you give a nervous laugh, “okay, so about that.”
He stops chewing and just stares at you.
“I’m gonna stay with them.”
“What?” he almost snaps. “We’re going on vacation in a few weeks. I— what the fuck? What did you get a fuckin’ cake for then?!”
“We’re still going! He’s giving me that time off.”
“How charitable of him.” He snorts out a bitter laugh, then goes back to be mad. “I thought you hated that fuckin’ place?!”
“I did! But he offered to shorten my hours and said I could work from home.”
That piece of information does nothing for Sukuna, who is grumbling profanities under his breath, acting like he’s the one being forced to stay there. His words start going in one ear and out the other after telling yourself he’ll get it eventually, and take a bite out of the victory cake since you also got a small raise, despite the decrease in hours.
“Are you listening?”
“What?” you look up and ask, still chewing on the food.
“Tch– nothing.” Sukuna takes his aggression out on the cake by stabbing the damn thing when getting more. “He shoulda’ given you all that before you tried to quit if you were that important. Hell— he shouldn’t have dumped all that work on you in the first place.”
“He’s a greedy old man that’s hungry for money,” you remind him. “What else would you expect from him?”
Sukuna’s delusional and does this thing where he just assumes the world sees you the same way he does, and then when it doesn’t, he gets offended. Last week at the grocery store, someone reached for the produce in front of you and he snapped at them for not saying excuse me. Then he snapped at them again for not having any patience, given how you would’ve eventually moved.
“Whatever,” he gets up from his seat to grab a water from the mini-fridge and takes a sip, but before sitting back down, he stops next to you and gets at eye level. “If Mr. Crabs calls you while we’re gone, I’m ripping that phone out of your hand and cussing him the fuck out, you hear me?”
You suppress a laugh. “Loud and clear.”
“Good,” he says, stealing a quick kiss from you. “Proud of you.”
The sincerity in his tone pulls a smile out of you. “Thanks.”
He glances at the door, notices it’s locked, then places a hand on your thigh when he’s suddenly hit with the realization that there’s absolutely nobody that could fire him.
He gives it a squeeze. You already know what he’s thinking.
guys. Guys please you're allowed to say big boy words. please we cannot keep just rolling with the sanitization of every space on the internet ok. you're allowed to say suicide. you're allowed to say porn. they're not bad words, they're just words.
also by ''censoring'' the words with silly spellings you're actually making it much harder for people to filter out. please just say Sex you don't have to call it woohoo like it's the fucking sims. i promise the Word Police aren't going to arrest you
hey if you’re stuck being in church this sunday here’s a reminder that it’s completely free to think about gay sex and no one can tell. the government doesn’t want you to know this but jesus thinks it’s totally cool
me being mutuals with someone but not talking to them is the same as a cat existing in the same room as a person and considers it socializing. me liking and reblogging posts is like the cat purring
if you were the wood, id be the fire
if you were the love, id be the desire
if you were a castle, id be your moat
and if you were an ocean, id learn to float
shia labeouf DIE. brad pitt DIE. chris brown DIE. johnny depp DIE. cristiano ronaldo DIE. conor mcgregor DIE. die die die die die die die DIE. every single abuser DIE. if you support them DIE TWICE!
contents (nsfw): Dunk x fem!Reader, Modern AU friends to lovers rom-com with pregnancy. Humour, fluff (this is a breather chapter, they just enjoy each other for a bit), acts of service, mild foot fetish (just devotion, devotion, devotion), hand jobs, sub!Dunk, coming outside, lactation kink, dirty talk, breeding kink mentioned, fingering, good boy, coming in pants.
<- previous chapter
MASTERLIST
next chapter -> (24/07)
synopsis: In which it momentarily settles. (Pregnancy status: 30 - 32 weeks, III trimester).
word count: 11,3K
a/n: Banner by me, dividers by @strangergraphics, proofread by @hextoken!
Duncan's sat on the floor by the legs of the bed with his head bowed and a small desk lamp pointing its beam directly onto his lap. There rests your foot. His thumb is warm in your arch, fingers cradling your toe knuckles. He's bowed so that you only see the tense line of his shoulders, though from the overall stressed stance you can tell he's squinting.
"I told you I can try doing it myself," you say.
"Hush, girl," he huffs. "You've such tiny toes, is all. I don't want to hurt ye."
"I still maintain it's you who has huge paws," you murmur. Duncan lifts his head. Hair has sneaked under his glasses and falls into his eyes. He's frowning in what you mark as an attempt at looking stern. "You won't glare me out of a fact, darling."
He sets the nail clipper down. Slides his hand down to your Achilles tendon and raises your foot so that it levels with his chest. There, he sets his free palm flat to your sole. The tips of his fingers reach slightly beyond your toes. "See?" he says. "A wee little foot. With wee little toes."
"Proves nothing," you say. "Only that you are a giant."
Air puffs out through his nose. He hangs his head down, and for a second you're ready to celebrate your victory. But then you notice him bowing lower and lower while your foot is being raised higher and higher, both by near imperceptible increments. Before you know to wrench out, his teeth sink in the ligament of your arch. Lightly. Sweetly.
"Dunk!" you squeal. Jerk your knee, but his grip is too strong.
His jaw unclamps, but lips stay where they are. He kisses over the bite. Higher, on the joint of your biggest toe. Then, he sucks the toe itself into his mouth and hums. His eyes close. Yours stay wide open as you watch him.
It's been plenty of this recently—small acts, little gestures of devotion Duncan keeps doing to attach action to his declaration of not going anywhere. It feels nice. He's able to turn the most wicked things into something hallowed. The sucking continues until he's satisfied with your silence. He releases your toe with a soft pop, and sets your foot back down onto his lap.
"That's better," he says. Then—click. A strip of your toenail falls onto a towel he has spread on the floor.
You've been needing someone as your loving lackey more and more as of late. The belly has become an unfamiliar ballast and an obstruction impossible to compare to anything from the past, no matter how violently your weight has been fluctuating between late teens and late twenties. It makes some elements of necessary daily maintenance, and an unnecessary (but missed) portion of grooming, unachievable alone.
Which is how you end up under Dunk's compromised, but still watchful eye. It's been two weeks since he brought his bag and announced he would stay here for a bit, which in reality meant simply moving in.
At first, the arrangement rubbed somewhat ill-fitting. The punishment you both had invented on the bed stretched itself into smaller punishments and kept finding Duncan in odd places. In the kitchen, the hall, beside the washing machine with one of your bras held between two fingers and a resigned expression of someone wronged by situations needing an instructions unclear label. You became quippy with him without meaning to. Sometimes sharp, sometimes, embarrassingly, cruel without a point to it over the angle of a pillow or the way he asked if you wanted tea. It rarely came from any great store of resentment towards him. More often it sprouted from the grand insult of needing witness. Your body had become a public inconvenience, and Duncan, by caring about you enough to stay, had also become the nearest official representative of the court.
He took it bravely. Came home straight from school, hair upset by weather or children or both, and answered every ridiculous text as if responding to a distress flare. I feel like death. I’m so tired and I have a headache. I think I’m hungry but I can’t eat. My back is broken. The baby is punching my ribs. Never mind, I just ate a banana. To all of it there would come the little typing dots, then: Do ye want me home? Or: Have water, please. Or: Left side, lassie. Try left side. Sometimes just: I’m sorry. I’ll be there soon.
He made an effort with the rest of it too. His clothes went into the drawers and shelves you had freed for him, instead of breeding bachelor-style over the chair and floor. The toothbrush settled in the cup beside yours. His gym bag stopped waiting by the door making it look like he's going to go eventually. Every few days he would ask, awkwardly, if something was in the way, if he’d put it wrong, if you wanted him to move it, and every time you had to suffer the fact that he meant himself as much as his socks.
It grew uglier, more intimate, less dignified. The test turned out to be an ordinary pressure only. Indigestion tablets on the bedside table. Damp towels. Your temper. His patience. Your snoring, which he called breathing with courage and got a pillow thrown at him for it. His terrible habit of standing in the middle of a room until he remembered why he had entered it. The repaired thing between you had seams, and every day found some new way to lean its weight on them, but it kept enduring.
Then, last week, Duncan’s carefulness seemed to leave the room. For one whole evening, it had almost felt easy again. He came home from school, dropped his bag by the door, and kissed you in the hall with his coat still on and one hand cold from the outside. “Good to be back,” he said, quiet into your cheek, then went pink as if the sentence had shown too much leg.
Dinner was only reheated leftovers, though Duncan watched you stir the pot with his chin propped in his hand. “What?” you asked.
“Nothin’.”
“You’re staring.”
“Aye.”
“That’s generally something.”
“I like looking at ye,” he said, and no apology followed. That was new too. Small, but new.
Afterwards, you sat together on the couch without the telly swallowing the room. Talked, even. Real talk. Little talk. You asked about Egg, and Duncan told you things seemed good, or good enough, though Egg had never been one to let much slip unless the feeling came wrapped in a complaint. There was some school nonsense after that. A child who had tried to dry a wet sock over a radiator and nearly started a fire. You laughed more than the story deserved and Duncan looked pleased with himself for the next ten minutes.
Then the talking thinned. Duncan took to staring again. This time he did something with it. His hand came to your jaw, and he kissed you without the shy little request that usually came first. Unprompted. Unasked. Welcomed so quickly your body seemed to have been waiting ahead of you. It was lovely for a while. Lovely in the plainest sense. His mouth warm, his fingers careful, the couch creaking under the work of his knees as he turned towards you. It felt present instead of like a substitute for something, pure attraction and I want to kiss and touch my girl moment.
You got lost in it, and properly too. One hand in his hair, the other fisted in his shirt, legs opening for him because what else were legs meant to do in a situation like this one. Then his fingers found your waistband.
You caught both his hands. Then: “No.”
Duncan pulled back immediately. All the colour left his face in a clean drop. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh God, Dunk—”
“I just. It’s fine if ye don’t want—”
“No, wait.” You kept his hands between yours, though now neither of you knew what to do with them. “That's not what I mean.”
He stared at you with that wounded obedience that made everything worse.
“It’s just that I kind of...” You swallowed. Heat rose into your face, neck, and ears. “I can’t reach certain territories anymore.”
Duncan blinked. “Territories,” he repeated.
“Don’t make me say regions.”
“’m not.”
“You are looking very region-curious.”
Duncan's brows pulled. “I’m trying to understand what’s happened to the territories.”
You shut your eyes. “I haven’t shaved my legs since the last time. And they were already a bit unshaved then.”
For a second, he just breathed. Then he breathed out so long it almost became a laugh.
Your eyes snapped open. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“It can be silly to you, but—”
“It’s not silly.” He shook his head quickly, hair falling into his glasses. “It's not. I’m relieved, is all. I thought ye were cross with me.”
You stared at him.
“I mean, ye may be cross with me as well,” he added. “Wouldn’t blame ye. But I thought I’d pushed too far.” Then, he looked down at your joined palms. “Would ye like to? Otherwise?”
There was a small nod. His thumb moved over your knuckles. “Right,” he said. “Then if that’s the issue, we can sort it.”
He led you to the bathroom, and by hand, as if something either huge, or very small was about to happen. There, he sat you on a stool and turned the taps. You watched the whole scene—him squinting at labels before deciding what to pour into the tub, checking the temperature, preparing a towel, finding the razor with a little ha!—like he was about to perform some shamanic ritual. He noticed your staring and came down in front of you.
"What?" you asked.
His hands went to the soft place where your thighs and arse met the wooden rim of the stool, and rubbed there. Then, he looked up at you. "Can I shave your legs for ye, sweetheart?"
And well—grace decided to abandon you whatsoever. "I—oh—" you stammered, then just remained with your mouth open and full around words that would be useful and were, in that instant, impossible to produce.
"Are ye all right?" he asked.
"Y-yes? Yes, I—I am," you said, wondering at the same time when you’d become such a terrible liar. Your chest felt shallow where it ought to let you breathe deeply, and you realised you were fucking flustered. Just shy of giggling, and so unbecoming when he was gaping at you like that, with the sheer sincerity of his face bowing towards you.
The corners of his mouth did something uncertain. "Yer breathing funny."
"I'm… I'm fine, really," you said, putting your hands on his wrists. Your lips pressed together, futilely so. For it was beyond erotic to imagine him performing an act of service so ordinary and useless, driven purely by a whim. An indulgence. He would be doing it for no reason except that you had wished to feel smooth under his hand, and, to undignify you further, he was already kneeling for it. Your laugh came out strangled.
He narrowed his eyes, concerned. "What is it?"
You shook your head.
Then Duncan frowned even more, until something terrible bloomed on his face. Recognition. Either you had been so obvious that one needed no bottle-bottom lenses to spot it, or he just knew you this well by now. "Are ye—" He paused, visibly seeking the gentlest route through the thought. "Are ye excited?"
Your hand came to cover the treacherous mouth. The other squeezed his knuckles through the altering of his eyes. At first wonder, swiftly followed by an intimate softness that brought salt under your lids. "Yes," you whispered, nodding.
"Oh, girl." He rose on his knees and came close. His nose brushed yours, and then cheek. He pressed his face into you and let out a deep breath, all worn down and fond. "My sweet girl," he murmured. "If I knew some razor work would make ye this happy, you'd never shave your legs on your own."
That's when you cackled, fully. Duncan kissed your scrunched cheek, then stood and offered both hands. You let him pull you up. He undressed you briskly enough to have passed for confidence if his ears had not gone red-hot in spirit. By the time the fabric came away, his face had gone quiet.
He took you by the waist and elbow and led you into the tub. "Step in," he said. "I've got ye."
The water was warm if you were being generous, but such were the constrictions of pregnancy. You held onto his shoulders and let him guide you down, ungainly both with belly and need. When you were all settled and partially covered by foam, he exhaled through his nose and gave your jaw one small stroke with his thumb.
Then, Duncan straightened and turned away to tug his jumper and T-shirt over his head. After that, his trousers, worked down with one hand braced on the sink because he nearly stepped on the hem and took himself out with them.
You watched him slit-eyed. He noticed halfway through folding the trousers over the toilet lid. “What?”
“Are you getting in with me?”
Duncan snorted. “I think ye’d need something more pool-like to fit us both, lassie.” He pushed his glasses up, glanced at the bath, then at the floor, calculating. “I’m only gonna—” His foot stepped into the water, then the other, and he lowered himself to sit on the edge with a careful grunt. "—sit 'ere. Jus' so I can reach ye proper."
"O-okay," you said, feeling your cheeks blazing. He paddled under the surface searching for your ankle, grasped it gently and set your foot on his calf. "Oh—"
"Is that alright?" he asked.
"Yep," you mumbled, leaning back so the belly had more space to exist.
"Mm." Duncan nodded. He reached behind himself for his shaving cream, which in itself was another sexy part of the whole scene, and loosened the cap with a thumb. A blue gel line painted on your shin began to puff up into a white foam. He set the bottle on the edge of the tub and put his hands to you. Started to spread it gently until the whole of your leg was evenly covered, up to slightly above the knee. Your muscle flexed under his touch. "Nervous?" Duncan asked. "I won't hurt ye," he said. "I'm good at this."
"Are you now?"
"Aye," he said. "Arlan taught me. Have ye ever seen me with a razor burn?" You shook your head. “Well, then.” He turned the razor once between his fingers, absurdly confident for a man sitting half-dressed on the side of your bath. “Ready?”
Your hand went to his thigh, warm and damp. “Yes.”
Duncan gave you a last searching look, then set the razor to your shin. Slow, immaculate stroke. Foam parted under the blade and gathered at the sides of its head, leaving a clean strip of skin behind, glossy and newly bare. You watched the pass of metal with strange attention. His thumb kept holding the flesh steady, making a narrow road appear through the white. What should have been ordinary, and had been ordinary all your life when done in a rush with one leg propped badly on a sink or a bath edge, had gained new weight in his hands. He bent over with his head slightly tipped, and kept looking through the lower part of his lenses. Sometimes his tongue touched his upper lip. Sometimes his teeth caught it. All that size brought down to a single strip of your shin.
“There,” he murmured, rinsing the razor in the bathwater. “Grand.”
Another stroke. Then another. He kept them even and light, working up the leg in patient lines. Around the ankle he slowed. Around the knee he changed to short little passes and smoothed the place after with his thumb, checking the skin by touch. His hands had nothing vulgar about them, but they were not purely medicinal either. There was no sting, nor a scratch, just as he'd boasted, too.
A person could say I love you and then panic. A person could need more time and mean it. A person could kneel anyway, could take up a razor and your foolish wish and make a vow out of tending to it. The minding of nothing. The willingness toward anything. You looked at him leaning over your leg. The hair on his chest was damp and curled, cheeks pink. Between his legs he was slightly tumescent, making the cotton at his crotch stretch over the bulge. You felt some part of you go quiet with receiving.
“For the record,” Duncan said, still concentrating, “I like all versions. Hair or naught.” His thumb went over your knee again. “But this is nice.”
“Nice, hm?”
He glanced up. Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his boxers and found the hotter skin there, high on his thigh.
“Mm.” Duncan’s mouth pressed itself into a line. “Is it nice for ye, girl?”
You nodded.
His eyes held yours a second longer, then they went back down as he finished the last pass over your calf. When the first leg was done, smooth and slick, he rinsed the razor again.
You gave him the second one yourself. Set your heel against his calf, then shifted until your foot rested closer to his groin. Pressed there, lightly. Duncan looked down at it. At you. A small smile came and went, older than his panic used to be. More fluent. “Yer trouble,” he said.
His fingers wrapped round your ankle and squeezed. He took the shaving cream and drew a new line along your shin. This time, when he spread it, his palms travelled higher. Over knee, over thigh, inward by a careful inch. Your fingers answered by slipping deeper under the cotton.
“Lassie,” he said, low. “You shouldn’t distract me, ye know.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Mm. Right.”
His hands were less steady on the second leg. Only a little. Enough for you to feel his restraint labouring through the task. He shaved you with the same care all the same, but his breath kept growing heavier through his nose. At the knee he slowed until it almost tormented you. Short stroke, thumb, rinse. He did not nick you once.
When he finished, he set the razor on the far edge of the tub beside the bottle, out of reach of both your feet. Then, he swept you whole with his eyes, and asked, "Are ye feeling better?"—all while he was visibly throbbing, the sweetheart.
You shifted in the bath. Skidded a bit closer and rested both palms on either of his thighs. Your thumbs brushed the creases where leg became underbelly and one of them, inadvertently, grazed over the base of his cock. Just the side of it, and only a little, but the little was enough for him to jerk.
"Yes," you told him, and smiled when he propped himself on the edge of the tub and lolled his head back. "You?"
Yes, this, you thought. This was correct and, in some sweet, safe way, unremarkable. With him, it was the pressure and the fissure that gave off the feeling of wrongness. So maybe, for once, you could exist in the oblique a while and give him time to voice what his body had been screaming for months upon months. Because no one, ever, had got this hard this quickly around you, not to mention purely from performing a mundane action of grooming.
"Like this?" you asked, parting the fly of his boxers and pulling him out. You ran a finger on the broad, top side of his length all the way to the seeping slit. It was odd to think that this was your new default. Duncan wasn't the type to aim at ruining you for other men, though he did precisely that, stronger for being innocently unaware of his own virility. His cock deserved no other word than magnificent and met every promise his body made. Size, yes, staggering in girth and proportion, but also delicacy where it mattered. Softness of skin over the hard-working flesh beneath. Full of blood, full of life, coursing through veins that roped it, some slight, some fuller and blue. The root sat wide in a thatch of dark hair you loved running your nails through until his breath came in torn out shards. Toward the head the foreskin lay soft and pale, flushing darker where your fingers drew it back; the tip itself looked tender enough to scold you for touching badly, silken under finger and tongue, quick to shine, quick to suffer.
Another maddening thing was that he had always been clean. In an ordinary way of soap, laundry and warm body, even after a long day. Rarely, the need to get to you exceeded his quickness to wash the training off, and he came to you with sweat dried in the hair at his temples and under his shirt. Even then the afternoon was not enough for the salt of him to turn. There was a span in which Duncan smelled private and living, and the first time you had asked him to leave it on himself, to come without showering, he had looked at you first with bewilderment, and then as if he saw a creature of incarnate kinship.
There was a twitch in cotton. You glanced down to where the rest of him was held by the boxers. His balls hung blurred in the fabric, heavy and kept from you for the time being by the same cloth your fingers had already invaded. Exposed him more, somehow, that contraption, and made him into a man partly presented and partly caught. You ran your thumb under the crown and watched his stomach tighten.
“Lass,” he said, voice gone careful in the wrong direction.
You looked up from him. “What?”
His hand had clamped round the tub's edge. The other hovered near your shoulder and never landed. You lowered your gaze again.
There was a note you made then, solemn as any law proclaimed in a bathroom could be: if the two of you came out the other side with something steady, if the days stopped behaving like bridges with missing boards, you would make up for the months in which your stomach rebelled at anything surpassing the tip of your tongue. Get him into your mouth more, for he was fuckable, yes, monstrously and sweetly, but he was also made for being sucked. For the lip of your mouth under the head of him, for spit and patience and feeling that caution give out to hips that want and thighs that shake.
You drew a circle over the place beneath the head with your index finger. Small, slow, almost scholarly, though there was no learning left to be done there. The frenulum gave under the lightest pressure, and Duncan’s thigh jumped against your palm. One clear bead had gathered at the slit; when you swiped it away, another followed immediately, already formed, glossy and round. Poor thing. As if dryness offended him. As if he could not bear to be anything except wet and soppy in your hand.
To make him even easier you made your mouth water. Not that the task was difficult—the eyes saw a gorgeous thing and gossiped to the tongue in no time at all—so gathered the spit, eager and charmed. You bent your head enough to let it fall. It landed on your knuckles first, warm from you, then slid between them and onto him. You spread it with two fingers, over the crown, under it, down the thick ridge of him until he shone.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” Duncan blurted.
Your hand closed round him. He got worse immediately. Hips gave a rough little shove, stomach drew tight, hand blanched on the bath edge. His cock filled your grip with a heat that felt almost separate from the rest of him, some blunt animal portion of the heart dragged through the soma and placed where you could answer it. You gave one slow stroke, only one, and felt him pulse all the way through your fist.
“Lass,” he whined.
You looked up. Saw his open mouth and glasses slipping down his nose. His knees kept drawing further apart until the seam at the crotch creaked. “What?” you asked.
Duncan swallowed. His eyes went to your palm, then back to your face. “Will ye—” He stopped, breathed hard through his nose, and tried again. “Will ye take me in hand, sweetheart? Proper.”
Your fingers tightened. "Like that?" you asked softly.
That hurt him beautifully. His head tipped back a little, throat working. “Please,” he said. “Please, girl.”
"Baby," you cooed. "Of course. How is this?" You gave him a thorough stroke. Your fist slid easily through the mess of spit and him. Already he was panting, stomach drawn into tight ridges and the softer flesh over them trembling with every pass.
“Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, yes—” Choked and strained, as though the word had to be dragged out of the same place pleasure was lodged.
You paid special attention to the head, where he was tenderest. Shielded him whole there, held him, squeezed until he gave up more of his soot, then returned it to the length where the veins girdling it pulsed hotly. “Tell me, Dunk,” you whispered.
He bit his lip and chewed on it for a second. One hand came to you and spanned your neck. Only resting. Thumb below your jaw, fingers warm over the side of your throat, his palm was absurdly large and careful. Through a loosened jaw, he said, "Good." A breath. "It's bloody fucking amazin'." Another wheeze of air through his nose, then, slurry: "Ye can do whatever ye want with me, woman." He gave you a stare near lidless and irisless, pupils dilated as if you were the drug and this was sensation entering bloodstream.
An impish thing seized your throat. “Can I do this?” you asked, and cupped the whole of his sack through the wet cotton.
Duncan folded in the spine. “Oh fu-huuck, girl—” His hips rolled forward until he almost slipped off the edge and into the bath. His feet kicked water against your hip; the grip on your neck tightened by instinct, then steadied there, still aware despite the rest of him going to pieces. “Yeah. Like that. Oh fuck, please—please keep touchin’ me, mo ghrá, I’m—oh—oh—”
So you did. Massaged him through the fabric while your other hand kept him in a slow steady rhythm. Your thumb teased the crevices and the hole of his crown whenever you reached the top. Added spit when he needed it, and he did need it, poor thing, kept using it up on you as fast as you gave it. You had all sorts of unuseful thoughts. How perverse it was that his cum had proved itself so potently dangerous it got you knocked up after the first time. What a waste it would be to have it vanish into bathwater. How you might at least get it somewhere it would look pretty. Somewhere he'd appreciate and blush over it sweetly for you.
Duncan shook under your hands. Sweat gathered on his stomach and began to run down his thighs, searching for ways through the fine hair there. His chest lifted in broken pulls. The hand on your throat slipped higher, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw, and all the while he looked at you as if looking had become another kind of fucking.
He began to grow harder, everywhere too. You felt his balls riding up and straining in their supple flesh, cock kicking against your palm and all the tendons roping under skin. “I’m gonna—” he said, though naught needed to be announced. By then you knew him backwards and sideways, and when he was looking like that, breathing like that and rasping as if this was honest labour instead of pleasure, you would soon be granted that lovely split on the face, the rounding of mouth, the pulling of brows, and him whispering, yes, yes, yes, all slut-like and grateful.
The nail in the coffin was your Good boy. Offered last minute and so wickedly that Duncan groaned out a loud fuck, bucked up into the cradle of your fingers, and you only had a second to point him where you wanted him. You shifted closer in the water and pressed your chest out for him. Duncan saw. His eyes dropped, mouth still open from the shock of his own rapture, and then the first spill of him came over your tits in a hot white stripe.
“Oh God,” he choked. “What did ye—”
Another wave took him. Wrenched him by the spine, by the stomach, by the wet ruined thing in your hand. His seed kept spilling through wheezes and whines, opaque and lovely, painting you in broken lines while Duncan stared as if witnessing some private miracle he had caused by accident. “What did ye do, oh sweetheart. Oh, look at you.”
His hands came to your breasts. Transfixed, he touched the mess of himself there, thumbs dragging through it first, then whole palms, smearing him over the heavy swell of tits. You released his cock and caught his wrists. Guided him higher, over your collarbones, then your throat, then your face, until his thumbs rested near your mouth. You licked over both. Duncan's throat clicked.
“Did you like it?” you asked, looking up at him with the most innocent doll-like eyes you could manage.
Duncan nodded. Then he smiled, defeated. Then grinned fully, crooked and helpless and bright enough to make your lids wet. “You wicked thing,” he said. “Wee fucking menace, I—yes. Oh, fuck.”
You had never heard him swear so much. Perhaps ever. It made you vain in the warmest possible way. You cupped his face with one hand, thumb slipping a little on the damp of his cheek. “I like when you are like this,” you whispered.
“Fucked stupid?”
“Pleased,” you said. “Because of me.”
His gaze softened all over again, though his breathing stayed wrecked. “Ye like pleasin’ me, lassie?”
You nodded.
“Well,” Duncan said, and turned his face enough to kiss the heel of your palm. “All ye do is please me, sweetheart. Nothin’ else.”
Click. A swipe of hand over your toes. "There ye are," Duncan says, beyond pleased with himself. "Not too shabby, aye?" Then he presents you your own foot as if it has gone through a dazzling makeover.
"It's great," you say, smiling. "Thank you."
"Mm." He kisses your sole once, then lowers it onto his lap. Gives you a glance. "Ye all right, girl?"
"Yes, just, um—" Your hand swipes over your throat. "Just heartburn. It comes and goes."
Duncan grins. "Ye know that means the baby's growin' hair?"
"Shut up," you snort. "We've got the same app and mine said no poppycock like that."
Duncan frowns, though the tips of his ears go incriminatingly warm. “It ain’t poppycock.”
“No?”
“No," he says. "It’s a thing people say.”
“A thing people say.”
“Aye.”
“People also say a lot of stupid things.”
He narrows his eyes at you, still holding your foot. “I’m telling ye, there’s something to it.”
You look at him and realise, with unreasonable fondness, that the -cock part of the poppycock itself has wrong-footed him a little. The great father of your child, undone by folklore and a nursery-level obscenity. It suits him tremendously.
“Well,” you say, settling deeper into the mattress, “with the amount of heartburn I’m getting, he’ll come out with hair to braid.”
Duncan’s face opens in spite of himself. “Maybe he will.”
“He’ll need conditioner by week two.”
“Could have curls.”
“Could have your hair,” you say.
His smile goes quieter. He looks down at the foot in his hand and rubs his thumb under your toes. “Poor wee thing.”
“Excuse me, your hair is beautiful.”
“Aye, and mad.”
“Beautiful and mad.”
“Grand. That’ll do him well in life.”
You laugh, then the heartburn climbs again and turns the laugh into a small, irritated breath. Duncan notices instantly. His thumb stops.
“Ye good?”
“Mm.” You gather yourself with some effort and shift your feet to the floor. “I’ll be right back.”
His hand comes up near your knee, ready without touching. “Do ye need—”
“No, it's okay.” You stand, test your balance, then point down at him. “I’m giving you a five-star review.”
Duncan’s mouth twitches. “For the toes?”
“For the full service.”
He smiles fully and suspects he's looking far too pleased with that. Watches you leave and when he loses sight of your calves in the hallway, Dunk spreads himself on the floor and breathes deeply. His shirt has ridden up a bit and the wood is cool against the strip of skin above his waistband.
Duncan thinks he may have redeemed himself a little. The thought embarrasses him for its size and for how quickly it spreads through him with warmth and hunger for belief. He performs small works, foolish works, maybe, to anyone looking from the outside. To him they feel near holy, and that is part of the trouble. He keeps making altars out of tasks because tasks do not turn round and ask him what he means.
He knows what he means. That has never been a matter of doubt. Saying it, though, feels adjacent to asking for something, and Duncan hates the prospect of causing discomfort with all his might. I love ye, and then the whole injured beast of him rises behind the sentence with its old begging: keep me, choose me, make me a place and do not change your mind. There is the wound itself, old and blunt, and then the smaller cuts round it made by other hands, by women who had wanted him until he became too much work, by rooms where he learned to stand near the door, by the first proposal with the ring shaking in his pocket and your kind, frightened no laid carefully between you.
Logic has been trying its best with him. Logic points to your drawers with his socks in them. To the toothbrush in the cup. To the way you let him kneel and fuss and get underfoot, the way you reach for him in sleep, the way you say his name when pain or pleasure has taken the manners out of you. Logic tells him naught would go wrong if he said it now, softly, with no bed ruined by grief and no apology chasing after. A different thing in him pulls back until the words go tight in the throat. Some guard at the gate, half-starved and loyal to bad orders.
He thinks of the ring in his flat more often than is sensible. Whether he could go back under some pretence and bring it here. Whether he would have it in him to ask again, properly this time, with fewer wild eyes and less duty making a mess of devotion. Whether you would take him now. Everything seems to be saying yes, but he has been turned down once, and once is plenty for Duncan. Once is enough to put a mark on the place.
Still, he is happy. God help him, he is. He has got himself a lovely girl, sweet and sharp and heavy with his son, and he finds you so sexy sometimes that it makes him daft with gratitude. If you decided to keep him under your slipper, he thinks he would bear it grand. Fetch, carry, kneel, take correction. Yet that is another thing about you. You do not seem to want him flattened. You leave room for the rest of him. His wants, his foolishness, his ugly jumpers, his hunger, the bit of him that chooses the wrong onesie because the pattern made him smile.
He remembers himself smiling terribly upon finding the very shite-coloured one tucked at the bottom of the drawer. Recognised it by the chest alone. You had hidden it away with the good things. Kept it. That should tell him something and it does tell him something.
Duncan covers his eyes with the heel of his hand and breathes again. The floor holds him flat and honest. He thinks that, maybe, he could be braver sometime soon, when a loud clatter from the bathroom makes him near bite his tongue.
He surges up so fast his little toe falls victim to the bedframe. He swears some, shakes his foot in the air and rushes down the corridor with sweat already pearling in the well of his back. The closer he gets to you the better he can hear the sounds and once Duncan is three steps away from the bathroom it is clear that you are crying. He calls out your name.
"What happened?"
The door gets shoved closed when he's about to barge through, and your voice comes pained from the other side. "Please, don't come in!"
Duncan hesitates. He rests both hands on the wood and puts his ear to it. "What's happening?" he asks, softer.
There is no answer. Blood starts pumping loud in his temples. He reaches one palm to the doorknob and stops there. "Lass," he says. "Lass, did ye fall over? Are ye hurt?"
"N-no," you weep, unconvincing. He can hear water running in the sink and your hiccuped breathing.
A barbed swallow forces its way down Dunk's throat. "Is… is there blood?" he asks, eyes squeezing shut. Nothing again. Likely, you didn't hear him, but likely is not doing it for Duncan now. He wraps his fingers tight round the knob and tells you, "Sweetheart, I’m coming in unless ye tell me you’re safe." Whether you're about to tell him or not, he doesn't have time to check, for he cracks the door open with breath held in his lungs.
"Don't look," you say when he steps in, and it works like a spell because his eyes go straight to you.
You are standing with your back to him, a towel held to your chest. In the mirror Duncan sees your face first. Tear-streaked, mouth pulled tight, eyes swollen with the effort of staying quiet. He comes to you because he must. His body has no other instruction. On the way he checks the floor, the sink, the edge of the bath, the hard corners of everything that could have taken a piece of you. There is naught. No blood. No broken glass. No wet print of a fall.
He bands one arm round your shoulders from behind and draws you back into him. His mouth lowers to the side of your head. “Are ye hurt?” he asks. “What happened, lassie? Talk to me.”
You only weep harder. His gaze drops. The towel is pressed to your breasts, clutched there in a fist gone pale round the knuckles. A different fear enters him, smaller and stranger.
“Is something wrong here?” he asks, touching the back of your hand.
Your eyes shut. After a few seconds, you lower the towel. There are two damp stains on the front of your shirt.
The relief unspools through Duncan so fast he nearly goes weak with it. He has to breathe out through his nose and make sure no laugh comes with it, because the laugh would only be terror leaving him in the wrong shape.
“Lassie,” he says. “Oh, sweetheart. My sweet girl, that’s normal.” He turns you in his arms despite the small sound of protest you make, and gathers you close. “It’s normal. C’mere.”
“It’ll get on your shirt,” you say, brokenly.
“I want ye on my shirt,” Duncan murmurs. “C’mere.”
That does it, or at least enough of it. Your body comes into him slowly, stiff first, then less so, and he feels the warm damp bloom through cotton where your breasts press to his chest. His hand cups the back of your head. The other stays wide across your shoulders. He knows this is normal. Knows it within one blink, the way he knows the whole of the app now. Third trimester and another function arriving early, another piece of yourself declaring new management without asking permission. No wonder it has frightened you. No wonder it has made you cry.
Duncan ponders if there is a way to say I love you that can neither spook you nor tear open the guarded thing in himself. Some new road to the same place, through a quieter gate. His mouth finds your ear. “Will ye let me take care of you?”
Your hands close into fists in the back of his shirt.
He shifts a little and you hiss through your teeth. Duncan stills. Smooths his palm down your hair until you lift your face to him. He can't really bear the sight of your welling eyes, but he keeps himself upright in the important places.
“Are ye tender?” he asks.
You nod.
“I’ll be very gentle.”
“It’s just that—” you hiccup. “It’s just another thing and I—”
“I know,” he says. “I know. Yer so strong, my sweetheart. Nothing bad’s happenin’.”
Your back gives by one notch under his hand.
“Let’s clean ye up, hm? Come, wee thing.”
He takes your hands and brings you to the sink. Pulls the stool out from under it, then gets a clean washcloth from the cupboard. He washes his hands properly, hot water and soap to the wrists, drying them on a towel he knows is clean because he folded it there himself that morning. Then he wets the cloth and wrings it out until it is soft and warm in his palm.
You watch him with a look that makes him feel twelve feet tall and useless. He is nervous too, in several directions. Smaller humans have depended on him plainly enough. Children with scraped knees. Egg with his clenched jaw and silences. This is different. You are grown, clever, and proud, and he has big hands made rough by work. He feels in his element and terrified of failing you in the same breath.
He sits on the stool. It is low enough to make foolish angles of him, knees high and spread, elbows awkward, yet even there your chest is near level with his face. He looks up at you first.
“Tell me if anything hurts, aye?”
You nod again.
With careful fingers, he rolls your shirt higher. Underneath, your breasts sit heavy and glossed around the nipples, the skin damp where milk has gathered and strayed. Duncan keeps his face steady. Something low in him, older than thought, purrs out a wicked good at the sight of you like this: mother of his child, body working early, needing him enough to help. He lifts his eyes back to yours.
“Still all right?”
“Yes.”
He brings the cloth to the underside of one breast and only presses it where a drop has wandered down. Waits. You breathe out. Another nod.
So he continues. Small touches. Cloth held, lifted, folded to a clean corner, held again. He does not rub unless he has to. Uses his free hand to support the weight of you from below, fingers spread wide. His glasses steam over a little. When he moves higher, the cloth brushes the nipple and you flinch hard.
Duncan stops immediately. “Hurts?”
“Shit,” you whisper. “Yeah, it actually hurts.”
“All right.” He lowers the cloth. “Do ye want to ring the doctor?”
You shake your head.
“Are ye sure?”
“It’s just sore. I looked it up. It can be sore.”
He studies your face, then the skin, then your face again. “No fever? No bad pain inside?”
“No.”
“No… red patch?”
You glance down with a miserable little sniff. “Dunk.”
“I have to ask.”
“I know you do," you say. "No red patch.”
“All right,” he says, though the worry stays working in his jaw. “All right. We’ll go slower.”
His hand starts shaking a little in the wrist. He could find something softer or pack you into the tub again and then wrap you in a blanket and tell you it is no matter if you leak through it. Yet something tells him the misery of it does not lie in the leaking itself but in your body giving up its woman post while the mother post takes over.
He drops the cloth in the sink and hangs his head low for a second. There is shame, loud and striking and bitter as a bitten tablet, in the part of him that has noticed the shine on you and answered it. You are crying and sore, frightened too, by a thing your body has done, and still some ancient, pre-verbal creature in him has lifted its head. Something older than sex, maybe. Or older than any sex he has known what to do with. His tongue gets all confused by aching to go places that are not for him. Want shapes in him from lacking this kind of warmth, and from the tug at the sight of you standing there with milk on your skin, carrying his son and needing him to be good enough with his hands, good enough with his mouth, good enough in any way a man can be useful.
He wipes his palms on his thighs, then reaches for your hips.
“Come here a bit,” he says. You look at him with wet eyes. “Only closer," Duncan says. "That’s all.”
You let him draw you in between his knees. Your belly gets there first, high and full. Duncan lays one hand on the side of it since that place is known and safe, and there everyone understands what his tenderness means. Aodhán shifts under his palm, faintly, or perhaps Duncan only hopes he does.
Then his gaze moves higher. To your tits spilling heavy over the bump, with their nipples damp and sore and their skin slick in small tracks where the milk has gone. It strikes him near like a bite in the neck, reverential and sharp like canines both, and it makes him want to bow his head again simply to pay respects to the body he's been adoring more and more with passing months. At this point he's the one needing, though the need does not feel wicked when it reaches you. It feels like a thing looking for the correct work. Give it a task and it may yet become mercy.
You make a small sound, and his eyes snap back to yours. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m here. I’m with ye.”
Your fingers twitch at your sides. Duncan brings his hand slowly up from your belly to your ribs, then stops below the curve of one breast. He does not touch the tender part yet. Only waits there, palm open, asking the skin before he asks you. “Will ye let me try something?”
Your mouth tightens. “What?”
“The towel hurts,” he says. His voice comes out rougher than he means it to. He clears it badly. “Mouth might be softer.”
To that, there's a stare. A tremor sprints his back and has nowhere decent to go. He keeps his face lifted, keeps his hands still. Lets you see the whole awful truth of him as far as he can bear: frightened, aroused, careful, wanting to make this easier for you and wanting you both.
“If ye don’t like it, I stop,” he says. “If it hurts, I stop. If ye say my name wrong, I stop. All right?”
Your throat works. Duncan’s thumb moves once over your rib, barely there. “Do ye trust me?”
"I do," you breathe. "I do, just—"
"C'mere then," Duncan says. "C'mere, sweetheart."
He pulls you down to sit sideways on his thigh. You come slowly, wrap one of your arms round his neck and balance the other on his knee. Duncan grunts under your weight, because it feels grand already to have your arse spilled over his leg and your side pressed to his chest. He's ashamed, a little, of the hard-on he's got going on in his shorts, and knows damn well you can feel him twitching. "I'm sorry," he rasps. "I'm sorry, lassie, I promise ye this ain't nothin' wicked, I jus'—"
"I know, sweetheart," you tell him. Coo it into his temple, and Duncan cringes at the fact that within one minute the roles get reversed and it's him getting comforted away from thinking he's a deviant.
"It's jus'—" He swallows. Runs a finger on your sternum. "There ain't nothin' this body can do that will make me want ye less, ye understand me?" Then, his palm lies flat over your heart. "Here's what I—what I care about. Do ye know what I'm sayin'?"
Your hand wraps in the roots of his hair. "I do," you whisper, and rest your cheek on his forehead. "I do."
It is as close as he can make himself standing next to a verbal proclamation. The sweet thing of it is that it serves you both. You've already relaxed another notch. What Duncan wants to say, desperately, is that he recognises the fear in you and you should fear not. He knows what comes after, he knows you're working your arse off to save your womb from suffering the consequences of his oversized genes, and he wants to tell you it does not matter in the slightest. He's got a cock big enough and a heart hungry for you enough to love you through all the shapes and stages you will fit yourself into. Himself, Duncan returns to something that was never present in his life, but ought to be. His body receives it as memory, though his life has given him none.
He wedges his hand under your breast and cups it whole. Handles its ballast, then brings his mouth, gossamer-light, to where your skin stretches from collarbone and swells into a curve. His tongue comes out above the nipple first. One slow swipe through the shine gathered there. The taste is faint and warm, sweeter than he expects, with something soft and bodily under it, almost creamy yet too slight to call rich. It finds him as a shock of recognition without recollection. Duncan stops with his mouth still close, breath passing over the wet place he has made, though all he wants is to fill himself and take more, and more, and more.
“How’s that?” he asks.
Your hand tightens in his hair. You shift on his thigh, and his palm settles along the inner side of the leg nearest him, holding you steady.
“Good,” you say. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s grand,” he murmurs.
Then, he returns to it with his mouth opened wider. Drags his tongue over the gloss, flat and careful, gathering what needs gathering. His eyes close. The nipple is tender and warm against him, softened by the wet, so welcoming that some brutish part of him wants to press his whole face into your tits and stay there until breath becomes somebody else’s concern. The memory of your flinch keeps him measured.
He hums against you. Does not notice his hands growing firmer until one has filled itself with your arse and the other is gripping high on your thigh. His mouth becomes less tentative too. Tongue circling, lips closing softly round the nipple, drawing just enough to make more of that thin sweetness come out for him. Soon he is making out with your breast in earnest, wet and hungry, while the first little sounds begin leaving you above him.
"Dunk—" you breathe. "Oh, fuck—"
At that, he releases you, and noses upward, over the warm rise of your chest, along the hinge of your jaw, until he finds you. He kisses you once. The taste on his tongue passes back into you and it excites him horrendously that there is a way to give you back a piece of yourself like that.
“Are ye good, my girl?” he murmurs.
You nod and catch him again, softer this time. “I am. Thank you,” you whisper.
His brows pull sharply. It slices him like praise would, seizes low in his stomach and draws the muscles there into a hard cramp. His cock twitches against your hip.
“Christ, lassie.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Yer gorgeous. Ye know that? I always want ye. Every bit.” The fingers high on your thigh flex. He feels the heat held between your legs and keeps himself where he is, though the hand wants to travel. “Can I touch ye?” he asks. "Do ye trust me still?”
He is sure he has leaked through the cotton by now. The wet has cooled against him, then warmed again, and he cannot decide whether he hopes you have noticed.
You swallow. Your face passes beside his, lips grazing his cheek on their way to his ear. Duncan goes rigid beneath you. “Touch me then,” you whisper. “And put your mouth back on me.”
It’s a fragile thing he’s handling, he knows this much. Duncan has never thought himself an adept lover, though by now he likes to believe he is somewhat versed in the language your body speaks to him. It has told him plenty about how you like him sometimes pliable and sometimes bolder. He tries to merge the two, because having your tits this close and served to him like the finest meal makes being in charge out of the question. Still, he knows when you need guiding. Knows encouragement works on you much the same way it works on him, reaching places touch alone cannot quite get to.
By some earnestness in him that has survived every reason to lose it, Duncan believes you whenever you tell him things that would sound unthinkable from any other tongue. That he is pretty. That he is good. That he does things well and pleases you. The words barge into him whole, free of malice, and he keeps them with a devotion near embarrassing. So he gives them back now, hoping the exchange stays even. Hoping you believe him too when he tells you how gorgeous you are, how badly he wants you, how every change in your body only gives him something new to learn and adore. God help him, he means it. He knows how to hold you when shame makes you stiff, how to wait until you soften, where to touch when soreness has made the usual routes impossible. Knows how to please you because you have taught him, and because every lesson has ended with pleasure answering in his own body too.
“Yer maddening gorgeous, my girl,” he slurs, coming back down to your chest. His breath rasps over the damp skin. He's licked most of the milk off and taken it and eaten it, and now the fervid part of him needs to know whether you are milking for him elsewhere too. His hand moves higher and presses flat between your legs, over the gusset of knickers. Warm. Damp. He loves it terribly, that answering thirst gathering under his palm while his lips close round your nipple again.
“I’ve put a baby in ye,” he mutters against where you're tender. “I’ll take care of ye through it and after.” His fingers drag the material aside. The first touch of your pussy makes his jaw lock. “If ye let me, I’ll put another in ye,” he says, half-mad with it. “I won’t go anywhere, sweetheart. Where the fuck would I go?”
Your hips buck into his hand. The fingers in his hair tighten, release, then close again while your breath breaks over the crown of his head. “Dunk, fuck—please—”
He rushes naught. This time he means to make the whole of it yours, and if he comes in his pants like an idiot, he will survive the indignity. His forefinger traces the shape of your cunt first, follows the swollen seam through its slickness, learning what he already knows and finding it changed by whatever he's managed to make of this moment.
He's humming with how good it feels to have his mouth full though an urge to bite down on something pulls his spine tight. Put his teeth into the sweetness of you and hold. He knows better. His tongue comes out instead, flat and broad, and drags from your nipple over the slope of your breast, up the centre of your chest, along your throat. At the side of your neck the restraint wears itself out and Duncan bites.
You moan again, and your groin presses harder into his hand. Fuck yes, he thinks. "Take me," Duncan says and feeds you his finger down to the second knuckle. Your cunt takes it with a greedy clutch. Duncan feels each small yielding round the joint where the swollen tissue drags close around him. It reaches straight into his gut, that feeling. He curls his hand and watches your face alter.
“There ye are,” he breathes.
Your eyes close. “More.”
“Aye?”
“Aye, more, Dunk.”
He brings the second finger alongside the first and enters you patiently. The stretch pulls a broken noise from your throat. Duncan stills inside you, fingers buried deep enough to feel the pulse working there unsteadily.
“Tell me," he says.
“It’s good.” Your grip twists in his hair. “Keep going.”
He listens. Crooks both fingers toward the front of you and draws them back through the wet grasp of your body, learning the pressure from every change in your breath. Question and answer, conducted under the skin. When he finds the place that makes your knees soften, he returns to it, presses with the pads and holds until your hips begin seeking him like you've forgotten the predicament entirely.
“Like that?” he asks.
“Yes. There.”
“Here?”
“Duncan.”
The sound of his name harms him further. His head moves along your chest, kissing wherever he can reach. Soon, your tits are all glossy again, and Duncan realises he's drooling. There's something in milk-heavy breasts that turns him depraved, and it's him who needs to nurse his sore, blunt tongue on you. You're both wounded, but he's the one needing this to breathe. In this symbiosis, you let go too, and become warmer in his hands and heavier across his thigh. Trust has weight, apparently. It spills over his leg and puts its arms round his neck.
He adds the smallest turn of his wrist. Your cunt closes hard enough to make the bones in his hand feel caught. “Christ,” he mutters. “Ye feel—”
Speech fails him again. Soft would be a lie. Tight says too little. Hot belongs to kettles and sun. This is a living hold, drawing at him with a strength hidden inside yielding flesh.
His hips begin their own labour against the side of your thigh. The wet front of his shorts rubs there in short, helpless twitches. He barely registers starting. His body has never shown much obedience around you unless you give it a direct order, and now you give him naught except his name in scraps.
“Dunk—ah—Dunk.”
“Aye. I’m here.”
He works his fingers deeper when your pelvis tips. Slower when your mouth tightens. Firmer when you pull him closer. Every small easing he draws from you returns through his own nerves sharpened, almost painful. Service has always been the safest shape of his hunger: carry this, fix that, hold still. Let him put his hands where the hurt lives and he will tear himself open gladly over being allowed.
“You like this,” you breathe near his ear.
Duncan’s fingers falter once. “Aye.”
“Taking care of me.”
His forehead presses to your shoulder. “It does terrible things to me.”
Your moan breaks loose when he rubs that place again. “You’re good at it too.”
“Lassie—”
The word comes out with enough force to embarrass him, though embarrassment has little country left in him now. His cock strains and leaks against your skin through cotton. Everything in him has been given employment.
A fool arrives at the holy well by taking the wrong road. Mud on his boots. Hands too large for the cup. Thirst making a spectacle of him. That is Duncan here. You open because he asks, tell him where, give him the weight of your want without making him earn it through suffering first. He receives the gift with the bewilderment of someone who has spent his life expecting every good thing to be withdrawn upon closer inspection.
His thumb finds your clit. He touches lightly, watches your whole belly tighten, then circles with growing certainty when your nails graze his scalp.
“Oh, yes,” you whisper.
“Aye?”
“Yes. Just—keep—”
“Aye, I’ve got ye.”
He says it into the side of your neck and believes it for the length of the sentence. Your body begins to lose its separate pieces under him. Thigh, belly, breast, throat: all drawn into the one effort, all sending the same message. Duncan follows the signs faithfully. He knows when your hips need holding and when they need freedom. Knows the sound that means softer, the one that means deeper, the sudden silence that means he has found something worth staying with.
Your hand pulls his face up. He comes willingly, lips parted, breath spoiled.
“Kiss me,” you say.
He near breaks his neck for it. You take his lower lip between yours, and the intimacy of it cuts stranger and deeper than the sex. Your tongue touches his. Your cunt tightens. Duncan groans straight into you.
“There,” you whisper against him. “My good boy.”
His stomach caves. His fingers drive upward, wanting more of whatever this is, and your cry catches between your teeth and his.
“Say it again,” he begs.
You look at him through wet, heavy eyes. “Good boy.”
Duncan near comes in his shorts. Mind supplies him with unbidden images. Him, returning home to you, no matter where you've both made it. Late at night with everything quiet and you all warm for him and your tits full of milk so he can put his mouth to them and get his chin all white and sweet from you. His cheek pillowed against you and hands damp with what he squeezes out of you. And there, him making love to you, kissing your soft post-labour belly, kissing between your legs, kissing your neck, your temple, your mouth until it's plump. Telling you he loves you without fear, and calling you his wife with pride in his chest.
“Girl,” he whines. Turns his hand inward with two fingers crooked inside you and making a slow wheel there while his thumb keeps circling. You draw yourself tight round his knuckles then hold, and Duncan feels every change as if your body is closing its fist round him. He keeps the pressure steady, wrist working in patient little turns, eyes fixed on your face through his smeared glasses. Your breathing begins to break. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Let me feel ye. I'm, ah—"
There's a quiver in your thighs. First some small, treacherous shivers against his hips, then hard enough that Duncan has to brace you firmer. Your cunt begins to pulse, drawing him deeper while the rest of you arches away from it. He works through the first break until your head falls back and the sound in your throat loses all shape.
The hand holding his knee leaves it and comes down between his legs. It closes over the unbearable bulge there. Your mouth finds his ear. “Good boy,” you gasp, still coming. “Fuck, my good boy—oh, Dunk—”
So, in the end, Duncan does come in his shorts. Bursts into your fingers with his tongue plastered to your breast and palm fisting your buttock. It's unpretty and loud with whimpers he's trying to muffle against you. He feels his balls emptying and sees the confirmation of it blooming wet and glossy under cotton.
"Shite," he gasps. "Sweetheart, I—" A swallow. "I didn't mean to. Oh, I didn't mean to, I—"
"I know," you say. Breathe heavily. Your head lolls on his and your body sags until you're cradled between his spread thighs. "I meant to, though."
"I made a bigger mess of you." A beat.
"You made me feel better," you say. "Does that count for something?"
"Aye, it counts for everythin'," he says. Then, he laughs. "Fucking Christ, I'm like a virgin every time with ye, ain't I?"
A deep sigh comes from you. "A virgin would run from me." You cup his chin and tilt it to look him in the eye. "You're just… yourself."
Duncan feels terribly perceived, though out of the two, it is you who is more exposed and damper. You look at him as if he's good enough the way he is, even if it means sometimes a man grown, and sometimes a green boy who finishes into a P.E. teacher's attire.
"I—" he stammers. Swallows. Traces a thumb over your neck. "Can I—can I sort ye out? Properly."
"Does it involve licking?"
"Wicked girl." He blushes furiously. "If ye want."
You smile at him with all of your teeth.
So he sorts you out, and himself in the process. Steps with you into the shower. He lets you lean your back to his chest, near sag against him, while his hands wander. He cleans. He licks too. Once, he bites the ball of your shoulder and you give him a little uh in response. After, he pats you dry, gently, and leaves you for a moment, wrapped in the towels and sat on the edge of the tub, while he walks through the flat, naked, to get clean clothes. Since now he's in charge and has a say in it, he brings you his T-shirt. A bra that feels softest in his palm and some nursing pads as well. You let him dress you and it feels as intimate as touching you intimately does. Everything is private. Everything is his. Everything is privilege.
In the bedroom he steps in behind you and fits himself along your back. His hands travel down your sides, spread beneath the belly, low, then meet there, palm over palm, taking its weight. “Tell me if—” he starts, and lifts.
You groan. Your knees slack and your head drops back onto his chest. “Oh God. How did you know?”
“Saw it online,” Duncan says into your neck, bashful about the usefulness of his own hands. “A midwife showed it. Said it can take some pressure off.”
“Christ, can you stay like that till I deliver?”
“Ye know I can,” he mutters.
He holds you there, your son raised a merciful inch away from the bones he has been bearing down upon, and begins to rock. A small movement from foot to foot, broad body taking yours with it. You give yourself over until your spine has hardly any employment left. His chin settles near your shoulder. First comes a hum, low enough that you feel it through his chest before you properly hear it. It's plainly Too-Ra Loo-Ra Loo-Ra.
Duncan sings quietly, rough in places, carrying you from side to side. By the second verse your eyes have closed. He sings the third anyway and keeps you lifted until sleep has made you heavy against him.
joining the war on kids reading any book they want on the side of kids reading any book they want. simply you will be fine. it's even good to be confronted with things you don't understand and even find upsetting, uncomfortable and difficult. it's a surprise tool that will help you later.
literally ok so not a funny story but kind of funny? when I was nine I encountered rape in a book and I was like hey mom what’s this mean and she explained it and I was like oh. gross. and then like two weeks later a girl on the bus abruptly disclosed her csa and we were all like ????? what ???? but I was like wait hang on there’s a word for that ☝️🤓 and explained what it meant and that it was illegal and that you could talk to a teacher or my mom if it had happened to you and everyone was like ohhhhh I see I see and very somberly comforted the girl (she was safe she was removed from her home and living with my neighbor at the time so it wasn’t Urgent)
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
gracieabrams
