(Todoroki Shoto x Reader x Midoriya Izuku.)
Poly!
-BOOK ONE of the Lush Life series!
*Please point out grammar errors, English isn't my first language.
•
I had known of the rumors, he was supposed to be a cursed being--something unwanted and maimed...
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—First Person POV.—
A little while after, two guards escorted me down to the servants' quarters, murmuring something about a bed being arranged for me among the kitchen staff.
Which was petty as fuck.
The walk was quiet, and their footsteps echoed against the stone like a dull drumbeat behind my thoughts.
I kept my head down, silent, the damned Prince's kiss still burning on my lips like a brand I didn't know what to make of.
Once the guards turned the corner and left me, I sat on the edge of a cot in the dim room, but I couldn't sleep.
Despite my little berry snacks earlier, I was starving for an actual meal.
I guess using my powers really did a number.
My stomach twisted with hunger, and the silence only made it worse—sharp, hollow, gnawing.
So, after a few minutes of sitting in the dark and staring at the wall in silent debating, I pushed myself up and padded barefoot down the hallway—heading to the one place I knew might have something left behind: the kitchen.
The stone floor was cold beneath my feet as I eased open the heavy door, only for the hairs on the back of my neck to rise instantly at the sound that met me.
A slurp.
Then a wet pop.
I flinched, freezing in the doorway.
The air inside was heavier, tinged with a coppery tang—I wrinkled my nose and tiptoed in, hugging the counter as I moved along it.
The smell grew stronger with each step—raw iron and meat. The sharp crack of bone snapping met my ears, followed quickly by a slurp that made me flinch.
I rounded the corner, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness and calf starting to throb from all the movement—at the far end of the room, crouched low by the butcher's block, was a figure cloaked in black.
I knew that cloak.
"Izuku?" I called out hesitantly.
It was something about the Traveler always being in the kitchen.
Always sneaking in late for a "snack." Always hungry, yet I'd never seen him eat. Not once.
He froze.
Then, in a single twitching movement, his head turned back over his shoulder to look at me—eyes gleaming in the darkness with pupils narrowed into feral slits.
The faint glow illuminated the rest of his features: Blood coated the lower half of his face, his lips, his chin—red smeared up his cheek like war paint.
His hands were locked around a slab of meat, chunks broken off and half-devoured.
"What are you doing?" I whispered, alarm beginning to churn in my chest and making his eyes widen.
