Find A Way [Todoroki Shoto x Reader]

First Impressions

There was a dead man in your favorite herb bush.

He didn't look dead, at first glance. Only the barest pallor had overtaken his light skin, contrasting prettily with his rosy lips. That wasn't all, because his most impressive feature had to be his half-red, half-white hair, not to mention the large scar razing the upper left side of his face. His clothes were just as interesting: a white tunic, embroidered blue-and-gold overcoat, and creme pants. A large sword lay abandoned some odd feet away, its scabbard decorated to the nines.

Unfortunately, that all seemed insignificant when you came upon the wound in the center of his chest, crimson blood staining the fabric around it.

Anyways, he was in your basil bush: probably dead and probably ruining the basil.

Wonderful.

It took no less than five minutes for you to lug his heavy body off your plants, mostly because you hadn't mentally prepared to do any lifting this early in the day.

Thing is, when you tossed him onto the ground to deal with later, a groan of pain hissed out into the silent forest. You nearly dropped your basket out of shock as he opened his eyelids, and one gray and one blue eye regarded you hazily.

Shit, was your first thought, followed by: "Oh my stars, are you okay?" as you tried over to examine the damage. Yup, he was definitely breathing; you had just been too dumb to notice it.

With another noise of pain, the man raised a hand to cover his wound, further smearing his bright red blood. He looked like he was trying to sit up, but was to weak to actually do it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Hoooo boy," your hands hovered over him as your brain frantically tried to decide what to do next. You couldn't just leave him to die, so you hauled his body up over your shoulder, feeling a rush of strength flow through you as your quirk activated.

Well, it wasn't necessarily a quirk. You weren't sure where the lines blurred between quirks and witches, which is what you were. A woodland witch, to be exact, which meant you did everything a storybook princess did without the parts about finding a prince and being universally loved.

Not that you needed to be universally loved—what you had now was just fine.

A small cottage came into view as you pushed through some tree branches, surrounded by various greenery. It was painted a soft creme with deep brown highlights, not unlike a handful of novels you had read. The cobblestone path clicked under your boots as you stepped onto it, walking slowly and carefully so as to not disturb the almost-dead man. If you strained your ears, you could hear the faint huff of his breathing, meaning he hadn't quite given up on you yet.

The door was unlocked, so you merely pushed it open with a foot. The inside of the cottage was quaint and neat, the scent of incense wafting from the hearth. In the corner was a shelf exclusively reserved for your many herbs and spices, a stereotypical staff leaning against the handmade craftsmanship. As the dining table in the center of the room looked like the the only thing in the immediate vicinity that could hold the weight of anything remotely heavy, it was chosen as the place to put the mysterious man, who only groaned docilely as you laid him upon it.

Your next course of action was to remove his clothes—anything you did would be useless if there was a mountain of fabric in the way. Forcing your hands to steady, you unclasped his overcoat, sliding it off to toss somewhere. His stained undershirt met a similar fate, discarded on the dingy floors of your kitchen. All throughout, nary a twitch had come from him, making you wonder if he was normally this calm.

Everyone's calm when they're about to die, you surmised as you dug in the shelf for some marigold. You knew you still had some after that incident with the nearby village of Arben a week ago, to which they had sent some people over to evict you once again. Usually, you played some magic tricks or transformed into some large animal to scare them off, but things had heated up and you found yourself limping home with a stab wound the size of your eye. Fortunately, being a witch comes with a fairly advanced trove of medicinal knowledge for, yanno, stabbings and hexings. Never mind the fact that you haven't hexed someone since you were a moody teenager back in the coven.

At last, a familiar pouch came into view among the various bottles and tumblers. You picked it up and shook the contents out into your mortar bowl, adding a few drops of water and a pinch of honey. The pestle felt familiar in your hands as you ground a mixture out of the ingredients, mumbling a few words in Latin to help it along. While you'd never know if they actually worked, your mother had vehemently encouraged the practice, so you decided to go along with it. It wasn't like there was any harm to it, right?

At last, the poultice was done. You brought your mortar, as well as a wet cloth, to the table. The man's eyes snapped open once again at the wet touch of the cloth to his wound, but he didn't struggle. Much. You were glad he hadn't attacked you like the last poor soul you encountered had.

"Almost done," you mumbled, almost to yourself. With a careful eye, you examined the area, looking for dirt or other debris. When there was none, you grabbed a golden handful of your concoction. "Hold still."

It's not like there's anything else he can do. You aren't losing another one.

Applying a poultice is an art, in your opinion. Ensuing even spread and full coverage are harder than they look, especially when conditions get dicey. Thankfully, you've got more than enough experience to not accidentally screw this up.

As a finishing touch, you set a clean cloth over the area, wrapping it close with a few spins of bandages. Satisfied, you admired your work... only to cringe when you moved your arm and your shirt crunched. A glance back revealed the fabric stained with blood. It must have gotten dirty while you were carrying him.

With a sigh, you headed to the next room. A small bed stood in the corner, covered in a colorful blanket. Your dresser rested opposite the bed, practically swamped with various knickknacks from over the years.

You removed your soiled tunic and cape, then opened one of the drawers and retrieved a forest green tunic, quickly slipping it on. Your black leggings were relatively clean, so you let them be.

The mysterious man was asleep by the time you returned. There was a peaceful look on his face that didn't quite fit the circumstances, but you didn't question it. At least he wasn't awake and trying to murder you.

The only thing was that you were not without a usable table, which put a bit of a damper on your dinner plans. Thankfully, you had a working fire pit outside that you could roast food on, so it wasn't the worst.

...You just really wanted to make soup, and you definitely needed the table to do that. After a moment of pondering, you made your decision.

With a mighty heave, you had the man in your arms for the second time today, carefully walking into the bedroom and placing him on your bed. He was tall enough that his feet hung off the end, so you re-purposed a blanket or two to cover that oversight.

By now, you felt a bit winded, having not had to use your quirk in that manner in a while. While some might consider being a witch as quirk alone, you actually had one that you were born with. One that was as obvious as the outlined animal tattoos that covered you to your neck. While you didn't know it's exact name, you did know that your quirk let you draw certain characteristics from animals, going so far as to allow you to transform into that animal for a short time. You didn't do that often, mostly because it took a fuckton of energy and you had other ways of doing things that didn't require a ten-hour nap afterward.

Anyways, you were making soup for you and your new friend. Well, more like hesitant acquaintance, but you were allowed to be hopeful. You'd gone gathering earlier, so you had all the ingredients.

Minutes later, you had a simmering pot in the fireplace before you. Though it had only just started cooking, a delicious aroma seeped from the pot, overpowering even the incense smell that seemed to live in the very walls of the cottage.

While the soup cooked, you gathered the clothes strewn on the floor and tossed them into your "wash later" tub, then you checked in on the man once again. He seemed fine enough for someone who had just been stabbed, so you grabbed a book and curled up in a chair facing the hearth. The story was good and the fire was warm, so you allowed yourself to relax—

Something cold and metal slid against your throat, followed by a harsh voice.

"Did my father send you?"

Fuck.