❝ 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘨 . ❞ [ MHA x reader one-shots ]

the hero and the villain | izuku midoriya bittersweet

A/n: I honestly don't know what this is it just came to me-

Prompt: (Y/n) finds Deku in an alleyway and decides to help

Warning: Descriptions of blood and injuries, mature language, and angsty themes

Word count: 934

✮*•̩̩͙✧•̩̩͙*˚✧*˚　Second Person point of view　˚*✧˚*•̩̩͙✧•̩̩͙*˚✮

The city streets felt colder than usual that night. You hugged your jacket closer, keeping your head down. Living as a villain constantly felt as if you were being watched, you were always on guard. You hated living this way but in order to survive, there was no other option. Your feet slightly splashed against the light layer of rainwater that puddled on the sidewalk. It had been very lightly raining for a few hours. You passed an alleyway, your paranoia got the better of you, and you side-glanced into the dark passage. You stopped dead in your tracks upon what you say. Was that... It couldn't be... You saw the disheveled silhouette of a hero you recognized. Deku.

What was he doing in laying in an alleyway in the middle of the night? He was unconscious, he had to be, or else he would be on his feet. You knew good and well from the countless times you've faced him on the battlefield. He's never managed to take you in, and you've never managed to take him down. You entered the alleyway and approached the knocked out hero. You peered down at him as he laid face down onto the concrete.

He looked pathetic, one of the best heroes beaten in a fight that went completely unnoticed. You used your foot to turn him over to see his face. His nose looked broken, blood staining his skin covering the few freckles he managed to retain from childhood. He was littered in bruises and you had no doubt he suffered from other injuries you couldn't see. He looked so defenseless. Helpless.

Why did you feel the need to help him? 

Your body moved on its own as you reached down to pick up the stranded hero. He was physically larger than you were, but nonetheless, you held him up and began to pull him off the ground and out of the alleyway. His soaked clothing caused yours to begin to damped as well, but that was the least of your concerns. Your head was racing, doubts flooded your head, but your body kept moving anyway.

What were you doing? As soon as Deku came to, he would try to arrest you, you knew this. So why were you helping him? Why did you feel so obligated to help someone whose ideas you fundamentally opposed? You were a villain, this was ridiculous. 

"You're so fucking reckless," You muttered as if the man laying on your shoulder could hear you. "You're supposed to be the best hero, how did you even let this happen?" You had no problem walking home with Deku because you knew the part of town you lived in. Everyone minded their own business, knowing if they didn't it would get them killed. That's how you managed to drag the hero down the block and into your apartment complex. You struggled to haul him up the three flights of stairs to your front door.

You pulled the keys from your pocket, propping up the unconscious man with one side of your body while throwing open the front door. You kicked it shut behind you, deciding to circle back around to lock the door later. You carefully placed Deku onto your bed, successfully probably ruining your sheets. You made sure he wouldn't fall out before rushing to get your first aid kit. You could recall the many late nights you spent with that trusty kit trying to save your own life. In fact, a good chunk of those nights were because of the man laying on your bed.

You began to assess his wounds. How much blood had he lost? It was hard to tell. Would he need splints? Maybe, but you had the materials needed to make some. Was there internal bleeding? You couldn't know. Did he have a concussion? Most likely. Which bones were broken? Probably most of them. You hastily cut open his clothes, seeing the horrible gash across his ribs. You set to work cleaning the wound, this one appeared to be the worst of them. It would need stitches, but you could handle that.

As you worked to stitch and bandage him, a thought occurred to you. You were the one who was supposed to create his wounds, not heal them. What the hell were you doing? In all honesty, you didn't know. It simply felt wrong to leave him in that dark and cold alleyway. After you cleaned his wounds, scrubbing away the dried blood and dirt, he looked much less defeated.

You wrapped bandages around his torso, his body leaning against you while he remained unconscious. His skin was warm against yours, which put you at ease. You guided him very softly back to lay down. You had stitched what needed to be stitched, cleaned what needed to be cleaned, covered what needed to be covered. Luckily, you didn't need to set any bones, only relocated one or two joints. You sighed and draped a light blanket over his sleeping body. He would survive and wouldn't have to deal with any long-lasting damage. You helped him. You helped a hero.

You turned off the lights and left your bedroom. You returned to your small living room in the low-scale apartment you owned. You tossed yourself down onto the sofa and covered your face with your hands. What was wrong with you? Why did you help him? Why? It was far too late, or early rather, for you to try and contemplate your life choices. You mumbled to yourself before you fell asleep on the sofa,

"What the hell did you get yourself into this time, (Y/n)... "