Ashes of the Deceived. (Izuku Midoriya x reader.)

Sidestory: If there's something strange in your neighborhood..

—First Person POV.—

The knife was weird from the start.

I found it half-buried under a cluster of tree roots on the far side of the abandoned quarry—edges dulled by time and caked in dried gunk I'd rather not think too hard about.

The metal was unnaturally cold, even in the thick summer heat, and when I touched it, I swear the air got thinner—like the woods around me were holding their breath.

But of course I took it home— It looked cool, so why not?

I'd scrubbed it down at my kitchen sink, cleaning out the grime while some true crime podcast blared in the background.

The handle was cracked, chipped in places, but after a quick google search, I was able to rewrap it— As for the blade? Once I ran it across my whetstone a few times, it gleamed like it wanted to be used again.

I should've left it.

But being on a college students budget—a free knife is a free knife.

So I stuck it on my nightstand like a trophy, flicked off the lights and rolled into bed.

And now I'm wide awake, heart actively thundering in my chest because I know I heard something— Not the faint creaking pipes, or anything to indicate an old house settling.

Skittering.

Low and fast, like claws on wood, darting from one side of my bedroom to the other—I'm holding my breath, my eyes taking their sweet ass time adjusting to the dark.

I sit up slightly and reach blindly toward my lamp after catching a shadow shifting away from the corner of my room— Internally hating that I'm definitely not going through some kind of sleep paralysis right now.

My fingers fumble for the switch and I flick it on with a quiet click—flooding the room with its dim amber light.

All noises cease at that.

And I think I feel my heart stop as I fixate my attention on the hunched figure across the room.

Right in front of my open closet, back hunched, sinewy limbs pressed low to the ground with his head already craned my way.

I take notice of two thick, curved things spiraling out from his temples, they're dark crimson but near-black at the base—one's chipped and the other is etched with faint markings I don't recognize.

And behind him, stretching out from the slits in his back, are leathery wings that look more like shattered glass—fractured and veined.

His kimono—if I could even call it that—is tattered and loose across his frame, black fabric trimmed in deep red and barely tied shut around his chest.

It looks ceremonial, or maybe once was, before being torn in a dozen places and smeared with dark, ash-colored stains.

I can't even start on a list of all the reasons I should be pissing myself right about now.