If The Taglist For Reborn Is Still Open Could I Please Be Added? I Love It Sm

WELCOME BACK :D I periodically check if youve updated (no pressure) and i was so happy to see you tagged me in a new chapter today :) Thank you for continuing the fic despite it being so long

oh yeah for sure it was hard to dive back into it after so long, but I'm glad you've stayed interested in it after all this time!

i feel so bad for everyone on the taglist cuz it was like a year later and now they're all tagged in the story again so hey not to hack this post but if y'all want off it just dm me i got u, i was thinking of just moving reborn onto my ao3 account anyways so people didn't have to make it obvious

anyways I am so sorry it took me so long to respond, but i'm glad you're loving the story! i wish i could do more for readers like u!!!

No context just oreo. <33

Oop😳

Oreos really do make the best pets tho😌😌

Ps he’s laying on my stomach rn sos I can’t breathe

In the Black Widow’s Nest (Henry Creel x Reader) 🕷️Chapter 2🕷️

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Prince Henry of the Creel Dynasty is finally in search of a wife, and in the spirit of courtship, King Victor has invited young royalty from all neighboring kingdoms to vie for his hand. But with so much royalty introduces the need for many more maids in the castle than usual.

Enter: You.

You’re nothing but a servant in his home, an intruder in his prized library, and an utter nuisance in his mind. But then you survive his attack, and in an unexpected way nonetheless. That makes you… interesting.

You’ve caught his eye—congratulations! Now, you must deal with the consequences of loving a heartless prince in a world where far worse things lurk in the castle than dirty garderobes.

Chapter 1

A/N: yay, another chapter! and not a million bajillion months later, either, aren’t u guys lucky? I worked hard on this one! Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 4809

The maids of the castle did not have an organized way of awakening. The first one to rise from her cot never rang a bell, nor did she make a sound as she bumbled about the room. The others simply roused at her activity and moved to follow her lead. A soft ray of warmth would peek through window curtains, illuminating the rumpled sheets and the scuffling shoes as the ladies donned their uniforms: white pinafores over black smocks, black sleeves down to the wrists with white cuffs, white bows, black slippers.

A light chatter had begun after one maid, a new recruit hired for the season, had asked another for assistance in tying the pinafore’s bow at her back. By the time the bow was finished, the rest of the room had followed suit. Conversations erupted, and some of the more experienced women had taken to helping the newcomers with their garments. When one began to brush her own hair, so did another. When one adjusted the strap on her own shoe, so did another.

They moved as one body and looked as one body, as was expected of them. None dared to lose their opportunity to work with the castle's wages and living, especially during such a season.

The prince of the Creel Dynasty was finally searching for a wife.

The kingdom had long awaited this announcement from the handsome young heir. In preparation for the many balls, galas, and other festivities promised by this news, the castle staff had welcomed a myriad of new members, all of whom had to be trained before the kingdom could host any visiting royalty.

The maids, therefore, had the strictest schedules and regimens. The nature of their duties made it most plausible to come in contact with a royal, and such required a level of propriety unobserved by them in their previous homes.

But a new fear had struck the collective consciousness of the trainees.

One that made the threat of interacting with royals all the more potent.

You rose from your cot at the tap of the girl beside you. A fierce spasming fired along your spine, where your new wounds must have reopened from the movement.

Briefly, you considered lying back down, letting your headache swallow you whole. Considered Miss Miriam, in a devilish state, screaming at you, dismissing you, dragging you out of the castle. Crawling back home with no money, nothing to show for your promises of dragging them out of the village and whisking them away to a life of less hell. You consider coming out of the castle like you came in. Still nothing. Having nothing.

But a pretty sight struck you—Miss Miriam, with her crop, coming up behind you, and you, twisting and grabbing her by her gray hair, shoving her face into a used chamber pot.

Then swatting the old harpy with her own weapon.

A smile split your face, causing the bruise on your cheek to throb.

One day.

But until that day, you were stuck here under the shameless eyes of your own fellow maids. The show Miss Miriam had put on for the others was one that must be burned into the backs of their eyelids, because the maids did one of two things.

They watched you, or they blinked.

You folded in on yourself, turning away and grasping your uniform tucked neatly beneath your bed. When you rose back up and reached for the hem of your nightdress, you hesitated.

The gazes were so heavy you could drown. Even now, you could feel the oozing blood sticking to the thick fabric. However prominent the bruise on your face was nothing compared to artwork that mangled your back; something was peeling, another splitting, and much was bleeding. It was all one collective wound, one scab healing so slowly that any movement you made renewed the process.

You did everything quickly and quietly. You tore off your dress, peeling off fresh skin with it, and stretched the other one over your head, thankful the black smock wouldn’t stain so evidently. The gasps didn’t slow you down. You tugged on your shoes and straightened your sleeves. You whisked your hair out of your face as you worked, tightening and adjusting and grimacing your way through it.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You were surprised you had any left after last night—your own tongue sat as dry as a rock in your mouth. How could there be more?

But they sprang forth when you pulled the pinafore over your sleeves and realized you couldn’t tie the bow yourself. Not as tightly as it should be. Your own body wouldn’t let you do such a thing to your wound.

You needed help. Would any of them be willing to even speak to you? To be seen associating with the first pariah of the group?

You couldn’t imagine yourself doing it. Self-preservation was at an all-time high after your public whipping. Would anyone even believe that you hadn’t wanted any of this? That you hadn’t been a crown-hunting girl begging for trouble? That something bordering on preternatural had invaded your mind and drowned out your senses, and all you could do was cling onto another human as you grappled for reality—who gave a damn if the man just happened to be Prince Henry, the one person women in all the known kingdoms were trying to obtain?

No.

No one would believe you.

Dear God, you sounded deranged. One step away from fleeing into the woods waving sticks and crying demon at every creature you crossed.

The church bells, of all things, being the sounds you’d heard when your own life was slipping away before your eyes. You may as well hang yourself right now, if the king couldn’t decree it any faster.

You dropped the two fabric strings of the pinafore with a muffled snivel, cupping your bruised cheek and letting your eyes fall closed.

Three months. Just three months to shed the new label and secure yourself a permanent position in the castle. Real servants’ lodgings, proper pay, daily meals. You could live the rest of your life not acknowledged by another soul if you could just stay here, safe and content and unheeded.

What more could a person want out of life?

A gentle touch at your shoulder blade drew your attention, and you flinched away before it got any closer to your injuries. You spun around and bumped into your cot, eyeing the other maid warily. Her gaze was kind and bordered on innocent, vibrant blue barely peeking out from behind a wall of curly brown hair. She looked about your age, and at first glance, you would never notice the proud, acute way she held herself.

Like she always knew what she was doing, and yet always knew too much.

And when she offered her hands like a sign of peace, you did not try to back away again. Far be it from you to reject the first kindness you had experienced since you had arrived here.

“I can tie your bow, if you like?”

That same accent, unrefined when compared to what usually bounced off the gilded walls, and you surmise that she must have come from another small village like yours. Unlike you, however, she seemed to have less fear when navigating through unfamiliarities like castles and cruel maids.

Why else would she bother offering the one persona non grata a helping hand?

You pause at her offer, gnawing on your lip as though you had other options to consider. Perhaps there was some ill intent to her aid, but even if there was, you couldn’t figure out what and why and why bother.

“Yes…” you swallowed. “Please.”

She smiled gently and gestured for you to turn around. When her hands tied the bow, it was all light fingers and quiet conversations.

Her name was Nancy, and you learned she had come from the village next to yours. When she couldn’t get a job working for a seamstress, she wound up as something of a governess in the kingdom’s walls, traversing back and forth between her home and those of higher standings nearer to the castle. She was good at watching children, but the castle was offering far more than royalty’s butlers and vicars could afford.

And she was also very sorry for you. What happened yesterday was hard to watch.

You asked her to tighten the bow, dismissing her small hum of concern, and swallowed the bile that rose when the pinafore dug securely into the gashes of your back.

You both knew she had been fixing to leave it loose, letting you decide if the risk of an untidy uniform was worth the comfort.

It wasn’t.

The other maids, it seemed, had grown uninterested the second your wounds were covered for what would be the remainder of the day, and returned to normal conversation. Few glances were thrown your way since Nancy had tied your bow, and you noticed yet another phenomenon.

Caught up in a sea of black and white, the only difference between you and Nancy, between any one maid and another, was her hair. Brunette and blond hair intermixed with black and ginger, all blended seamlessly when plaited or swept up into a bun.

Yours hung loose and knotted down your back, and without a word, Nancy began to wisp the tendrils into a braid. You wanted to stop her, but you couldn’t. Your own arms could barely raise as high as your heart, and your hands shook the second they entered your vision, lifted to stop Nancy’s at your nape.

“There,” she murmured, dismissing your thanks, “now you really blend in. By tonight, the others won’t even remember which bed you’re in.”

“Should I be concerned they know that now?”

She laughed softly. “I suppose not, although I have overheard a few girls bitter about you being with a royal.”

You blanched. “What? That’s what they’re focused on?”

Maybe… maybe you should have guessed some of them might focus on that fact. But look where it got you, and you hadn’t even been trying.

Properly flogged, and now in the sights of one Miss Miriam.

Nancy shrugs. “Just a few. Most have been scared for you. But,” she pauses, pursing her lips, “you must understand that we’re… thankful, in a cruel way.”

Of course. You could understand that.

It terrified you, angered you to no end, but you understood it. Someone had to be a lesson for the others. A demonstration. The new maids needed a spectacle to understand where the power lied—that power did not lie solely within royalty. There were pockets of it left scattered throughout the castle, and cruel-enough servants snatched it up whenever possible, and lorded it over whoever would listen.

But… you wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. You never thought it would be you.

The collective consciousness reigned over the servants once more, and they began to line up. You spotted a girl, younger-looking than most, step away from the door, and guessed she must have heard footsteps. Nancy nodded at you before joining a line, and you followed.

Like clockwork, the door slammed open, and Miss Miriam entered with a silencing swoosh of her black smock. When her second-in-command entered, goosebumps ran down your spine.

You could still feel yourself struggling in her arms, sobs wracking their way through you as she steadied your form for another lashing. Your heartbeat began thundering in your back, right underneath the bow of the pinafore.

“Ladies, today is a day of utmost importance.” With small, black eyes narrowed and surveying each and every young girl before her, Miss Miriam furrowed her brow and frowned, wrinkles tracing the expressions with ease. Her face pinched together so tightly it resembled a sun-dried grape. “The royal family will be welcoming four promising princesses today, and it will be your duty to clean every inch of the castle they will roam upon before they arrive. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Miriam.”

“We will work as one. We will bow as one. We do everything as one, today and all days, ladies. Efficiently, and quietly.” Her eyes fell on you. “No one will cause trouble today. Understood?”

You gulped. The maids chimed together once more, and you could only mouth along with them.

“Yes, Miss Miriam.”

Her gaze left yours, and the tightening of your throat eased.

“Moira will delegate assignments. Those tidying halls will follow me.”

The hallways, all gilded columns and glistening marble, flared victoriously in the morning sun. Most aspects of the castle seemed to emphasize the Creel Monarchy’s pride, their devout sense of self-satisfaction the principal aspect of every painting, vase, and snuffed sconce.

A portrait of the long deceased King James, great-great-great-great grandfather to Prince Henry—though, you pondered calling the number of greats preceding his name into question (and the word great itself)—sneered down at you, seeming perpetually pleased to be two hundred years in the ground and still lording himself over every subject that roamed his halls.

Disdain for all others must have been passed down the family line religiously.

You dragged your eyes down and away, busying yourself instead with dusting the marbleized snoot of Julius Caesar. The crystalline windows of the castle acted like a magnifying glass against you as you worked, adding a heat to the already aching skin of your back. You were a cockroach wandering too close to a flame, and any second now you could burn up from the inside out, crushed with a crunch rather than a squelch.

Using the back of your hand, you wiped the sweat from your brow, eyes wandering dangerously to the maid who worked beside you.

Nancy, owning the more bearable appearance between the two of you, had been sent out to deliver and replace new bed sheets along with thirty other girls. But the girl beside you, taller and owning a mess of dirty blonde hair swept into an apathetic bun, had somewhat of the same spirit of Nancy. A small glimmer of rebellion shone in her eyes each time Miss Miriam wandered far enough down the glittering hallway so as to only be seen by squinting.

Then, with a wry twitch of her freckled face, she’d rasp five blasphemies she’d decided described the witch in that moment.

Musty shrew appeared to be a favorite.

The girl glanced up from where she had been polishing a rickety wooden chair and flashed you a smile, glancing each way before rising from her knees and approaching. She reached out and plopped the brush she had been using on the table holding the marble statue head, and plugged a finger into each of its ears.

“I don’t suppose Jesus here will strike me down for my profanity, will he?”

You looked down. Chiseled above its wrinkled forehead was a laurel crown, and you couldn’t recall a Bible passage describing Jesus’ sabbatical in Rome. You blinked at her.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Julius Caesar.”

The blonde glances at the statue again, gray eyes darting over it before she shrugs. “Same difference. If there is a sculpture of Jesus somewhere in this castle, I have no doubt he’s going to receive the same mouthful of feathers you’re forcing on poor Caesar here.”

“Only if Miss Miriam deems it so.” You nodded your head in the skeletal maid’s direction. “Her words are as good as gospel, after all.”

“And yet, each time she speaks, I feel like I’m taking orders from Satan.”

You let out a ghost of a laugh, biting your tongue when your wounds contract and throb.

Her face splits into a smile, and she lets out a short laugh too. Something flits along her face, though, and you get the sense you didn’t hide your pain well enough. The subject is easily danced around; the maid releases her grip on the statue and instead grasps her skirt, lowering into a teasing curtsy. “The name is Robin, milady.” Her eyelashes flutter rapidly and she waggles her fingers in the air, perfectly, in your opinion, mimicking the interactions between royalty that you’ve seen thus far. Haughty, majestic, and filled with intentions barely skin-deep.

You do the same.

She lets your name roll off her tongue a few times, letting it thud against the crisp white walls in her hoarse tone before saying decidedly, “Very fitting.”

Before long, Miss Miriam decides the hallway is clean enough and herds all the maids, the vast majority of them being newcomers like you, out and away into the next wing.

A chill wracks through you when the word “residential” gets passed down the line of one hundred girls, followed by “prince” and “bedroom” and “handsome.” You scan the white, stone columns as you pass, watching them curve into elegant archways shadowed through the frosted windows. This wing is covered in significantly less dust, and a faint scent of roses and pines floats in the air.

You try to flood out the memories, thinking vigorously about the red carpet before you, the soft slap of two hundred clogs, small shuffles and whispers. Everything around you you swallow up whole, eyes wide as though it will help you take in everything and think about nothing. But you cannot avoid it for long; not when you pass by the entrance to the royal throne room, in all its scintillating enormity, golden thrones set with silk, inlaid with gemstones, all wide open spaces.

And hovering above all four was a single, large oil portrait of the living Creel sovereigns.

King Victor, with his light blue eyes caving underneath the lustrous crown, crisp white beard neatly trimmed. His hand hovered over his wife’s shoulder, smile thin and pale.

Queen Virginia, known for her devout faith and kindness, her amber hair falling in ringlets down to her sides. She sat prim and proper on a ruby-cushioned chair, hands folded prettily, eyes dim.

Princess Alice, the spitting image of her mother, bar her father’s eyes and the last twenty years. Second only to her brother in terms of popularity in the kingdom and out, something distinctly complacent set her brows in such a way you knew instantly why she was desirable to royals and dodged by anyone below them.

And then him.

A part of you hadn’t believed Miss Miriam when she’d called him so.

Your Highness.

But as you looked at him now, standing taller than the rest of his blood, proud and ramrod straight, broad shoulders held back by an invisible force, you knew the portraitist had gotten something wrong.

The hair was right; the golden crown of tousled waves, parted neatly and befitting him far more than any scrap of the earth. The lips, pink and pronounced, and the softness of his brow, and, of course, his posture. All perfect.

But it wasn’t Prince Henry. Not quite.

The eyes. Slate blue and cold, cold, cold. How could the artist have not seen that?

Instead, they were warm and too dark a blue. Almost navy, and gentle, and so soft he almost looked like he was frozen in a smile.

No, no. That wasn’t the Prince Henry you had seen.

Where was the darkness? The cruelty? The evil that shadowed every inch of him?

This was some sterilized version of the crown prince, some unattainable, unreliable, utterly purified visage of him being displayed to the kingdoms in pastime.

He radiated divinity, in and out of the portrait. But without that quality of his that effused danger so potently, you could not help but feel the kingdoms were being sold a lie.

The nervous hiss of your name and a strong grip rattling at your wrist spared you from Prince Henry’s trance once more.

Too much power, he had. Too much… something.

“I get it,” Robin whispered, eyes flitting back and forth as the herd marched on, “completely, I understand. But, you cannot just stand and stare at royalty all day. That’s kind of how you…” she gnawed at the inside of her cheek, “you know, got into your situation in the first place. I’d hate to think what Miss Mule would do if she caught you with a Creel of all people.”

You hesitate to tell her that it was, in fact, a Creel that had gotten you in this position. But if Miss Miriam had decided to hide that information from others, you could only guess there was some merit to hiding that you’d thrown your arms around a prince that was already in high demand.

You had wound up committing one of the worst possible treasons with the worst possible man. You supposed it was quite like learning to swim a day prior and diving into a deep lake the very next day—you’d hit rock-bottom, and you’d only just begun.

To think you shouldn’t already be swinging by your neck right now, face blue and tongue swollen, had the head maid hoarded some minute amount of mercy for you.

That, or she’d known your actions had no great impact upon the integrity of the prince’s pursuits—whether it be accidental or otherwise, Miss Miriam viewed yesterday’s nightmare as a tragic attempt to escape your fate, some sick wishing turned to action wherein you wooed the prince and thus he would marry you.

Of all people. You.

You could retch at the thought.

You’d been raised proper, your parents teaching you well about respect, understanding who deserved it and who did not. They had also taught you that people could be born deserving respect, that it was some inherent betterness of their circumstances that, in turn, warranted curtsies and bowed heads.

Which, in your humble opinion, seemed utter tosh, but so be it. For now, you had a head on your shoulders, feasted somewhat regularly, and slept in warmth. Your clothing had not been sewn by your own hands, and your family was receiving enough coins to not worry about your wellbeing.

No matter that they probably should.

Far be it from you to look gift horses in their mouths, but you felt yourself afforded a nice level of circumspection after your back had been torn to ribbons for a mishap over which you had no control.

You didn’t want to marry the prince. You didn’t want to touch him, and you didn’t want to think about him. And, ignoring all the memories of his larger hands, his blue gaze, his golden strands, and how he may haunt you for years to come, you were quite certain you never wanted to see Prince Henry ever again.

Your back twinged in agreement.

The multitude of fluttering pinafores ahead of you slowed their swishing. Clomping clogs eased into a gentle tapping and finally stopped, and the movements were imparted upon the rest of the maids. A smaller form bumped into your back, and you flinched away, spinning and biting back a cry.

A maid a few years younger than you gaped her mouth, innocence and fear mingling in her expression as brown curls fell over her brow. She seemed so much smaller than the others, more unwitting. Your eyes fell to her hand, a clenched fist in the creases of your skirt, as it hesitatingly fell away.

More distanced shuffling disseminated down the corridor, and you watched the assorted heads of hair in front of you split and separate, clinging to either wall, leaving a wide breadth of distance for someone to pass through. Sunlight filtered between the silent shadows of maids and formed a golden glow of a path.

You followed the others and split off to one side, opposite a window, and grasped blindly for Robin’s hand when she didn’t move to follow. A gentle tug at the fabric of your backside conveyed that the other, younger maid had restored her grip.

From your position, the sun blinded you heavily, and you squinted as a yellow shine overtook everything you saw. White spots splattered your vision when you blinked, but you looked past the maids anyway, curiosity jostling its way down the two lines.

“Your Highness.”

So far ahead, you couldn’t see and only heard Miss Miriam and her staunch and clear-cut announcement. That same loyal tone, somewhat saccharine, frayed your nerves in a second.

The prince?

Curtsies flowed like a wave through the maids, and when you bent low, head bowed, Robin and the young maid followed on either side of you, just as gawky. Nobody rose, and, per Miss Miriam’s orders, nobody would rise until the royalty had passed.

But… dear God, wasn’t it an awful affair that you could tell who it was without even looking? That you could feel a quiet sizzle over the rows of women and girls alike, heard the soft, prideful gait of his finely polished boots.

Back in your village, you’d hated how slowly people could walk. How they’d force you to flounder behind them as they puttered, how they could wander one way and then the other, each footstep a guess. Like they had all the time in the world.

You never would have guessed that a fast pace could be just as troubling. Like he couldn’t stand to be in the same corridor with so many servants, Prince Henry was a brisk wind over the ruby carpets. Even so, you could feel the rise and fall of elation, soft gasps partnered with perfectly timed peeks.

He was a sight to behold—that much had been imprinted on your mind. But he couldn’t possibly be as rumpled as he’d been in the depths of the frosty library, hair thoroughly rakish, white tunic clinging to his golden skin. No; royals held a certain standard of propriety, even as they indulged in the most hedonistic of lifestyles. He must be sheathed in some proper velvet tailcoat, and his face must be severe and sharp, slicing along everything he saw.

Breathtaking in an entirely different way, you were sure.

No, you didn’t look. You couldn’t. You can’t.

Not even as his footsteps approach.

You focus your gaze on your swinging braids, watching them refuse to settle against some unknown breeze. A strain forms in your knuckles with how hard you grip your skirt, and your spine throbs with each heartbeat against the tightened back of your uniform.

Prince Henry slows.

The atmosphere tightens around your little grouping of maids, sun soaking into your black clothing so heavily you can barely breathe.  

We must be in front of a door, some corner he needs to turn to. Something.

Some disturbed pulsing blossoms in your gut when he stops just before you, black boots just inches away. Lithe fingers laden with metal rings hover in your vision.

Prince Henry’s too close all over again.

You want to cry out; you want to say nothing and everything. You want to sink into the furthest recesses of your home miles away just as much as you want to stand at the top of a hill and hold your arms out, waiting for it all.  

Your heart is racing—wild, damned little thing. An insufferable hypocrite after all the ways it had condemned him yesterday for what had happened.

Fingertips, gentle and soft as a single breath, rise and brush over your flaming cheekbone.

A tingle of pain jolts through the bruise so suddenly you flinch away, followed by an indifferent grunt that hangs in the air.

No pity in the sound. No remorse. Barely a hint of acknowledgment.

You want to cradle your cheek and press, hard, at the bridge of your nose, will those wobbling tears to stop. His hand hovers again, twitches near, and, when you lean some scant distance away, falls back to his side.

Within that same second, the boots that hadn’t even turned toward you stalk away. Still fast and proud, no more slows and stops. No more grunts.

But, without a doubt, it was Prince Henry. You’d peeked as the other maids had peeked.

You’d done all that they had done, yet you knew that single touch had doomed you.

That must have been his game. A nice bit of teasing for the maid who'd embraced him; let her be thoroughly beaten down to her station. It was some cruel recognition of what happened to you, some silent sanctioning of a proper punishment.  

Servant does a bad thing; servant gets punished by her peer.

Royal approves. No blood on his hands.

You were right, of course. That portrait was missing Prince Henry’s most vital characteristic: Wickedness.

When the maids rise from their curtsies, trembling thighs and huffed breaths, all eyes fall on you. A range of emotions bombard you before you can rub your cheek.

Wonder.

Awe.

Envy.

And—you can only assume from the thundering footsteps—Miss Miriam’s unparalleled rage.

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I love the yandere zuko headcannon so much that I read it almost every day

Yayyy thank you! I’m so glad there are Yandere atla lovers out there bc lets be honest, there’s a serious lack in those types of fics😔 thank you so much for the love!🥰💜💜

Guppy Love (Todoroki x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Fish don’t survive in coffee. You find that out the hard way.

A/N: My God, I love this one so much. Please enjoy!

Word count: 1486

        “Man, you are whipped for her!” Todoroki rolls his eyes at the statement. 

        “No, I’m not.”

        “You liar, you totally like YN!” Kaminari pokes his classmate’s arm obnoxiously. 

        “I don’t like her, so stop going around saying that,” Todoroki monotonously responded. 

        The class froze at the sound of a crash and a scream in the hallway. Suddenly, Mina bursts breathlessly into the room, her eyes wide with terror.

        “Yn fell in the hallway and-”

        Todoroki’s hand bursts into flames on his desk, leaving burns in the wood. 

        “Is she okay?!” He doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing past Mina and sprinting out into the hall. 

        “YN!”

        He finds you collapsed on your knees in the middle of the corridor with puffy eyes and red cheeks.

        “I dropped the fish tank.” You sniffle and shyly hold up a filled coffee cup with an orange creature floating ominously at the surface. “I don’t think Mr. Bubbles is gonna make it.” Your voice is tight with sadness as you stare ashamed into the overflowing cup. 

        “Yn, I’m so sorry.”

        “Can you make some water for him or something?” Your eyes glowed with hope as you stared up at him. 

        “I don’t think-”

        “Please?” Todoroki sighs and gives in, taking a seat next to you on the ground and cupping his hands. In the one, he creates ice, and then proceeds to use the other to melt it. 

        With his fingers clumped tightly together to form a makeshift bowl of water, Todoroki tries not to grimace at the slimy texture of the fish you plop into his hand. 

        Mr. Bubbles doesn’t move. 

        “Maybe he’s just sleeping,” you say hopefully, your eyes locked on the guppy. 

        “Maybe he’s dead.” Todoroki observes your face for a reaction, but you simply bite your lip with drying eyes. 

        “Maybe you’re right,” you mutter before groaning and dropping your face into your hands. Todoroki shifts uncomfortably and sneers at the dead fish floating in his grasp. 

        “What should we do?” you ask. Todoroki’s eyes trail to you before glancing at the nearby courtyard, then returning to your face once more. Catching his drift, you gasp dramatically. 

        “No, I am not leaving him for dead in the middle of the school yard!” 

        “He’s already dead.”

        “I don’t care!” After standing up, you help Todoroki to his feet and cross your arms indignantly. 

        “We should hold a funeral in the bathroom!” You smack your hands together as if you’ve just discovered the cure for cancer. “It’s genius! And tasteful!” 

        “Or we could leave some bird a generous meal in the school courtyard.” You give him a withering glare.

        “All those in favor of holding a memorial service for our beloved Mr. Bubbles, raise your hand.” You raise your hand at your own suggestion then ask, “All those opposed?” Todoroki narrows his eyes at you. Even if he tried to “oppose,” water and dead fish would spill everywhere. 

        “It seems we’ve come to a compromise.” You smile happily at him and clap excitedly. 

        “That was, in no way, a compromise.” The emotion of Todoroki’s face is emptier than a teenage boy’s search history, but you try to ignore how it still manages to make your heart race.

        “No matter! Follow me,” you announce, directing Todoroki to the nearest bathroom... it’s the women’s room.

        “YN no-“ you giddily shove him in with a little too much force and Mr. Bubbles goes on a once in a lifetime (or is it death time?) flight. You both watch in horror as he falls to the ground with a squelching “splat.”

        Nobody makes a sound, completely aghast at the crime scene. The bathroom is hauntingly silent except for the gentle buzzing of the fluorescent lights.

        “I’m not picking him up!” Todoroki mumbles and you shout at the same time, voices clashing noisily. Neither of you wanted to touch the corpse. Swiftly, you look over at your partner in crime and nod your head towards the fish once, twice, three times all the while he’s shaking his head.

        “No way, I already picked up that thing once. It’s your turn.”

        “Oh come on!”

        “Plus, you killed it.” You gasp offensively while he raises his brows. The staredown doesn’t last long and you eventually throw in the towel, pursing your lips and rolling your eyes. Shoes squeaking against the tile, you skulk your way over to the fish.

        “Fine.” Crouching low, you investigate Mr. Bubbles from multiple angles, trying to deduct the best method of transfer. 

        “He’s not just gonna flop himself in, you know.” You hurl a murderous look at Todoroki for the quip before reaching out with pinched fingers towards your flubby friend. 

        “God, this is a bloodbath,” you grimace before tentatively snagging a fin and holding back a gag at it’s slippery texture. 

        “Grossgrossgrossgrossgross,” you repeat all the way to the toilet, unceremoniously tossing Mr. Bubbles into the bowl like a sack of flour. “Oh my Godddd!” you choke out, darting over to the sink and almost slipping in the water puddle Todoroki left on the way. 

        While you clean your hands, your companion peers in at a floating Mr. Bubbles, blanching at the sight of the fish’s blank, bulging eye staring unblinkingly at him. He backs away slowly and you join him by his side, gulping nervously. 

        “Let’s get the party started, shall we?” you ask with a shaky smile. 

        “Sure” is Todoroki’s lame response. You scoff before clearing your throat.

        “Well, Mr. Bubbles, you lived a good, long life-”

        “About two weeks.”

        “And it’s a shame to see you go like this.”

        “Just to be clear, we know it wasn’t your fault-”

        “Zip it, Shouto!” You point a trembling finger at him threateningly and he raises his hands in surrender. 

        “Anyways, even though I tried my very best to save you-”

        “You scooped him into Aizawa’s coffee mug.”

        “It’s still a sad day to watch you go. We will always cherish the memories we shared with you-”

        “Yep, those two that we made. The one where we bought him for two bucks and the other where you overfed him and gave him fish diabetes-”

        “Do you know how it feels to be strangled? Because you’re about to find out.” Arms akimbo, you stare at Todoroki with fierce, wide eyes. He shrugs. “That’s what I thought,” you nodded. 

        As you ramble on to your beloved fish friend, Todoroki can’t help but zone out and think about the situation he has found himself in. For the first time in his life, he’s ditching a class in school, and it’s only to throw a funeral for an over-caffeinated guppy. With anyone else, he would have left twenty minutes ago, but right now he wanted to stay. You were here, and Todoroki never knew why, but he always felt drawn to your presence. He had only known you for two months, but something about you made him want to break down the walls he had built up over the years. You were different, and you valued every moment of life you had. He adored that about you.

        Geez, maybe he was whipped.

        The gentle beating in his chest soon rivaled that of a racing stampede of elephants when you scooted closer to him and rested your head on his shoulder. Your heart sped up too, but you didn’t care to mention it. Instead, you chose to release a shaky breath when his arm slowly encompassed your shoulders. 

        “Um,” you swallow, “did you want to say anything?” 

        Todoroki held in a snort. “No, I’m plenty good.” The room fell into silence once more, but the atmosphere wasn’t solemn for a dead fish funeral. It was tense and shy, filled with teenage anxiousness that only arose when two requited crushes were together in one room. Todoroki started to grow uncomfortable, though.

        “So are you gonna flush him or...?” he trails off.

        “Oh yeah.” You lick your lips nervously and step out of his warm embrace before pressing down the handle. “Goodbye Mr. Bubbles. We wish you well on your journey to the... I don’t know, water heavens or something.” You step away with a shrug back into Todoroki’s hold. All is peaceful, until....

        Clunk clunk.

        Oh crap.

        Both of you watch in horror as the toilet clogs, water rising higher and higher until it overflows, carrying the dead fish with it. Yours and Todoroki’s eyes follow the journey of Mr. Bubbles as he rides a wave all the way to the tips of your shoes, stopping perfectly to stare up at the two of you with vacant, enlarged pupils. 

        You sigh and smack your palm against your face. “I’ll go get the janitor.”

        “I told you we should’ve just hucked him.”

        “Shut it, Shouto.”

YN: DICK!

Dick Grayson: What do you want?!

YN: I JUST TOLD YOU!

Listen, I was not a Tendou fan until I read his part in "moaning another man's name". BAM. SUDDENLY I'M A SIMP FOR THE GUY. I CONSUMED ALL HIS CONTENT IN TWO DAYS. I'M PARCHED. You started this and I can only thank you for it. I LOVE your portrayal of Tendou. <3

YO I LOVE IT WHEN AUTHORS HAVE THAT POWER!! That’s how I got into Garou ngl

I’m so happy you like my stuff for him🥰🥰 and that I even have that ability like damn🤧honestly Tendou really is a babe isn’t he🥵

alright, i just read the red string of somethingness and i rlly like it. but i'd like to ask (humbly) for an alternative ending, where YN does cut the string? cuz i enjoy angst and pain and im not sorry f that.

I actually got a request just like this a few months ago, and never really had the inspiration to write it then, nor do i have it now (i mean cmon that fic was from like 3 yrs ago)

here's the link to that post tho if ur rly itchin for it, it's a small drabble but it'll do!

hiii! my username used to be @erinoikawa, i was just wondering if you could update my user in your taglist so that i could be tagged and notified in your future works? thank you so much! and i’m happy to see that you’re back we missed you !! 🫶

For sure i'll change it by the next update!! I'm so happy ur still interested in the story, and thank you so much for the sweet words!

Kidnappers and Keepers (Todoroki x Reader/Soulmate AU)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: You get kidnapped by a douchebag named “Clarence.” Nothing tops that. Well, except for your dreamboat of a soulmate. Now, he’s a keeper right there.

A/N: It’s five a.m. What is sleep. Please love this because this puppy took me ages of procrastination, but I really liked my one idea at the end of the story. I kinda wrote this backwards and on two separate days, so that could explain why it seems a little different in some parts. Please enjoy!

Word count: 3309

        Does anyone remember when Nutella was all the rage? Man, those were the good old days. It was a peaceful time. Every story on Wattpad was about a romantic kidnapping, usually involving a werewolf or two. One Direction spoke to every thirteen-year-old on a spiritual level, and all earbuds were connected to cords attached to phones. 

        It was also around the time the villain in front of you began his story. Oh wait, no, that was only twenty minutes ago. Damn, it’s crazy how time can fly some days but then crawl by slower than a slug the next. Anyways, what was this guy talking about? Oh yeah, he was monologuing his evil plan while you were stuck on the grimy floor of a dark warehouse. He had snatched you off the street as a hostage and handcuffed you behind your back to a leaking pipe, forcing you to sit and listen to him blab. What a drag. 

        “And then we will rule the world!” The villain --what was his name again?-- looked at you expectantly.

        “Huh?” He groaned in exasperation. 

        “Did you even hear a single word I said?!” 

        “No. Did you know your fly was open?” The villain, a dirt-covered twenty-something-year-old in shady, black apparel, glared at you from under the flickering light in the large room. You, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling distractedly while flicking your teeth with your tongue. Note to self: next time you get kidnapped, don’t eat popcorn that day. Stupid kernels.

        “Can’t you take anything seriously?” He jabbed, although his hands discreetly checked his pants, only to burn red when he remembered there was no zipper. You snicker under your breath. Got ‘em. “Ugh, you know what?!” He suddenly exploded, approaching you with a roll of duct tape. “I’m tired of you.” The piece he ripped off was too small to stick well to your face, but you didn’t have the energy to tell him. You poked out your tongue between your lips before his sweaty hands patted down the adhesive, sliding it up and over your top lip to remove the sticky binding from your face. He stepped away and turned his back to you, whipping out his phone.

        “Now that that’s done, where the hell are they?” the guy muttered, tapping away. You shifted uncomfortably on the cement floor, your butt growing numb. At this point, the piece of tape now dangled awkwardly from your chin. I’ve always wondered what a goatee was like. 

        “Where’s who?” you wondered. The villain whipped around to stare at you in shock.

        “How the- how did you- why are you-... what?” You raised a brow at his stammers.

        “Shoot for a bigger piece next time, fella. Or try something stronger.” You yawn before cracking your neck. “Have you considered super glue?” The door to your right suddenly crashed open. Well just barge right in, why don’t you. 

        “Clarence, did you get the girl?” Oh, now that’s just mean. Who names their child “Clarence”? You would turn to crime too if you had that name. 

        “Yes, sir.” The new guys who just joined the party were villains you had never seen before. One wasn’t even human, per se, just a dark blob surrounded by a silhouette of purple. The other was covered completely in a black cloak so you couldn’t view anything of their figure or face. Not even when they approached you with an outstretched hand. 

        “Do not be afraid, this won’t hurt a bit.” Pshh, like you were going to trust that load. Your body trembled and your feet scrambled against the floor pushing yourself back and away. Sadly, you were stopped by the pipe behind you. So this is how I die. I’ll never get to meet my soulmate. Or unlodge that stupid-ass kernel in my back tooth. “I’m not going to kill you.” Lyin’ ass. “We just need you as bait.” He had the deep voice of evil. 

        “No thanks,” you hiss. 

        “I wasn’t asking.” Could you, though? It’d be more polite. You didn’t have time to flinch away before his hand grasped your face. Like full-on palmed that bitch like a dad inspecting a melon at Walmart. What. 

        “Umm, whatcha doin’ there, budd-” before you could finish, a bright pain flashed behind your eyes. You whimpered as white noise rang in your ears, and your body began to convulse violently. Mind-control. That’s what it was. And from what you could tell, this guy had better control over your thoughts than you ever did. It felt like someone had dug their fingernails into your brain, and you abruptly spoke without your own volition. 

        “She’s under my control.” The voice scraped at your throat, but it still sounded like you. Your body stopped its spasms and froze. You were now in the passenger seat of your own body, hijacked like a computer. People and their quirks these days. Whatever happened to the classic super strength? The man released your face and stood up, stepping back to join his wispy companion while he gestured towards you. Following the action, Clarence --seriously, this poor guy-- uncuffed you from the pipe and you forcefully stood on two numb, shaky legs. 

        “We’ll use her to distract the heroes before we attack.” The cloaked man spoke, features still shadowed by his hood. 

        “How do they know to come here?” your pitiful kidnapper asked. He seemed new to this kind of job; his voice had been shaky and unsure while he nervously wrung his hands. 

        “We sent the video of you snatching her to their agency.” Poor guy became the scapegoat. But wait, the agency? Oh crap. 

        Here’s a little history lesson: before you were attacked today, you would occasionally help out at Endeavor’s Hero Agency. One day, about six or seven months ago, you had found a worker of theirs severely injured from a villain. After healing them with your quirk, you had been offered a job at the office. However, you had to deny it because, well, you were only in high school. On the other hand, ever since that day the worker stayed in touch with you, every once in a while calling you for help if anyone was ever injured on a mission. Healing them made you feel like a hero, so you didn’t stop. But now today, you were seriously regretting getting involved with them. This sucked bad. 

        “They’ll come,” the dark cloud man assured, “they value the girl.” Aww, if you were in control of your body so you could blush and smack his arm bashfully. However, right now you were pissed, and the only smacking you wanted to do was that cloak guy’s head against that moldy pipe over there. This sucks major- A noise interrupts your mental rant. It was a clang outside, like someone had kicked a trash can. Nonetheless, the villains in the room all rushed to the shadiest part of the warehouse, taking cover behind large boxes. 

                                ###

        Shouto’s words had always been… less than reassuring. 

        Sorry about earlier, I was being mind-controlled by that cloaky fella over there. My name’s YN. 

        They were even more unsettling when an agent of his father’s called him and asked if he had ever seen a “YN.” 

        “No…” 

        “Oh, well if you do, please let us know. She was kidnapped a couple hours ago, and we could really use your help right now.” Now that he thought about it, Shouto did distantly remember the name floating around the agency once or twice when he had temped there. 

        “Okay, I will.” He hung up the phone and continued down the street, hands coldly shoved in his pockets while he made his way home. The task was easy until he heard yells coming from within the abandoned warehouse next to him. What the hell?

        “Todoroki!” A familiar voice shouted from behind him. The bicolored man slowly turned to see two of his classmates approaching, one waving erratically at him.

        “What are you doing out here?” Midoriya asked. 

        “I just felt like walking around. What about you?” More shouts came from inside the building next to them just as the green-haired boy was about to respond. 

        “What was that?” Iida stares curiously into the alleyway, eyes catching on a shady-looking door that led into the warehouse. “We must check it out,” the class rep declares before approaching the entrance. The other two follow him with furrowed brows, both concerned and unsure at the same time. A loud noise rattles from within the alleyway. 

        “Sorry.” Midoriya shyly steps away from a metal trash can and inches it away with his foot. The can’s cover falls off with the movement and crashes onto the ground. Midoriya’s face is not unlike a traffic signal at this point, glowing bright red. 

        Iida shakes his head before pushing open the doorway, entering the dim, moldy stash house.

                                ###

        What was that one sentence that has like all the letters in the English alphabet in it? It was about a fox and a dog… whatever. You were bored. And technically mindless. Sort of. You couldn’t do or say anything when three boys your age entered the nasty ass room you were in, and your heart couldn’t even skip a beat when your eyes landed on that one dreamboat. Do you think he purposely dyes his hair like that? I dig it.

        “...you YN?” Oh crap, you missed like half of that, sorry dreamboat. 

        “Yeah, but you guys are too late. The villains left that way, through the window over there.” The two-toned hair man glanced down at his wrist with confused eyes in your peripheral vision, but the villain controlling your body made no note. Then he gestured to his friends to follow him to the boxes. Dumbass dreamboat. 

        It was like watching a horror movie. The audience already knew where the murderers were, but the attractive protagonists- they’re always attractive. No ugly person ever gets hunted down, and that’s a fact- just can’t hear your annoyed screaming at the TV. 

        They’re hiding behind the- dammit. The whole room just got ten times more rowdy, and suddenly you were in control of your own body again. Must be how Cloak Man’s quirk works. Can’t fight and mind-control at the same time. At least God is fair. 

        Grunts, exclamations and whooshes all sound behind you while you huddle in a corner, shaking and hugging yourself until the fighting ends. 

        “Here, call my father and tell him to come!” It’s the pretty boy, and your eyes widen at his words before a phone slides on the ground over to you. He returns to the battle in hand-to-hand combat with Clarence, who doesn’t put up much of a fight after your soulmate-- holy shit-- turns one arm into a popsicle and the other into a flaming torch. Hot damn. Hehe, I’m funny- not the time YN! You shake yourself out of it and scramble to the phone, glancing back up to watch the fight while pressing the call button on the open contact. A wave of heat fills the room as your soulmate uses his quirk to roast that one cloaked bastard, and you curl even further into the dusty half of the warehouse you’re hiding in.

        “Pick up, pick up, pick up- hello?” The person you called is breathing heavily over the line. 

        “This isn’t Shouto, who is this?” It sounds vaguely familiar, but you don’t take the time to mull over the fact.

        “This is YN YLN and I’m in a warehouse off the main street in town. We could really use some cops or something over here!” 

        “YN? Shouto found you?” Aww, your soulmate told his father about you, how cute!

        “Yes, please hurry!” A sudden flame flashes directly in front of you, almost singeing your eyebrows away. The phone flies out of your hand- no idea how that happened- while you scream in terror, and your soulmate shouts back a “Sorry!”

        “Sorry my ass,” you grumble before army-crawling back over to his yeeted technology. The screen is cracked and dark. Now it was your turn for a half-assed apology, but “Shouto” seemed rather occupied at the moment. Speaking of him, you look back down at your soulmark and run your trembling fingers over the words. When you first got them, you thought you were destined to be with a dada’s boy. You predicted you would meet him in the park and he would throw a phone at you, too nervous to be alone without his father while he squealed out those words. 

        So, even though your current situation was less than desirable, you were kinda thankful. At least he needed you to call his dad for a badass reason, and not an excited, “gotta show my dad this” reason. 

        The door next to you slammed open and you screamed in fright once more, only to pause at the sight. Endeavor? Ohhh. The hot quirk your soulmate had suddenly made a million times more sense. The pro-hero wasn’t alone, and he stormed in with numerous other agents to take out your kidnappers. 

        The dark blob man disappeared into thin air when they entered the room, leaving his two villain friends to get restrained and captured by the new heroes. My guy fucking dipped. Candy-ass. 

        Hesitantly, you stood and approached your soulmate. He was watching Clarence and Cloak Man get tied up when you tapped his shoulder, gaining his attention instantly. You began to rub your own fingers together when he made eye-contact with you, and fended off the urge to touch the mark on his face. Just as you open your mouth to speak, your mind goes blank. Wow, so not helpful. Your soulmate raises his eyebrows at you, waiting patiently while you awkwardly bite your lip and clear your throat. After that, the words crawl their way right out of you.

        “Sorry about earlier, I was being mind-controlled by that cloaky fella over there. My name’s YN.” 

        Shouto is silent for a second while one hand swiftly covers the wrist of the other. Maybe it had burned for you earlier, but you had been too distracted to- Oh hello there. Yep, that’s a’ tingling all right. You copy his action and hiss at the feeling. It wasn’t unpleasant, but a sudden hotness on your wrist tends to freak you out once in a while. 

        “My name is Shouto Todoroki. It’s nice to meet you.” Oh god, he was adorable. Like an adorable, little well-behaved puppy. You were totally going to ruin that pleasantness for him one day. He’s just gonna walk in on you cussing out your own foot and it’ll go shjoop right out of him.

        “You too,” you mumble distractedly. “Or me too! Or… umm, yes, it’s nice to meet you too.” Ok, YN, what the hell was that? “Anyways…” This is a deesaster. “I have a quirk.” Yep, it’s over.

        “Okay....” He looks thoroughly confused. He might want to get used to that feeling around you. “Me too, I guess?” You want to smack yourself upside the head.

        “I’m sorry. I said that weird. Actually, I didn’t even say it.” He looks so lost. “I have a healing quirk, and you just got into a fight.” There we go, now you got him. He nods his head understandingly. 

        “Oh okay, so you’re offering to heal me.” Great job, Watson.

        “Yeah.” Your cheeks are so red at this point that they hurt. He holds out his scraped hands towards you and gives you a gentle smile. 

        “Work your magic.”

                                ###

        “We could use someone like you at UA.”

        After you had healed his wounds the first day you met, Shouto encouraged you to talk to the admissions office there. He had even asked his dad to recommend they give you a spot, and it worked. You didn’t know how, but you just counted your blessings and moved on.

        Now, you sat as a student assistant to Recovery Girl, with your very own dorm and everything. You attended the normal classes UA offered and worked during lunch and after school with the nurse to heal the injured and sick. It was usually the injured, and it was usually Shouto’s friend Midoriya. At a certain point, you didn’t care to ask what he had done, you just healed him and sent him on his way.

        “There you go, greeny.” You patted his freshly healed arm. “Now if you would stop hurting yourself, I really wouldn’t mind.” Your eyes strayed from his worn-out form to the new one, leaning in the doorway with crossed arms. Dreamboat.

        “I know, YN, I want that too. Thanks again, though!” The hero-in-training cheered right up at the prospect of getting to leave and bid you adieu, greeting Todoroki before disappearing into the hall. 

        “Hi.” Your soulmate stepped into the room with a soft smile, laying a kiss on your cheek before sitting in the patient’s bed across from your spinny chair. 

        “Well, hello to you too.” You beam at him with curious eyes. “You seem more chipper than usual, what’s up?” 

        “I just... really wanted to see you,” he admits apprehensively, staring at the posters on Recovery Girl’s walls to avoid looking at you. Your chest preens with happiness and you stand up to join him on the bed.

        “I wanted to see you too.” You slump down next to him and lay your head on his shoulder, intertwining your fingers with his own on your lap. The room stays silent while you both bask in the warmth of each other’s presence, but Todoroki surprisingly decides to break the silence.

        “So,” he pulls his head off yours and turns to face you, “have you come up with a hero name yet?” Your body begins to wiggle excitedly and you whirl around to face him, now sitting crossed-legged on the bed and bouncing your knees up and down anxiously.

        “Yes I did!” His eyes sparkle at your excitement and he laughs softly. 

        “Well?”

        “Say hello to… wait for it,” he rolls his eyes at your actions while you drumroll against your own thighs, “Health Girl!” 

        Todoroki grows apprehensive and his smile falls slightly. Your own face grows smug and you poke him in the side playfully. “I’m just kidding, I’m not that lame.”

        “You sure?” Your eyes widen. He has a sarcasm button now?

        “Woah, mister, you’re learning too much from me. You might wanna stop that before you start yelling at your phone for dropping itself.” (Yeah, that’s happened before. But to be fair, your phone was a dumbass bitch.) 

        Your heart glows with pride when he releases a small, rare chuckle. The Shuckle. Damn, you must be really special to get that treatment. Well you better be, with all that ‘soulmates for life’ crap dangling over your head.

        “No really, I actually did come up with a good name.” 

        “All right, tell me.” 

        Here’s the thing, your quirk wasn’t exactly healing people, it was more of speeding up their own body’s cellular processes when you got close enough. So you had the perfect name. At least, you hoped you did. Oh crap, what if it was terrible?

        “What about... ‘Enzyma’?” you suggest nervously, staring down into your lap and rubbing your fingers against each other. Arms wrap themselves around your hips and tug you closer to their owner as a pair of lips press against your forehead. Todoroki stares lovingly into your eyes after your own arms reach up to wrap around his neck, melting into his embrace. 

        “It’s perfect.” 

        So was he.