#If my room is clean I will probably feel better

[ghyulia]

Shouto Todoroki x reader, wc ~2.9k

tw: injuries, a little bit of angst if u squint rlly hard just dumb todoroki in luvv

There are three times with you when Shouto has to physically stop himself from kissing you.

The first time is when you two are cleaning up after the UA festival. You had offered to stay behind to clean up the little that was left while everyone else had headed to the beauty pageant. You didn't mind missing out on it, really. The performance with your class was already so much fun and left you feeling content enough for the rest of the day. Todoroki, upon hearing your offer, also decides that he wants to stay back and clean up. His excuse is that "Most of what's left is my ice anyway." You smile and say that you would definitely appreciate his help. You fail to notice how the tips of his ears change into a redder hue.

You two work in comfortable silence, getting rid of most of the ice. It stayed like that for a while, until you heard one of your favorite songs playing from somewhere on the UA campus. "Oh, I love this song!" You said, humming along. Todoroki couldn't help but stare. You look so happy. He felt something warm blooming in his chest again. At first, Todoroki had wondered why this only happened when he was around you. He thought he might be sick, but after these..weird phenomena in his body kept on occurring, he took to the web, which gave him a better insight into his strange feelings. Love wasn't something he was experienced in, as he didn't receive much as a child. It was his first time ever feeling this way...

He's so busy staring at you that he doesn't even realize when he stabs himself with one of the props.

"Todoroki, Oh my God! You're bleeding!" You yell as you frantically rush over to where he is. "Oh. I am." The boy murmurs. You grab his hand without a second thought and inspect the damage done. "It's not that deep, which is great! You should probably put a bandaid on it though." You say, flipping his hand front and back. You're so close. Shouto has to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking to kiss you. You two had finally started getting closer. If you didn't see him that way, or if you just didn't want to kiss him, Todoroki thinks he would probably never recover. Ever. So he just tries his best to avert his gaze from you. "I should probably head over to Recovery Girl, then." Todoroki mumbles, still not looking directly at you. "Actually, I think I have a bandaid. Wait one sec!" You abruptly let go of Todoroki's hand before running over to where you left your bag. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and tries his best to calm his nerves. You dig in your bag for a while, before finally jogging back to where you left the boy. "Here! It's a bit childish, so if you don't want to wear it I totally understand, haha." You smile.

The bandaid is pretty childish. It's hot pink, with little kirbies and yoshies plastered all over the flimsy material. Todoroki can't help but crack a smile. "I'll take it. Thanks, (Name)." You smile at him before getting back to work.

30 minutes later, everywhere is clean. Todoroki bids you a short goodbye before heading to the auditorium's exit.

"By the way, Todoroki?" "Your hands are really pretty."

Todoroki swears he can feel his heart explode. He utters a quick "Thank you" before hastily exiting the room.

He never ends up using your bandaid, instead opting to keep it safe in the confines of his wallet. (He just wants to have it forever and stare at it. It's his first gift from you, after all.)

The second time is during your hangout together. Upon visiting Todoroki's dorm a week prior and finding out he had never done the fun average teenage stuff (Amusement parks, zoos, aquariums, the like) you insist on taking him out along with a few other classmates to paintball.

You explain how it works and the rules, and he listens, head nodding up and down like a puppy. Cute, you think.

Paintball is a blast, is all Todoroki can think. The first round was pretty calm, with everyone trying to get into the feel of the game. The matches afterward are pure chaos. The good kind. Everyone is doused in paints of various colors. Hours go by, and everyone decides to have the final match before going to lunch. You and Todoroki are on different teams, which disappoints him a little, but nothing he can't handle of course. (He's sulking miserably.)

The game progresses, and still no sight of you. Todoroki lets out a small sigh before scouting the area for a potential target. He doesn't notice you sneaking up behind him. You decide that instead of shooting him, it would be more surprising if you just throw all of your paintballs at him. By the time he realizes you're behind him, it's too late. "Gotcha!" You shout. Todoroki's covered in paint from head to toe now, but he knows that your arsenal is wiped out. He gets to work, quickly trying to grab his gun and extend the distance from you two. You don't allow that though, closing in on him even more and attempting to grab the gun from his hand. As a last-ditch effort to get you, Todoroki tries to reach for the paintballs attached to his thigh. You frantically grab his hand and intertwine your fingers in them, pushing him backward until you both fall over. At this point, you both are rolling, trying to take the paint on Todoroki's thigh until you roll right into a designated trap that ends up spilling paint all over the both of you. You both stop and blink. You guys look like a mess. You burst out into a fit of laughter, and Todoroki just stares at you. He didn't even realize the proximity you two are in until now. You smell like green apples...or something else that's fruity. He can feel your breath as you laugh, and he swears he might just kiss you right now.

You finally realize that one of your hands are still intertwined together, and blurt out a quick apology before wiping away some paint from your eyes. Todoroki gets up and offers you his hand, smiling wider than you've ever seen him do before. You take it, and he doesn't let go until you reach the paintball locker rooms.

The rest of the day is just as fun. When the evening rolls by, Todoroki offers to walk with you back to the dorms. "Today was really fun, wasn't it Todoroki? Next time I think we should totally go to the aquarium! Spring break is coming up soon, so we can ask Mr. Aizawa beforehand for permission if you want!" You beam. Todoroki smiles.

"Yeah."

(And it was on that trip to the aquarium where you two ended up on a first-name basis. Todoroki thinks that the paintball and aquarium trips were genuinely the happiest he's ever been in his life. The pictures from those days hung up on the wall in his room attest to that.)

The third and final time is when you get badly injured. Due to Todoroki's feud with Yoarashi, and Bakugou's poor performance during the rescue section, They had both failed to get their provisional hero licenses. You however had successfully gotten your license and had started your hero intern studies with the rest.

You were doing your internship with Ryukyu and were enjoying it for the most part. It was hard, but you were learning new things, so it was pretty rewarding. You hadn't really talked to Shouto much as you were busy with your work and he was busy taking his supplemental makeup lessons. You would occasionally say hi and bye, but that was pretty much it. Shouto was losing his mind. He already felt annoyed that he had let his feelings about his old man get the better of him during the test, causing him to lose his license, but he was losing way more now. He was losing time with you.

Eventually, you and a few of your classmates are pulled into an operation regarding the Shie Hassakai. You learn about the plan to defeat Kai Chisaki, the mastermind of this yakuza group, and to save a girl named Eri. You hear about the horrors being done to her and it sickens you to your stomach. After the briefing, you, Midoriya, Ochaco, Kirishima, and Asui are sworn into secrecy. You can't tell anybody about the mission. (but you so badly want to tell Shouto.)

The days leading up to the mission are horrible for you. You feel so nauseous every time you think about poor Eri. How could Chisaki do this to his own kid? The rest of 1-A seem to take note of the damper on a few of you guys' moods, with Iida always offering an ear to any problems you may be facing. It doesn't go unnoticed by Shouto either. He hates seeing you look that way. He's never seen you make such a sad expression. He doesn't know what to do or how to approach how you're feeling, so he just watches from afar. Occasionally, he offers you some of his lunch. You just force a smile at him and politely refuse, making him feel even more useless. He was so frustrated with himself for not being able to make you smile like you did that day. (His mind wanders back to the paintball trip...).

(You yourself were in your own turmoil. Every time Shouto talked to you, offered you a smile or some of his lunch, you fought the urge to just spill everything and cry in his arms. When did your crush on him get so bad?)

Shouto decides to let it go for now, resolving to visit your room later and ask force you to tell him what's wrong.

But that resolve is quickly crumbled upon making his way to your dorm, hearing the faint sounds of sniffling and muffled sobs. Shouto freezes in his tracks, unsure of what to do. Should he still knock? He knows you'll pretend to not have been crying. He doesn't how he would comfort you...

And so he decides that tomorrow, he'll definitely talk to you. For tonight though, he'll think of all the ways to make you feel better.

As it happens, tonight turns out to be the night of the operation. You slip out of your room at an ungodly hour and meet up with the others.

The mission goes as it goes. You end up separated from the others, left to fight some of Chisaki's goons. You hold your own, making them bite the curb. You only sustained minor injuries, to your luck. You're about to go regroup with the others when some of the underlings inject themselves with a quirk booster shot and all but pounce on you. You grit your teeth and prepare for a rematch. Does it even count as one? You think. You fight, but it feels never-ending. The enemies just keep on getting stronger. Eventually, you're bruised, bloody, and losing stamina. You feel yourself getting weaker. Your field of vision starts to distort, leaving you queasy. You need to wrap this up, quick. One of the enemies manages to leave another deep wound on your abdomen, but you fight through the pain and use this moment to land a fatal attack yourself. After fifteen more minutes of gruesome fighting, you finally land the dealing blow on the last of the goons. You think you did until you see him get up again. At this point, you're bleeding from too many places to count, and you can barely hold yourself up, let alone attack again. So you brace yourself for an attack that never comes. You open your eyes and realize that the enemy couldn't even handle the quirk booster in his system anymore, passing out from the strain. Thank God. The adrenaline wears off, and you pass out, lying in a pool of your own blood. The only thing you can think of before you're out is Shouto and his smile. That day you two went to the aquarium was really fun.

When you come to, you're in a hospital bed. You blink, trying to adjust to the light. You dart your eyes around, observing your surroundings. Is it over? You think, before slowly sitting up. Your wounds don't hurt as much as you thought they would.

You later learn from the Doctor that you had been asleep for almost two days. She also tells you that since your injuries seem to be healing well, you should expect to be discharged by tomorrow. And you do along with the others.

You're greeted at the dorms with a warm welcome and a 'great job!' from most. You look around for Shouto and spot him sitting on the couch saying something to Bakugou. You want to talk to him and catch up on things, but maybe that should wait... You opt to talk with Mina and Hagakure instead. (Once again, You fail to notice the boy staring intently at you.)

You decide to retire to your dorm for the night, feeling tired yet relieved. With the whole operation done and Eri saved you felt like you could sleep peacefully--- for the most part. A part of you really wanted to talk to Shouto. It felt so long since you two had done that. He didn't say a word to you today. Was he mad you didn't tell him about the operation? You tried to talk to him after your conversation with Mina and Hagakure, but by the time you finished, he was gone. You let out a sigh and wait for the elevator.

"(Name)." You turn around to face the white and red-haired boy. Your heart does a little jump for joy. "Hey, Shouto! It's been a while hasn't it?" You attempt to make small talk, but it seems like he isn't having it at all. The elevator comes, and you both get on. It's silent, but not the comfortable kind. You feel him staring at you. "Is something wrong?" You inquire, smiling politely. "Yeah." Shouto leaves it at that and you turn to face him. "Oh..do you wanna talk about it? I was heading to my room if you wanna come with." He nods, not saying anything else until you close your room door.

"So..What's up?" You ask, tilting your head slightly. You take a seat on your bed and pat the spot next to you, motioning the boy to sit. He does. Shouto doesn't know where to start. He doesn't know what to say, so he just exhales and lets all his feelings pour out.

"You...When you first began your work-study you got really busy...Which is normal, of course. We didn't get any time to talk to each other anymore, which hurt me a little (A lot). Then the special operation came along, and you got really gloomy. I know why now, but at the time, I didn't. And I didn't expect you to tell me why you were down in the dumps because it was obvious you didn't want to tell me, but it was still hard to watch you be so sad. I hate watching you make such a pained expression, (Name). I felt helpless. I just wanted to make you smile and laugh like you did for me. Whenever I see you smile, it makes me want to smile too. To make things worse, I wanted to talk to you about your feelings, but I froze when I got to your room after hearing you crying. I hate myself for it. I told myself that I would do it the next day, but by then, you were gone. I regret it so much. Fuck, I really wish I had just knocked on the door. And then I heard that you got seriously injured during the mission and it felt like my heart was being clawed out from the inside. I hated that feeling so much, (Name). And honestly, I lied. Not talking to you hurt me a lot, because I love talking to you, (Name). I love..." Shouto stops and looks at you.

You stare at him for a while, processing everything he said. "I didn't know you felt that way, Shouto." You moved closer to the boy before placing your hand on his. "I...felt the same way, for the most part. I hated not talking to you as much, too. And also, I did want to tell you about everything. In fact, you were the only person I wanted to talk about it to. But I couldn't. But I should've at least talked to you on a general level. Also, I didn't know you heard me crying, hehe. You shouldn't blame yourself for not coming in. You were going to come the next day, weren't you? It was just bad timing. And I love making you smile too. For me, just being around you is usually enough to lift my spirits too. During the operation, and even in my fight, I was thinking about you. So don't blame yourself, Shou."

Shouto just stares at you. All he really wants to do is kiss you, but he stops himself because he's unsure and anxious. He doesn't want to ruin things. He likes you too much to run that risk.

But when you intertwine your fingers with his, lean in, and press a chaste kiss to his lips, Shouto stops denying himself heaven and crashes his lips against yours.

a/n: ahhh that's it!! I actually really like this and I love todoroki sm :))) I hope ygs like this as much as I do!

[shmaptainwrites]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 — 𝐎.𝐑. [𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐍]

PAIRINGS — James Wilson x GN!Reader (no pronouns)

SUMMARY — A child is unaccounted for and the hospital goes into lockdown which makes it a lot harder for Reader to avoid Wilson

WORD COUNT — 2.2K

WARNINGS — mentions/decriptions of blood

NOTE — Okay here's a quick little one shot that will hopefully hold you guys over until I get that series done. As you guys have probably already guessed this is set in 6x17 and I have a few more ideas of different scenarios that could happen in this episode so you may be seeing more of that :)

It was always an odd feeling when an OR was quiet. All you could hear were the sounds of your shoes, making the floor squeak as you walked, littering bloody footprints wherever you went. You still had your mask and gloves on and were about to leave so the room could be cleaned and sterilized for the next surgery when you heard an announcement over the hospital’s PA. 

You looked over to your friend and colleague who was just removing his gloves as you listened to them say the hospital was under lockdown and no one was to leave their areas until further notice. 

“Guess we’re stuck here a little longer,” he said and you looked around you. It wasn’t the most pleasant place to be stuck, blood littered the floor like a murder scene and surgical tools were messily placed on tables and stands. 

“Yeah,” you sighed and followed his lead, taking off your gloves and discarding them, followed by your mask. 

“You okay?” Wilson asked, coming closer to you.

“M fine,” you nodded and moved towards a wall so you could lean against it. “Would just…rather be at home. Or in a shower,” you looked down at your bloody scrubs. “How are mine dirtier than yours?”

“Cause you’re a messy surgeon,” he teased. 

“Right, and it’s not because you nicked a vein that sprayed all over me.”

“I said I was sorry,” he came over next to you and leaned up against the wall in the same manner you were. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking that if you don’t sit down your legs are gonna give out anyways then yes, I am thinking that,” you nodded and he gave you the encouragement to sit down on the OR floor by taking the lead and doing it first. 

There were a few moments of silence that passed before Wilson spoke up again. 

“Hey are you…sure you’re okay?” he asked. 

“We lost a patient, James,” you sighed. “Kinda knocks the wind out of you.”

“I know, but you know it wasn’t our fault, it wasn’t anything we could have fixed or gotten to for that matter.”

“I know, but it doesn’t really make me feel any better,” you admitted, pulling your knees up a little closer to your chest. 

Wilson reached over and took off your hair cap and you lazily turned your head around before reaching over and doing the same, messing up his now shorter hair. It wasn’t as satisfying to do as when it was longer. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, extending his hand out for you to take. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and reached out, interlacing your fingers with his, letting your back melt further into the wall when you felt his thumb brush against the back of your hand. 

“I don’t think talking will fix my problem,” you turned your head, still letting it rest against the wall as you looked over at him. 

“This isn’t just about the patient,” he inferred. “You’ve been…distant lately.” 

“No I haven’t,” you shook your head and pulled your hand out of his hold. 

“Yes you have,” he sat upright and looked at you curiously. “You just pulled away, again.” 

You pushed yourself up so you were standing again and Wilson followed you. You’d never been claustrophobic, but in that moment, it felt like the walls of the OR were closing in on you. 

“Bee, come on, please talk to me,” he begged.

“You haven’t called me Bee since residency.” 

“You’re deflecting,” he placed his hands on his hips. “What’s going on with you?” 

“I’m trying to tell you, nothing’s going on,” you began to pace the room, wringing your hands in front of you. It’s like you weren’t even trying to be subtle that there was a problem. Every time a lie came out of your mouth your body did something to tell Wilson whatever you were saying wasn’t true. 

“No, you just don’t want to tell me what’s going on,” Wilson conceded. “I just don’t like to see you torn up like this, you know that, right?” 

You stopped your pacing and nodded your head. 

“I miss you, we don’t see each other anymore and I-,” 

“James stop,” you spoke quietly, so much so he barely heard you. 

His eyes fell on you again, watching as you looked down at your hands, your mouth partially open as if you were trying to say something else, but it wasn’t coming out.

“I-I was just trying to-,” 

“I know what you were trying to do,” you said. “Make me feel better, because you’re a doctor, it’s in your nature. You don’t have to make me feel better about this.” 

“But I want to.”

“You don’t even know what it is,” you chuckled humourlessly, moving closer to the OR doors. 

“I-I could, and you could let me try and help-,” 

“James, you're not going to want to help with this.” 

“You can’t know that unless-,” 

“I don’t know what we are,” you blurted and squeezed your eyes shut, hating yourself for being so weak, feeling your back hit the wall again.

“Y-You don’t know what we are?” he looked at you, but you could see past his furrowed brows and concerned features, the thoughts racing in his head, his hands now unsure what to do at his sides. 

“We’ve known each other a long time, James,” you licked your lips and pressed them together. “And throughout that time you have been my closest confidant, my go to person, when I think of someone I can count on and someone who cares about me, I think of you.” 

“I think of you in that way too,” he said, but you shook your head. 

“No, you don’t,” you shook your head. “Because while we joked around, and looked after each other, and followed each other from hospital to hospital you got married, and then divorced, and then married, and then divorced, and then-,” 

“Married, and then divorced,” he nodded his head, filling in the last blank for you. 

“Three marriages, I was there for all of it,” you looked up at the ceiling. “I just thought maybe…I don’t know.” 

He knew what you thought. You thought that maybe since you’d both stuck around for so long, since you’d seen the best and the worst, that maybe it meant something more. 

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you shook your head, wishing you could disappear into the walls. “You don’t feel the same.” 

“Bee, it’s not that,” he shook his head. “But I-I can’t give you what you want.” 

“If you can’t give me what I want then how is it anything else?” you didn’t understand what he was saying. 

“It’s better if we stay friends, just…just trust me.” 

You nodded and pressed your lips together, trying to push back the tears that were beginning to form, but to no avail. 

Wilson bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head, coming over to you and reaching out to offer you some sort of comfort. You wanted to turn away, shake your head and tell him to give you space, but when his hand came to cup your cheek you just leaned in closer to it, letting your tears flow silently and freely. 

“Is this your definition of friends?” you asked. “Because if it is I don’t know if I can do this.” 

“I…” Wilson closed his eyes, but he could still see the hurt and pain glimmering in your irises. “It’s not you.” 

“Oldest cliche in the book,” you sniffed and wiped away some of your tears. “Still trying to make me feel better, but I think maybe you’re more suited for treating cancer. Maybe you should stick to that.” 

“No, I-I mean it,” his hand dropped from your face and this time you reached out to gently hold his fingers, to maintain some form of contact. “It’s me. My…” he took a deep breath and tried to get himself to meet your gaze, but he couldn’t look you in the eyes. “You said it yourself. I’ve had three marriages, my girlfriend died. Every relationship I’ve had ends in heartbreak. Every person I’ve loved has eventually left.” 

“James,” your whisper drew him closer, his hands coming to rest against your arms, hesitating before moving to hold your face, the creases around his eyes having softened. 

“I thought that maybe if I pretended I didn’t love you you wouldn’t leave and I wouldn’t end up hurting you.” 

You could feel your lip begin to quiver, “You already are.” 

Your voice came out meek and strained, like it took every ounce of your strength to tell him that. 

Wilson pulled you in closer, resting your forehead against his, whispering quiet apologies. 

“I never wanted this, not for you,” he shook his head. “I’m so sorry.” 

Your hands reached out to hold onto his scrubs, the partially dried blood leaving red stains on the palms of your hand. 

“No, don’t be sorry,” you murmured. “Don’t be. Just be honest. With me. With yourself.” 

His voice became stuck in his throat and faded into a whisper, “I’m afraid to say it. I-I don’t want to ruin this…ruin you.” 

“Then I’ll say it,” you placed your hands on his shoulders. “I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”

Wilson nodded his head and you could feel his heartbeat from the pulse in his neck, every move was hesitant. Pulling you even closer, your hearts next to each other, your faces only a breath away. His lips so close to yours, and you did the only thing you could think of to quiet the voices in his head, you told him again. 

“I love you, James.” 

It was like a reflexive response to your words. His lips now moved in sync with yours in tentative movements, as if one wrong move could make everything disappear. 

“I love you,” he whispered first, his lips still ghosting yours before another kiss. “I love you,” his voice now clearer, a quiet murmur. Another kiss, more firm, pushing you back against the wall while your hands moved down, finding any excuse to bring him closer. “I love you,” again, this time fully aloud because you were still there. He had said it and you hadn’t vanished, you’d pulled him closer. “Bee, I love you.”

His lips moved away from yours but only so he could wrap his arms around you, one arm across your back, the other holding your head simply to bring you into what felt like an almost frantic embrace. You reciprocated the urgency, your face now buried in his shoulder while his nose was pressed in your hair, inhaling deeply, relieved.

Wilson could feel your legs shake a little underneath you, in part from the exhaustion of the long surgery, some of it probably due to everything that had just happened. From there it became easy for you to fall back to the floor. Wilson positioned himself with his back to the wall and encouraged you to sit between his legs, leaning back into him. 

His arms wrapped around you, this time his hands now holding yours which rested on your lap. His lips pressed small kisses along your temple and you sighed, easily sinking more into his embrace like you always had, but now knowing there was always something more between you. Maybe it was naïve of you to think things would be different, but at that moment you couldn’t care about the ending, not when things were just beginning.

It felt difficult to speak, you weren’t sure what words would cut it anymore after what you’d said, nothing could be more meaningful than that.

So you sat in silence, absorbing the moment, living in it, sucking every ounce of love you could get from each other sitting in silence. 

“Bee,” Wilson spoke up, but his voice was quiet after the prolonged silence. “You won’t leave right?”

“Not if you don’t,” you shook your head. “I’ve stuck with you for a while yet, James. Just…don’t push me away.” 

He raised a hand to tilt your head back towards him, encouraging you to turn around slightly and meet him in another kiss. 

Just as you pulled apart, the loudspeaker turned on again informing you that the child was found and the lockdown had been lifted. 

You didn’t want to move, but you knew you couldn’t stay in the OR forever. So while you still had the volition, you stood up and offered a hand to Wilson so he could follow after you. 

You pushed open the door and walked out of the OR together, heading towards the now unlocked sector doors to get to the locker rooms to change before leaving the hospital. 

As you walked side by side, you could feel Wilson’s hand brush up against yours before he reached out and properly held your hand in his own. You looked down at your interlaced fingers before looking up at him again, knowing tonight would be different. Tonight you wouldn’t be alone. 

TAGLIST —

@cuntyvicodin @paola-carter @kiddbegins @il0vebeingdelulu @illicit4ff4irs @lynnsthoughts @miarabanana @iwmflbb @shots-of-wilson-and-whiskey @sarcasm-and-stiles @sun-flower-mad @x-uno @han11dh @qardasngan @alexxavicry @lemonxde @mushycore

[tropes-and-tales]

The Softest in the World

Day 15:  Fingering (Dave York x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event found here! Is it April? Yes. Am I that far behind in posting that it's April and I'm still working through Kinktober requests? Also yes.) 

CW:  Smut (Fingering; talk of masturbation; oblique talk of vague future sex acts); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4102

AN:  This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by an anon!

AN2: Never edited, never beta'ed. I live and die by my slopping typing.

The first Christmas without Carol goes far better for Dave than he ever thought it would.  Of course he misses his wife, nearly a year out from her sudden death.  Molly and Alice miss their mother too.  But the immediate grief—that sharp, cutting pain that left them breathless and stunned—has faded into a more mellow sorrow.  Ever-present, but it doesn’t take Dave out at the knees anymore.

He knows he owes much of his family’s collective healing to you, the nanny he hired months after Carol died.  You’re the one who stepped in and took charge of their lives.  You never tried to replace Carol, but you’ve managed their day-to-day moments and their larger healing.

This first Christmas was your idea too.  A month in Vermont, away from the family home where memories may have been too thick and pressing to allow for any joy.  It had proved out to be a great idea too:  long days sledding and snow-shoeing and building snow forts leave the girls exhausted by evening, too tired to ruminate about their missing mother.

And it allows Dave more time with you.

Usually you only live at the York home when he’s traveling.  You handle their lives at home—drive the girls to and from school, to and from activities.  You handle the maid who comes in twice a week to clean.  You keep the refrigerator full, get the girls bathed and put to bed with a story and a hug each night.  But Dave is never there to see it—when he returns home from his work trips, you leave for your own apartment.

This month in Vermont?  You sleep in the room just down the hallway from him.  You share a bathroom with him, leave behind the scent of your shampoo and soap after you shower.  He hears you each night when you, like clockwork, pad out into the kitchen for a glass of water that you gulp down until you’re breathless.

More than all of that, he has front row seats to how you care for his girls.  You’re tough but fair.  You cut them plenty of slack, grieving as they are, but you don’t allow them to run roughshod over you.  You play with them, you teach them, and you genuinely seem to love them…and they genuinely love you as well.

Him, though?  Dave can’t seem to get a bead on you when it comes to him.  Your ease with the girls disappears the moment the two of you are alone.  You can’t always meet his eye line.  You flinch away from him if he brushes against you.  Sometimes he wonders if you can sense his former double life—if you have some preternatural prey response to being so close to a predator.  But more than once, he’s caught you watching him on the sly.  He’s noticed your heavy-lidded eyes, the way you pull your lower lip between your teeth.

When he cornered you in the hallway a few days earlier, he definitely noticed how your breathing quickened.

Maybe you can sense his killer nature, but Dave would also guess that you are attracted to him.  And knowing what he does of your character, you probably feel conflicted about that.  Guilty.  Maybe even a cliché, the nanny falling for the widowed father of her charges.

If Dave has taken one lesson from Carol’s death, though, it’s this:  life is short, and life can end in a blink.  Why not live while you can?

-----

The day before Christmas is spent in a nearby town.  You plan it, of course, and you layer in fun stuff with all the errands you have to run and make it a family affair.  You take the girls ice skating at a nearby pond.  Dave stands along the rink’s edge and watches you take lazy circles on the ice, Molly’s and Alice’s mittened hands firmly in yours until they get comfortable on their own.  Then you skate over to him, and the two of you watch in silence.

Then there’s hot chocolate at a nearby café, last minute presents for the stockings, and the grocery store.  You return to the cabin laden with bags, and the evening flies by.  You and the girls make flat breads for dinner, and afterwards, you put on a Christmas movie while the girls put the finishing touches on the tree Dave bought earlier in the month.

Dave helps the girls with their evening baths.  He gets them tucked into bed, reads them a story.  He presses a kiss to each of their foreheads, and they are out like a light before he’s even quietly clicking their bedroom door shut behind him.

As he’s been tending to his daughters, you’ve tidied up in the kitchen and living room, and now you’re pulling the wrapped gifts from their hiding spot in the hallway closet to arrange them under the tree.

At the sound of his footfall, you glance up and offer him a smile.

“They out already?” you ask.

Dave chuckles.  “Before I even left the room.”

You smile, brush the back of your hand across your forehead, miming hard work.  “It’s exhausting work, trying to exhaust them.”

“And you manage to do it every time.”  He joins you near the tree, kneels down beside you.

“Sometimes I make them run laps at home,” you reply with a laugh, and maybe you don’t notice your casual use of the word home, but Dave notices.

Dave notices everything.

He noticed, for example, how you stood by him at the skating rink, perfect posture and a tension radiating off of you when Dave moved close enough for his coat to brush against yours.  He noticed the way you ducked your head at the café, how you pretended not to hear the women who sat nearby and remarked on the lovely little family that you, Dave, and the girls made.

He notices now how you lean away from him just a fraction, how you start when his fingers touch yours each time he hands you a wrapped gift to place.  He notices that you won’t look at him, that you keep your gaze carefully fixed on the presents or the tree.  He crowds you closer, plays dumb about it, and he notices when the pink tip of your tongue darts out and licks a wet line along your lower lip. 

Part of Dave—the dark part of him, the predator in him—wants to grip your face between his hand and force you to look at him.  He wants to hold your gaze until it’s too much for you; he wants to stare at you until you squirm and beg him to let you go.  And then he wants to not let you go, your begging futile—he wants to hold you tighter and lean in and draw his own tongue along that bitable lower lip of yours.

He keeps that part of him at bay.  He knows he has to go slow.  Slow movements.  You freeze around him, but if he comes on too strong or too fast, you’ll bolt.  He needs to quiet that prey instinct, make you feel safe.  Alleviate your guilt, if you have any, at being attracted to a widower.

So Dave decides to seduce you instead. 

When you reach for the next gift, he instead grasps your wrist lightly.  He can feel your pulse against his grip, and he hears the breath you draw in.  He holds you like that until you have the courage to look at him, and he smiles at you to put you at ease.

“I’ll finish up,” he tells you, his voice low.  “Why don’t you go get a bottle of wine and some glasses?  We can have a drink on the couch.”

You hesitate…then nod.  It shouldn’t be a turn-on, but Dave loves the hesitancy, then the obedient way you stand up and do exactly as he says.  It’s not hard for him to imagine other things he could order you to do, the same uncertainty before you obey him.

-----

The wine is Moscato-adjacent.  It’s one of those local vintages made with fruits other than grapes, and far too sweet for Dave’s taste, but you had picked it out at the grocery store, so he sips it carefully and hides his winces when the cloying sweetness burns against the back of his throat.

You?  You nearly gulp it down, and he realizes how nervous you are to be here:  alone on a couch beside him, the room dark except for the lit-up Christmas tree and the crackling fire in the fireplace.  It’s romantic, but you’re his employee, and he swears he can feel you flailing out of your depths to find yourself in this moment.

“Easy,” he says.  He stills your hand when you reach for the bottle.  You’ve bolted down the first glass so fast, and Dave doesn’t want you drunk.  He doesn’t even want you tipsy.  He wants just the barest bit of your nerves soothed, but he wants you fully in control of yourself. 

He wants you to be completely, stone sober when you beg him.

“Slow down,” he continues.  “You don’t want to overdo it.”

You laugh, a nervous giggle that spills out of your mouth, and you start to say, “I just…” but you trail off, don’t finish the sentence. 

What were you going to say, Dave wonders?

I just am nervous.

I just think this is too much.

I just think it’s wrong.  It’s too soon.  It’s too complicated.  It’s too unseemly.  What will people think, if anyone ever finds out?

“It’s okay.”  He says it soothingly.  He eases your empty glass out of your other hand, and he sets it down along with his own mostly-full glass, but he does it with one hand—his other, he keeps wrapped around your wrist, unwilling to break his hold on you.

“Mr. York…”  You start, and he hears the nerves in your voice.  He hears the wobble in your words, the faint tremor, but he also swears he can hear desire too—a huskiness to your voice, the slightest rough edge.  And you squirm in your seat, just a bit, but you don’t try to pull away from him.

“Mister York?  Since when did I become Mister?”  It shouldn’t be so hot, you calling him that, formal with the tremble in your words, but then you breathe out his first name—Dave—and you draw it out, and that’s even hotter.

His hand on your wrist, he pulls you to him, tugs your upper body towards him, and you let him.  You go willingly, but your eyes widen.  In shock?  Fear?  Lust?

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, his face inches from yours.  “If you don’t, say so now, and we’ll forget it ever happened.”

The tip of your tongue darts out, licks nervously against your lower lip.  “It’s just…”  You take a breath, try again.  “It’s just complicated.”

“That’s not a yes or a no, baby.”

You huff and offer him a tremulous smile at his use of a nickname, so he adds, “it’s a simple question.”

You hesitate, and Dave wonders if you’re really conflicted about it.  If you’re weighing how your life will change depending on how you answer…

…or if you just don’t want to seem eager, because you nod, then whisper “yes, I do want this,” and when he bridges the remaining distance between you, you’re right there, ready and eager to slot your mouth over his, to part your lips to his searching tongue, to cup his stubbled face with your free hand.

-----

Other men might take you then and there.  They might claim you right on the couch, in front of a dying fire and a Christmas tree sparkling with lights.  They might rush it, make it some sweaty, sad fumble, then parting to each slink to separate bedrooms.

Dave York has always enjoyed the long game.  If he were a game hunter, he would enjoy it better to sit in a tree stand for hours before dawn.  He would relish the cool planning, the stalking, the calculating and recalibrating as needed.

Dave York doesn’t fuck you just yet.  He wants to give you a taste, just a morsel, because he wants you slavering for it.  He wants you looking at him with those wide eyes, that lower lip caught between your teeth, as you beg him for more.

So this night, he only pushes you gently back against the couch as he kisses you.  He lowers himself onto you—lets you feel the weight and heft of his body against yours, lets you feel how he can press you into the couch with his weight.  He lets you feel the length of his growing erection where it presses against your hip, and each little whimper makes him harder.

He kisses you deeply—tastes the glass of Moscato you gulped down, tastes the sweetness of you beyond the tart, sweet wine.  He slides his tongue against yours, licks the inside of your mouth, and he smiles inwardly when you shyly try to do the same.  You are mostly led by him but there’s little movements—your tongue pressing back against his, say, or the upward press of your hips as you search for friction—where you try to lead too.

He braces himself with one hand, which allows the other to roam free.  He cups your flushed face, feels the heat of your blushing.  He draws his hand down, traces a path down your neck, circles his palm there, feels how much he can fit in the span of one palm.  Not because he likes choking—he’s never been into breathplay or anything so risky, but he does like the tame feel of his hand partially around your neck with the feel of your pulse and the ragged breaths you pull in.

Then lower.  He grasps the softness of your breast, and even through the sweater and bra, he can feel your pebbled nipple.  He brushes the pad of his thumb over it, back and forth, and it makes your hips lift up again…and then you groan when you find nothing to meet you, no friction and no touch.

“Be patient,” he whispers in your ear.  He nips at your lobe, darts his tongue against the whorl of your ear, and you whimper at the sensation of his hot breath fanning over you.

He moves his free hand lower still.  He finds the hem of your sweater, snakes his hand under it.  Then he finds the waistband of your leggings.  He sends up a silent prayer that he gets to live in a time and place where leggings are a thing—no tricky buttons or zippers, just an elastic waistband so easy to slip his hand under, and he cups your mound through the soft cotton of your panties.  Dave chuckles near your ear, then lifts his head to look at you because you’re already wet there, the damp cotton cleaving to you as he skates his fingers over you.

“Bad girl,” he whispers.  “Getting wet for your boss.”

He’s watching you as he says it, and he sees the flash of hurt that crosses your face before your pupils get wider and your lips part, as you breathe out a heavy breath.  You’re such a good girl; Dave obviously vetted you before ever letting you into his girls’ lives.  Straight A student, honors, full ride in college.  Not even a speeding ticket in your history.  He bets you’ve never been called bad, never been a bad girl, and it seems to hurt you for a beat before you embrace this tamest step outside of your erotic comfort zone.

Dave has so many more steps he wants to lead you on.  He wants to take your hand in his and lead you into darker, deeper waters.  He imagines spanking you, binding you, blindfolding you.  He imagines twisting your innate desire to please into something sensual; he imagines training you to greet him on your knees.  He imagines rewarding you, calling you a good girl instead, fucking you senseless until you are left overstimulated and weeping, ruined for any other cock but his.

“Is this just from right now?” he continues, and he strokes you through your soaked panties, feels how they are molded to your folds and cleft.  “Or have you been thinking about this?”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me.”  He pinches you lightly—not enough to hurt, but the sensation pulls a gasp from you, and your hand flies up to grasp his bicep where his bracing arm is near your head.  “Tell me why you’re so wet.”

“I’ve been thinking about this.”  It comes out a whisper, barely audible.  Tinged in shame, and that’s the first thing Dave will burn out of you.  Guilt.  Shame.  He’ll break you down and tear those useless emotions out of you.

“When?”  Another light pinch, another gasp.  Your hand grips his arm harder, and Dave will see dusty little bruises there in the morning.

“Since….ah, since a while.”  Another pinch, and you add, “over the summer.”

The summer.  When Dave was around more due to his busy period at word dying off.  When Dave ran each morning and returned home to find you cleaning up the breakfast mess, when he shed his sweaty shirt and walked through the house on his way to shower.  When he pretended not to notice the way your eyes followed him each step, and when he pretended like he needed a glass of cold water, shirtless, that he drank down in your eye line.

Bad girl indeed.

“You touch yourself to the thought of me?”  Here he moves his hand, shifts it to slip under the lacy band of your panties, and he’s delighted to feel a strip of damp curls there, happy that you haven’t shaved or waxed yourself bare.  He drags his fingers through them, then finds your clit, slick and swollen, and he touches you lightly there.  Strums you with his thumb and chuckles at the keening whine that tears out of your throat.

“Answer me.  You touch yourself, thinking about me?”

“….yes.”

“Like this?”

“S-sometimes.”

“Not every time?”

You fix him with a pleading look, but you’re barely able to hold his gaze for long.  When he brushes his lips over your cheekbone, he can feel how hot your face is.  This is a challenge to you, possibly humiliating, but also arousing because you continue to lift your hips, chasing the touch you’re desperate for.  Such a soft little thing, the softest in the world, and yet you’ve been touching yourself to the thought of him.

Dave stills his hand, and he chuckles again at the groan of disappointment you make.  “Tell me or I stop.”

You swallow, nod.  “Sometimes I…I have a vi…a vibrator.”

He can imagine it; a sad little tucked-away piece of silicone or plastic.  You probably pull it out in the darkness of your room, ashamed at pleasuring yourself.  You probably bury it under your socks and blush when your hand brushes against it when you’re putting laundry away.

He hums, considers the mental image that rises to his mind.  Your legs spread under the covers, running the toy over your clit, maybe pushing it inside you.  Imagining it was him instead.

Not that different from the times he’s gripped his own cock, stroked himself in the shower or in his room and pretended it was you instead of his hand.

Dave could demand to know your fantasies.  He could make you tell him what scenarios you’ve used to get off to him.  Him bending you over the kitchen counter?  Him fucking you in the shower?  Him sneaking into your bedroom at night, sliding under the covers and slipping his already-hard cock into your tight little pussy?  He could make you blush harder and demand to know these things, but he wants to take this slow, so he kisses you instead, murmurs his thanks, calls you a good girl for answering his questions, and when your face lights up at the praise, Dave pushes one thick finger into you and draws the sweetest, throatiest groan from you.

Other men might take you then and there, but Dave only finger-fucks you.  He goes so slow, eases it out, pushes it back in so you feel every goddamned bit of him entering you.  He keeps his thumb firm on your clit, and just the pressure makes you whimper each time he presses a little harder.

He adds a second finger and feels the delicious stretch as your pussy cedes to him.  You’re unbelievably warm, slick, and your pussy twitches and pulses around him each time he breeches the confines of your body.  It’s tight, but you’re nervous, and each bit of praise—good girl, such a good fucking girl for me, just relax and let me make you feel good, baby—makes you unclench a bit more.  You relax, and you find the rhythm that he fingers you, and you lift your hips to meet his fingers.

When he adds a third finger, you hiss at the thickness of it, the tight fit.  He stills, watches your face for any pain, and when he doesn’t see any, he continues.

Three fingers is a good start to preparing you for his cock, he thinks.  He imagines the feel of pushing into you, mounting you, and he imagines your fingers digging into his shoulders as he bottoms out in you.

In due time.  Now he fingers you, he scissors his fingers inside you and feels the answering throb in his erection each time you whine or whimper or groan, the sweetest symphony of sounds he’s able to pull from you.  When he starts circling your clit with his thumb, when he crooks his fingers inside you, pressing gently until he finds the spot that makes you gasp out his name, but you call him Mister York again, and it unlocks something inside him, the power you’re letting him have over you.  He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, right at the pulse point, and you gasp again.  Your other hand flies up and cradles the back of his head, and you twist your fingers through his hair, but you don’t pull him away—you hold him there, and he licks against the dimpled marks he’s left in your skin, he breathes against the wet line on your neck, and he’ll see a lurid bruise there in the morning too that will make him instantly hard.

“You’re going to come for me,” he growls against your neck.  “You’re going to be a good girl and come when I tell you.”

And his mind boggles at the possibilities with you because you do exactly as he says.  You nod at his order, and you press your hips in time to his searching fingers, and he feels when your orgasm approaches because you lose much of your embarrassment.  You swear in a hoarse whisper against his head—oh fuck, D-Dave, fuck fuck fuck, I’m close, I’m gonna, oh, don’t stop—and you spread your legs wider to make room for his hand, and the lurid sound of his hand working against your wetness doesn’t seem to even register to you.  The entire living room smells like sex and you don’t care, and when you gasp and buck your hips up into his hand, he feels your orgasm break around you:  the pulse of your cunt gripping his fingers, the hot slick of cum that coats his hand, the way your body shakes under his.

He fingers you through it.  He draws out your pleasure until you shove at him lightly, tell him it’s too much, and he stops.  He feels the tension of your orgasm—the arching body, the trembling—leave you, and you lay underneath him, sated and heavy with your release.

Dave draws his hand out from under your clothing, and he straightens the hem of your sweater where it rode up a bit.  Then he fixes you with an unblinking stare and lifts his hand to his mouth, and he smiles at your shocked expression as he licks his fingers clean.  Then, with the taste of you on his lips, he lowers his head and kisses you again—deep and slow, so you can taste yourself too.

“Good girl,” he tells you when he breaks the kiss.  “You’re going to be such a good girl for me.”

[kugisaaki]

hung out w my best friend after moooooooonths and i was in such a good mood but now my mom tells me that we have people coming over????

[pinkanonhopes]

feeling weird rn but its okay. sometimes all you need is a shower.

[classicjdiesandgoestohell]

todays actually been pretty ok. at least the last 3 hours. its kinda funny i slept for 2 hours and feel totally fine 8 hours of being awake

here is a thing i doodled this morning (colours look WAY better on computers/more accurate pixel screens)

[an-angrygod]

The feeling when you havnt had a serious depressive episode, and think yeah I’m not a fan of existential but I finally don’t wanna kill myself, only for it to appear when u least expect it.

I hate it. I hate everything really but I hate it the most. And I hate how good I am at hiding that.

[fabulouslygaybean]

turns out that eating breakfast after taking the meds you should eat with food is a good idea

[drysauce]

fellas i can't believe im saying it but i started considering going home for the weekend

[nomaishuttle]

guys remind me to watch la bamba later

[125storejuice]

.

[aeide-thea]

the eternal, often-unsuccessful struggle to separate 'hm i personally am not enjoying Thing because it smacks of Unpleasantness to me' from 'i actually dislike Thing because it's Inherently Problematic, amazing how my personal taste is an unfailing radar that way' 😔

[ienvieu]

the irony that is me loving my parents and still them being the two people i am the least honest to and feel the least safe with my secrets

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Month 4, day 27, decided to give Knell a Rheddig mask to see how it looks and, uh, as it turns out, I made her head too tall XD I also need to get more references for the mask, because I think I didn't a few details quite right. Namely the shape and curve of the beak and the eye motifs. But that's okay! This is a learning process, and the mask is in its own group so I can hide the whole thing without losing it lol

[pollen]

i'm so.... sad. listless. restless. uncomfortable today. body image down the drain. satisfaction with my life nonexistent. joy for the day flew away before it even landed. what the hell

[polkadots-notstripes]

Feeling a lot of weird emotions today