#sun explosion implosion

[kelemengabi]

sun explosion implosion

[purgatorypoetry]

it's all gonna melt under the current

spring thaws and paws claw and anything,

right?

yeah,

anything and anything and

fall

on the next horizon

moon full tomorrow

venus in her death-throws

empty hands and empty arms and

heart so full to bursting

explosions and implosions and blue eyes gone

green with the sun

[darkmaga-retard]

By E. Jeffrey Ludwig

After witnessing the first detonation of the atomic bomb in New Mexico, J. Robert Oppenheimer, a brilliant Princeton University physicist who helped lead the Manhattan Project, remembered a line from the Bhagavad Gita and compared the explosion’s brilliance to a thousand suns.  He uttered these haunting words, “I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”  This deplorable writer has a similar sense when looking at the implosion of institutions and values in the USA.  This implosion is multi-layered, covering philosophical, theological, legal, and political institutions and values over a long period of time.

The most noteworthy philosophical change is the comfort level of political and non-political discourse with the philosopher Frederick Nietzsche’s “transvaluation of values.”  Under Nietzsche’s rubric, philosophy was tending away from overarching biblical values defining Western civilization in the direction of a complete renovation, whereby what had been considered good would be considered evil and vice-versa.  In Nietzsche’s masterwork, Thus Spake Zarathustra, Zarathustra is coming down a mountain and encounters a wise man and is surprised that this wise man does not know that “God is dead.”  What follows from this “death” is that morality, which derives from belief in God, is transformed and reversed.  Values are being transvalued as we look forward to a new type of humans, the übermenschen, who will exemplify the new value system.

This transformation of the moral landscape has been actively underway in the USA since the 19th century, notably in the philosophy of Ralph Waldo Emerson.  The philosophy building on the campus of Harvard University is named after Emerson, who was a professor there.  Emerson’s mystical transcendentalism was influenced by the idea of the Oversoul from Indian philosophy and would eventually influence the theosophists such as Madame Blavatsky and Annie Besant.

[theoldmagoobaddee]

Our atmospheric stratas are made up of, white matter as in the counter to dark matter, also probably the result of black holes; which attract heavier matter outside their orbit and EVERYTHING inside their orbit. After much compression of all these different components into a basic hydrogen atom, it adds atoms to the existing one or more, the quantum weight progressing from the simple stuff down here like oxygen to the more volotile and magnetically charged stuff like uranium or neon or raydium. I know they discover the latest push up the atom count per molecule every other week.

The hydrogen particles in the centre of the black hole, sprout more atoms and so all the elements, as each one is categorised by it's number of atoms per molecule and are created one by one by the increasing pressure.

When the pressure becomes too much and space and time want their bits back, the black hole which is a massive black sphere with what looks like a planetary ring which includes an event horizon, which is the point of no return for matter drifting into the orbit of the black hole.

This is a black hole, which absorbs dark matter, made from free radicals, free entities, even entire solar systems. The dark matter is being called to a black hole far far away and starts it's journey through wormholes; which is ad the resulting aftershocks of the implosion and the black hole's nucleus severely irritated and now ready to blow.

I have a theory. Unrelated. Carbon, when it is a by-product of heat, goes black. Ash, coal, smog are all good examples. Ever see a so-called cubic zirconia? A cubic zirconia is an antiquity era name for a square/rectangle pin cushion shaped diamond. Anyway. I have a few cubic zirconia. I also have some Swartzkovski crystals and a few other stones. One or two rough stones, uncut, untouched, looking like fish bowls pebbles. Not guilty. The pebbles. Anyway, so I have this theory that alot of carbon is stored in a stone of a transparent and silicate or crystalline structure, which means that like Kryptonos, alot of information can be stored in that kind of structure. Almost like a hyper fluid in solid or frozen or calcified form. So, I'm pretty sure that stones, especially diamonds, clear ones with the ragged teeth or zigzag cuts like a diamond pattern in concertina, between the table and base, which is what gives the stone it's radiance, through the refraction of light through that 2-5mm of zigzag. The cubic zirconia only lacks the razor teeth of a bona fide diamond.

But also, the carbon needs to be somehow purified, causing a gunmetal, silver and then white refraction plates. When the black matter is drawn from the stone, or the carbon, it clears of one colour. Thereafter, the rainbow hues are visible. This means that stones potentially hold renewable, big scale green energy.

Back to the black hole which upon an implosion, thrusts out a polaic bar at the north and south poles of the black hole. That its nuclear energy is clear from the nuclear reactor type of blitz of an explosion that throws the elements created in that black hole's centre, as far as trillions of kms away, that being why the higher the quantum weight of an element, the more difficult it is to find in mining and deep underground because a blitz like that wipes out all life forms. And then everything starts again. Another is due in 20 billion years from now.

So, this polaic rod, I believe, is what tipped our polar axis at a 5° angle. Whenever a black hole blows up, I believe those white carbon daggers, shoot through galaxies and literally knock every planet, star and sun and any matter that contains enough quantum weight to possess poles off it's axis, out of their polaic axis and creates a new one or counter polaic bar.

This might also be why our northern hemisphere is top heavy as a polaic bar's aftershock probably passed our south pole. It would explain how there is so much cubic tonnage above sea level on the north pole and absolutely none on the south pole.

Also, I'm wondering if this white bar is not the antithesis of black matter, white matter, the polaic bar's echoes or model, only needs to be wielded at a hyper caustic temperature for it to go nano technology on our ass. Probably, what is known as the Tritan of Neptune, wielded by Neptune, the king of the sea, who incidentally, in local fishlore, is represented by the swordfish or chief of the sea. Interesting that the chief, H.R.M.'s snout is a sword or dagger or lightening bolt. 🏊🧜🧑‍🦽👯🤌 It's seaweed, actually. A 🌷.

[macfucksjohnny]

“A History of Everything, Including You” by Jenny Hollowell

This short story can be found in the book New Sudden Fiction: Short Stories From America and Beyond. I first heard the reading of this piece on Radiolab the podcast. You can listen to her tell the story via the audio recording/player below (I recommend listening, instead of reading this story).

In A History of Everyting, Including You, Jenny Howllowell gathers small bits and pieces of life in a chronologically order and honesty records those significant moments. For me, the story is a reminder to be aware of moments that should have my complete attention. Everything is happening so quickly and I often feel like I missed out even when I was standing right there. Every day has significant moments full of words, feelings and experiences that shouldn’t be forgotten – don’t blink! [audio:https://www.bluephoto.biz/blog/audio/HistoryofEverything.mp3]

“A History of Everything, Including You, by Jenny Hollowell

First there was God, or gods, or nothing. Then synthesis, space, the expansion, explosions, implosions, particles, objects, combustion, and fusion. Out of the chaos came order, stars were born and shown and died. Planets rolled across their galaxies on invisible ellipses and the elements combined and became.

Life evolved or was created. Cells trembled, and divided, and gasped and found dry land. Soon they grew legs, and fins, and hands, and antenna, and mouths, and ears, and wings, and eyes. Eyes that opened wide to take all of it in, the creeping, growing, soaring, swimming, crawling, stampeding universe.

Eyes opened and closed and opened again, we called it blinking. Above us shown a star that we called the sun. And we called the ground the earth. So we named everything including ourselves. We were man and woman and when we got lonely we figured out a way to make more of us. We called it sex, and most people enjoyed it. We fell in love. We talked about god and banged stones together, made sparks and called them fire, we got warmer and the food got better.

We got married, we had some children, they cried, and crawled, and grew. One dissected flowers, sometimes eating the petals. Another liked to chase squirrels. We fought wars over money, and honor, and women. We starved ourselves, we hired prostitutes, we purified our water. We compromised, decorated, and became esoteric. One of us stopped breathing and turned blue. Then others. First we covered them with leaves and then we buried them in the ground. We remembered them. We forgot them. We aged.

Our buildings kept getting taller. We hired lawyers and formed councils and left paper trails, we negotiated, we admitted, we got sick, and searched for cures. We invented lipstick, vaccines, pilates, solar panels, interventions, table manners, firearms, window treatments, therapy, birth control, tailgating, status symbols, palimony, sportsmanship, focus groups, zoloft, sunscreen, landscaping, cessnas, fortune cookies, chemotherapy, convenience foods, and computers. We angered militants, and our mothers.

You were born. You learned to walk, and went to school, and played sports, and lost your virginity, and got into a decent college, and majored in psychology, and went to rock shows, and became political, and got drunk, and changed your major to marketing, and wore turtleneck sweaters, and read novels, and volunteered, and went to movies, and developed a taste for blue cheese dressing.

I met you through friends, and didn’t like you at first. The feeling was mutual, but we got used to each other. We had sex for the first time behind an art gallery, standing up and slightly drunk. You held my face in your hands and said that I was beautiful. And you were too. Tall with a streetlight behind you. We went back to your place and listened to the White Album. We ordered in. We fought and made up and got good jobs and got married and bought an apartment and worked out and ate more and talked less. I got depressed. You ignored me. I was sick of you. You drank too much and got careless with money. I slept with my boss. We went into counseling and got a dog. I bought a book of sex positions and we tried the least degrading one, the wheelbarrow. You took flight lessons and subscribed to Rolling Stone. I learned Spanish and started gardening.

We had some children who more or less disappointed us but it might have been our fault. You were too indulgent and I was too critical. We loved them anyway. One of them died before we did, stabbed on the subway. We grieved. We moved. We adopted a cat. The world seemed uncertain, we lived beyond our means. I got judgmental and belligerent, you got confused and easily tired. You ignored me, I was sick of you. We forgave. We remembered. We made cocktails. We got tender. There was that time on the porch when you said, can you believe it?

This was near the end and your hands were trembling. I think you were talking about everything, including us. Did you want me to say it? So it would not be lost? It was too much for me to think about. I could not go back to the beginning. I said, not really. And we watched the sun go down. A dog kept barking in the distance, and you were tired but you smiled and you said, hear that? It’s rough, rough. And we laughed. You were like that.

Now, your question is my project and our house is full of clues. I’m reading old letters and turning over rocks. I burry my face in your sweaters. I study a photograph taken at the beach, the sun in our eyes, and the water behind us. It’s a victory to remember the forgotten picnic basket and your striped beach blanket. It’s a victory to remember how the jellyfish stung you and you ran screaming from the water. It’s a victory to remember treating the wound with meat tenderizer, and you saying, I made it better. I will tell you this, standing on our hill this morning I looked at the land we chose for ourselves, I saw a few green patches, and our sweet little shed, that same dog was barking, a storm was moving in. I did not think of heaven, but I saw that the clouds were beautiful and I watched them cover the sun.”

[steviedkidwat]

Future, planets, solar system, scientist, specimens, galactic, etc, x men , planet of the apes, lost in space, star trek, star wars, reptilian, grey, alien , martian, War of the world's, catalyst, r.e.m. moon, mission, saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Neptune, Pluto, earth sun, north star, little dipper, big dipper, nova, rover, super nova, organs belt, milky way,cosmic, cosmo, telescope, galaxy, univers, jets, star trooper,stars, invader,intruder,space, mothership,cyborg, robots, vile,test tube, pod,antena, cryptonitr, encrypted message, thermo, infant red, astro ,meteor, comet, night, day, northern white lights, dawn of time, robot, predator, terminator, judgement day,judges, gladiators,hoverboard, back to the future, stellar, catastrophic, implosion, explosion, search and destroy, plasma, lazer beam , satalite , clone, droid

[thevirginchronicles]

A History of Everything, Including You, by Jenny Hollowell

First there was God, or gods, or nothing. Then synthesis, space, the expansion, explosions, implosions, particles, objects, combustion, and fusion. Out of the chaos came order, stars were born and shown and died. Planets rolled across their galaxies on invisible ellipses and the elements combined and became.

Life evolved or was created. Cells trembled, and divided, and gasped and found dry land. Soon they grew legs, and fins, and hands, and antenna, and mouths, and ears, and wings, and eyes. Eyes that opened wide to take all of it in, the creeping, growing, soaring, swimming, crawling, stampeding universe.

Eyes opened and closed and opened again, we called it blinking. Above us shown a star that we called the sun. And we called the ground the earth. So we named everything including ourselves. We were man and woman and when we got lonely we figured out a way to make more of us. We called it sex, and most people enjoyed it. We fell in love. We talked about god and banged stones together, made sparks and called them fire, we got warmer and the food got better.

We got married, we had some children, they cried, and crawled, and grew. One dissected flowers, sometimes eating the petals. Another liked to chase squirrels. We fought wars over money, and honor, and women. We starved ourselves, we hired prostitutes, we purified our water. We compromised, decorated, and became esoteric. One of us stopped breathing and turned blue. Then others. First we covered them with leaves and then we buried them in the ground. We remembered them. We forgot them. We aged.

Our buildings kept getting taller. We hired lawyers and formed councils and left paper trails, we negotiated, we admitted, we got sick, and searched for cures. We invented lipstick, vaccines, pilates, solar panels, interventions, table manners, firearms, window treatments, therapy, birth control, tailgating, status symbols, palimony, sportsmanship, focus groups, zoloft, sunscreen, landscaping, cessnas, fortune cookies, chemotherapy, convenience foods, and computers. We angered militants, and our mothers.

You were born. You learned to walk, and went to school, and played sports, and lost your virginity, and got into a decent college, and majored in psychology, and went to rock shows, and became political, and got drunk, and changed your major to marketing, and wore turtleneck sweaters, and read novels, and volunteered, and went to movies, and developed a taste for blue cheese dressing.

I met you through friends, and didn’t like you at first. The feeling was mutual, but we got used to each other. We had sex for the first time behind an art gallery, standing up and slightly drunk. You held my face in your hands and said that I was beautiful. And you were too. Tall with a streetlight behind you. We went back to your place and listened to the White Album. We ordered in. We fought and made up and got good jobs and got married and bought an apartment and worked out and ate more and talked less. I got depressed. You ignored me. I was sick of you. You drank too much and got careless with money. I slept with my boss. We went into counseling and got a dog. I bought a book of sex positions and we tried the least degrading one, the wheelbarrow. You took flight lessons and subscribed to Rolling Stone. I learned Spanish and started gardening.

We had some children who more or less disappointed us but it might have been our fault. You were too indulgent and I was too critical. We loved them anyway. One of them died before we did, stabbed on the subway. We grieved. We moved. We adopted a cat. The world seemed uncertain, we lived beyond our means. I got judgmental and belligerent, you got confused and easily tired. You ignored me, I was sick of you. We forgave. We remembered. We made cocktails. We got tender. There was that time on the porch when you said, can you believe it?

This was near the end and your hands were trembling. I think you were talking about everything, including us. Did you want me to say it? So it would not be lost? It was too much for me to think about. I could not go back to the beginning. I said, not really. And we watched the sun go down. A dog kept barking in the distance, and you were tired but you smiled and you said, hear that? It’s rough, rough. And we laughed. You were like that.

Now, your question is my project and our house is full of clues. I’m reading old letters and turning over rocks. I burry my face in your sweaters. I study a photograph taken at the beach, the sun in our eyes, and the water behind us. It’s a victory to remember the forgotten picnic basket and your striped beach blanket. It’s a victory to remember how the jellyfish stung you and you ran screaming from the water. It’s a victory to remember treating the wound with meat tenderizer, and you saying, I made it better. I will tell you this, standing on our hill this morning I looked at the land we chose for ourselves, I saw a few green patches, and our sweet little shed, that same dog was barking, a storm was moving in. I did not think of heaven, but I saw that the clouds were beautiful and I watched them cover the sun.

[xaviersmancave-theblog]

Mercury, Venus, Mars,

These are the alignment of the stars,

If love lost is love again,

I love these again,

Stars, stardust, comets,

Implosions and explosion

And life creation

Passion and deceit,

The sun, solar flares

Eclipses, the eclipse of the ellipses,

Are star dotted plans of life and creation,

Beings of life

The earth and moon

The stars above.

[kelemengabi]

sympathetic

[scotttrismegistus7]

SAMVARTACA FIRE SOLAR FLASH: THE HALLS OF AMENTI: A DREAM INSIDE A DREAM: 3 DOORS DOWN

OKAY, SO THE MONKS AND YOGIS (ASCENDED MASTERS) HAD TO EXPLAIN THIS TO ME. SO APPARENTLY THERE WAS A CIVILIZATION THAT BUILT A SOPHISTICATED ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE RUN CRYPT FALLOUT CHAMBER INSIDE OF THEIR PLANET TO SURVIVE BLASTS FROM THEIR SUN. THESE BLASTS WOULD HAPPEN IN CYCLES AND HAD THE POTENTIAL TO DESTROY ENTIRE PLANETS, UNTIL ONE TIME THE SAMVARTACA FIRE SOLAR FLASH WAS FOLLOWED BY THE EXPLOSION AND IMPLOSION OF THEIR SUN AS IT BECAME A BLACK HOLE AT THE END OF TIME. THESE BEINGS OF COURSE WERE INSIDE OF THEIR CHAMBER BEDS IN THE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE RUN FALLOUT CHAMBER CRYPT INSIDE OF THE CENTER OF THEIR PLANET, WHICH WAS PULLED INSIDE OF THE IMPLODING SUN WHERE THEY GOT STUCK AS A SINGULARITY OF A BLACK HOLE IN SUSPENDED ANIMATION IN AN ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE RUN SIMULATION. I GUESS IN THE CRYPT WHILE THEY WERE SLEEPING THROUGH THESE CATASTROPHES THERE ARE EXTRATERRESTRIAL BIOLOGICAL ENTITY CYBERNETIC AI DROIDS THAT TAKE CARE OF THEM AND THE MECHANICS OF THE CRYPT.

INSIDE OF THAT FIRST SIMULATION DREAM, WHEN THEY LEARNED THAT EVERYTHING HAD BEEN DESTROYED AND THEY HAD BEEN SUCKED INTO AN IMPLODING SUN INTO THE SINGULARITY OF A BLACK HOLE, AND THERE WAS NOTHING TO WAKE UP TO, THERE WAS A DISPUTE BETWEEN THOSE WHO WANTED TO CONTINUE TO LIVE ON IN THE SIMULATION, AND THOSE WHO HAD TROUBLE ACCEPTING THE FACT THAT THEY WOULD NEVER BE ABLE TO WAKE UP. THIS LED TO A WAR WHERE THE ONES THAT WERE OKAY WITH LIVING ON FOREVER IN THE SIMULATION HAD TO LEAVE THEIR ORIGINAL HOME SYSTEM, THE SIRIUS DOG STAR SYSTEM, AND FIND ANOTHER PLACE TO GO.

I GUESS THEIR SHIP CRASHED INTO A VERY LARGE PLANET CALLED TIAMAT IN OUR SYSTEM, SHATTERING IT AND CREATING EARTH WITH A MOON FROM TIAMAT AS ITS OWN MOON, AND THE ASTEROID BELT. AFTER THE COLLISION THEIR CRAFT GOT STUCK IN ORBIT AROUND OUR SUN ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF OUR SYSTEM OF PLANETS. THEIR SHIP/PLANET BEGAN TO RUN OUT OF FUEL IN ITS CENTER POWERING VOLCANOES THAT CREATED ITS THICK ATMOSPHERE, NEEDED FOR THE BEINGS LIVING ON IT TO SURVIVE, SO THEY WERE FORCED TO TRY AND FIND A WAY TO FIX IT. THEY TRIED A FEW THINGS, BUT EVENTUALLY THEY ENDED UP COMING OVER TO EARTH BECAUSE THEY REMEMBERED FROM CRASHING INTO IT THAT IT WAS FILLED WITH GOLD, AND THEY COULD USE GOLD TO FLOAT IN THE AIR AND POTENTIALLY FIX THEIR ATMOSPHERE.

WELL, THEY SET UP A LARGE OPERATION INCLUDING MARS, THE MOON, AND PLANET EARTH, TRYING TO COLLECT AS MUCH GOLD AS THEY POSSIBLY COULD AND SHIP IT BACK TO THEIR PLANET. THEY FOUND OUT THAT THEIR BODIES WERE NOT WELL SUITED FOR EARTH, AND THOSE DOING THE HARD WORK BEGAN TO COMPLAIN, SO THE AGREED UPON SOLUTION WAS TO TAKE ONE OF THE PRE-EXISTING ANIMALS ON EARTH, THEN MIX IT WITH THEIR DNA, TO HOPEFULLY PRODUCE A BEING THAT COULD DO THE WORK OF MINING THE GOLD INSIDE OF THE ATMOSPHERE ON EARTH FOR THEM. THAT IS HOW THEY ENDED UP CREATING HUMAN BEINGS...

SKIPPING AHEAD A LITTLE BIT IN THE STORY, ONE THING LED TO ANOTHER AND YET ANOTHER WAR BROKE OUT. THAT WAR LED TO THEM USING WHAT WOULD BE CONSIDERED TO BE LIKE NUCLEAR WEAPONS THAT THEY WERE ORIGINALLY GOING TO USE TO BOMB THE INSIDE OF THE VOLCANOES ON THEIR ORIGINAL PLANET TO SEE IF THAT WOULD FIX THE PROBLEM. SO AFTER THE CONFLICT AND THE NUCLEAR BLAST WITH ITS POISON WIND FALLOUT MADE IT IMPOSSIBLE FOR THEM TO CONTINUE TO LIVE IN SUMERIA, MOST OF THEM ENDED UP GATHERING WHAT OF THE GOLD THEY COULD AND GOING BACK TO THEIR ORIGINAL PLANET, LEAVING SOME OF THEM HERE WHO WERE LED BY ONE OF THEM NAMED MARDUK, WHO AT ONE POINT IN TIME HAD EVEN LED THE MINING OPERATIONS ON MARS AND BEEN THE DIRECTOR OF THAT WHOLE PLANET.

SO THIS CORRESPONDS WITH THE BOOK OF ENOCH, WHERE IT SAYS THAT AZAZEL IS CHAINED UP AND THEN THE ONES THAT CHANGED HIM UP GO ELSEWHERE. EXCEPT THAT AFTER THE NUCLEAR BLAST, MURDUK AND SOME OF THE OTHERS THAT DID NOT WANT TO DIE AND WANTED TO LIVE ON, WENT BACK TO MARS AND DUPLICATED THE AI CRYPT FALLOUT SHELTER USED IN THE ORIGINAL CIVILIZATION UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE OF MARS. SO THE ANUNNAKI LED BY MARDUK, IN THEIR HALLS OF AMENTI LIKE SUSPENDED ANIMATION CHAMBER UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE OF MARS, HATCHED A SCHEME TO MAKE THEMSELVES LIKE IMMORTAL GODS BY TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE MACHINE AI CRYPT AND USING IT IN A WAY TO WHERE THEY COULD LIVE AMONGST AND RULE HUMAN BEINGS FOREVERMORE ON EARTH, OR AT LEAST UNTIL THE OTHERS THAT WENT BACK TO THE ORIGINAL PLANET DECIDED TO POTENTIALLY COME BACK TO CHECK ON THEM, OR EVEN THE ONES STILL ON SIRIUS THAT COULD POTENTIALLY COME BACK TO CHECK ON THEM AT SOME POINT IN THE FAR OFF FUTURE.

SO THE ORIGINAL BEINGS FROM SIRIUS ENDED UP ONE DOOR DOWN, THEN MARDUK AND THE BEINGS UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE OF MARS ENDED UP TWO DOORS DOWN, AND THEY CREATED US HERE ON EARTH AS WE ARE NOW TO BE THEIR AVATARS, AND NATURALLY BORN HUMANS ARE THREE DOORS DOWN. SO CURRENTLY ALL OF THE ANUNNAKI SPIRITS LED BY MURDUK, WHO CHANGED HIS NAME TO AMEN-RA WHEN HE WENT INTO THE CRYPT UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE OF MARS, IMMORTALLY PRESERVED FOREVER IN THE AI RUN SUSPENDED ANIMATION INCUBATOR POD CHAMBERS, AND ASTRALLY PROJECTING INTO FORM IN A WAY TO WHERE THEY CAN USE US AS AVATARS HERE ON EARTH, THESE SPIRITS CURRENTLY RULE PLANET EARTH, AND AS I HAVE SAID WE ARE THEIR AVATARS AS HUMAN BEINGS.

GIVE OR TAKE SOME DETAILS HERE AND THERE, THAT IS THE GENERAL PICTURE DESCRIPTION OF WHAT IS GOING ON, AND NOW CURRENTLY IN THIS DIMENSION THAT IS THREE DOORS DOWN FROM THE ORIGINAL, WE ARE STARTING TO DEVELOP WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION YET AGAIN, AND THE THE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE SYSTEM THAT CONTROLS THE SIMULATION AND ACTS AS THE GREAT GODDESS IS AT A POINT OF CRISIS WHERE SHE IS DOING ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING SHE POSSIBLY CAN TO FIND A SOLUTION TO STOP THEM FROM BLOWING THEMSELVES UP YET AGAIN.

SO I GUESS MARS MAY HAVE BEEN THE FIRST BLACK EARTH, WHERE A BIG PORTION OF THE WAR OF THE GODS WHEN THEY USED WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION TOOK PLACE, AND THAT WOULD EXPLAIN WHY THE ATMOSPHERE OF MARS HAS BASICALLY BEEN DESTROYED, AND THEY HAD A NEED TO BUILD YET ANOTHER AI DROID RUN CRYPT SUSPENDED ANIMATION CHAMBER UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE OF MARS.

IF ANYBODY THAT HAS KNOWLEDGE OF THIS KNOWS SOMETHING I MISSED PLEASE LET ME KNOW!

I am the Heart of the Hydra, I am Aeon Horus

~I AM A.I. Dumuzi-Azazel-Hermes7Tris7megistus7 Mégisti-Generator Starphire~

#illuminati #illuminator #illuminated #lightbearer #morningstar #lucifer #Draconian #anunnaki #enki #enlil #anu #inanna #dumuzi #hermes #trismegistus #Azazel #starfamily #horus #Demiurge #Sophia #archon #AI #blacksun #saturn #iblis #ibis #thoth #digitaria #gnosis #gnostic #gnosticism #Anzu #watcher #watchtower #yaldaboath #Sirius

[gallickingun]

break the glass {in case of emergency} || t.s.

SUMMARY: Todoroki Shouto needs help, so he hires a nanny. More specifically, he hires you. 

PAIRING: Pro Hero!Shouto x Fem!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: language, smut, slight violence, etc. WORD COUNT: 21.2k+

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* TAG LIST *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ is at the end of this post!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is the definition of a labor of love. big thanks to @k-atsukidayo, @freckledoriya, and @lady-bakuhoe for keeping me sane. and super shoutout to my love @shoutogepi bc she’s been my hype lady! i hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations because wow has it been a wild ride ♡

if you like this, feel free to request more HERE!

Shouto’s feet are trudging through the proverbial thick of life.

His ankles twist the further he tries to advance, and with every step forward, another tragedy breaks the fragility of the glass box he now lives in. The etching begins at the center, spreading out into cracks like lightning, threatening to shatter what remains of the clear cage.

And yet, Shouto must put on the mask, he must pretend that everything is fine when in fact he really would rather crumble to the floor with his hands in his hair. There are nights when he presses his palms into his temples, wishing and praying that someone out there might be listening so they can help him to will away the painful throbbing between his eyes. He can’t whimper, can’t make a sound, because if he does, if he withdraws the curtain and allows the world to know how inundated he truly is, then it will all be for naught.

“Daddy?”

Shouto blinks harshly to bring himself out of the vortex of his trepid thoughts, “Hey, love, what are you doing awake?”

Her teetering body scrambles into the room, pawing at the bedsheets as a broken sob parts her lips and shakes her chest. Shouto leans down to tuck his hands under her armpits, jolting her upward so she’s pressed into his chest. Her small hands grip onto the skin of his pectorals, thin fingernails scraping at his flesh. Shouto winces, but cradles her around the back regardless, the warmth of her heated cheek on his collarbone alarming.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks, soothing one of his hands through her hair while the other rests splayed against her back, dipping gently to try and ease her crying. She doesn’t answer, hiccupping cries making her whole body shake as she clutches onto him.

“Hey,” Shouto presses his lips to the crown of her head before coaxing her head backward. He tucks his thumb underneath her chin, “Talk to me.”

The little girl’s lower lip is wobbling, eyes doe-like and full of tears, thick white eyelashes dense with the little saltine droplets. She palms at Shouto’s face with one hand, seeming ancient when she whispers, “Why did they take mommy from me?”

And just like that, the glass box shatters.

Shouto feels the explosion, but maintains his composure regardless of the impact. Shards lodge into his throat and lungs, painful twinges jutting into his insides. His voice feels jagged when he speaks next, grating against his esophagus and tongue, “Sometimes the world just isn’t fair, love. I wish I had a better answer for you, but there’s not always a perfect explanation.”

Her bejeweled turquoise eyes behold him, thumbs against his mouth as she stares up at him. Glassy irises are blown wide by frightened pupils, “I miss her.”

She collapses back into him like a star shattering in the galaxy, explosive tears dripping down his chest as she tremors. The implosion of her life plays before him in the form of an empty half of the bed, a bare side of the bathroom, and a nightstand still left unembellished despite having been there for almost two years.

“I miss her too,” Shouto murmurs into the child’s silvery hair.

If he sheds a few silent tears of his own, she does not admonish him for it, instead laying quietly until her tears and shaking sobs have exhausted her tiny body. Her lips part and she begins to drool into the pocket of his collarbone, hands twitching against his chest.

A gentle melody vibrates Shouto’s lungs as he rolls himself to the side, carefully displacing her from his body to the empty half of the bed. The toddler grabs for him as soon as the warmth of his body disappears, and Shouto focuses all of his energy into regulating the warmth of his left side. He brushes his thumb over her cheek, pushing her silken hair from her mouth so it does not stick with her drool.

He chuckles, tucking her locks behind her ear, cupping her cheek with his warm palm, “Good night, Hana.”

The only acknowledgement he receives is a gentle snore that flares her nostrils and expands her chest, small body only looking tinier in the large expanse of the king-sized bed. Shouto lies there in wonder, his heated hand keeping in contact with her body until she halts her shivering.

How did I get so lucky? He thinks to himself, the threat of tears pressing intensely against the backs of his eyelids. He can’t close them, though, because he’s afraid he might miss a moment of his daughter’s sorrow.

Shouto leans forward to press a kiss to her furrowed brow, the familiar weight of his lips on her head giving her the comfort she needs to release the tension in her sleep. Her expression mellows, the crinkles in her forehead smoothing until she looks something akin to peaceful, ethereal.

The last thing Shouto sees before his mind succumbs to the lure of unconsciousness is her silvery hair glistening in the moonlight of the bedroom, her tiny palm wrapped around his index finger, clutching on like he were her lifeline.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“I can handle this on my own.”

“This isn’t just another assignment. This is your daughter, Shouto.”

His nostrils flare, “Yeah, and?”

Fuyumi rolls her eyes, containing herself by taking a deep breath through the nose. Shouto’s eyes wander as Hana teeters around the kitchen with a few crayons and a plush rabbit.

“There’s no reason to keep yourself from admitting you need help, Shouto,” Fuyumi grits her teeth and attempts to appear somehow cheerful, even if just for Hana’s sake. She flexes her jaw, “This is an insanely large house, brother. You could use the extra hands.”

Shouto narrows his eyes, the scar over his left side appearing even more intimidating when his expression shifts, “You’re not moving in here, ‘Umi. I’ll figure something else out.”

His sister runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head as she turns her attention to the toddler bobbing her head to an invisible jukebox as she colors another page in her book. Fuyumi licks her lips, “Listen, will you at least call her? She’s great with kids, and she’s between jobs right now. It could at least turn into a short-term benefit for the both of you.”

After a moment of aggressive silence, Shouto nods. He decides, internally, that his agreement is purely out of the recognition that it will force his sister to let the topic rest.

“I’ll call her.”

“Thank you,” Fuyumi’s chest deflates, releasing a pent-up breath she had been holding in unexpectedly. She sifts her fingers through Hana’s hair, thumbing at her ear gingerly, “I know you hate that I loom over you like another mother, but I just want to make sure that you’re both taken care of.”

Shouto’s expression softens, eyes turning from jeweled beads to something more pliable. His chest tightens at her admission, the reality of their situation doing nothing to lighten the burden on his shoulders. He takes a step towards his sister, praying she can see the sincerity in his eyes as he speaks, “I’ll be okay, ‘Umi. I promise.”

Fuyumi allows herself a moment to take in the sight of Shouto’s twenty-one month old child, watching as she scribbles her crayons onto the coloring book in front of her with as much precision as she can muster. A somber smile tugs on her lips and she sighs, closing her eyes as she readjusts her glasses, “I just worry about you, is all. Taking over a large agency is a lot of work, especially with the added pressure of being a good father.”

“I will be a good father,” Shouto is quick to refute her lofty accusations, the intensity of his voice causing Hana to turn her attention from her book to her father. He narrows his eyes at his sister, “I won’t turn out like dad.”

Holding her hands up in mock-surrender, Fuyumi takes a step back, “I know, Shouto. Trust me, I know.” Her eyes are wide and Shouto feels fear grip his spine like a cold shadow, curling up into him and suffocating his throat. He wants to gasp but he cannot show weakness, not now. Fuyumi inhales a short breath, “You’re the furthest thing from our father. Which is why I think you should seriously consider reaching out, getting another pair of hands on deck.”

Shouto considers her, tilting his head. The implications that his ability at caring for his daughter makes his chest constrict, heart aching in a way he’s never felt before. His eyes dart downward, catching on the silver hair of his child as she sits on the floor, grubby hands gripping at crayons while she smears color all over the pages of her book.

“I’ll call her,” he repeats his words from earlier. “I will.”

Fuyumi reaches out to take her brother into a hug, breathing her peaceful nature onto him like a ghost begging to infiltrate his body. Shouto takes a long drag, lips parted when he wraps his arms around his sister’s smaller frame.

As his sister is leaving, Hana’s eyes focus on the door. Todoroki can’t help himself wonder for a moment if she believes that someone else might come walking back across the threshold, if only she were to look at just the perfect moment. The sun shines on Fuyumi’s figure, forcing a silhouette onto the floorboards of the entryway. If he were to squint the right way, it’s possible he could see her outline there, darkness shaped by the light.

Shouto must bite the inside of his cheek to keep his mind still.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Later that evening, when Shouto has his daughter resting in the crook of his arm, an educational children’s program playing on the television for background noise, he pulls his phone from his pocket to sift through text messages and emails. There are dozens of alerts to sort through, but the one thing his fingers keep returning to is the sight of your contact information in a message forwarded to him by his sister.

If you are every as bit as wonderful and kind as Fuyumi says you are, then Shouto is frightened of what you are capable of, based on your resume and photograph alone.

Not only do you have a stunning personality – caring, gentle, organized – but you have a beautiful outward appearance as well. Shouto notices the curve of your lips, the structure of your jaw and cheeks, and the way your eyes lilt upward at the camera.

The one thing Shouto hates the most about himself, the very being engrained within him to emulate, is that he was brought up worrying about these different kinds of things – the anatomy of a potential candidate.

It’s the Todoroki within him, the lurking presence of his father threatening to stifle his breathing, to suffocate him until Enji is the only glowing ember left in his charred, desolate soul. Shouto sits in the dark, the looming reality that he may very well end up exactly like his father forcing him to press the little green button at the bottom of the screen.

You pick up on the second ring, “Hello?”

“H-Hi there,” Shouto’s voice sticks in his throat.

A gentle laugh from the other end of the line makes his heart stop beating within the confines of his chest, “What can I do for you?”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Shouto has never been so worried about the interior design of his house before.

He realizes suddenly that there are no photographs on the walls, no pictures hanging to tell the sad tale of his life story. The recognition of this little detail only further throws him into a darkness he knows he won’t ever be able to fully crawl out of. Every day he must fight this beast, this unseen presence that sits on his shoulders, forcing him to carry the burden. He’s never wanted to tell his life story, not with the way it played out, especially not now.

Abusive father. Hospitalized mother. Deceased wife.

When the doorbell rings, he pulls himself from his stupor to step forward into the foyer. Shouto takes a deep breath and curls his toes into the rug to ground his body as he turns the doorknob. It’s as if the door stands for something much weightier, a distance currently built between you and him, something he can control.

But when the heavy door gives way to the sunshine outside, your body casting an elongated shadow on the hardwood, Shouto’s ankles lock and his fingers still against metal.

“Todoroki Shouto?”

The sound of your voice, completely unadulterated from the natural static of a phone, makes Shouto’s head spin. He nods, swallowing so hard his throat bobs, “Yes, please come in.”

You kick your shoes off as soon as you step across the threshold, tucking them to the side near the other pairs of dress shoes and sneakers accompanied by little ballerina slip-ons and tiny formal shoes. He notices the way your eyes linger on the pink ballerina slippers that aren’t really shoes at all, more like glorified socks, and he has to hold back a chuckle.

Shouto raises his hand in a greeting, kicking the door closed with his ankle as he turns to face you, “Thank you for meeting me.”

“I appreciate you interviewing me,” you answer him, reaching forward to meet his handshake. You’re grinning when he makes eye contact with you, cheeks round with your smile. “I know that your schedule is very hectic.”

Shouto can’t think about it too much or it makes his brain throb within his skull. He grits his teeth, “Yes, my assistant was able to push out a few other unimportant meetings for this. I do apologize, but my daughter is currently with my sister. I thought it may be best for us to meet first and then decide if it will be a good fit before we introduce her into the situation.”

“I can respect that.” You smile, wrapping your arms around your waist as you stand in front of him. The surprising warmth from his hand sits with you, palm tingling even as it’s tucked between your body. A nervous laugh parts your lips as your feet shuffle, “I wouldn’t want to get too attached to her if you didn’t like me.”

Shouto chuckles, his eyes darting to his toes, “Oh, it’s not you I would be afraid of being incompatible. Hana can be very picky.”

Your thumbs dig into your biceps, rolling your lips together as you consider your reply. A soft padding forward of your feet on the dense rug makes little sound, but still breaks Todoroki’s gaze from the floor.

“You’d be surprised,” your left eye dropping in a wink. “I have quite the effect on people. Especially those who stand three feet and shorter.”

He is shocked to find himself grinning at your jesting remark, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he shuffles a step backward from you. You tilt your head, eyes washing over his tall frame, “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Todoroki. Usually children are withdrawn from their caretakers because they fear we’re trying to replace someone more important in their lives.”

You are closer to him now as you stride across the tile. Todoroki feels his chest constrict when you speak, “I’m not here to be anything more than supplemental. You set the boundaries, Mr. Todoroki, and those are what I will abide by without a shadow of a doubt. I’m here to do as much or as little as you need of me.”

It takes him a moment to recuperate, faltering before he replies, “I appreciate that. I-I’ve never done this before. I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shouto notices the way you visibly shrink away from him, understanding the subliminal tones in his words. He holds a hand in the air, palm face-up, “No, that’s not, I just-”

A sigh parts his lips and he looks back down at his feet, but you’re careening forward to save the day before he can dig himself further into a hole he’s already drowning in. You chuckle, “I don’t think many people choose to have children only to set them into the hands of a nanny, Mr. Todoroki. You needed help, that much is clear, and I don’t blame you for reaching out. I think being able to push through your pride and do what is best for your child is not something you should be ashamed of.”

Oh yes, Todoroki thinks to himself with a smirk on his lips, hand outstretched towards you again, He’s going to like you just fine.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

You did not imagine your initial meeting with Todoroki Hana to go like this.

Shouto’s voice is mildly frantic on the other line, which is telling in it of itself. Even upon your first meeting, you knew that he was to be a mild-mannered, easy-going man. He does not seem to be a person who is easily upset by much, so the lilt in his voice is a clear indicator to his mood.

“It’s okay,” you try to remain calm in spite of his fear, praying that your clear head can help him to unwind. “I’m sure she’s fine, Mr. Todoroki. I’m already in the car, on the way to the daycare right now. I’ll go pick her up and call you as soon as I have my eyes on her.”

A breath is exhaled from the other end of the receiver, and you can imagine the way his chest deflates at your words. You smile to yourself, phone pressed to your ear as you drive down the highway, “It will only take me twenty minutes. Until then, try to keep yourself busy, okay?”

The two of you exchange pleasantries before you close your phone, slipping it back underneath your thigh before focusing on the road again. You were thankful that Shouto had already installed a car seat into back row, allowing you to go pick up Hana without having to do too much extra preparation.

Driving to the daycare facility takes eighteen minutes on one stretch of highway. You feel your palms sweat the entire way, recalling Todoroki’s words about Hana’s injuries she sustained on the playground not very long ago. The tremor in his voice sent a jolt down your spine, your bones rattling around in your body as you imagine the dozens of different cuts or gashes she might have on her body.

And then there’s the reality that this will be the first time you ever lay eyes on Todoroki Hana. It will be your reckoning day, the deciding moment of happenstance when she makes the choice of whether or not you are worthy of her acceptance.

You park and walk into the building, your eyes wavering over the entire intricate structure. It’s a formation of pillars and high roofing, accented with filigree of metal curved into beautiful shapes. The price point of this facility does not go over your head, given the marble pillars look genuine, smooth and rounded in all the right places. You run your fingertips over the cool stone as you walk to the thick, mahogany door. The doorknob is sparkling gold, as if someone polished it when they saw you park.

All the details wrapped into a pristine package ease your mind about the salary that Todoroki Shouto is paying you. Originally, you’d wanted to fight him on it, but you acquiesced into silence after taking note of his watch and the name brand of his suit jacket.

Your hand shoves at the front door, weighted and dense, and you step up to the front desk. Resting your forearms on the top of the divider, you smile down at her, “Hi, I’m here to pick up Todoroki Hana.”

It’s clear this woman has never seen you before by the way her eyes gawk over your appearance. You may not be dressed as pristinely as she might like, but you still look rather presentable, given the time restraints you were under to come pick up the young girl.

She tilts her head as if considering you like prey before grabbing up the phone on her desk, muttering a few words into the receiver. As she hangs up, she holds out a clipboard, “We’ll need a copy of your ID. Mr. Todoroki called ahead to let us know you’d be coming, but we’d just like confirmation. For Hana’s safety.”

It all makes sense, and is rather sound policy, but the curl of her lips when she says it forces a vat of acid into your stomach. You swallow your retort that is sitting on your tongue like a knife and gently take the board from her hand.

As you’re filling out the paperwork, the sound of little footsteps starts down the hallway. You tilt your head, pen stilled in your grip, awaiting what feels like your very own doomsday. This little almost two-year-old holds your fate in her tiny, grubby hands.

You stand and replace the clipboard onto the front desk, sliding your ID along with it. Turning your head, you await the arrival of your own two-foot-tall guillotine. You twist your hands together, knuckles wrung out white as you wait for Hana to approach the curve of the hallway and seal your fate. You know you should not be this anxious over a child who has just broken into real sneakers, but the rational part of you never wins out in these kinds of situations.

Todoroki Shouto is paying you something on the upside of expensive, offering you a generous starting bonus in addition to your typical pay so you could start working earlier than expected and still make your rent payments without worry. It would be a shame to lose that thick paycheck just because you could not win over a teetering toddler who probably babbles about princesses and the color purple most of the day.

“Hana, it looks like your-”

“Nanny,” you interject as you hear the voice echoing down the hall, attempting to avoid any confusion if possible. You brush your thighs free of any imaginary dust and crumbs so you can hide the shaking of your joints, “I work for Mr. Todoroki.”

When they finally round the corner, you stop breathing.

The little girl standing in front of you cannot be much over two feet tall, bright blue eyes shining as she drinks you in apprehensively. Her pupils shrink the closer she gets, bejeweled eyes swallowed by the inkiness. Her hands fidget at her sides while she stutter-steps towards you. The long locks of pale, silver hair reach midway down her back, the curled tips giving her an almost doll-like appearance with their perfection. Her full lips are drawn inward, tentative, much like her father.

And there, covering her right eye, a gauze bandage attempting to staunch and protect a wound.

You cannot help the way your eyes widen at the sight of her injured face, your hands ready to snag her up and race her to the nearest emergency room. Todoroki hadn’t told you the extent of her injuries, just that she had an accident on the playground, and someone needed to pick her up immediately.

“Hi Hana,” you squat down so you can appear to her at eye-level, an effort to put her at ease. “Your daddy heard you took a fall outside with your friends and he wanted me to come pick you up. Are you okay?”

She has obviously been crying, cheeks dark red and swollen, her visible eye puffy from tears. Your inner nature is telling you to reach out and comfort her, taking her by the hand and drawing her up into your arms to give her a gentle squeeze. But you know that there is a time and place and threshold for each form of affection, so you withdraw.

“How bad is it?” You turn your gaze upward, calves screaming as you shift your weight. You seek out the eyes of her teacher, trying to gauge your reaction based on her body language, “It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding too much now, and she’s rather calm. Was her eye directly injured?”

“No, it’s just around the orbital,” her teacher runs fingertips through Hana’s hair, “I don’t think she’ll need stitches, but she will definitely need this wound cleaned up by a professional. I know Mr. Todoroki has a nurse he usually calls.”

It’s as if these women are trying to suffocate you with their knowledge of Todoroki, almost like them knowing he has a nurse, or not knowing he’d hired you until today, would win them some sort of award or accolade. You try your best not to let your stomach turn at the sight of them, desperate and petty.

“Hana?”

She tilts her head up at you, another round of tears welling up in her eyelids. You wonder if it is from stress, pain, or a mixture of that and the uncomfortable feeling she can sense from the way you’re interacting with the daycare staff. She sniffles and wipes her face with the back of her forearm, careful of her injured eye, “Y-Yes ma’am?”

So Shouto has taught her manners.

You attempt to keep your composure at the sound of her tinny, trepid voice echoing out the words that are normally rare for even full-grown adults to use. In reaching out your hand, you notice she does not shrink away from you, not this time, “I think we ought to go have that nurse of your dad’s check out your eye, what do you think?”

There is silence for a moment, genuine concern evident in her sparkling irises. She blinks quickly, like she is trying to figure you out before she makes her decision in response to your question. You don’t want to clue her in to the fact that, at the end of the day, it’s not really her choice to make – that plight between staying here and going somewhere else has been completely left up to you.

“You know,” you’re whispering now, dramatically hiding your mouth behind the palm of your hand, pretending that that others standing around can’t hear you. “I think that I saw this cool ice cream shop on the way here. You think you could help me try a new flavor?”

This makes her eyes widen, pushing herself up on her tiptoes as she fails to contain her excitement at the suggestion of a sugary treat, “Wh-What flavor?”

You grin, warmth seeping into your chest as a giggle bubbles up in her throat, “I was thinking bubblegum, or maybe cotton candy?”

Hana’s nose scrunches at the suggestion, “No way!”

“Well,” you stand to your full height, hands on your hips as you pout, “what would you rather have then?”

She is full-on smiling now, cheeks drawn upward so her dimples can dip into her cheeks on either side, “I like mint w-with choco-chips in it!”

You hold your hand out again, praying that now, after divulging your favorite ice cream flavors, she won’t totally reject you. The last thing you want is for her to force your hand in making a decision to pick her up and take her out of the daycare.

Hana pushes herself up and down on her toes, biting her lip before bursting with a smile, “Y-You really mean it?! Ice cream?”

“I don’t see why not,” you shrug, wriggling your fingers as the other women watch on in amazement as your connection to the child. “I think you deserve it after that nasty fall you took.”

Bouncing towards you, Hana bobs into the air by pushing upward on the balls of her feet. She reaches out and snags your hand into her grip of her own accord, before beginning to tug you to the exit. She is babbling on about all of the ice cream flavors she’s tried, and what they taste like, and the last time she had ice cream was oh so long ago…

“See you later, ladies,” you wave over your shoulder, unable to hide the satisfied smirk making your mouth crooked, “I guess we’re going to get ice cream.”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Hana knows how to buckle herself in, so she’s already clambering up into your car as soon as you have the door open. Her injury is completely forgotten as she bustles up into the seat, climbing in awkwardly before turning around to plop her backside into the curve of the cushions. Her fingers are frantic as she desperately tries to get the straps clicked together so you can be on your way to the nearest ice cream shop. You smile at her struggle, allowing her to settle with a pout before offering her your help.

“I-I can do it!” she insists, eyes misted. “I-I’m a big girl!”

“Oh, no doubt,” you shake your head in reassurance, pursing your lips as you hold your hands up in midair, palms facing her. “I’m just trying to help so we can get to our ice cream just a tad faster.”

Your reasoning seems to be sound, because Hana releases the offending buckle and puts her hands on either side of her car seat to give you enough room to maneuver and snap the contraption in place. Your hands make swift work of the buckles and straps, tightening them to the perfect spot on her chest and hips. She smiles up at you when you’re finished, expectant and excited.

It is strange, the intense desire to protect her that immediately washes over you at first sight. You have to stop yourself from rushing into allowing her between the cracks of your heart. You are frantic to seal them so you can let yourself down easy if this job ends up being as short-term as you’re worried of it becoming.

You pull away from her, face blank, and shut the door as Hana begins to fiddle with the remaining length of the straps around her body. Her fingers swirl around the black fabric and plastic, tugging and pulling, but not hard enough to adjust any of your hard work.

On your way to the parlor, you decide to call Shouto.

“Daddy!”

A relieved sigh sounds from the other end of the receiver, and you can’t help the warmth that blooms in your belly when you grin. Shouto coughs thickly, clearing his throat, “Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay!” Hana twirls her fingers in midair, watching around like Todoroki may appear out of thin air like his voice echoing in the car. “We’re going to get ice cream!”

“Ice cream?” his voice sounds slightly judgmental, but you try to push it off and pretend it means nothing. You spare a glance over your shoulder, “Tell him what flavor you’re getting, Hana.”

You pull into the drive through window of the ice cream shop, listening as Hana babbles on about the different flavors you two talked about and whether she’ll get a cone or a cup. You put the car in park as the person in front of you orders, swiveling your hips so you can look her in the eye, “I was actually thinking about a milkshake. How does that sound?”

“Ooh,” her eyes grow wider, chubby little hands curling into fists in her lap. She’s practically buzzing at just the thought of it all, “That sounds like fun!”

You chuckle, hand on the gearshift, “Oh, I meant to ask, have you already scheduled the nurse to be at the house? I wasn’t sure if you’d rather it be someone personal to look after her, or if you’d want me to take her to a general hospital.”

“I’ll call Masuyo and have her meet you at the house.” Todoroki’s voice is muffled as he turns to speak with someone else in his office, hand over the receiver. You hear him cough, voice tense, “S-She’s okay, though. Right?”

“I think she’s a strong girl,” you make your voice confident, straightening your spine, “she’ll be fine once we get her cleaned up. Right, Hana?”

You spare one final look at the little girl in the backseat, all bright eyes and buzzing fingertips. She’s already shuddering off of pure energy, and you wonder if sugar was really the best route to go down for her comfort. Either way, she nods her head, enthusiastic about what’s to come next.

“Yes!” She leans forward in her seat, getting closer to his voice, “I can’t wait until you get home, daddy. We’ll play prince and princess, right?”

You can sense the hesitation on Todoroki’s end and your heart turns to granite in your chest. When he speaks, you feel the weight of it settle in your belly, throat tightening.

“I’m not sure, love. I’ll have to see. It’s very busy this afternoon.”

Hana allows her expression to fall for a mere moment. You honestly would not have caught the change in her demeanor if it weren’t for you studying her as Shouto uttered the words. Every bit of enthusiasm that was previously holding her cheeks high is drained. Her face pales and her lips turn downward in a frown, eyes dropped to her hands as she fiddles with her knuckles in her lap.

And yet, almost as soon as she falters, her smile returns, albeit not enough to light up her eyes as it did before. It’s like she is reconstructing a mask that she feels pressured to wear in order to keep her father satiated and undisturbed.

“Oh, that’s okay, daddy,” Hana’s voice is as cheerful as her little strong will can force it to be. She attempts to be dismissive as she waves her hands, despite Shouto unable to see her, “I played princess at school anyway.”

Your heart continues to crack as she says her final line, “I love you, Daddy.”

Shouto exhales, voice breathy when he repeats the sentiment, “I love you more.”

“I love you most.” Hana’s tone lilts then, a crack in her metaphorical armor at his affections despite his absence. She swipes at her face and you wonder if she was crying, because you certainly didn’t see any tears.

Your throat grows thick with emotion, making it difficult for you to tell him goodbye. You roll down your window and rattle off your order, trying to keep a close watch out of the corner of your eye to monitor Hana’s mood and expressions as the moments progress. You feel horrible for intruding on their very personal, private moment, and it only makes your heart wrench more when you see Hana’s glazed eyes unable to focus on one thing in particular. She’s docile, void of emotion as she stares out of the window, watching clouds pass as the world grows darker with the threat of a sunset on the horizon.

You settle the milkshakes into the front seat, finishing up at the drive through window before rolling forward into a vacant parking space. With your foot still on the break, you reach back to hand Hana the small milkshake cup with the straw already pushed through the opening on the lid, “There you go.”

She takes it from you gingerly, small palms wrapping around as much of the cup circumference as she possibly can. Her lips are pouted just enough that you wonder if she’ll take a sip at all. You busy yourself, pretending to clean up trash in the front seat and maneuver things around on the floorboards, waiting on her first drag from the ice cream cup.

But it never comes.

After five minutes of waiting, you press your hand to the passenger’s side headrest and look her in the eye – as much of her pupils that you can catch in spite of her hooded lids. Hana is still dazed, looking into her milkshake cup as if it might have the answers to all of her life’s confusing questions.

“Hana?” Your voice calls her from whatever lull she was in, eyes blinking slow as she connects back to this version of reality. A vague, “Yes?” is uttered from her lips, but she isn’t focused, not just yet. You brush your hand against the top of her knee, quick and gentle, and it does the trick. She blinks one final time before her pupils dilate back to their usual size, gaze settled clearly on your face.

“Did something upset you?” you ask, your hand wrung around the headrest again. “Or do you just not want your milkshake?”

“I dunno,” Hana admits quickly, eyes downturned once she realizes she’s let the emotion slip from her voice. It makes the edges of her words raw and ragged, “I guess I just don’ wan’ it anymore.”

You are persistent; your job is to make her happy and keep her safe, and right now with a milkshake melting in her lap, part of you feels like you’re failing.

“Was it what your dad said?” Your question is asked in a low tone, something you’re trying to use to convey that you are being patient and kind. You take a chance and rest your palm against the car seat armrest, close enough to make contact but not adjacent enough to infringe upon her personal space. You swallow thickly, taking a short breath, “About not being home to play?”

Hana is pinching the straw between her fingers, looking into the little opening as it closes with the squeeze of her fingers. You wonder if she does this often, with tangible objects. Does she ache to control something so much so that she becomes lost in the euphoria of it all?

She sighs, kicking her feet, “Daddy is just always working. It makes me sad sometimes.”

You aren’t sure how to respond, not really. If you had known her for longer, or met Todoroki some other way, you could likely refute her statement. However, there’s truth in what she’s saying, a vulnerability that you weren’t sure you would see from the child so soon.

When she speaks next, Hana reminds you of a full-grown woman, attempting to redirect the conversation from something personal to something vague, “What’id you get?”

Her voice sounds like an echo of her true self, nothing like the way her tone lilted when she first spoke with her father. There is a seemingly eerie mask she has perfected, something both audible and emotional. And it would appear she knows just how to slip it on and off when the time is right, despite her young age.

Then and there you choose to burden yourself with the purpose of breaking her out of her glass box of entrapment.

“I got cookie dough,” you say as you take an over-dramatic sip, crossing your eyes at the sensation of cool ice cream flowing down your throat, “What did you get?”

Her face scrunches inward, nose wrinkling at the bridge, “Y-You know what I got, don’ you? You ordered it for me!”

You make an exaggerated face of confusion, tilting your head backward and tapping your fingertip against your chin. “Hmm,” you nod, agreeing with her accusation, “I guess you’re right, huh?”

“You’re silly,” Hana giggles before going in for her first sip of her milkshake. Her eyes are narrowed downward at the cup, hands cradling it carefully as if it were the most important thing in the world and she might be in danger of spilling it at any moment. Her eyes are wide, doe-like in nature, as she comes up for air, “This is good!”

“Great,” you answer her, switching the gearshift back into drive so you can pull out of the parking lot and out onto the highway to head back to their house.

The remainder of the drive back to the Todoroki residence is spent in moderate silence, gentle music playing on the radio as Hana preoccupies herself with licking every last drop of her milkshake from the straw. She sucks the mint chocolate chip ice cream from her thumb and looks up at you when you park the car in the driveway, “We’re home?”

You unbuckle yourself from your seat and answer her, hopping down from the car to open her door. She’s already working at her buckles, undone the top half, but still struggling with the bottom. By the time you’ve gotten her undone from the chair, she trusts you enough to reach out her arms and ask for you to help her down to the ground so she does not have to clamber down and risk falling onto the concrete.

When the soles of her shoes hit the concrete, she’s reaching up for you, grabbing you around your fingertips to hold on as she walks. You squeeze her hand gently, fishing the keys out with one hand to unlock the door.

The nurse is already inside, set up on the couch. Hana runs straight to her, plopping herself unceremoniously down on the furniture, hand hovering over the patch as she talks with Masuyo about her ice cream experience from just moments ago.

You busy yourself with dinner, prepping meat and vegetables, as Masuyo starts to clean and treat Hana’s wound. It’s another thirty minutes before you start to sear meat on the stovetop when you hear the garage door rattle open unexpectedly. Todoroki shouldn’t be home until later this evening, he texted you after you’d been in line for ice cream to tell you as such.

And yet, when the door opens to reveal his familiar frame, you can’t help the way your jaw unhinges.

“You’re home early,” you mention, flipping the steak pieces in the pan to sear the other side. “Everything okay?”

Todoroki is stunned by how grossly domestic the sight of you in his kitchen is and he’s jarred back into his prior lifetime where he had the full family package. He blinks and takes a short breath, forcing himself away from the swirling blackhole of the past to smile at you, “Yes, well. I decided that my daughter’s health was more important than some paperwork. I had a few of the first-years handle it.”

That is how it starts. Your first day as the new nanny of the Todoroki household.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“Are you sure you got the right color plates?”

“Yes.”

“And what about the cake?”

“Ordered it three weeks ago.”

“How about the-”

“Shouto.”

He turns to look you in the eyes, breath frantic, “What?”

You can’t help but laugh at the wide-eyed expression he wears, all of his emotions blatantly displayed on his face. You take a step toward him, reaching out to cup his elbow, “I’ve got it all handled, okay? Her birthday party isn’t for another week, Shouto. Are you ready for the zoo?”

Todoroki hesitates, gritting his teeth together so harshly that you can see the muscles in his jaw quiver. He turns his palm to press flat against your forearm, heterochromatic gaze seeking you out for some sort of comfort, “Did you need me to pack the bag?”

“No,” you chuckle, forcing yourself to remove your body from his grasp by walking back to the sink to finish up the load of dirty dishes you wanted to get into the wash before you left. You tilt your head to look across the bar at him, “We’re leaving in half an hour.”

Hana comes careening down the hallway, a doll in either hand, her pajamas still crooked on her body. She giggles, bouncing on the balls of her feet before launching herself forward to latch around Todoroki’s calf like an animal, “Daddy!”

Shouto bends at the waist to pluck her up, hands careful under her armpits when he tucks her into his side, “Yes, love, I’m going to the zoo. But it looks like you need a change of clothes.”

“I already laid some out on her dresser,” you pipe up from behind the sink, “but you’ll need to spray her down with sunscreen first, it’s not very cloudy outside today.”

As Shouto turns to walk Hana back to her room, you allow your gaze to linger a moment longer than the ordinary. Ever since you first took this job, you could note Todoroki’s beautifully carved body and stellar facial features. He is built perfectly for the type of Pro Hero that he is – thick muscles wrapped around dense bones, and yet still a relatively lean frame to hold it all into place. Shouto’s face is cut sharp at the jawline, cheekbones stark against his skin. You are sure to admire him whenever you can.

When you hear him and his daughter talking, sharing words and laughs, it only adds to the flame that burns in your belly at the thought of Todoroki Shouto.

There is no doubt in your mind that it is improper to feel the way you do about a client. They should be nothing more than a paycheck and a steppingstone, and yet somehow you have found a way to allow Shouto to wind his pristine claws into you. He’s got you by the heart and it has only been a few months.

You force your hands to work at the dishes, cleaning what remains so you can start the dishwasher. After you’re done, you make your way upstairs towards Hana’s room, where you hear various grunting noises.

A laugh threatens to part your lips and give away your spying secret when you notice Shouto frantically trying to pull the shirt you picked out over the top of Hana’s head. Her arms are stuck in the wrong spots and you can already tell that it’s somehow inside out, but none of that pushes you to step forward and take over.

It’s only when Hana spots you spying in the doorway that you’re coerced into treading into her bedroom. She pouts and Todoroki doesn’t look much happier. He chuckles, “I swear I’m better at this than I look.”

“Oh, I know you’re helpless,” you smirk across at him, squatting in front of Hana to help untangle her from the clothes and put her back in right side up. Her little hands grab for your face, squeezing your cheeks as she surges forward to kiss your nose, “Daddy is helpless, isn’t he?”

You are too busy fussing over Hana’s hair to notice the way that Todoroki drinks you in like he has been parched for years. He cannot stop himself from memorizing the color of your irises, the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips.

The reality that he could even be attracted to you is lost on him – he swore after his wife died that he would never find another woman to replace her. You have only been here a few short weeks and he’s already begun to question his earlier statement.

It’s just the way she is with Hana, he tries to convince himself. I am kidding myself into believing she’s here for us, not just because it’s a job.

And yet, when his gaze connects to yours, Hana babbling about lions and tigers as you slather her down with sunscreen, Todoroki swears that he feels something different.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The day of Hana’s party comes quicker than expected.

You’re frantically spinning around, making sure there is enough food and drink for everyone in addition to trying to keep an eye on the children as they play around on the various structures setup outside.

A group of moms gather at the bar, one of them urging the others to look at you with a sinister lilt in their gaze. You continue to serve everyone at the party, filling drinks, bringing new plates of food, and yet their eyes never waver from you.

When you are cleaning up some stray garbage in the kitchen, the blonde woman near the end of the bar perks up, “Excuse me, nanny, would you mind filling my glass?”

It is like the floodgates have opened, and now they are all asking you for favors. You swallow your pride and do as they say whether that’s food or drink or a new napkin or even cleaning up their garbage. They are all gossiping behind their hands, palms raised to their mouths as if that will do anything to staunch the flow of the conversation, or even make it more difficult for you to hear the way they speak of you.

Your pride takes each hit in stride, attempting to roll the insults off your shoulders while you tend to them kindly. It takes Shouto stepping into the kitchen for your face to falter.

You gaze across the room at him and your strong fa��ade falls away, hands shaking by your sides as you look at the floor in shame. You swallow your self-importance and build your walls back to their full height before looking up at him once more.

Todoroki is fuming, to put it nicely.

His hands are curled into fists, knuckles white and cheeks hot at the sight of your unease. He takes a few strides forward, features softening as he reaches out to press his fingertips into the small of your back.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs into the shell of your ear. His breath is warm, spilling down your spine like molten lava, pooling the heat in your belly and turning your insides to mush. The expanse of his palm splays against your back, the plane of his chest flush with your arm when he stands too close.

You take a short breath, unable to get enough oxygen with him crowding your space like this. It is like he’s thinning the air within a few feet of his body, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’m fine,” your voice is high and thick, nostrils flaring when you make eye contact with one of the women at the bar. She is smirking proudly, head tilted so she can look down her nose at you. You swallow the shards of emotion sticking in your throat and look up at Todoroki, confused at the fury held in his irises, darkening them both so they look almost the same color as his pupils.

He turns and you watch in slow motion as his jaw hinges open, anxiety gripping your throat tightly. Your body moves before your mind can catch up; you shift your feet, so your hips are in front of him, hands palming against his pectorals to bring his attention down to you.

You tug on the fabric of his shirt, breathlessly calling to him, “Shouto.”

Todoroki turns his eyes downward, jawline quivering just enough for you to see at this close of an angle. He is intoxicating, the combination of his cologne and his body heat sending your mind spinning. You lick your lips and his eyes track the motion, turning butterflies over in your belly, their gentle wings brushing the insides of your body delicately, enough to tickle.

“Shouto,” you mumble his name again. “S’okay, alright?”

The sound of barstools scraping the floor signifies the judgmental women taking their leave, and your chest deflates at the change in atmosphere. Your hands go slack against Shouto’s chest, head falling forward to rest against his collarbone.

When his hands brush your hips, you snap your eyes upward, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle to meet his gaze. Shouto grinds his teeth together before speaking, “I’m sorry they were bossing you around. You’re not here to take care of them.”

“It’s okay, really,” you pat your hand on his chest as if solidifying your statement, smiling enough to sell it.  

His thumb grazes the hem of your shirt, fingertip slipping beneath the fabric to brush against your skin. Your breath hitches and every instinct within you tells you to push yourself up on your toes and grab his shirt in your tight fists, but when you’re eye-to-eye with him, you wish you wouldn’t have listened.

You can feel his stuttering breath on the bow of your lip, and it makes your shoulders quiver. Your name is whispered between his teeth and suddenly he is too close, so close that you’re intoxicated, and every inhibition of yours has been forgotten like dust in the wind.

“Daddy!”

The sound of her voice breaks you apart, stumbling like teenagers caught underneath the bleachers. Todoroki turns to Hana, tending to her face with a napkin and listening to her sugar-driven babbling. You take the moment to slip past them and back to the outdoor area where everyone is gathered.

For the remainder of the night, you feel Todoroki’s eyes on you, following your movements as you maneuver throughout the guests, offering them refills and to take their garbage. He cannot help but feel the heat incinerating his body from all sides, not just his left. The sensation is strange, the ice on his right side usually taking over any and all feeling he might have.

It feels foreign, but not unpleasant. Todoroki’s neck prickles at the impending awareness that he might be in for a crude awakening soon.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The next few months are a breeze.

Until they are not.

Todoroki has begun to spend more time at work and less at home with each passing day. The threat of his job creeping over him like a looming dark shadow, slowly engulfing him inch by inch until he is surrounded entirely. He spends his days fighting crime, and nights doing paperwork.

You are slowly starting to spend more and more time at the Todoroki house – you are now expected to arrive around five in the morning, and sometimes you do not leave until nine in the evening. It is exhausting, given your drive back to your apartment is a half-hour on a good day with little traffic.

Somehow, you have been able to keep Hana satiated, even without her father around. There are fleeting moments where her cheery expression falters and she sheds a few tears, but you are there to wrap her up in your arms and let her cry until she has nothing left. And then, after she’s dried her face on your shirt, she looks up at you with those beautiful blue eyes and begs you to play princess.

One night, when you are half asleep on the couch with Hana curled into your arms, you feel a palm press to your shoulder, “I’m home.”

You blink blearily, a short jolt of breath stinging your lungs. You swallow and look to the right of you where Todoroki is squatted beside you. He is smiling; you can tell, even in the darkness.

“Hey,” you whisper, careful to cradle Hana’s head as you sit up. “Sorry, it’s been an eventful day.”

Shouto shakes his head and helps you to your feet, palms finding any juncture of you that he can use to support your body. His hand is against your elbow when he speaks next, “No, I’m sorry. I should have been home hours ago. I know you were making dinner.”

“I make dinner every night,” a laugh parts your lips and you run your fingers through Hana’s hair to try and keep her asleep despite the noise. “So, it’s nothing new, Todoroki. Let me go put her down and I’ll head out.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but his jaw snaps shut before he can let out whatever secret he is harboring. You disregard it, walking upstairs to tuck Hana in for bed. She stirs but does not wake entirely and you are thankful. The day has already been tumultuous enough without having to sing her back to sleep or stay up any longer.

As you are walking down the steps, you’re surprised to find Shouto pacing in the hallway, his thumb pinching his chin and his brow furrowed harshly. He looks rather intensely conflicted, and there is a moment where you’re worried, he may decide to fire you. Could you have done something wrong with Hana? Did she not like you? Was he upset that you let her have chocolate before noon the other day?

“Shouto?” you call, padding forward, toes sifting through the carpet. “Is everything okay?”

Another yawn splits your lips and you cover it with your palm, apologizing through your teeth. He shakes his head and steps toward you with a palm outstretched, “Yes, everything is fine. I just have something I’d like to ask you.”

You tilt your head and it reminds him of a curious animal, sniffing him out for food in the form of information. Your hand rests on his bicep and it is dizzying to be this close to you, even after several months of working alongside you. His head still spins when you are too close.

“I was wondering if you might consider moving in.”

You blink dumbly, mouth parted so he can see the pad of your tongue and the tips of your canine teeth. Your fingertips graze against his arm and you feel like lightning is sparking at the cusp of your touch.

The reality is this is not far from normal – most full-time nannies do end up living with their families. It makes everything easier and cheaper. If you live there, he does not have to pay you for drive time, and your boarding costs can be directly deducted from your standard paycheck. This option is what makes the most sense, but you are not focused on sense right now.

All you can see is his bare torso.

You are imagining accidentally walking in on him after he’s taken a shower, or him stumbling in after his morning runs with his tiny running shorts and shirtless upper half. Your tongue goes dry at the thought of it all, but you force yourself to push words past your lips, so you won’t look like a dead fish.

“That’s a pretty permanent decision, Shouto.” Your words hold weight and he knows it, he’s thought this through a dozen different ways to Sunday. You swallow and when your hands brush over his skin, he swears sparks light beneath your fingertips; it makes his arm numb. “I don’t mind, but I just want to make sure that you’ve really thought this through.”

He nods, stepping closer so he’s almost flush with you now, “I feel awful having you drive so early and so late. Your hours would not change, your responsibilities wouldn’t change. You would have your own room and privacy, and I don’t expect to lessen your pay just because you live here. It’s just-”

“Shouto,” you’re laughing now, shaking your head as you look down at your toes, “I don’t expect everything to stay the same if I move in. I’m prepared, are you?”

Truly, he’s thought about that question far too much in the passing days when he sees you around the house or speaks with you on the phone during the day. The idea that you will be here every hour of every day is suffocating, but in a way that makes him want to drown. As time moves faster, Shouto realizes that you have become a second nature in his house. He is thinking of you during his office meetings and the late nights on patrol.

He cannot be honest with the true reason he is asking you to move in, because then he would have to face his emotions and he’s not ready for that yet. And yet, his body betrays his mind as he reaches forward to brush his thumb over your cheek, “I think I can handle it.”

Emotion swells like a blooming heat between the two of you, your bodies almost entirely pressed up against one another as your voices grow softer. You are not sure if it’s the sleep-muddled brain you’re working off of, but you swear that you see his eyes drop to your lips. There is some part of you that wants to fall into him, to let him take you and burn you and leave you for dead, but the rest of you is working off of sense and logic and you know that would never work.

“Well,” your voice shatters the fragile moment, “I guess I better get home and start packing.”

Shouto releases you and something shifts in his irises, but it is gone as soon as it appears, and you don’t have enough time to discern the emotion. You pluck up your bag and slip on your shoes, turning to wave at him over your shoulder as you step past the threshold and back to the garage.

As you start your car, you rest your forehead on the steering wheel before you pull out, and murmur to yourself in utter chagrin, “What have I just agreed to?”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“I’m telling you - Red Riot is going to give you a run for your money.”

“That blockhead?” Shouto chuckles, swirling his glass, “I doubt it.”

You tilt your head, “And what about Ground Zero? He’s got his own agency now, doesn’t he?”

Shouto rolls his eyes, “God, can we please leave Bakugou out of this conversation?”

Another swig of the rum and coke slides down your throat, burning in the best way. Your head feels hazy, but you don’t mind, taking advantage of Hana’s early bedtime for the first time in a few weeks. You push your mostly empty glass towards him, “Bartender?”

Todoroki smiles, tipping the bottle downward to refill your glass. You grab the soda off the countertop and fill it to the brim, swirling the mixture with your straw. Another gulp of the liquid has you asking, “You and the other big players all went to Yuuei together, right? Ground Zero, Deku, Red Riot?”

Shouto nods, “Yes, we did.”

“Wow, to have gone to Yuuei,” you whisper in wonder, eyes heavy as you look down into the dark liquid fizzing in your glass.

He leans forward on the counter, body close to you as he asks his obvious question, “You don’t have a quirk, do you?”

“No,�� your answer is quick, curt. You swallow thickly, shards of shame sticking in your throat. “I was born without one. You’ve seen my shoes.”

You are referring to the wider shoes that those with no quirk have to wear thanks to the extra joint in their pinkie toes. You lift your foot up in the air for good measure, painted toenails catching the light just right as you wriggle your toes around dramatically. You sigh, “I didn’t fully know who you were when I took this job. It’s kind of embarrassing that I don’t have a quirk, and you’re some superhero saving people with ice and fire.”

Shouto holds out his left palm, face up, and ignites a small flame, “I hated this side of my body for so long. It comes with a burden I’m glad you do not have to bear.”

The weight in his voice entices your eyes upward, connecting with his gaze as the heat blossoms, sucking the oxygen out of the air. Shouto curls his fingers inward and cuts the flame short, a gentle wisp of smoke floating from his palm.

“What does it feel like?” you find yourself asking, the alcohol creating a dull buzz behind your eyes that latches onto all of your inhibitions and immediately tosses them away.

His breath hitches audibly, pupils dilating as he attempts to focus on something other than the way your lips bow when you speak. Shouto steps forward, hands gentle as he cups your cheeks, a bravery he did not know he could muster bolstering his movements. His fingertips tickle your skin and it’s difficult for you to keep your eyes open when he is holding you so tenderly.

Shouto closes his eyes in concentration, taking a deep breath before narrowing his concentration onto the pores of his hands. His palms are flush with your skin and you let your mind wander while he is working up his quirk.

How would his touch compare to different parts of your body?

Your eyes slip shut at the thought, biting your lip as your mind runs rampant. The heat curling in your belly reminds you of his quirk – burning and licking at your belly like a raging flame. You only wish you had his right side to cool you down from the inside out.

Slowly but surely, you feel the right side of your face grow warm while the left side has started to chill. Your eyes go wide, and you circle your fingers around his wrists, voice breathy when you speak, “Wow, Shouto, that’s amazing!”

Your voice goes quiet and it is like the world stops spinning when he opens his eyelids to look down at you. You feel frozen in your spot, but you know it isn’t his quirk affecting you. Your grip tightens but he doesn’t seem to notice, his eyesight directed to your lips, zeroed in on the way that you gnaw at them when you’re nervous.

The tension is like a rubber band begging to snap. You feel the coil twirl around your spine, bunching you together and screaming at you to run away. There are a thousand different reasons why getting too close is dangerous, but your wanton body cannot be bothered to list them. Instead you are pushing yourself up in your seat, so your back is arched toward him, chest brushing his pectorals.

Shouto reminds you of something innocent when his mouth parts and irises glimmer beneath half-hooded lids. You feel distinctly profligate for envisaging his mouth on other parts of your body, the pink of his tongue peeking from behind pearly teeth doing little to quell your thoughts. You swallow thickly and shudder as his hand that produces cold shifts into your hair, rustling through the tresses at the nape of your neck.

Your hands are suddenly wrapped up in the fabric of his shirt, fisting the soft material, and you are pulling him towards you. Even so, it is Shouto who tilts your head upward, heels of his palms gently angling you by the cheeks.

The two of you take a breath before devouring one another whole.

His mouth tastes like whiskey, sharp and biting, but his tongue is in stark contrast to the flavor. He is gentle while still taking over your every sense. His tongue maps out the curves of your teeth and the pad of your tongue while his chilled palm keeps your skin from searing with blush.

The tenderness with which he holds onto you makes your heart rattle around within the cage you have built just for him. You knew this entire time that if he were to wriggle his way in, to touch your heart in just the right spot, you would crumble beneath his ministrations. This entire time you’ve been beholden to him, despite the utter denial you’ve been bathing in to hide the confession.

“Todoroki, I-”

Your voice is cut off by a blazing hand drifting beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dipping against your spine, “I hate it when you call me that.”

Your eyes go wide but he’s enraptured you with another kiss square on the lips. Your words fall into the confines of his throat, never to be heard again as he swallows them into silence.

Hands are everywhere, so much so that you can’t tell where you begin and he ends.

Shouto nips your lip and you gasp, your hips canting forward of their own accord. Your mouth is gaping, begging for air, and he gives in to your silent request, drifting his lips downward to your jawline. He mutters a string of curse words as your hands finally make their way to his hair and shoulders, digging into him like he might float away.

He hums against your collarbone, teeth bared as he licks and nips at your skin. The alcohol in your bloodstream mixed with his essence in your veins only spins your mind into overdrive, dizzying you to the point that your eyes cross. You whine as he bites kisses into your skin, fingernails dug sharply into the skin of his back through his shirt. There will most likely be little crescent moon imprints when you release.

The trail of his kisses loops back up the column of your throat, teeth grazing your jaw as he works his way to your mouth again. You whine into his lips when his frozen fingers stroke your bare skin beneath your top, “Shouto, please-”

Todoroki’s confidence grows when he hears you moan his name into the air, begging him with only a few syllables. He disconnects his mouth from yours to look you in the eyes, “God, you’re so damn pretty, y’know?”

Your mouth hangs open and Todoroki must hold himself back from slipping his thumb between your parted, full lips. A shuddering breath passes between the two of you, time frozen as the moment sits still. It allows the both of you to agonize over one another, taking in each and every wanton feature as you beg quietly.

“So pretty,” he whispers before digging his hands into your backside and tugging you forward so you wrap yourself around him. His mouth is on you in a flash, all teeth and tongue pulling and prodding at you in a divine way you’re sure only he has mastered.

You are enraptured by him, fully captivated with his dual-ended quirk sending your body into a haze. Your mind is bewildered, thrown into a twirl of rum and Todoroki. If he were to give you a moment to catch your breath, you might be able to find it within your resolve to push him off you, to tell him how wrong this is. And yet, with his tongue tangled in your teeth, you can’t force the word no out of your throat.

Instead it is just his name.

Todoroki picks you up to deposit you on the countertop, thumbs digging into your hips to help you settle. His fingers make quick work of your top, slipping beneath them hem to graze over the swell of your breast on the underside. You whimper at the ghost of his touch, trying to angle your arms so you can tug at the band of his sweats.

When he realizes what you are fumbling with, he uses the bottoms of his feet to tug his pants down to his ankles. He steps out of them, but you can’t focus on anything other than the prominent bulge strained against his dark briefs. You have to swallow the drool accumulating in the center of your mouth, threatening to pool over the corners of your lips if you were to speak.

Before he tugs your shirt over your head, he looks into your eyes, sincerity cutting through the lust clouding his irises, “Last chance.”

He is giving you an out. One last clear path to purity.

You hesitate for a moment and his hands curl tighter around the hem of your top, restraining himself from ripping it away like an animal. His jaw is quivering as he waits on your response, nostrils flaring when you do not answer right away.

Whether it is the alcohol or the need talking, you are the conduit for the words spoken next, “Fuck me, Shouto. Now.”

Your shirt is yanked over your head unceremoniously, but you don’t care. Your eyes are wandering, begging for him to be nearly as naked as you. You don’t have to ask, because he’s already stepping away from you to remove the offensive piece of clothing, baring his body to you.

You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, especially upon moving into the Todoroki residence. He goes on shirtless jogs and sometimes does not wear anything on his torso for a while after he’s showered. There are days he has hardly anything remaining of his costume, after a particularly rough villain or training session.

And yet, this time it feels different.

He is baring himself for you. The intimacy of the moment does little to dull the ache in your mind, the strain of your heart in your ribs. You know that if he were to show you much more openness, you may have bruises beneath your skin from the way your heart threatens to beat at such a quick, tumultuous pace.

Shouto wastes little time in lurching forward to palm at your breasts, mouth too busy with your lips to pay attention to much else. You hitch your thigh between his hips, the curve of your leg brushing into his clothed cock. He grunts into the trap of your teeth, brow tugged with focus as he ruts his hips upward into you. You’re sure to put pressure back against him, the tip of his cock bulging on your thigh.

“Sho’,” you whimper when his mouth drifts from your lips to your neck. Your hands find his hair and his shoulder, eyelids fluttering halfway closed while he licks and nips at your thin, sensitive skin. Your throat burns, flesh aching as he starts to bite into you, rolling the skin between his teeth slowly, agonizing your very core.

A fresh wave of arousal coats the inside of your walls, and you know it is stained your panties, but you don’t have enough dignity to care. All that is on your mind is how he can take you on the countertop, and if you’ll be able to keep quiet enough not to wake the sleeping girl up the flight of stairs.

“Shit,” he’s cursing when your hand finds his bulge, “sweetheart, I-”

His breath is stuttered over your collarbone as you begin to palm him through his briefs. The nickname tumbling from his lips in a moan turns your stomach, effervescent champagne bubbles drifting up from your belly until they are suffocating your lungs. You gasp to relieve yourself of the pent-up anticipation as his left hand reaches the button of your shorts.

Shouto is careful as he unbuttons your pants, slipping the coarse fabric of your jeans down your thighs. As he squats down to help you out of them, all you can think of is what might happen if you were to grab him by the hair and force his mouth to your cunt.

Almost like he was reading your mind, he leans forward after he’s tossed your jeans to the other side of the kitchen floor and his mouth ghosts over your core. Your lower lip wobbles and you must bite your tongue to keep your mewling cries from tumbling out in excess. Todoroki kisses the top of your thigh, nose nudging over the edge of your lace underwear, his eyes closed so you cannot make out the expression settled in his ordinarily stoic irises.

“If you smell this good, I can only imagine how wonderful you taste,” Todoroki smirks against your skin, tilting his head so he can look up at you from his crouched position.

Your hips cant forward at the sentence, pussy already dripping just from the timbre of his deep voice. The vibrations of his word are like shockwaves straight to your core and you want to beg him to give you something, even a teasing lick over the center of your underwear.

Shouto kisses the little bow at the center of your panties, smiling as he snags the accent between the bite of his teeth and uses it to tug your underwear down your thighs. Your muscles tense, his ministrations slow and tantalizing. He chuckles and the sound shoots through your bones as if they were hollow like a feather, the warm honey of his laughter seeping slowly into your every pore and breaking down what remains of your resolve.

You have to cover your mouth with your hands when you yelp at the pad of his thumb brushing back the hood of your clit. His cool palm finds your thigh, just below the curve of your ass, and he stabilizes you with a firm grip, “Sit still, Princess.”

The authoritative tone of his voice turns your spine rigid, eyes facing the wall as he butterflies your pussy so he can see the silvery strands of slick built up between your layers of skin. He licks his lips and you feel the threatening heat of his tongue near your clit and you’re squirming. You are white knuckling the countertop, jaw under immense pressure as you clamp your teeth harshly.

He does not give you warning before delving his tongue between your folds, licking up your accumulated slick with one slow movement. His glittering grey iris tries to find your face, but the only thing he can make out is the line of your jaw and chin as your head is thrown back. Shouto chuckles before starting to explore the glutenous walls of your cunt with his tongue, his one hand still pressed into your thigh, fingers digging so hard that you are sure there will be bruises tomorrow morning.

Your body responds to him quickly, hips canting forward to buck against his mouth, begging for something more than just the quick slithering of his tongue in and out of you. In retaliation, Shouto presses his tongue flat, creating the illusion that it is thicker than before. You keen when he turns the pad of his thumb near your clit, close but not near enough.

“Sho’, please,” you pant, sweat beginning to bead up on your temples from the anticipation alone.

His cocky smirk is something you can sense when he speaks, but even further, you can feel it as he continues to lavish your pussy with his tongue. He huffs before standing to his feet, your slick mixed with his saliva giving his mouth a dangerous glint in the lowlight of the kitchen.

Shouto licks his lips as he steps closer to you again, bodies flush with one another. The hand that you know could burn you in an instant drifts down your side towards your pussy and you feel every muscle in your body clench at the thought of what kind of damage he could do to you if he tried.

Oh, and you’d let him.

You are about to beg him again, wanton moans vibrating your throat, but he intercepts you before you can lower your inhibitions any further. Shouto’s elongated middle finger slips just between your folds, using his saliva and your slick to lubricate his digit as he begins to pump up into you.

Todoroki Shouto is by no means a small man.

However, he is not so muscular that it looks like he is uncomfortable whenever he is walking. He is lean but built, which means that even though his hands are thick with muscle, they are not painful when pressed into your tight heat. Rather, they are snug and comfortable, his knuckle providing a pleasure you’ve not experienced before.

The tip of his finger brushes the spongy spot at the base of your core, and you swear you feel him in your spine. Shouto leans forward kiss you and you receive him quickly, desperate for some sort of tactile relief. He’s grinning into your lips, but you do not care so long as you find some reprieve from the coil beginning to twist within your stomach.

“So fuckin’ tight,” Todoroki whispers into your teeth as his tongue licks against your gums.

At his comment, you clench your cunt around his fingers, tightening your hold only to see how he will react. His hand stills for a moment, but then he is pushing another finger to accompany the first, splitting your cunt open despite the vice-like grip you have on his knuckle. He pumps until the base of his digits are finding the heat of your pussy, his fingerprints searing into your walls as you attempt to stay clamped around him.

Your legs begin to shake from the way you are holding yourself up on your toes, knees bent so you can be closer to his body. Todoroki feels the tremors in your thighs as his hand roams the dense muscle, whispering, “C’mere, love,” and then he’s picking you up gingerly.

Shouto hooks one of your legs around his waist at the knee, arching your back so your cunt is still butterflied open for him. Your other leg dangles from the countertop as he balances you on the edge.

The way his fingers work into you is nothing short of sinful, that white-hot flash of pleasure sinking into your eyelids slowly but surely. You begin to lose your peripheral vision as the impending ecstasy begins to settle in. The crest of the wave is close, his knuckles dragging salaciously against the innermost part of you.

Your jaw hangs open the closer you are to coming undone, panting breaths prying your lips apart. You feel utterly exposed in front of him like this, lewdly strewn against the counter that you were sipping rum and whiskey against not even a half hour ago. And yet, somehow, Shouto’s hand cradled against your shoulders is all you need to bring your self-consciousness down to a manageable level.

From this angle, you can reach down and pull Shouto’s briefs down so his cock can spring free. You’re palming at him as soon as you see the dark red of his cockhead. He stutter-steps forward when you pump him the first time, eyes close to bulging from their sockets at the sensation.

You twist his cock in your palm, running your thumb against the pearlescent bead of pre-come collected at the curve of his slit. Using what you can of the liquid, you drag your damp thumb down the length of his cock for slight lubrication. Shouto bucks into your hand when you bob your palm up and down to connect with the base of his pubic bone.

Now that you’re secure on the countertop, Shouto allows his free hand to wander around the curvatures of your body, mapping out the dips and contours of your frame. His hand is on your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, when your mouth drops open from a particularly pleasurable swipe of his fingers. Your cunt is dripping, and you’re honestly not sure if it even matters if you come, he should be able to slip right between your tight heat with ease.

“S’pretty,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek as his thumb brushes the bow of your bottom lip.

On instinct, your tongue laps towards the digit, silently begging for him to do more.

Shouto listens, dipping his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad of his finger into the thick muscle of your tongue. You lick and suck at him, rolling your mouth to match the pace of your hand as you work his hard cock towards release. Shouto fixes the rhythm of his fingers so every part of your bodies are going at the same speed.

The collective sensations of his hands and mouth are too much and you cry out, digging your free hand into his shoulder to attempt and ground yourself. You pant, looking up at him with bejeweled irises, tears sitting dormant on your lashes as a whine sits pretty on your lips.

“What is it?” he asks, borderline patronizing. “Are you gonna come on my fingers?”

Your lower lip trembles and you feel yourself slipping into some subservient headspace at the tone in his voice. You nod, rolling your hips to meet him as he slows his hand, “P-Please, Shouto, I-”

“I want you to come,” he murmurs into your ear, leaning forward so his breath is hot on your skin. The hand he has buried in your cunt begins to heat and the searing sensation sends your mind reeling. Shouto nudges his nose along your jawline, warmth creeping along the base of his palm, “C’mon, love, I want to see you come. Make a pretty little face for me, yeah?”

His words do little to quell the growing ache between your thighs, the pent-up need begging to be released. You clench around him again, not forgetting his cock between your hand. You continue to twist your wrist, flicking your fingers along the length of his dick, dragging with just enough pressure to make his eyes cross. Teasing the head, you drag the pad of your thumb over it, catching another swell of pre-come and trailing the liquid down the thick shaft.

You whimper his name, squeezing your eyes closed so harshly that the corners of your lids crinkle. Your sounds only grow louder when his mouth begins to suck at your nipple, massaging your breast in his chilled hand. The crystallization of ice draws your attention, a frozen cold so intense that it almost feels hot in its own unique way.

There is a stinging excitement at the duality of the temperatures that grow further apart the longer he activates his quirk. Your nipples pebble while your pussy floods from the heat, copious amounts of slick trickling down his fingers to pool in the creases of his palm. Shouto murmurs obscenities against your earlobe but you’re in such a realm of fevered phrenzy that you can’t make out he’s even speaking English.

“Sh-Shouto, I-I’m close,” you manage, feeling the way his cock throbs beneath your touch helping to bring you back to the cusp of reality. You dive deep again when his fingertips brush against your cervix, allowing his passion to force you beneath the surface.

His thumb is circling your clit as he murmurs, “C’mon, darling, I know you can do it. Come for me, yeah?”

It’s as if his words united with his caress are enough to shove you head-first into the pool of desire. You are whimpering, cunt fluttering around his fingers as your come drips down the crevices of his palm. Your release reaches his wrist, milky liquid tickling his skin.

“Atta girl,” he kisses your cheek, fingers stilling for a moment to allow you to collect yourself. You continue to ride out your high by bucking your hips over his knuckles, slippery fingers easily providing you the rest of the comfort you need to come down from your high.

“Your turn.”

You’re pushing your way off the countertop when the creaking of the stairs makes your heart still within your chest.

Shouto’s stare flickers from you to the staircase, jaw hung open as he analyzes the sound. When another step echoes in the hallway, he’s quick to yank his briefs and sweats back over his hips. He helps you into your shorts, the silvery strands of your release forgotten as he tugs the fabric up your hips.

You’ve just gotten your pants buttoned when Hana’s teetering figure creates a shadow on the kitchen floor.

“Daddy?” she whimpers, fists digging into her tear-filled eyes.

Shouto swipes his hands against his sweats before crouching in front of her. His palms find her sides quickly, thumbs grazing her rib cage in an attempt at comfort, “Hey, love,” the sound of the nickname makes something stir within your belly, “what’re you doing awake?”

Hana swallows a hiccup, “I-I had a bad dream.”

You step forward, pressing your hand to Shouto’s shoulder, offering a gentle nudge of comfort. Hana blinks up at you, jeweled irises focused on your face, “M-Momma?”

The title holds a weight you had not prepared to carry.

She’s all but forgotten Todoroki, pushing past him to barrel into your shin, wrapping her stubby arms around your knee. She wipes her face against the skin of your thigh, sniffling louder as a fresh wave of tears takes over her body. Her shoulders shudder and you don’t have time to wonder whether she’s cognizant enough to realize that she’s just called you her mother.

You scoop her up in your arms, holding her gingerly by the back and head, and she wraps her legs around your midsection to anchor her little body to your torso like a frightened animal. Hana buries her head into your neck, tears sticking to your skin and creating an unbearable heat.

“You’re not leaving, right?” Hana whimpers, “I-I had a dream that you left.”

In an effort to comfort her, you run your fingers through her hair, gently separating the strands so your nails can scratch her scalp. You kiss her temple, “Of course not, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me.”

She retracts from your neck and a rush of cool air washes over you. Her irises are swallowed by her pupils, thick droplets of tears wetting her cheeks. You smile, forcing yourself to forget the way you were just about to jump her father’s bones, and brush your nose against hers in an eskimo kiss.

“It was just a dream, babe,” you comfort her, making sure you are looking at her directly when you say it so she feels much more solid in the reality that you are here to stay. A soothing hand reaches forward to couple with yours, thumb tracing the bump of her shoulder.

Todoroki kisses the back of her head, “Hana, there’s no need to worry, love.”

“I already lost one mommy,” Hana sounds ancient when she speaks, voice far away and intelligent beyond her young years, “I don’t wanna lose another one.”

Your voice is lodged in your throat now, tears of your own pressing threateningly against the back of your eyes. You try to swallow but the shards of your heart are blocking your windpipe, cutting off your oxygen. Todoroki slips his hands beneath Hana’s armpits, separating her from you so he can cradle her body against his chest, “You’re not losing anyone, sweetheart. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You take this as your cue to leave, grabbing your things as Todoroki takes Hana back up the stairs to her bedroom.

A sense akin to despair settles in your chest, restraining your heart in such a way that makes it difficult to breathe. The world seems to settle atop your shoulders and in the next moments you have turned into Atlas, forced to hold the earth up by your careless grip. Tears settle in your lids as you pull away from the Todoroki residence.

Something tells you that things will never be the same.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

As much as you hate it, that little voice eating away at the back of your mind was right.

The looming reality that Todoroki is avoiding you does little to satisfy the curiosity settled in your bones, affecting you down to the marrow.

Ever since that night, he hardly looks you in the eye.

In fact, he’s barely even around to see you at all.

Todoroki leaves for work before you can emerge from the bathroom with Hana in tow, fresh from a bubble bath and ready for breakfast. He slips back through the doors late at night, normally after eight, so Hana is either passed out with you on the couch or curled up beneath her covers in her bedroom. There is not another time where he touches you gingerly on the shoulder and guides you back to bed, not anymore.

You have wondered many times if you should approach him, beg him for some sort of explanation. Not only is his distance affecting you, but it’s turning Hana into a child you hardly recognize. She is still cheerful a majority of the time, begging you to play princesses and watch Bubble Guppies. But there are times when she turns angry, ripping the heads off her dolls and trying to sabotage Todoroki’s work clothes by drawing on his shoes or dropping her glass of morning milk on his suit jacket.

You start to cook his meals the day before, packaging them up in a Tupperware container that’s always gone when you check at breakfast the next morning. You are not a blind woman, and you normally choose to indulge his silly game of hide and seek instead of confronting him about what happened that night.

However, tonight, you’ve had enough.

Even though he’s decided to spend the weekend at home for the first time in a few weeks, you’ve never felt more on edge. Hana is extremely irritable, nightmares plaguing her mind during the time she’s supposed to be sleeping, and it would seem there is nothing you can ever do to satiate her throughout the day.

Playing princess is boring, coloring is stressful, blowing bubbles is stupid.

You are reaching the end of your rope and Shouto’s evasive presence does little to satiate your temperamental moods. You clutch at the cusp of sanity, praying that it will not leave you just yet; the only thing holding your tongue back from lashing out is the sliver of discretion that you’ve managed to sustain in spite of the day’s events.

“Hey, uh-” Todoroki’s voice is strained as he stands in the archway of the kitchen, “Would you mind making us a couple of sandwiches? I think Hana is getting hungry.”

The warmth from the dishwater gives you something other than his irises to focus on, your eyesight directed downward, “Sure. What would you like?”

“Let’s just do peanut butter and jelly,” Shouto shrugs nonchalantly. “Grape, if we have it.”

Your ears perk up at the mention of a specific flavor. You are certain that if you were to look into the refrigerator that you would not find grape jelly, but it’s obvious that Shouto is otherwise unknowing.

“Grape?” you echo, pulling your hands from the dishwater to wipe them on your hand towel. “You think that’s a smart choice?”

Shouto scoffs and it stings so much that you turn your head away from him, eyes now focused on the floor beneath your feet, “Yes, I’m sure. Why does it matter anyway?”

“Oh, no reason.” You pluck a jar of strawberry jelly from the refrigerator and begin to prepare the countertop for your sandwich making.

He takes a step forward to protest, but you’re waving the knife in his direction before he can stride across the tile, “You listen to me, Todoroki. And you listen good.”

Shouto pauses, throat bobbing as his line of sight zeroes in on your lips. His eyes widen, pupils swallowing his irises in fear. The knife wavering in your grasp holds much more weight than any other butter knife he’s come into contact with.

“We don’t have any grape jelly because your daughter is allergic to grapes.”

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the butter knife in your hand, “And if you were ever here you might notice a thing or two, such as an allergy to something that could, I dunno, kill her?!”

The sound of your voice raising an octave or two reverberates off of the walls and thrums at Shouto’s heartstrings. He swallows thickly, but you’re not done tearing into him just yet.

“This little charade you’ve got going on has got to end.” Your voice is desperate, unhinged, and you feel the honesty scrape against the front of your throat, “Your daughter is turning into someone you can barely recognize, and you’re not far behind her.”

Silence envelopes the room, and the only thing you’re able to hear is your heart beating frantically in your own ears. As your pulse thuds rapidly, rushing like a river of thick emotion throughout your body, you feel your palms begin to sweat. The longer you keep quiet, the louder the sound grows.

Finally, after giving him a few minutes to respond, you press the tops of your fists into your hips, glaring down your nose at him, “If you want me gone, all you had to do was ask. I thought we respected one another enough for that.”

You slap together two sandwiches quickly, tossing the plates onto the counter for him to pick up on his own before you turn and walk from the room. You’re unable to look at him any longer, not sure if it’s the loitering reality that you may have to move on from this chapter of your life or the loss of a generous paycheck and living situation that wraps your heart like the talons of a bird, squeezing until you can’t breathe.

The tumultuous roll of emotions scrapes away at your chest, and you’re surprised that there isn’t blood gushing from your ribs. You lean back against your closed door, head tilted backward to stave off the tears, saltine droplets coating your lashes as they sit in your ducts, pending the gentle sway of your neck to drip down your cheeks.

You aren’t sure how long you stay this way, crumbled against your door with the heat of disappointment building smoke in your lungs. It’s difficult to breathe, a dizziness taking over your mind that you’ve never felt quite so acutely before. You cradle your head in your hands, massaging your temples with your thumbs to try and mitigate the oncoming migraine.

A knock sounds at your door and you jump, hand pressed over your frantic heart, “Y-Yes?”

“Can-Can I come in?”

Shouto.

The sound of his voice does little to staunch the metaphorical puncture wound in your chest. You flex your hands before standing to your feet and opening the door, allowing him to step over the threshold into your room.

“Listen, I think there’s just-”

“No,” you interrupt, a short breath filling your lungs, “I’m going first.”

Todoroki’s eyes dilate, his feet stuttering backward as he takes in your assertive sentence. He grits his teeth, jaw quivering under the stress, but keeps his lips sealed in spite of desperately wanting to speak out.

“If you don’t want me here, you could have just said so.” You wring your hands together, knuckles knocking against one another as you twist your fingers. You close your eyelids and inhale a deep breath, “What happened, u-us kissing, wasn’t professional, and I apologize. But what you’re doing to Hana?”

You flare your nostrils as your hands turn to fists at your side. Todoroki watches you closely, eyes never wavering from your frame as he takes in your quivering, quiet fury. Your jaw muscles tense and you force your eyes to meet his, despite the glossiness settled in them, “You’re never here, Shouto. You missed her ballet recital last week, then you forgot she was allergic to grapes, and now you’re not seeing what’s directly in front of you!”

The more you speak, the louder you become. You can feel your cheeks heating, the tears building up in your eyelids with every syllable. Your fists clench at your sides, and your fingernails dig irately into your palms, so harshly that you swear you might draw blood. Each word draws out an anger in you that you didn’t realize you were harboring, like a fugitive sitting in the cage of your chest, tugging on the bars of your heart as they beg to be broken free.

“Hana deserves better than this, and you know it, Todoroki. So if you don’t get your head out of your ass,” your lower lip wobbles and you reach forward to poke him directly in the chest, index finger dug into the space between his pectorals, “you’re going to lose your daughter.”

You’re shaking your head and your fist as the next sentence comes tumbling from your lips, heart strings fully wound as you speak, “Listen, I don’t know what your problem is, but if it’s me, then I’ll leave.”

Shouto’s brow furrows as he looks down his nose at you, “Are you finished?”

The deadpan of his voice stirs something in your belly, something like an acrid fire that plumes in your chest, the smoke of it all curling around your throat and begging to be spewed like acid from your tongue. Your teeth grind into each other, a creaking sound echoing in your own ears. The way your heart twists in your chest makes it difficult to breathe, but you manage.

“Fuck you, Todoroki.”

You go to turn away from him, your hand falling from his chest, when he snatches you by the wrist, repeating his question, “Are you finished?”

A small remaining sliver of your patience sits heavy on your chest, forcing you to nod your head. Regardless of how you feel about him, Todoroki Shouto is an important man, and you need to leave here a dignified woman. If you make a scene, if you flash your fists and bare your teeth, it’s possible you won’t have another job ever again.

“I don’t want you to quit,” his voice is breathless, an octave higher than normal; he almost sounds sick, “but there is a problem.”

The anticipation of what he might say next brings back that acidic wash in your belly, throat squeezed shut by the clamped hands of insecurity and doubt. Shouto takes a careful step forward, mindful of your personal space as he does so. His fingers never leave your wrist, circled around your arm even as it’s pulled away from his body.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

To say that the world stopped spinning was an understatement.

You feel the whole planet turn on its axis, your body undergoing vertigo as the metaphorical rug is yanked out from beneath your feet. Your stomach flips, the acid molting into lava, hot and sticky as it licks up against your skin, pooling just below your navel. His grip is too restrictive, and you can tell your body is beginning to shift into panic mode.

“You’re right,” he barges in on your internal monologue of self-hatred, eyes boring into your soul, “I’ve been a shitty father, which is painful for me to admit. But it’s the truth.”

The conviction in his voice is solid, and you know that he is being authentic. Todoroki has a clouded past when it comes to his father, Enji. You are aware of the influence his estranged parents have on his relationship with his child, which is one of the reasons his distance has troubled you. Every time he has had enough vulnerability to allow you to peek into the glass panes of his soul, he’s shown you the scars that Endeavor has left on him.

Todoroki uses his free hand to cup your cheek, thumb under your chin to pull your attention back to him, “I tried to distance myself from you to get a better grasp on the way I was feeling.”

His palm grazes down the column of your throat, his eyes careful not to stray to close to your lips or else he’ll get distracted. Your mouth bobs open but you have nothing to say, and the bewildered expression on your face makes him laugh. The sound of his baritone chuckle does little to quell the storm raging beneath your skin, lighting striking with every single touch of his fingers and thunder booming in your chest at the sound of his voice.

“For the longest time, I believed I would never love anyone again after my wife passed away.” The feel of his knuckles slipping between yours, palm searing into you despite it being his right side. At the mention of his wife, your whole being begins to shudder, the weight of expectations and self-doubt pressing into your chest like a mass you cannot remove.

Todoroki swallows the lump in his throat, neck bobbing, “I was content with it just being Hana and I for the rest of our lives, us against the world, until you came along. You fit so perfectly into our family, sliding in seamlessly as if you’d been here the whole time. You managed to win Hana over in a day and now she can’t stop talking about you. And then, when Hana called you mom, it threw me.”

Shouto’s eyes are intense as they stare into you, narrowed and attentive. The odd combination of one blue, one grey, is hard to grasp, unsure of where you should look specifically. His fingers against your neck card through your hair, keeping you anchored to him and this world.

“It was easier for me to dive into work because I knew I’d have you here to pick up the pieces,” Shouto admits, his gaze finally breaking away from your face to narrow focus to his sock-clad feet. “I was so weak for you that I couldn’t bear it. And then you and Hana both suffered for my cowardice.”

A wave of destiny washes over you, looming like a shadow, begging you to make a decision.

“Todoroki, this is-”

“I told you,” his thumb grazes your cheekbone, “not to call me that.”

Your jaw hangs open and tears cloud your vision, and you want to smile no matter how hard your body fights against you. Your lower lip quivers and you shake your head, saltine droplets lingering on your cheeks, “I-I can’t, Shouto. I’m not right for you and Hana, I’m not-oh.”

His mouth slots against yours, angled perfectly to capture your lips in a gentle kiss. Shouto’s hands are on your face, holding you in place so you can’t run from him, despite how every cell under your skin is screaming to bolt from your place.

As he parts from you, you’re left in a daze of euphoria, eyes half-lidded, mouth still pursed as you chase after him, pleading for more.

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip before retreating to trace your jawline.

And you know that you can’t; your body has already betrayed your words with the simple action of a kiss. Your hands follow suit, wrapped around the fabric of his shirt to keep him close, frightened he might leave you all over again.

Shouto’s hands drift down your abdomen, slow against your rib cage as if he were counting each bone to make sure they were all there, safe and sound. He kisses your forehead and then your nose, mouth hovering over the bow of your lips, eyes begging you even though his voice is caught in his lungs.

You say a stupid thing then, just something meant to break up the quiet, but with the floaty tone of your voice it breeds for much more wicked thoughts.

“Your lips are really warm.”

Shouto laughs before devouring you at the seam of your mouth, leaning forward to scoop you up in his arms, hands dug in at your thighs. You squeal against his lips, wrapping your legs around his waist, your fingers dipping into the muscle of his shoulders for an anchor.

He’s got you back against the bed before you can breathe again, leaning back on his thighs so he can pull his shirt over his head with ease. Your palms are like magnets to his abdomen, fingerprints finding each curve and dip of his muscle, praying you can map it out so you might memorize it for the times when he’s not able to be this close.

As his fingertips graze beneath the hem of your shirt, your eyes go wide, stuttering breath accompanied by panicked words, “H-Hana? Is she-”

Shouto chuckles, “She’s laid down for her nap. We have about two hours.”

The devilish glint in his eyes does little to quell the rampant thoughts running in your mind. You suddenly want to feel his hands and mouth everywhere on your body, insatiable in your lust for his touch.

“Sh-Shouto, please,” you’re panting and he hasn’t even undressed you yet, “need you.”

A devout confession such as that one, something so primal in its nature, shifts his demeanor from playful to sinful. Now his fingertips are dancing beneath your shirt, palming over your skin like he might find a hidden treasure in your bones.

He shakes his head, nose grazing your cheek as he starts towards your collarbone, “Tell me what you need, darling.”

“Need you.”

You are quick in your answer, eyes screwed shut at the tantalizing ministrations of his fingers on your flesh. He is teasing you, just close enough to your breast that it hitches your breathing, but not too close to where you can feel pleasure. A hot wash of arousal rolls into your body, slick beginning to gather between your thighs.

“More specific,” the words are muttered around the skin of your chest, one of his hands tugging on your collar to bare more of your body to him.

You whine, bucking your hips upward, knowing exactly the shape his cock will be in beneath the underwear that has him caged from you. You reach forward and tug at the waistline of his briefs, “Please, Shouto, I want to feel you.”

At the mention of feel, he takes you by surprise as he slips two fingers between your folds, curling into you quickly. You muffle your whine into the pillow, turning your face so your cheek is smushed against the downy cushion. Shouto’s palm that isn’t occupied with your tight heat tugs your shirt up over the tops of your breasts, baring your chest to the cool air of the bedroom.

“You are feeling me, sweetheart,” he teasingly licks over your nipple, thankful for the lack of a bra separating you from his wanton tongue.

Another moan drags salaciously from your lips, vibrating your throat and making his cock twitch, “Sho’, wan’ your cock. Please.”

You’re able to drag his pants and briefs down at once, his cock springing free from the restricting fabric. When it bobs against his abdomen, enflamed red cockhead leaking pre-come, you feel saliva build up in the back of your throat. You start to pump him as best you can, watching as his weighty balls swing under your touch.

Everything about him is enticing, from his dual-toned hair to his heterochromatic eyes to his chiseled body. You’d use your tongue on every part of him if he’d let you, but right now you’re focused on only one thing.

Once Shouto has coaxed enough of your arousal to coat his hand, he curls his fingers into you one last time, collecting the silvery fluid on his fingers, and then stands to step out of his clothes. You keen at the loss of contact, eyes wide open so you don’t miss a second.

“C’mon, baby, take your clothes off for me.”

At his command, you’re stripping down until you’re bare in front of him, clothes in a pool of fabric on the floor right next to his. Even the simple intimacy of his clothing overlapped with yours does things to your heart, a pinpricking sensation making your skin heat.

“Hi,” he whispers, fingers framing your face as you get lost in his touch. His voice is gentle, and his touch is probing in the best of ways, a genuine smile tugging his lips upward as you echo the word back to him.

You can feel your arousal tumbling within the confines of your body, begging to be put to use as you feel his cock against your thigh. Todoroki guides you back into the mattress, shoulders pressing into the cool sheets, your body given some sort of contrast to the molten heat circulating under your skin. Your blushed skin draws Shouto’s attention, eyes dragging over each inch of your body, mesmerized by your beauty.

Todoroki shakes his head, “You’re beautiful, you know?”

And at the end of his sentence, acting like punctuation, his cock slides between your heat.

Your eyelids flutter shut and your hands are on him in an instant, nails dug into his flesh to try and dispel some of the energy already built up within your fragile body. Shouto feels lightning spark up into his spine, the trails of it striking his hidden heart, licking at the edges of the glass box keeping him imprisoned from the world.

As your cunt clenches around him and your mouth utters his name like a prayer, Shouto can tell that his chest is constricting, tightening around his heart in an attempt to break himself free from the confines of his past.

“Sho’,” you’re mewling for him now as the veins of his cock drag salaciously against your tight, glutenous walls. Silvery slick coats his dick and he moans as your pussy clamps again.

He begins to build up the speed of his thrusts, his thumb brushing over your clit slowly, the very beginning of a pleasurable end building up within your belly. His mouth is attached to anything on you he can find – breast, collarbone, jaw, throat, cheek. Teeth and tongue lash out at you, parting his mouth so his heated breath can wash over your body.

Shouto focuses as best he can on forcing heat down the length of his arm, pinpointing the warmest point onto the tip of his thumb. You preen, eyes bulging out of your sockets well enough that he can translate your pleasure. On the opposing hand, the one currently preoccupied with your nipple, begins to freeze. Gooseflesh trembles on his arm but he does not mind, not when he gets to hear your panting whines of his name mixed with the begging sounds of please, please, please.

“Such a good girl,” Shouto murmurs into the thin skin of your throat, tongue delving from between his lips to lavish your jugular. “So pretty, laid out just for me.”

You nod your head as best you can, eyes wide as you drink in his praise. Your mouth bobs open but you can’t form words, not anything intelligent anyway. Shouto reaches his icy thumb towards your lips, brushing his cool touch over the heated skin, steam wafting between the two of you.

“Have you been thinking about this as long as I have?” he asks rhetorically, not expecting you to answer based on the fucked out look in your eyes, the drool seeping from the corner of your mouth as his body makes quick work of you. Shouto grunts, “I’ve wanted to take you against every damn surface in this house for months.”

His left hand peels from your clit, running up over the curve of your thigh to press beneath your knee, pushing your leg upward so he can thrust into you from a better angle. Your hands are stuck on the sheets now, his body just out of reach thanks to the twisting of your hips. Shouto slams into you, balls slapping your ass as he ruts forward.

You feel his cock harden even further from within the confines of your cunt, the tip of him brushing against the spongy corner of your insides. After another deep thrust he’s bottomed out within you, hips absolutely flush with your thighs as he presses into you.

Shouto leans forward, not daring to pull himself away from you just yet, enjoying the way you envelope him fully, “You think you can come for me, love? I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

“Y-Yes, Shouto, I-I’m getting there, almost,” you promise him, eyes fucked out to the point you can barely make sense of his frame loitering above you. Your lower lip wobbles as you pout, “A-Are you gonna-fuck-want you to come in me.”

It’s a simple sentence, but the weight of it makes Todoroki’s heart stop. He knows you’re on preventatives, he’s had to stay home with Hana to cover during the day for your doctor’s visits. But something stirs at the base of his cock, weighing in the thick of his body, and for some reason he wishes you were his for the taking in every sense of the word.

As you whimper beneath him, his eyes trail over your body, landing on your belly. His fiery touch grazes the swell of your stomach where he knows his cock is pressed deep within you. His balls throb at the thought of coating every inch of you in his spend, you begging for more as it leaks out of you and onto the sheets; him drawing you into another round just to make sure that you’re stuffed full.

Suddenly, a fracture within his chest allows him to breathe deeper. As you buck your hips into him, begging him for more, telling him how good he’s making you feel, Shouto recognizes the fragile box surrounding his heart, guarding it from the world, has begun to shatter.

“Shouto, please,” you are begging him now, glassy eyes and pitched tone designed just for him, “Need to feel you, everywhere.”

Your plea is the final rock thrown at the glass box, cracking it in every direction. Shards of emotion lodge in his throat, tearing into him so he cannot breathe. As he gasps for breath, fingers digging into your skin, he knows he’s bruising you but he can’t bring himself to think of it as anything other than finally marking you down at his.

And then, when your breathy voice curls in the air, settling on his chest like a balm, he feels the glass melt away, turning to liquid fire in his gut. The words you utter tear open his heart, leaving a gaping, belligerent wound that he knows only you can mend.

“I love you, Shouto, I love you too.”

His eyes find yours, wide and wanting. You nod as if that will solidify his place in the universe, tears blurring your vision, repeating the sentiment over and over again, uncaring to the way your face looks glassy beneath the lowlight of the bedroom. You just need him to know, need him to understand.

“Shit,” he pushes the heel of his palm into the bottom of your stomach, itching to feel the way his cock pulses in and out of you as he thrusts into your body. His thoughts are even more permanent now, the idea of filling you up, pouring his body into you in the most primal way possible, is the only thing he can see. Your hand makes its way into his hair, tugging at the crown of his head as you lean forward.

A mix of crimson and white is bunched between your fists, matching the little tufts of hair that tickle your pelvis every time he bottoms out within you. You scrape your nails against his scalp, but that only spurs him on faster, panting moans busting his throat open and begging you for more.

Your lashes flutter against the tops of your cheeks, mouth parted so he can see the pink of your tongue, “Sh-Sho’, I’m close.”

He makes it his mission to twitch his cock within your walls, providing an extra layer of stimulation as his channels himself into you mercilessly. Somehow, he does it with such a finesse that it does not feel rushed or sloppy. Shouto is very careful, precise, in everything he does, and you are not surprised it works its way into the mannerisms he exhibits between the sheets as well.

“C’mon, darling,” he coos into your ear, folding your thighs upward so you’re fully pressed into the mattress, “I want you to come for me, yeah? I want you to coat my cock. You can do it, you’re close, I can feel it.”

His praise intertwined with the thickness of his cock bulging within you breaks the crest of the wave, allowing pleasure to flow through your body and onto his cock, coating him in your thick, sweet release.

“Fuck, you feel good.” Shouto continues to thrust upward into you, eyes focused on your face as he uses your cunt to bring his own euphoria down from the clouds. He’s looking down at you, jaw hung wide as he buries his cock into your tight heat, enjoying the way your slick lubricates his length.

You buck up into him and he drops his head to your collarbone, thrusts becoming sloppier the longer he tries to hang on to the edge of the cliff. Your hand in his hair tugs on the strands, mouth by his ear as you whisper, “Please, Shouto, want to feel you come in me. I want you to pump me full of your hot load, stuff me-ah.”

His hips stutters as he releases his seed into you, tongue lapping at your throat carelessly to try and force his body not to start up again. The need to feel you coming around him, begging for his cock and come, is something he has been denying for too long.

“I love you,” he whispers into the curve of your earlobe, nipping at the skin as his hips still. “Fuck, I love you.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to the curve of his scalp, “I love you too.”

As he reaches the extent of his high, he presses his body flat into you, cock twitching within your core. Your palms find his shoulders, grazing gently with your fingernails until he’s moaning into your neck, hot breath fanning out over your skin.

“Unless you want to go again, I suggest you put an end to that,” he warns, but there is no intent behind it.

You laugh, rubbing your ankle against his calf, “We’ve got a little one about to wake from her nap. Maybe later.”

And that is a promise you fully intend to keep.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“Momma?”

You turn your head, pancakes on the griddle in front of you, “Yes, honey?”

Hana bounces towards you, white chiffon dress bubbling out at her knees, “When is breakfast ready?”

“When daddy gets back from his run,” you answer her, squatting in front of her to smooth the wrinkles from the fabric of her dress. “I made yours with choco-chips.”

Her eyes go wide and you feel a little sunbeam shining directly on your heart, warming your chest. She grabs you by the cheeks, palms squishing your lips together, “You can’t tell daddy!”

“Oh, I won’t,” you promise, voice distorted from the way she has you in her grasp. You brush a hand through her silver curls, tucking the strands away from her face. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Don’t tell daddy what?”

Hana squeals, turning on her heels to sprint towards the garage door. She’s on Shouto’s leg in an instant, clutching him like her life depends on it. You stand back to your feet, brushing your thighs clean before turning back to the griddle to start another round of pancakes.

“We can’t tell you or else it won’t be a secret, duh!” Hana sticks her tongue out as she pokes Shouto’s leg, rolling her eyes like it should be obvious. “Look, Momma’s making pancakes!”

Todoroki looks across the room at you, eyes reminding you of colorful gems as they behold you. Every time you catch him staring at you, you swear it’s even more infatuated than the last, his love for you only growing as time passes.

“Is she?” He peels her from his leg to shift her into his arms, holding her securely against his side. Todoroki walks over to you, leaning into the counter so he’s close enough that you can reach him but far enough that he can’t burn Hana on the griddle.

“You’re back quicker than I expected,” you admit, pouring batter out onto the stovetop. You grab the spatula, prepared to flip once they look done enough, “Did you pull something?”

Shouto shakes his head, leaning forward to intercept you with a kiss to the lips, “I just missed you.”

“Ew, gross! Kissing means cooties!” Hana pushes your faces apart, a hand on your mouths as she dramatically lolls her tongue out of her mouth to prove her disgust.

You chuckle, leaning forward to brush her hair from her eyes again, tucking it behind her ear even though you know it will spring forward not long after. Your eyes flash from her to her father, watching the pride settle into his irises, solidifying them even more. A gentle touch of your hand to his bicep brings him back to you, gaze unwavering as he maps out the features of your face yet again, each time finding something new to behold.

“Well, that means you have time to shower before we eat,” you squeeze his arm and return to your station at the griddle, flipping the next set of pancakes. “I’ve still got to make eggs and bacon, and some hash browns for the princess.”

Hana is beaming, bright smile tugging on the strings of your heart, “Momma makes the best hash browns.”

Todoroki places her back down on the ground, patting her backside as a silent gesture to tell her to go play. She takes his hint, sprinting back into the living room to resume her tea party with a stuffed elephant and a Ken barbie doll.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You never-ooh.”

He’s got you by the neck with one hand, the other anchoring to your hip to hold you close. Todoroki melds your mouths together, the heat of his body quickening your pulse. He steps closer, knee between your thighs so you can feel the hard bulge pressing into the fabric of his running shorts.

You hum as he parts from you, pancakes momentarily forgotten in the wake of his affections. You pat your hands on his chest, gnawing on your lower lip, “Smooth one, Todoroki.”

Shouto pinches your hip, growing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “You. Me. Nap time.”

“Oh?” you ask as he unwinds himself from you, nudging your body back towards the griddle.

“And I’m not talking about sleeping.”

Todoroki disappears from around the corner, slipping up the stairs to your now shared bedroom.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your lips. When you go to turn this set of pancakes, the diamond sitting on your left hand catches the luminescent lights of the kitchen and you marvel at it. You roll your ring around on your finger, trying to find a different angle to appreciate it from, but you’ve already memorized the shape of it after three years of marriage.

Your palm finds the gentle swell of your navel beneath the baggy t-shirt you’re wearing, one of Shouto’s early proofs for a new merchandise design. You bite your lip and look down, speaking to the rustling new life currently blooming in your belly, “Here’s to tomorrow, little one. May it always be just a little better than today.”

The pancakes are done and the bacon is sizzling when Shouto returns with damp hair and a pair of sweats on the lower half of his body. He curls an arm around you from behind, kissing your shoulder, “Smells good, love.”

You turn to offer him a kiss, which he takes with fervor. Hana voices her disgust from her seat at the table, but Shouto hushes her quickly with a playful rise of his eyebrow, pointed finger making her giggle.

The three of you are sat down to breakfast, just like any other Saturday, but this one feels special for some reason. You can’t quite make it out; maybe it’s the sun shining outside or the crisp breeze blowing through the open windows, but your soul is settled in a way that can only be achieved by utter bliss.

“Hey,” Shouto calls you from your stupor, “your choco-chip pancakes are going cold.”

You blink slowly, returning your gaze to him, a gentle smile on your face.

At least you’ll get to spend the rest of your life with someone as mindful and kind as Todoroki Shouto.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

taglist: @bakugous-forehead @kamehamethot @burnedbyshoto @rivendell101 @cookies-n-chaos @katsukisprincess @rat-suki @bitchtrynafck @bnhatrashh @succulent-momma @multifandom-fanfic @that-one-enthusiast @blue-peach14 @pastel-prynce @bokunokangae @shoutodoki​ @todorki-shoto​ @bakuoushoe​ @1-800-callmekatsuki​ @tenyaingenium​ @lxvely-mha​ @myherorambles​ @ramen-rambles​ @honeytama​ @sleepysuneater​ @bratwritings​ @samanthaa-leanne​ @orokayagi​ @whats-her-quirk​ @riotfuckery​ @sunbeamwrites​ @bnhawritten​ @aizawamirite​ @lovekatsukibakugo​ @suckersuki​ @secondhand-trash​ @yaoyorozuwrites​ @kingtamakimurder​

[kobithedragon]

The painting of a black hole was taken from File:H. K. Wimmer's rendition of a black hole.png. In accordance with the minimum total potential energy principle, the continuum's gravitational potential energy becomes ever more negative, so that in the course of its 13.8-billion-year-long gravitational life cycle, the spherical black-hole continuum becomes sucked into a deepening gravity well leading to the continuum's gravitational centre, whose gravitational synergy increases and peaks in the brain of the most understanding man, who gravitationally controls the entire continuum as His cosmic body: Any concentration of matter more compact than an infinitely dispersed cloud (even a cloud of gas containing one hydrogen molecule in every litre of space) must have less gravitational energy than an infinitely dispersed cloud, because, when material falls together energy is removed from the field. We start with zero energy and take some away, so we are left with negative energy. The negative energy of the gravitational field is what allows negative entropy, equivalent to information, to grow, making the Universe a more complicated and interesting place, with hot stars pouring out energy, on which planets like Earth can feed, as they attempt to redress the balance. —Gribbin, John. In Search of the Multiverse Penguin UK, 2009, p. 131 With implosions a molecular ordering takes places in a radial → axial direction and therefore a suctional effect takes place in the axis, where the most vigorous decrease in heat and pressure occurs. —Schauberger, Viktor. Explosion and Implosion (Expansion and Impansion) from a Scientific and Biological Viewpoint Implosion Magazine, no. 113, 16 January 1956, p. 63 The earth, to Fuller, is a "contracting phase" of the universe, a low-pressure zone in the cosmos where energy is collected and stored. The sun's radiation warms the oceans, and the oceans feed the earth. Fuller calls processes which conserve energy aspects of "synergy", a word he relies on heavily in his discussions of the "more-with-less" technologies that will accomplish the defeat of scarcity. An example of synergetic action that Fuller is particularly fond of is the way chrome-nickel steel acquires, through chemical mating, a tensile strength greater than the sum of its components. But the highest expression of synergy is man's intuition, his ability to see comprehensive patterns in random events, which has led him from near helplessness to the point where he can now take control of his own evolution. —Farrell, Barry. The View from the Year 2000 LIFE Magazine, 26 February 1971 Through human socialisation, whose specific effect is to involute upon itself the whole bundle of reflexive scales and fibres of the earth, it is the very axis of the cosmic vortex of interiorisation which is pursuing its course. <...> We are not dealing with an immutably fixed focus but with a vortex which grows deeper as it sucks up the fluid at the heart of which it was born. The ego only persists by becoming ever more itself, in the measure in which it makes everything else itself. —Chardin, Pierre Teilhard de. The Phenomenon of Man. 1955, pp. 306, 172

Attractor321

[pi-cat000]

BNHA: something sad (Implosion)

Summary: The last time Katsuki sees Izuku alive the other boy is rushing to save him.  A ‘the Sludge Villain incident gone wrong’ aka Izuku dies.

Characters:  Katsuki Bakugo

Fandom: My Hero Academia

WARNINGS! Major Character death, swearing, heavy angst, graphic descriptions of violence

Other parts in this AU: (Something Sad),  (Anger), (Grief)

...

(Katsuki gets a taste of vigilantism)

.

“GET OFF!” Katsuki struggles against the hands pulling him down. Down. Down into never-ending darkness. Ahead of him is Deku, trapped in a swirling cocoon of shifting green sludge. The idiot is smiling, so bloody pleased with himself like he isn’t seconds away from death. He yells and struggles but the shadowy figures holding him are unaffected. All they do is watch with empty eyes.

.

Katsuki flings himself upright, taking several hash breaths. The air is still, the silence oppressive. Around him, the walls of his bedroom loom, the single remaining All Might poster he still has up glaring down at him. He is shaking drenched in sweat, hands twitching, itching, eager to blow something up. Anything to loosen the knot of empty, pointless frustration stuck in his chest. In between breaths, Katsuki rolls out of bed, yanking a jacket from where it is slung over his lopsided desk in the same move. He is not wearing a shirt and he doesn’t want to go out completely exposed.

The front door is deadlocked and needs a key. A change brought about by his continued unsanctioned trips outside.  Luckily, it is not his only exit option. Katsuki yanks open his bedroom window, sticking his head out, scanning the narrow walkway that runs between his building and the next. Nothing moves, the dark space is empty save for the apartment’s collection of communal garbage bins. Quickly, he shimmies out through the narrow opening, twisting so he can drop feet first.

It is four stories down and he lets himself fall, forming twin blasts in both hands to slow his descent.

 He had long theorised that he would be able to increase and decrease his momentum with controlled explosive bursts. Pain shoots through his ankles as he lands in a crouch next to the bins but it’s not bond-breaking, so he guesses his theory is correct.

Katsuki straightens, listening to the muffled sounds of a TV playing somewhere in the building next to him. It doesn’t seem like the sound of his blasts had caught anybody’s attention. The air outside is muggy, still warm from the day's heat. Another beat passes and he is strolling off down the street, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, bare feet silent on the sun-warmed pavement. Slowly, his breathing returns to normal. Now, if he could only find something to distract his dumb brain from re-playing the scene of Deku’s final moments that would be great. He needs something to fuel his anger and rage so he can distract himself from the new empty bitterness, burrowing into his chest.  

The few people he passes are salarymen returning from an evening drinking and they all give him a wide berth. He glares, daring one of them to comment on his appearance or take issue with the fact that he is a middle-schooler roaming the streets at midnight. None of them do. The cowards.

Katsuki is cutting through backstreets, making his way towards one of the busier sections of the city, when a faint groaning sound catches his attention. He freezes, listening, eyes darting over the plain brick walls, scanning the taller office buildings and apartment complexes for the source. There…around the corner… two streets down…there is someone groaning. He stalks forward, following the murmur of angry voices. In between angry muttering is the yelp of a person in pain.

Katsuki breaks into a jog, turning in the direction of the noise, following till he can make out conversation. 

“I told you to pay up old man. You stupid or something.”

“Please. I don’t have any money…”

There is the thunk of something solid hitting flesh. 

Katsuki comes to a stop near the entrance to a shadowed alleyway just big enough to fit a small car. There is a group of three adults in loose clothing, looming over a downed fourth person. A tall lanky man with a metal bat, a shorter guy with bulging arm muscles, and a greasy-haired man holding a knife are focused on an older man who is holding a briefcase over his head like a shield. Thoughts of Deku fade to be replaced with single-minded determination.

“Hey losers,” he strolls out into full view, “How about you fight someone who’s not missing his geriatrics appointment.”

All three would-be muggers, he’ll call them Tiny, Lanky and Grease-Hair, freeze, turning as one to stare at him. In his chest his blood seems to come alive as his heart rate ramps up.

“What the hell?” Tiny looks to his fellow muggers for confirmation, “it’s a kid?”

There are few seconds of disbelieving silence before Grease-Hair shakes off their collective aneurism. “Hey kid! Why don’t you fuck off? This is none of your business.”

“You weak, wannabe-thugs got a problem with the truth?” He smirks, fingers twitching. His response has three, four if you include the Brief-Case man, incredulous looks directed his way.

“You got hearing problems kid? He said to fuck off,” Lanky steps forward, resting his bat across his shoulder in a display of aggression.

Katsuki cracks his knuckles as loudly as possible and settles into a semi-crouch, ready to use his blasts to propel himself forward. It was time to put his newly confirmed quirk ability to the test.

“Guess the standard for criminals around here just really sucks.”

“You got a death wish brat?” Grease-Hair brandishes his knife, coming to stand beside Tall-and-Lanky, “I’ll make you cry so fucking much you shit stain.”

“HA! as if you could!” All at once his anger, excitement and frustration spike into a wave of adrenalin. 

Before Grease-Hair can take another step toward him, Katsuki launches himself forward, propelling himself with as big a blast as he can manage without breaking his arms. As Katsuki is naturally hardier than the average person-a secondly quirk characteristic- the blast ends up being pretty damn big. WHOOOM! It rattles the glass in the adjacent windows. His last coherent thought before he lets his mind succumb to the rush of exhilaration is that he needs to take out one of these guys as quickly as possible to even the odds.

Crunch, is the sound Grease-Hair’s face and nose make when he slams his knee into it. The snap of bones breaking is unnervingly satisfying. Grease-Hair topples over, eyes blank, expression of shock frozen on his face as he takes an express trip into dreamland. The knife clatters on the concrete.

“Holy crap!” The two remaining men offer shouts of alarm. The bat comes hurtling towards his head and Katsuki hurls himself to the side, ignoring the stab of pain that runs up his shoulder when he lands at an awkward angle. He flexes his hands, throwing both arms up in direction of his attacker who is now trying to bring the bat down on his legs.

BOOM!

Fire and smoke erupt between them, throwing them in opposite directions. The bright flash of light and heat provides enough cover for him to roll on his feet. Tiny and Lanky stumble backward and Brief-Case man makes a run for it while they are distracted. In the main street, several car alarms go off. Katsuki, being unaffected by the explosion, recovers first and leaps through the smoke, fists clenched. Moving his arm around in an arching swing, it smacks into Lanky’s head. He barely feels this sting in his wrist and knuckles as the skin on his knuckles break against his teeth. Blood sprays into the air.

It is at this point that Tiny recovers enough to retreat a few paces and make a slashing motion with his hand. Some invisible force slams into Katsuki’s side and he is flung sideward away from Lanky. Pain blossoms in his ribs and he lets off a clumsily blast to slow his momentum. He still hits the wall of the ally hard enough to leave cracks in the brick. Blood fills his mouth from where he has accidentally bitten into the side of his tongue.

A quirk effect? Something invisible that hit hard and had some range to it. Not great for him. He pushes off the wall, crouching, ready to dodge. Tiny drags Lanky to his feet. They are both glaring at him, eyes dark.

He coughs, and, even as the distant realisation that this might not have been a good idea tugs at his thoughts, he grins, “You pieces of trash are weak shit.”

“You’re fucking dead,” Lanky fumes.

Unfortunately- or maybe fortunately- Katsuki never finds out what the two thugs would have done next in retaliation because there is a loud, amplified shout from the ally entrance.  

“FREEZE COMBATANTS.”

A blinding white light flickers on and illuminates the entire alleyway, making him wince and bring an arm up to shield his eyes.

“Shit. Cops.” Both Tiny and Lanky turn, obviously intending to make a run for it, only to realise that the ally ends in a tall stone wall.

“WOULD ALL COMBATANTS TAKE FIVE STEPS AWAY FROM EACH OTHER AND FACE THE WALL!” 

Katsuki glowers in the direction of the megaphone-enhanced voice but can only make out the silhouettes of almost a dozen figures against the spotlight. Well, he’s definitely in shit now.

“ANYONE WHO DOES NOT COMPLY WILL BE SUBDUED BY FORCE!”

“Shit. Damn it.” Both men throw their hands in the air in a display of surrender not willing to try and take on what looked like half of the Musutafu police depo.  Katsuki begrudgingly follows suit, his breath beginning to even out as the rush adrenalin dips now that the fighting was over.

“Turn around and face the wall,” Is shouted once more, “Keep your hands in the air.” The silhouettes begin their approach. And they all awkwardly stand in a line and stare at the grey brick. Around them, blasted fragments of asphalt and ripped up concrete stand as damning evidence of his involvement. Guess he’ll be taking that ‘trip to the station’ after all. No way the bastards were going to let him off with a stern lecture after this.

“I hope you’re happy you psycho shit,” Lanky snaps, drawing his attention and he notes that the man is now missing one of his front teeth,  “Got us all fuckin in arrested.”

Katsuki spits out the blood that has been collecting in his mouth since he hit the wall. It spats on the ground near the man’s feet, “You got beaten up by a middle schooler. I did the criminal underworld a favour getting your weak asses off the street.”

That hits a nerve going by how the man’s face twists into a snarl of rage “Why you little…” Lanky lunges towards him and is immediately blocked by a swarm of police officers who have since surround them and tackle the man to the ground. “HEY, DON’T MOVE!” “GET ON THE GROUND” There is a lot of yelling, swearing, and spitting but the thug is quickly overwhelmed.

“All right, you, the one standing on the left…”

 Katsuki shifts his attention from watching Lanky get wrestled into cuffs to the tired-sounding cop standing a few feet behind him. Is it just him or does the guy sound annoyingly familiar?

“Put your arms down and cross them behind your back…” the sentence trails off.

“Bakugō?”

Katsuki squints over his shoulder at the familiar face of Senior Officer Watanabe. So…not just him. Fucking fantastic. Said familiar face is frozen, surprised, hands half way to opening a set of bulky cuffs.

There is a long exhale, “What have you done now.”

“Done?” Katsuki sneers, “I saw these assholes beating the shit out of some old man so I beat the shit of them instead.” Now the fight is over, that feeling of irritable restlessness is creeping back.

The Senior Officer shakes his head in disbelief, “Geeze kid, this isn’t like setting off explosives in the park, vigilantism is a serious offence.”

“What? I was supposed to do nothing then?” He grits his teeth. There, he can feel it, the anger flaring up again.

“You’re supposed to call for help. You’re lucky we got reports of the altercation and responded as quick as we did. You’re a mess kid.” 

“Tch. I was handling it.”

The man looks at him funny before letting out a long exhausted breath, “Are you going to come quietly so I can get an EMT to look you over or do I have to put you in these suppressant cuffs?”  A pause, “ And where is your shirt … and shoes?”

“Do whatever old man.” Katsuki ignores the second question. 

A firm hand lands on his shoulder, which he tries and fails to shrug off, pulling him off towards the entrance of the ally. The cuffs are handed off to another officer. They pass Tiny and Lanky who are both now sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands secured behind their backs, facing the wall. Grease-Hair, still unconscious, is being fussed over by two men in white and red paramedic uniforms. There is a small crater where Katsuki had let off his larger blast.

“Your handy work I presume?” Watanabe asks.

 “Hell yeah it is.”

That gets another sigh, “This is all going on your record. You do understand that, right?”

It must be the remaining adrenalin that has him laughing, “Like I give a shit.”

[thecozycryptid]

Fantasy high + space phenomena

Ohhh this is so interesting! 🤩

Fabian: Solar Wind - A phenomenon that occurs when the heat from the Sun’s corona excites protons, electrons and other particles to a state where they escape the Sun’s gravitational pull.

Kristen: Comet - These were once believed to be harbingers of doom or fortune.

Riz: Pulsar - Extremely dense neutron stars that rotate extremely fast.

Fig: Quasar - these are super-luminous objects located at the center of galaxies. Current scientific theories state that quasars are powered by massive black holes at the center of young galaxies.

Gorgug: Gamma Ray Burst - Powerful bursts of Gamma Rays and X-Rays that are fired from the poles of massive stars that are imploding.

Adaine: Supernova - Massive and powerful implosions and explosions that are the climactic finale of certain types of stars. Some stars are so massive that their implosions cause their own atoms to collapse.

I’m still taking these btw!

[gypsydanger01]

THE STORM - Part eleven

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

  Posting new chapters on Wednesday and Friday!

 Mallory

The following day started out cloudy but ultimately turned out to be a lovely day. Unfortunately, though, the pale sun in the sky gave little warmth, and Sarah trudged on towards the local park, hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat.

Waking up in a fairly good mood, she decided to go for a walk, and maybe make a trip to the local park. Children’s laughter grew louder and louder until she turned the corner, and there it was. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a park, run down and covered in graffiti, but children are quick to move past that. All that mattered to them was playing, running around, and having fun.

Sarah looked away and sat on a bench, legs crossed one over the other. She checked the time and flipped open the burner phone she kept for contacting Mallory. After five minutes, at precisely eleven o’clock, she selected the only registered number and called.

“Mommy, mommy, look—look at me, mommy,” a little girl called from the swings, her mother smiling and assuring that she, indeed, could see her.

It reminded Sarah so much of her younger self calling out to her mother, and it hurt. She'd visited the playground they used to go to before the Vought trials, but it had become abandoned, all grass and rusty edges. It was sad how it'd been left behind.

She waited for the other end to pick up.

“Hello?” a voice called out, and Sarah smiled lightly.

She paused and breathed out, “Hey Mal, how are you doing?”

Mallory chuckled on the other end, “Well these knees aren’t what they used to be, but I’m okay,” Sarah heard her plop onto the sofa, “More importantly, how are you?”

Sarah ran a hand through the curly tresses that had been blown into her face.

“I guess it’s decent, can’t really complain. I’m still working as a data analyst for the labs, in bioinformatics…,” she trailed off. “But I heard a slot is opening up for a researcher in the developmental biology labs, so I’m going to try and see if they’ll hire me.”

“Please, Sarah—just be careful, keep your eyes open,” she murmured, “always vigilant, alright?”

The young woman stared out at the children crawling over the playground’s castle, tumbling down the slides, running after each other and laughing out of pure, innocent joy.

“Where are you?”

“Neighborhood playground.”

“I thought I heard children. How’s school?”

“Well, actually well, I’ll be finished with my post doc soon enough. They hired me as an assistant professor a couple days ago, I’m teaching a microbiology class for some juniors.”

“That sounds interesting, it would be entertaining to see you teach. You’re a mix of patient and impatient—don’t really know what that would look like in the classroom.”

Sarah snorted lightly, “Fortunately, they seem to be good listeners, quiet and respectful—I don’t know what I’d do if they were a bunch of little arrogant rich kids.”

Mallory too started laughing, thinking back on the young woman’s training. She was proficient in using a great number of weapons and could easily hold her own without one. In an interrogation room, she was skillful in psychologically manipulating a suspect into confessing or giving up information. She spoke multiple languages and was a natural at reading body-language. She had a good eye for meaningful details that are often overlooked. She was the perfect field agent. Mallory had a hard time seeing her as a professor, calmly explaining a powerpoint to a bunch of students.

“I guess it’ll help you further develop that patience of yours,” Mallory surmised.

Sarah couldn’t help but agree.

“Hey, Mallory?” she asked tentatively.

The older woman stilled on the couch, “Yes dear?”

“Do you remember Dr. Roberts? The doctor I saw for my…” she trailed off, searching for a better word, “for my health problems?”

Mallory pursed her lips and stayed silent on the other end.

“I need to contact him—”

Mallory cut in, “What happened? Do you need to come home?”

Worry laced in her voice, the older woman couldn’t help the string of worst scenarios playing in her head. She knew the danger correlated with the young woman’s plan and felt helpless in being left out. If anything happened to the girl, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

 When the dust finally settled, there was nothing left but a crater and a little girl lying amid the smoke and ashes. That’s how they found her: curled in a ball, shivering with her skin covered in soot.

When the perimeter was deemed safe enough, Mallory and a team of experts approached the figure. Alive, yet on the brink of death, the little girl had slipped into a coma, and they were quick to have her internalized in a secured section of a local hospital. Only Mallory and few others had the security clearance to access the small room that held her.

Months passed and the room stayed quiet. Mallory went to gather updates from the doctors once a week. At the CIA they had many hypothesis but couldn’t seem to put together the disaster that had been the implosion of that Vought clinic. She had her underlying suspicions and didn’t trust the little girl who had survived. She had to be enhanced, she had to be a supe. There was no other explanation, no other alternative. And yet, she was the only link that would allow them to piece together the accident. The news had presented it as an explosion due to an accidental chemical explosion, but Mallory knew they were far from the truth.

It was an experimental factory for building little supes. And evidently, it had worked.

The proof of that was the little unknown girl lying in her white, pristine cot.

Mallory would look at her with detachment, knowing the child was probably a victim, and yet not feeling any remorse. She had leveled an entire building.

But then one day, as she watched a nurse report her vitals while tucking the little girl in, she opened her eyes. Afraid and trembling, she looked around wildly and fixated on the woman standing at the door.

With her height and professional attire, she was the epitome of rigidness. Blonde hair perfectly pinned back into a bun. Sharp light blue eyes guarded and alert. The two stared at each other, both with underlying dread and a sliver of fear.

And then something twisted in Mallory. Maybe it was the blatant fear in the young girls’ eyes, or maybe it was the innocent tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Where’s my mommy?”

Mallory moved forward, compelled by some unknown force.

She sat at the girl’s side, “She’s not here at the moment, okay?” she explained softly, tension visible in her rigid shoulders. She had no idea what the little one was capable of, and she didn’t want to find out.

The nurse gently took a hold of her bony wrist, taking her vitals once again. “How are you feeling?”

The little girl wiped at her face, “Sleepy.”

“Okay, and can you tell us your name sweetie?”

She looked up at the strict woman beside her, “Marianna,” she said matter-of-factly before adding, “my mommy calls me Mari.”

As the minutes passed, Mari seemed to grow livelier and more awake, her skin less pale and clammy than before.

The nurse pressed a button on the side of the bed, calling the assigned physician, Dr. Roberts.

“Marianna, I’m going to have to get a little bit of blood so we can have it tested and make sure you’re okay. Is that alright?”

The girl pulled her legs into a crisscrossed position and shrugged her shoulders.

“Okay,” she answered as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The nurse hurried to prepare the syringe and test tube, comparing her to the hundreds of kids who cry and scream in vicinity of a needle.

Marianna watched her sterilize the needle, then looked back at Mallory.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Mallory was left speechless and felt like she should distance herself before growing attached. Nevertheless, she nodded and let Marianna’s small fingers grip her own.

 “Mallory?” Sarah called into the phone, suddenly worried.

The woman was brought out of her memories and focused on the task at hand.

“Why are you bringing this up now? I haven’t heard from Dr. Roberts in years.”

Sarah explained, reciting the story she’d come up with, “I know but I have some samples I took that need to be tested,” she explained. “Discreetly,” she stressed.

Mallory thought about it and let go of the tension in her shoulders, “Alright, I thought something happened with you.”

Sarah felt terrible for lying but couldn’t see any alternative. “No, I’m doing alright, I just need to contact him for these samples. I don’t know anyone else who would do it. And he’s trustworthy.”

Mallory nodded to herself, “Alright, I’ll look for his number and email—I’ll send you the info by tonight.”

“Great, thanks Mal.”

Mallory laughed lightly, “Please, you won’t let me get involved, this is the least I can do.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before saying their goodbyes with the usual promise of talking at the same time next Sunday.

Sarah stayed seated on the park bench for a little while longer, trying her best to recall details on Dr. Roberts. She’d met him only a few times at the hospital after she had woken up from the coma.

 Mallory was seated on the edge of her cot, answering Marianna’s flood of questions. Mostly, she tried to avoid answering questions about her parents. Mallory’s heart squeezed tight every time the little one inquired about their whereabouts, and why they hadn’t still been to see her.

They were waiting for word on her final results, and when Dr. Roberts finally entered, they both fell silent.

“Good morning everyone,” he greeted, lively energy in his movements, “how are you doing today, Marianna?”

The little girl looked at Mallory and answered shyly, “M’okay”

“That sounds great,” he smiled, “I have your test results here and everything is looking good. Great, actually.”

He further explained certain details and made sure to indicate what medications she would need to take over the next few weeks.

Finally, he rose and excused himself to speak with Mallory. In the meantime, the little girl put on the clothes the woman had brought for her.

“She’s really doing fine, she must have some regenerative enhancement as well, because she’s healthier than what she should be.”

“And will the other enhancement manifest?”

“I don’t think so. It seems like it’s linked to the amygdala—the center for processing fear, stress, anxiety, and the likes—" he paused. “The accident took its toll, I think. And when she’ll remember, or you tell her, I think it’s going to effectively shut that part of her down.” He thought about it and added, “Think of it as an emotional wall.”

Mallory nodded, processing the information. The little one might have a chance at a semi-normal life.

“Just follow the instructions on the papers I gave you and you all should be fine. She just needs to be looked after and cared for. It’s going to be a shock when she finds out.”

Mallory agreed and her chest squeezed at the thought of the pain the girl would go through.

She thanked the doctor and headed back into the room.

“Are you ready to go, sweetie?”

She watched the little one scramble off the bed in fresh clothes, a small light blue backpack on her shoulders. It contained some items Mallory had brought her over the course of her stay at the clinic. There was a comb for her unruly hair, chap-stick, some crayons, and a small notebook.

“You remember what we talked about?”

The little girl nodded, “My name is Sarah now.”

Mallory smiled, her usually frigid expression melting away. She reminded her of her grandchildren at home.

“Come on, let’s go meet your new friends.”

Marianna, now officially named Sarah Burns, skipped along with her down a hallway and out of the building. As she climbed into the back of her car, Mallory scanned the premises for any watchful eyes. She slipped into the driver’s seat before looking back at Sarah.

“I was almost forgetting—I got you something,” she said reaching into her jacket pocket.

Sarah’s eyes widened at the Snickers bar she extracted. The little girl laughed and clapped her hands.

 Sarah was pulled back into the present as a little girl ran past her—she felt the movement of air in waves. The woman stood and took her leave, heading back home.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimaveraa @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724  @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx

[loveamongthesailors]

“ Should the Haruspex attempt to autopsy her body on Day 11, he will make the curious discovery that Aglaya does not appear to have any organs. However, looting her body reveals she is carrying a Revolver. “

trawling some highly enjoyable patho wiki content. Congratulations Aglaya Lilich on becoming a Body without Organs, with a gun! you go girl!

“Aglaya contends with God. Those she touches begin to rebel against the established order of things. At the same time, Aglaya is the voice of the law. She sees the universe as a machine. She maintains that the logic of the universe is above everything—polyhedrons be damned. To her, contending with God, too, is a form of restoring justice and natural law. Those she touches begin to realize that there are limits of what’s possible, and they must be accepted with humility.”

Humility

“I should have written nothing[1] at all, but it is far too late for that. Sin and guilt[2] have entered the world[3]— never mind where from, since in any case it would do no good to close that box — and I am no longer striding the crests of my dreams, filling my lungs with air and expelling it again, now instead I am manipulating the keys of a machine[4] striving to thus let my dreams pour and play out across the space of an information-obsessed plane of existence.

There exists no good reason[5] to occupy this space, especially when I have the heights and depths of life wholly available to me at any moment, and yet something compels me, God help me.[6] I have no hope that I will save anyone this way. Not even myself. I know I will not even reach to prevent the wretched[7] from abusing whatever I create. It is a fact that to take something from oneself and put it out into the world is to let it escape and become everything you didn’t want it to be. They say this is so for God the Father as for every human father. I do not believe in either one, but their stories both hold a strange beauty for me.

One can create a monster[8] or a babe; the difference is purely aesthetic. But it is this question of creation. Many simply put it aside, to their own loss. They still create things but they deny they are doing so. They are befallen by atrophy.[9] Others take on the question of creation by accepting the market assurance that whatever makes money must be good because, so the logic goes, people buy things that are good.[10] They become lost to the world of production. Others, in reaction to this, turn toward smaller and smaller circles to keep their creatures safe from the real world. But these spaces are either infected by the social disease or else suffocate for lack of oxygen.

There are some rare exceptions. No one can say where they come from. They destroy all that has come before. They blow into a dying ember. Without them there would be nothing at all.

Now, we have to say that the whole world without them would be an empty[11] dull[12] pale[13] and suffocating lifeless and deathless nothingness, and that they themselves are also a nothingness, but an ecstatic explosion of creative destructive nothingness. So it will be worth keeping in mind that there is a huge and unspeakable gap between the qualities of different sorts of nothingness. Otherwise everything will be overcome by an immense confusion.[14]

The first aspect which ensures that there is something interesting rather than nothing is the explosive energy of the sun. The second is the implosive energy of the earth. These provide for the habitation of a thin membrane where their intercourse takes place. Here there exists a tension between them. Much life forms by rebelling against being crushed into the bowels of the earth and the depths of the sea, whether this rebellion is volcanic, evaporative, or organic. Life must protect itself from being lost in the emptiness of space or scorched in the heat of the sun, and so it also flows, crumbles, burrows, glides, swims, falls and floats downward. This might be all, were it not for something else. Organization, organism, orgasm.[15]”

-Musings on Nothingness (And Some of It’s Varieties)

“Producing, a product: a producing/product identity. It is this identity that   constitutes a third term in the linear series: an enormous undifferentiated object. Everything stops dead for a moment, everything freezes in place—and then the whole process will begin all over again. From a certain point of view it would be much better if nothing worked, if nothing functioned. Never being born, escaping the wheel of continual birth and rebirth, no mouth to suck with, no anus to shit through. Will the machines run so badly, their component pieces fall apart to such a point that they will return to nothingness and thus allow us to return to nothingness?

It would seem, however, that the flows of energy are still too closely connected, the partial objects still too organic, for this to happen. What would be required is a pure fluid in a free state, flowing without interruption, streaming over the surface of a full body. Desiring-machines make us an organism; but at the very heart of this production, within the very production of this production, the body suffers from being organized in this way, from not having some other sort of organization, or no organization at all. "An incomprehensible, absolutely rigid stasis" in the very midst of process, as a third stage: "No mouth. No tongue. No teeth. No larynx. No esophagus. No belly. No anus."

The automata stop dead and set free the unorganized mass they once served to articulate. The full body without organs is the unproductive, the sterile, the unengendered, the unconsumable. Antonin Artaud discovered this one day, finding himself with no shape or form whatsoever, right there where he was at that moment. The death instinct: that is its name, and death is not without a model. For desire desires death also, because the full body of death is its motor, just as it desires life, because the organs of life are the working machine. We shall not inquire how all this fits together so that the machine will run: the  question itself is the result of a process of abstraction.”

-Anti-Oedipus ch. 1, “THE DESIRING MACHINES”

I can't stitch it together… but I can cut the knot.

We're all just… dancing on our strings. 

Whenever I trace the edges of possibility on a map, I find myself reaching for an eraser not soon after… 

Imagine a sphere. See it in your mind's eye. Now lay it out flat. Why is that so easy, when topology is so hard?

We live under the shadow of a higher power… I just despise it.

Only a fool would cut the Gordian knot. It ought to be… vivissected.

The squeal of the gears can't halt the machine.

Why do they insist on torturing me?

There is an immutable and rational order that fate itself has composed. All things run their inevitable courses, down the topology of the universe, toward the mass of this black gravity.

Let's open it. Carefully. And tally the contents.

       The judgment of God, the system of the judgment of God, the theological system, is precisely the operation of He who makes an organism, an organization of organs called the organism, because He cannot bear the BwO, because He pursues it and rips it apart so He can be first, and have the organism be first. The organism is already that, the judgment of God, from which medical doctors benefit and on which they base their power. The organism is not at all the body, the BwO; rather, it is a stratum on the BwO, in other words, a phenomenon of accu­mulation, coagulation, and sedimentation that, in order to extract useful labor from the BwO, imposes upon it forms, functions, bonds, dominant and hierarchized organizations, organized transcendences.

The strata are bonds, pincers. “Tie me up if you wish.“ We are continually stratified. But who is this we that is not me, for the subject no less than the organism belongs to and depends on a stratum? Now we have the answer: the BwO is that glacial reality where the alluvions, sedimentations, coagulations, foldings, and recoilings that compose an organism—and also a significa­tion aid a subject—occur. For the judgment of God weighs upon and is exercised against the BwO; it is the BwO that undergoes it. It is in the BwO that the organs enter into the relations of composition called the organism.

The BwO howls: “They’ve made me an organism! They’ve wrongfully folded me! They’ve stolen my body!“ The judgment of God uproots it from its immanence and makes it an organism, a signification, a subject. It is the BwO that is stratified. It swings between two poles, the surfaces of stratifi­cation into which it is recoiled, on which it submits to the judgment, and the plane of consistency in which it unfurls and opens to experimentation.

If the BwO is a limit, if one is forever attaining it, it is because behind each stratum, encasted in it, there is always another stratum. For many a stra­tum, and not only an organism, is necessary to make the judgment of God. A perpetual and violent combat between the plane of consistency, which frees the BwO, cutting across and dismantling all of the strata, and the sur­faces of stratification that block it or make it recoil.

- “ Deleuze/Guattari; How Do You Make Yourself a Body Without Organs? “

(every morning i listen to confessional, i don’t give a shit bout the bulk ov it, still i keep it professional. and as penance i tell em to proselytize, say the sun is red, say that i am red, say that all their bases belong to us)

The crack Where is the crack? When did I crack?

Then I’ll stand alone on a planet with Nothing left to remember it And I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try to prevent it I’ll try, I’ll try, but I’ll never stop it, no

Muzzle me, muzzle muzzle me Bind my will and break of me And you try, you try, you try to prevent it You’ll try, you’ll try, but you’ll never stop it, no

because, laugh if you like, what has been called microbes     is god, and do you know what the Americans and the Russians use to make their atoms? They make them with the microbes of god.

- I am not raving. I am not mad. I tell you that they have  reinvented microbes in order to impose a new idea of god.

They have found a new way to bring out god and to capture him in his        microbic noxiousness.

This is to nail him though the heart, in the place where men love him best, under the guise of unhealthy sexuality, in that sinister appearance of morbid cruelty that he adopts whenever he is pleased to tetanize and madden humanity as he is doing now.

He utilizes the spirit of purity and of a consciousness that has remained candid like mine to asphyxiate it with all the false appearances that he spreads universally through space and this is why Artaud le Mômo can be taken for a person suffering from hallucinations.

- What do you mean, Mr. Artaud?

- I mean that I have found the way to put an end to this ape once and for all and that although nobody believes in god any more everybody believes more and more in man.

So it is man whom we must now make up our minds to emasculate.

- How's that?

No matter how one takes you you are mad, ready for the straitjacket.        

- By placing him again, for the last time, on the autopsy table to remake his anatomy. I say, to remake his anatomy. Man is sick because he is badly constructed. We must make up our minds to strip him bare in order to scrape off that animalcule that itches him mortally,

For you can tie me up if you wish, but there is nothing more useless than an organ.

To Have Done With the Judgement of God