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greenglowsgold · 11 months

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The List.

Based on the Cass Apocalyptic Series.

The first part of this has been rumbling around in my brain ever since that Super Sad Scene a month ago, but yesterday’s update gave me the other side of the coin, so to speak, and finally pulled it all together.

@somerandomdudelmao thanks for the fuel, friend

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Donatello’s days have become a series of checklists, as of late.

No, that’s not exactly true. His days have always been about lists: what he’s done, what he can delegate to someone else, what still needs doing. But these days he’s been doing less and listing more, piling tasks from the first category onto the second as fast as he can manage, hoping he has enough time to empty the queue.

The full catalog is written out in a series of files, reorganized for accessibility to the layperson and meticulously up-to-date as of yesterday. He meant to run through it again this morning, ensure all the relevant instruction manuals were attached to each item and double check his protocols, but he wasn’t… he couldn’t…

He’s going to die tonight.

It irritates him, his own miscalculation of the timing more than the stark presence of his oncoming demise. The latter has been inevitable for quite some time, long enough that he’s gotten used to the idea. But he thought he had another week or two, and he doesn’t like being proven wrong. He wonders if his brothers know.

Probably not. They know it’s bad now, obviously, because they’ve piled him with pillows and blankets and surrounded him on all sides, and Leo has finally gone quiet. But they trust him, they’ve always trusted him, even when they shouldn’t, so if he swears he’ll last a few more days, they’ll believe him. He thinks. He’s pretty sure. If they knew it was tonight, he doubts they would choose to sleep through it. Donnie thinks about waking them up, but only for a moment. He’d like to say it’s a noble act, to leave them in peace a little bit longer, but the truth is he’s just too fucking tired to move.

There’s something settled bone-deep in his chest, a heaviness that sits on him like a stone, a peine forte et dure pressing him down and down, stopping his voice and his breath and his heart. He wonders if this is what dying usually feels like, or if it’s unique to the Kraang. Raph would know.

He cranes his neck to the right, to catch Raph’s face out of the corner of his eye. Raph’s working eye is half-open, staring down at the floor. Donnie could ask him. (He won’t. Let him fall asleep.) The movement of his head is so slight it doesn’t even catch Raph’s attention. He’s too tired for anything more. He’s so goddamn tired.

His lists are out of reach at the moment, with his physical interfaces back in the lab and his ninpo locked behind a wall of oh-god-it-sounds-too-exhausting-to-even-try, but he memorized them all long ago.

Raphael: Maintenance (delegated to Casey, who has it well in hand). Plans (tucked away in a dedicated folder, long term, but someday they’ll have the materials, and Raph will have a proper body again, someday). Honey (yes, he passed that along last week).

Raph has access to the tracking programs, so he can keep an eye on everyone himself, even when Donnie can’t pull up locations or vitals for him anymore. He has his own space in the base once more, somewhere to close a door when he needs to (he insists he doesn’t, but Donnie isn’t a fool). He has more excuses to spend time with Casey, who’s taking over his upkeep. Donnie hopes it fills in some gaps for both of them.

He runs through the list, double checks each item. It’s his last chance to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything important.

He looks down, finds Mikey.

There’s a stockpile of the anti-aging serum in his safe, the formula in his database, plans for the permanent solution clearly labeled. As long as they have his lab, his systems, Mikey will be as young as his years. He’s walked him through the greenhouse, even if most of it is controlled by the computer system. Mikey misses the world being green; it’ll do him good to spend more time around the plants. He has his tea, his candles. He has Draxum, who by now should have received a — mildly — threatening message warning him not to pull any disappearing acts anytime soon. He has their ancestors, just a short call away.

Donnie’s sure Mikey will call on him soon. He doesn’t plan to stray far.

Up a bit. To the left. Leo.

The arm — Leo knows how to take care of it, as does Casey.

The passwords — reset, something even Leo will be able to remember without resorting to blackmail.

The schedule — reshuffled for the next few days, he’ll have a hard enough time sleeping as it is.

The photos — everything they have, even the embarrassing ones. He even managed a couple of prints, and one precious shot from their pre-apocalypse days, something for Leo to tuck into a pouch and carry with him, when they’re not around.

Raph, Mikey, Leo. He doesn’t think he’s missed anything. Donnie lets his head fall back, too exhausted to hold it up any longer.

Is it enough?

His mind stretches further out. He’s unraveling.

What about April? Her prescription is up to date, they just checked a month ago. She has the latest in his combat tech, which has kept her safe in the field this long, so he has no reason to think it will falter now. He’s leaving her a few extra pieces, since he won’t be able to use them anymore. Leo will find the time for a movie night once in a while, he’s certain, even if his taste in Jupiter Jim movies is horrendous. They still have coffee; he’d die before he let that particular supply run out. He will, actually.

Casey. Fuck, Donnie’s gonna miss his birthday. But he did plan for this, his protocols will kick in. The mask is finished, everything is in place. He’s reconfigured his workstations, fit them for a tiny human instead of a seven-foot turtle. Casey has a better head for mechanics than any of his brothers ever did. Kid likes to be useful, so Donnie’s left him as much use as he can. He’s taught him everything Casey can learn and left instructions for more, when he’s a little older and wiser. His family will take care of him, they’ll make sure he gets there.

The base. It has to hold, to give them somewhere safe. The infrastructure is sound, and they have people to manage repair work. Supplies are decent, the most critical items in stock, everything that can be made renewable is. Their allies — Leo handles interpersonal issues and leadership, but Donnie’s checked the list with a pragmatist’s eye, left notes and rankings for priority. Security is the largest concern, but he’s spent nearly half his time with his assistants since his self-diagnosis (he could have spent it with his family), running them through the programs and adjustments, trying to bring them up to somewhere in the realm of his own expertise (a fool’s errand, but still). They’ve been rigorously instructed, they understand that the little things like sleep are secondary concerns. It has to hold.

Is it enough? For them to be okay?

He’s done everything he can. He can’t do any more. So it has to be enough.

Donnie blinks, and for a moment isn’t certain his eyes will open again at the end of it. But they do. At least one more time, they obey him.

Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Home. He rolls back through the list. It’s his last chance. He can’t miss anything.

Mikey’s hand tightens unconsciously around his wrist, fingers meeting easily on either side. Donnie feels only the echo of the pressure.

Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Home.

Something bright sparks at the edges of his vision before it fades. The last gasps of a dying brain, he supposes. Synapses firing one last time before they’re snuffed out.

Raph.

Mikey.

Leo.

April.

Casey.

Home.

Light.

There’s light.

It hurts.

He thought dying would stop the pain, but it’s risen to a fever pitch instead. His brother’s arms are gone, but the disease wraps around him in their place, consumes him. It rages like a wildfire, burning through his center until pieces start to flake away like ash.

Oh, this is what it does, what it was built for. The Kraang could have killed him in a lot of different ways. He’d wondered why they chose this one.

He hasn’t planned for it. This is something he didn’t even know to fear.

It’s bright and it hurts but it’s quiet as he crumbles, folds in on himself like a black hole in the utter silence of outer space. It’s quiet enough that the voice that breaks through does so clear as a bell.

His head turns to follow the sound, instinct. He’s lost half his field of vision, but what’s left is enough. He looks, and finds Casey.

Casey looks at him, at him, not the body. Donnie opens his mouth to ask a question — What are you doing here? How? Why? — but something else sloughs out instead. Not blood. He doesn’t have that anymore.

Casey calls his name once more and starts running.

Donnie’s questions fold back into his mind. His mouth clicks shut, he swallows back the putrid rot and pushes himself up. His arms are shattered but they’ll have to hold him. They have to. Because Casey is here and he needs something, which means Donnie missed something, which means he isn’t done.

His spirit disagrees with him, doesn’t see the logic. His arms don’t hold.

Casey reaches to catch him as he falls, and the touch ruptures him instead. He scatters. Into the air and the ground and Casey. For a moment, he’s just pieces, fumbling around and latching onto anything that welcomes them, and Casey does that. They flow into him. They’re him. They’re…

He’s…

Casey, he’s…

Donatello pulls himself back together. Most of himself, anyway. The infection hasn’t followed him but the damage persists. He’s run through with cracks and crevices, shaking bits away into infinity with every movement. But there’s more of him here than not.

Unexpectedly, Donnie is not gone. He’s still dead, but that’s fine, he planned for that one.

Casey has him now. He wraps himself around Donnie in layers, helps hold him together with a kind of sheer will that makes up for any lack of mystic knowledge in spades. Casey asks him to stay, and Donnie takes up the task like Sisyphus sizing up the hill. This time, this time I’ll do it right.

Even better, Casey has taken him to another time, one where all of Donnie’s long-term plans are now completely-fucking-reasonable plans. Casey’s going to fix it, so Donnie can fix everything else. Whatever else needs it. He hasn’t really asked. And he knows he’s missed something, but he doesn’t think too hard about what, not yet.

First thing’s first: he needs a body.

It’s so simple to accomplish that it seems like the universe is mocking him. Just a quick 1-2-3, ticking off the list. It feels almost stupid, like running back through the early levels of a video game after unlocking all the ultimate weapons and burning through enemies and obstacles, laughing, shit, did I used to think this was hard?

In no time at all, his own face has formed in front of him.

In no time at all, he’s gasping.

It’s only been a few hours since he last breathed air, but he’s missed it.

Another thing he’s missed? Functional musculature. Casey slams into him and Donnie is startled to find that it doesn’t knock him over. His arms and legs look like actual limbs again, not fragile little sticks disguising themselves as such. He stands, dragging Casey along without a second thought. The weight barely registers. It’s amazing.

The power trip is heady, but it only lasts a few minutes before reality kicks it in the ass and pulls him back down to earth.

We lost, Casey says.

They’re dead, Casey says.

It wasn’t enough, Casey does not say, but Donnie hears it just as clearly.

All those plans, the preparations, the precautions and protocols, they only borrowed a year or two before they fell apart. He sees the timeline spiral out before him, tighter and tighter until it collapses in on itself, rendered all the more insignificant from his own point of perception. He was alive yesterday. His family is dead today.

Everything he did, it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t. He was stupid to think otherwise.

(Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Casey’s still here. It was enough for him, at least.)

It cuts at him a little, to have been so wrong. But he’s strong again, now. He can take the wound. More importantly, he has another chance to get it right.

Donnie breathes. His chest expands smoothly, easily. The air doesn’t rattle in his lungs. He’s alive, he’s a genius, he can fix anything.

He pulls up a list.

#rottmnt #cass apocalyptic series #Rise of the TMNT #fic I write #*looks at the word count* haha. anyway. i'm normal.#Donnie's expressions when he looks at his family one last time are so fuckin good they're so clear #I looked at him and I was like 'oh cool I can literally read his mind'#which may or may not be true (you tell me) but holy shit was it effective #(please @god let the formatting of this post hold)

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theloveinc · 4 months

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if i didn't care (more than words can say) - a dabi / touya todoroki x reader fanfiction—NO QUIRK!college-ish!AU

wc: 7.3k — my longest to date :')

sum: a beautiful but notorious shadow keeps following you home. over the course of some weeks, you eventually get to know him.

a/n: more than anything, this is really just a huge ode to my hatred of graduate school, though since the start of writing this, i admit it has gotten a lot better—hence there being a mixture of characters and ocs included. i don't think i was able to nail this exactly the way i envisioned, in clarity and thematically (and it's wordy as all hell)... but i am still delighted by this concept. i hope it tickles you, as well!

a MAJOR thank you to my beloved @weird-dere-writes for beta-ing this! twyla is a a real one whom i adore like the shining sun.

warning: lighthearted in spirit but DARK CONTENT! features stalking, physical assault and mentions of sexual assault, miscommunication, suicidal ideation, talk of death, gore + general sense of unhappiness/unease. gender neutral but some of the pet names include: pretty, sweetheart, lollipop, cookie, hon, baby + etc., also I think you might have a purse?, HAPPY END!

(read on ao3 - coming soon!)

title credit goes to the ink spots.

enjoy!

The sun has just barely set by the time you leave your final class of the day. Fog seeps from over the distant hills that surround your city, subway tracks murmur from underneath the thick concrete, and car high beams yellow in the fading light of the sun and slate blue sky.

Your classmates—those who have all left the lecture hall before you to give each other rides home—laugh, their voices echoing throughout the campus plaza as they disperse; the last students of the night to begin their trek home, down the hill that is your campus, and far, far away from you.

You don’t mind.

…or you tell yourself, at least.

Your walk home is pleasant enough, not so close that it doesn’t feel like a trip worth making, not so far that it feels like you’re a freshman again, tearing out of class just to run to catch the bus in time. It’s the perfect temperature where walking is comfortable, and if timing allows, you’ll get to enjoy the sunset as you go. Maybe today you’ll see the funny looking tuxedo cat that stares at you sometimes from the ground floor apartment window of one of your neighbors; you only recently found out that they have a little tortoiseshell, too.

Besides, while it’s not as though you enjoy your time alone any more than you enjoy anything else in life, home has become a sort of sanctuary, the trip to-and-from, a ritual, from school and the tension that sears your nerves on a daily basis. You still can’t help but wonder why it is that you’re only ever regarded by other students with hateful looks or by plain being ignored, sitting in the front corner of every classroom, freezing from both the weather's cooling breeze and the fact everyone just happened to ice you out by sitting in the back.

It's no surprise that nor can you ignore it, either.

For as much as you try, which is almost as often as you open your eyes in the morning, you simply haven’t succeeded. Hence why, with the cold air nipping at your cheeks and your fingers numbing from a chill you know will only get worse the longer you stay outside… you suppose you should finally start heading back, too.

You notice them first when you stop to adjust a faulty earbud.

A figure behind you that stops. Waits. Lingers. More than a block away, under the newly darkened sky and opaque clouds. A street light illuminates their body as they appear to dawdle; awkwardly hovering about a pole, staring at something you don’t see on the ground, trotting a couple steps, and then looking up at the sky.

You glance at them, the way one glances, with one hand pressed to your ear, the other gripping the strap of your bag tightly as you turn your head ever so slightly to look out of the corner of your eye and pray the movement isn’t noticed.

The figure, of course, freezes–like it’s not obvious, like it’s possible you won’t pick up on the sudden shift from dance to pause, autonomous to marionette, breath to stone. You can’t make out much about them aside from their long, dark clothing as their face is hidden by dark glasses and a hood, but when your stomach knots with something sour, nerves that twist and scream, you know nothing good will come from standing around and waiting to find out anything more.

You let your eyes shift back to the paved street in front of you slowly, as if you just found yourself caught up in the frustration of skippy music. Then, you start walking again, hoping it was all just some coincidence, illusion, pretending that if you were to look back, the figure would have since simply turned the corner and left you behind, like most people almost always seem to do.

But you look again. Peek, from the corner of your eye, briefly, like you normally would when no one is there and you just want to make sure… but this time, someone is, and by the time you really catch sight of them (closer now, like they were walking fast, jogging maybe, red light, green light), you don’t want to draw any more attention to yourself and turn back before you can make things any worse.

Your heart beats. Your breath shudders. You flex your fingers where they’re held, stiff with terror, wondering: is this really happening? What should I do? Am I crazy?

It’s five more blocks until your house. Three stop signs, then two traffic lights. One liquor store, and an empty cafe that has already closed for the day, filled with stacked chairs and little mice you sometimes catch scuttling by the edge of the curb. You live by a school, but since it’s already dark, there will maybe be a total of four cars that pass you by. Maybe. Then there’s a trek up a short hill before you finally reach your street.

You wonder, not once slowing your step, if this is something you need to be worried about, if you’re really being stalked like you’ve always been warned of before, if anyone would even care if you didn’t show up to class tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that… and then, despite the whisper of your unconscious telling you not to be so self-involved, no one wants you, anyway, you increase your step. You want to look back, confirm what you think is happening, face a fight you don’t think is fair but haven’t yet decided whether or not you want to win.

But you don’t, thinking you can almost hear their footsteps now, though maybe you’re just confusing them for the wild thump, thump, thump of your heart and the catches of your breath. And when you check back, they’re half a block away but feel closer than ever, eyes on you and hands halfway around your throat though they’re still hidden deep in their pockets.

You feel a little like hurling, a bit more like giving up and letting them have you (though you’ve only ever written a suicide note, never a will)... but the creature of fear in you ends up prevailing, throwing it’s tentacles up through your gullet into your brain and dragging you into the depths… just as you say a prayer for the first, or any, god willing to listen.

And then you start running.

Heft your bag over your shoulder, suck in an icy breath and charge forward into the night, past the three stop signs and through the red of each stop light that blares at you, really the only thing that seems to acknowledge you as you refuse to waste any time looking back.

Self preservation is one hell of a drug, you only manage to briefly think in between gulps of air, your cheeks stinging with the breeze and your feet beginning to grate and blister against the friction of shoes that aren’t meant for running. You figure at this point you’re more likely to trip and crack your skull open on the pavement than be caught and dragged away by some freak with a violent agenda. Would that really be so bad?

But your answer quickly arrives in the form of making it home and climbing the stairs so fast you manage to forget the thought entirely, along with most of the rest of the world aside from the few people you come up with (and proceed to scratch out) when determining who, if there's anyone, you can call for help.

It's inside, silent and alone in the dark, you try to process what just occurred for so long that eventually your roommate comes home from their shift at the bar. It’s only at their surprise from seeing you still awake (ghostlike, on the couch) that you realize hours have passed in the span of what felt like only seconds, minutes, the metronome of a few steps home–and that you hadn’t actually processed anything at all.

You go to bed that night, not having eaten but not hungry, still feeling the phantom sensations of your bounding footsteps on hard concrete, cold sweat sliding down the slant of your neck, and the feeling of a man just inches from your putting his hands on your back.

The next day during lecture, you are awoken from a hazy daydream by a notification on your phone.

Campus Creeper Found Passed Out in Uni Plaza.

You blink, exhausted after an adrenaline crash made worse by your night of haunted sleep, eventual overheating, and your roommate taking a shower at four am. You were happy to even drag yourself out of bed this morning and make coffee just tolerable enough not to spit out all over your kitchen floors.

Local man, you read after clicking, deemed the “campus creeper,” was found passed out on the Student Union steps early this morning. Identified by a member of student patrol at Mustafu University, the man’s name has yet to be released to the public as it appeared he was suffering from a number of wounds, mostly external.

Despite condition, students have taken to social media to express their relief, as the man has reportedly been following students—

You stop reading, having hardly even processed the words, really, as you try to shake off the fog that keeps you from really understanding what the words are telling you.

A tightness settles in your stomach, heavy and painful with a nausea you can’t shake, a question you don’t yet realize: is this the same person, same man, who scared you half to death last night by trailing you all the way home? It’s unclear from the article, the timing, the picture with his blurred out features… and the fact that he must've been dragged all the way back up to school because he was found nowhere near your home.

While you assume you’ll be more excited once the new sinks in and the nerves turn to consolation (and the person to your left stops chattering into the ear of the person sat behind you), you can’t help but shoot to your feet and run to the closest bathroom in a panic, trying not to hyperventilate looking at yourself in the mirror in between splashing water on your face.

The day has once again fallen into night. Your bag is heavy with the weight of books and pens and your schedule notepad that has all your plans for the rest of the week and even the month beyond that. Today, however, the clouds don’t creep and instead, you see stars, maybe only a handful or so, one airplane too, as the sun descends in a tender calm and the windchill greets your cheeks once more.

You walk, out of class and down the ancient steps of the building, start descending the hill down to the first busy intersection of streetlights where the president of your school was once hit by a car.

It’s not three blocks into the way home, however, that a shadow appears once more. Distantly, though you’re sure it’s calculated enough so as not to ring as intentional no matter how much you know it is, and can feel it in your bones.

You thought he had been caught. The creeper.

You hadn’t realized you were so relieved by the thought. It slipped your mind, the celebration over as quick as it started under the weight of all your schoolwork and the dirty looks your classmates sent you after you came back from dry heaving into the bathroom sink. Maybe it was a different guy they caught, you wonder, then kick yourself for being so naive as to think that maybe you’d been spared.

Of course not, you think. It’s never that easy, is it?

Panic once again bubbles up in your throat, anxiety pooling in your stomach like something hot melting through stone, and tears start to sting at the center of your eyes. You do your best to ward away the urge to collapse, instead trying to focus on the fact that everything was fine yesterday and tonight’s just another dream you’ll wake up from again tomorrow…though by now you know it’s not.

It is easier, this time, however, to begin to run, to bounce on your feet with a purpose you hope isn’t any more transparent than your fear. You’re happy that today you managed to pack light, skipped filling up your water bottle, and happened to put on your sneakers instead of your slip-ons, as if you didn’t spend half of your entire morning trying to convince yourself that potentially saving your own life was a good thing.

By the time you make it to the door, chest heaving with a wheezing heat as your hand shakes the key into the padlock, when you turn back to look one final time before ducking inside, still gasping for air, the shadow is no longer behind you.

The creeper is getting braver, you notice.

It has been weeks since the shadow appeared and the following began. One week of that same distant trailing which had you sprinting like some sort of track star, two weeks of running only the last block home, locking every single bolt on your door (then unlocking when it was time to let your roommate in), and three in total of squinting behind you in stinted moments and wondering what you see.

You think his hair is white.

Now though, tonight, he stays not a block or two behind you but rather, less than fifty feet. You can make him out—see now the faded black of his jeans and the red of his chuck taylors, dirty. He’s young-ish, you think, more noticeable than before, and skinnier–though maybe your eyesight has just gotten worse, or the memories have faded in trying to spare you from another trauma, maybe even from awakening any of the first ones.

You wonder how he was able to speed up, where he was waiting for you, where he came from that first night, the second, and now. And you wonder why you’ve stopped running as fast, even if you’ve been trying to leave campus earlier and earlier as if that will keep you any safer from walking home at night.

(You had remained after class one night to ask your professor a question you no longer remember, and a wispy haired girl sneered at you so badly you ended up weeping on your way out the door. Not only did it kill your urge to ever stay longer on campus than you needed to, it also caused a wane to your desire to even arrive home at all).

One day, the creeper catches up.

Reaches, like he’d be able to touch you, smiles, like his canines are sharp enough to chew through you…hopefully in one bite if he was even able to swallow that much. Maybe he is.

But you swat back when he does. Hoist your bag in close. Glare over your shoulder. Then speed up, and your lungs tighten into stone almost immediately when he speaks.

“Hey—”

“Get the fuck,” you screech, turning back just enough to say the words despite not knowing if you’d even be brave enough to let them out, to get away unscathed, “away from me!”

The shadow, however, instead of shrinking into disparagement like you so hoped… laughs, skipping towards you, laces flying, smiling wide.

“Aw, c’mon,” he jeers, to which you wince as you try to stomp away from his pull. That is, in between your attempts at keeping your eyes on him so that he doesn’t pull anything else fast, or deadly.

“I swear to fucking god. I will call the cops.”

Another laugh, his footsteps now lighter, his voice switching to something airy and cool.

“Don’t be like that, pretty.”

You barely look, but you see a flash of red as he kicks out his foot, the curl of a grin pulling one side of his lips lopsided as he lazily trots to match your hurried pace.

You want to start running, to disappear, dissolve—anything to stop things from developing further into a conversation and your possible demise—but he catches up to you again before you can even try to skirt away in any direction other than forward.

“You noticed quicker than I thought you would,” he almost hums, the words exposing the soft, pink tissue of his gums. “‘didn’t think you would.”

There is a question in his statement, though his voice doesn’t lilt and only his eyebrows give it away, quirking, stretching, falling, the piercing on his left one along with it, when you slow down (hardly, still breathing rough and nervous, not wanting to look) but don’t respond.

“Most people…” he shakes his head, “eh.”

“What?” you stop your stride, more out of surprise than want, and stare at him despite how distinctly you avoid catching his eyes. “Like people don’t know when they’re being followed?”

“Nah,” he says, his mouth remaining open after, humorously, like you’re supposed to get the joke, think it’s cool, that he’s a zombie, maybe. Something. “Like I thought you wouldn’t care.”

You cross your arms, blink at the ground in trying to hide what is most likely a stupid looking pout in your failing attempt to get hot and angry. You shouldn’t even be speaking. “I care when creepy people follow me.”

He laughs again, raspy and free. “It’s been weeks.”

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking at him, but you look at him anyway. Truly focus on the mop of messy white and black streaked hair atop his head, the stained, canvas jacket with extra pockets and copper zippers, and his smile; the delicate, creased skin of his jaw that fades smoothly up his cheeks and down his neck. He isn’t bare of a good amount of piercings, either: he’s got all sorts metal in his ears, nose, and dimples, as far as you can tell by simply looking at him

He’s not really all that creepy-looking after all. To your surprise (and slight disgust), in fact, you find he’s somewhat… handsome.

You swallow.

“It’s been three.”

“Hm, baby?”

You tense, the claws returning, this time aiming for your heart, shredding it open, every insecurity lighting aflame when he smiles that smile again.

“Three weeks. That’s how long you’ve been stalking me,” you say.

There’s a pause, a shift, something you don’t catch and can hardly read. Then, he rolls his eyes, shoving his white knuckled fingers into the pockets of his coat. He doesn’t move otherwise, doesn’t even look angry, or as though he’s going to take any steps backwards or forward, and not like he’s going to lunge at you as if you’re prey and there’s an animal in him that he’s already promised food.

You feel otherwise, though he shakes his head with a ‘tsk. “I’d say stalking is a little harsh.”

You’re not sure why you object, “But–”

“I don’t stare into your window,” he taunts, “don’t have your number, don’t send you stupid love poems every night and every morning that say,‘I love you, be mine!’” He pretends to sing-song,

You can feel the irony, hear the chuckle but turn anyway to resume your walk into the night. Briskly. Refusing to look back and acknowledge the stranger you’re not sure wants to kill you.

“I don’t throw rocks at your window,” he continues to call after you, “or approach you in cafes and pretend you’re crazy when you scream.”

“Then leave me alone,” you shout, hoping the wind carries it far enough behind you to reach him, though you shiver still.

You don’t see it, but he shrugs. And surprisingly stays where he’s put, watching you try not to look like you’re peeking at him before nearly tripping on your own feet. You’re not sure if it’s a relief.

It’s the first night since first learning of him that you’ve walked home alone.

Later, you learn the creep has two names.

It’s been five weeks now, just after winter’s turn, the clouds not so big anymore but often dense with the slightest bit of rain you enjoy only when you wake up in the middle of the night too scared to go back to sleep.

The creeper, the shadow, your stalker, basically lives behind you now, grinning whenever you glance, dancing whenever you glare; it’s like he soaks up your, any kind of, attention like a bonfire being doused with gasoline. You’re still scared, unknowing of what he wants, but now that you’ve spoken, there’s somewhat of a static that’s settled, too; it’s tense and awkward, but the horror of it all is stagnant in build, in wait for the spark to light and set your whole world ablaze.

Though he finds you again, two red lights in, halfway to your house.

“Hey,” he says, following with your name.

You immediately shudder, jerking away from him in surprise as if there’s anything else you could do, but he just laughs that laugh of his, undisturbed he’s now talking to your back.

“Where’d you learn that?” you snap, but you can practically hear his grin when he responds.

“Got classmates, don’t you?”

Most of your classmates ignore you half the time, the other half just roll their eyes. Most of your classmates laugh whenever you speak, the ones who don’t have made you cry in front of your professors.

“They wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.”

“I would,” he says, pausing as if he’s some sort of pensive, then giving you a look that assures you he’s up to no good, “and they gave me your name. Ibara, Setsuna, Yui–I could go on, you know?”

You’re surprised. You’re disgusted. At him, at them, and you gape, the only thing you can think to do under a circumstance that implies no one has any regard for your safety and yet, hardly leaves you surprised. “I think I’d rather just die.”

“That’s not true,” the creeper laughs, seeming oddly sure of the answer. You’re too nonplussed to decide if he’s right.

“I hate you,” you try instead.

“You don’t even know me.”

And it’s no nice to meet you, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“So, what’s your name then?”

He hesitates, sucking on the piercing on his bottom lip before letting it pop back out in a sneer that shows pointed teeth. You’re not sure if he’s meaning to come off as upset or pensive, bitter or just plain rude.

“Dabi.”

The words fall off his lips, snappy and hot, like you’re lighting the burner on an old stove, or flicking a match against a matchbox for the first time and getting surprised when it sparks.

You pause, peeking over your shoulder. “‘gonna cremate me once you kill me?”

This time, he doesn’t laugh. “Maybe,” he says, then when you don’t react, “no.”

Your foot taps the ground when you look forward again. “You should really think about changing it, then.”

There’s a pause, a shift in clothes and in breath despite the pace at which you walk. You feel nervous, awkward the way one does when someone catches you with bad hair, or wearing the last clean clothes in the house on laundry day. You’re not sure why you care so much about a man who clearly does not care about you. Or does… in the same way a farmer fattens up a chicken for slaughter.

“Call me Touya, then,” he says, his eyes dark. “That’s what my ma calls me.”

“Touya,” you repeat, sounding the word out on your tongue soft and slow. Lamp. Arrow. A name from his mother. Your lips wrap around it, caress the warmth of the dip, the bend, the aim… and his face breaks into that knowing, wolfish grin.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You freeze, one foot freezing in the air, and he bursts into a rasp of laughter so loud your eyebrows immediately shoot up and almost off your head entirely. You go in to shush him like you would as if you were accused of something embarrassing, your expression morphing into a deep frown, and his own lightening with humor but still twisting with something hidden, something you really hope is not satisfaction. His lopsided smile falls just the slightest when he sees you readjust your bag and start, almost, stomping away.

He lets you find distance, of course, he’s always been a shadow not a stable fly, but Touya once again resumes his lazy trailing, joyously humming now, the sound echoing in your ears much longer than it probably should as he falls into a careful step behind you just as he always does… until you eventually make it home.

At six weeks in, he finally drops you off at your house.

Normally Touya stops his trail about a block or two before you make it, today, however, by the time you’re on the stone steps leading up to your front door, he’s a mere ten feet from your side like a chivalrous date making sure you get home safe (or like someone intending to grab your hands when you’re opening the door and rush in after you, as if to mount you right there on the floor). Your knees wobble on the first step when he speaks, though he remains standing politely next to the fire hydrant by the curb, playing with an unlit cigarette in between his fingers.

“Got any roommates?”

You stop, keys dangling from your fingers as you refuse to turn back and look.

“Yeah,” you say, staring at the chopped firewood on your porch as you let the silence sprawl. You would’ve said the same even if you didn’t.

“Good. Smart cookie.”

Your stomach twists. Your face burns. He bounces on his heels. You can’t move.

“That bakery down the street,” he begins again, nodding his head when you peek at him, barely. “It got food?”

You squint, your stiff hands cold and tight, his in his pockets.

“Um.”

He waits.

“It’s got mice.”

Then he bursts into laughter, quickly quieting to suck his teeth and kick a foot forward like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. There’s a part of you that knows you need to stop indulging this man, for your own safety and sanity, but there’s another part that also doesn’t flip when you think of the possibility of dying. Instead of going inside, you kick your own feet out and ignore your trepidation.

“Why?”

“Wanna get dinner?”

He grins, and you hate the thought as soon as it arises, but it’s lovely; he has the smile lines of someone who has lived a happy life, and he looks so pretty you almost want to cry.

(Today he’s dressed in dark, stained jeans and dirty boots. His hair is still a white and black mess and his smile is boyish and toothy. It sends a current up your spine that makes you jerk when you turn back to face your front door.)

“Piss off.”

You shove your key in the lock to ignore the way he responds with a chuckle as his farewell, goofily waving when you manage to get the stupid thing to turn and yourself inside (which you notice only when you turn to slam the door closed and the curtain ripples).

But later, when you spare one more glance, the way one glances, out of the window of your living room as if to merely check the weather, Touya is smoking his cigarette on the street corner.

Campus Creep Caught Hanging Around.

Busted, but this time, not blue! The attacker who was dubbed the “campus creeper” by Mustafu University students was spotted once more about a mile away from the local school. A local cafe owner claims he saw the man being followed by another of a similar size, but is unsure if the two men are of a related circumstance or other.

He reports that the neighborhood has been in good spirits lately, so this comes as a shock. As we continue to find out more, the public will be updated—

Today your shadow is waiting for you at the end of the block. You spot him from out of the third story window of your classroom, feet sticking halfway off the curb and a lit cigarette between his lips that curls pretty, silver smoke into the golden blue light of the nighttime air.

“Hey, need a ride home?” one of your classmates asks beside you, the one that has your same name, shocking you out of your stupor as they tap the fingers of one hand against your table and swing their car keys around in the other.

You can barely tear your gaze away from the window to look at them; their flushed face, their short curls, tight and bouncing, and their awkward, half-assed attempt at generosity. You wonder if this is some kind of exercise they were told to practice in therapy.

“I heard about the campus stalker,” they continue without prompt. “Shihai and Kinoko are coming too, but you can squeeze in the middle, if you want.”

Their smile looks almost pitying.

“Uh,” you blink, a little stupefied, a little shy. “It’s alright, but thanks.”

They raise their eyebrows. “Isn’t your neighborhood a ways down by that cafe?”

“Yeah,” you nod, pausing to flick your eyes upward, “But I, uh...my friend is gonna walk me.”

You point toward the window, where your shadow, Dabi, Touya, whoever, has stopped smoking and is now bent over (teasing, most likely, with a gray-tinted shoelace) one of the mouser cats owned by the keepers of the small temple that sits snug at the back of your school.

You’re not exactly sure when he morphed into your friend. You don’t even think he has yet… but the words feel natural, eager, and easier than sliding onto leather seats in between two people who have never once looked your way with a nice expression and probably never will.

“Oh good!” same-name laughs, tipping their head back in a way that almost seems exaggerated. “I was scared someone might try to nab you. Not anymore, though.”

You’re not quite sure if they’re joking, but you try to smile and nod along anyway.

By the time he catches up to you that night, he’s half out of breath.

“There you are,” he says, grinning that stupid, wolf-like grin. “‘thought maybe you’d left out the back. Would’ve had to run to catch you.”

You frown, readjusting the weight of your bag on your shoulder like always, distracted as you multitask trying to make sure your water bottle hasn’t leaked as you run through a list of things to remember as well as double check that you haven’t forgotten anything inside.

“The north wing is halfway around campus,” you purposely avoid mentioning you took the long way to skip the corner where Touya usually stands. Instead of his face, you stare at the ground instead, by now resigned to the torture of waiting for your end… even if you’re secretly a tad disappointed he hadn’t brought the cat with him.

“So?” Touya doesn’t look perturbed when you finally face him, almost as if he was waiting for you, “’woulda caught up eventually.”

You make a note to add that to your list of things to remember, raising your eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask, and then before he can tease, “Why bother, I mean?” and you can tell he must think you’re joking by the way he doesn’t answer, instead responding by flattening his face–his eyes sinking back into the cozy crevices where they rest and the skin of his chin tightening with exasperation as dry as tinder.

You try not to be too perturbed by it, instead of pressing him for answers, simply turning to set back off as if that will stop the eye roll he’ll give you behind your back and change his mind about following you home. But, as always, or at least, as of more recently, Touya waits a mere five steps before starting right along behind you like the shadow his is.

“What do you want from me, Touya?”

You ask the question one day, finally, two and a half months in. Classes aren’t over yet, but the end of winter semester is fast approaching. The words seem to scratch at your throat, their destination apparent even if you find they’re hard to spit out and burn on their way out.

“What?” he asks, falling into a perky step beside you. He’s been that close everyday for the last two weeks now. And now, pressed up against you, near hopping like you’ve been friends for years, he doesn’t back away from the inquiry.

You’re tired. Sick of waiting. Sad that you let this whole thing last so long when you’ve been quite aware of your impending doom (not that you ever told anyone, not even your roommate) and have done little to try and stop it.

“You wanna kill me or something? Take me home so you can fuck me then run me over?”

Touya’s footsteps slow, and he halts (for the first time ever of his own volition) a little ways behind you. He’s not as tall as you initially thought him to be back when he kept his distance, but you’ve also since learned that his eyes are the prettiest cyan you’ve ever seen, and his scarred skin is soft and pink. Silver piercings adorn his cheeks like dimples, scars cutting the two different textures right in half.

“No,” he says, then half heartedly and calm, “you know I’ve done enough of that, already.”

You glance at him, pulling your head back in a half-horrified glare. But instead of the only half-serious expression you’re so used to seeing on him, however, you find a shit-eating smirk on his face that tells you he’d laugh if he weren’t so obviously trying to yank your chain by not doing so at all.

Still serious, he jumps at you though, eyes opening wide, hands outstretched and twitching like a monster in a cartoon out to grab you, and you hop back like he’s on fire. No sooner does his face fall that he glances at you as if waiting for some kind of reaction, positive review, happy Halloween (even though it’s ages before Halloween).

When you stay silent, the hands on your chest not falling, your expression still one of terror but to him quite bitter, he rolls his eyes so far up that only the white are showing.

“I’m joking,” he says, his baby ocean blues coming back down to settle right on you. “Obviously.”

You pause, standing still, trying to breathe, comprehend the, the, the predator that has been following you so closely for what you finally conclude has been months now.

All those torturous moments, since that first night of running, all amounted to something even he won’t name. A silent end, for someone as lonely and pathetic as you; it’d almost be fitting, except for the fact that there’s no specific reason for it to be you. You’re a nobody, friendless and unhappy, waiting for the day you finally graduate and can leave this shitty city behind. It’s not like it ever kept you safe.

“Then what?” you ask.

You feel resigned, defeated, undermined… yet he looks at you dumbly, as if you’re supposed to know something you clearly do not, and while you’d normally be embarrassed, you find you’re too worn down to care. Touya raises his brows sharply, the bruised-looking (but delicate) bags under his eyes shifting slightly with the tension of an annoyed frown as his voice strains to mock you. “What do you mean, ‘then what?’”

Your face goes slack, and you think you’d try to hit him if you knew that wouldn’t end up with you on the ground or sobbing alone at home. “Seriously, Touya? We both know you’re stalking me.”

He laughs dryly, one of the few times you’ve seen him so serious (the last time when he pointed out something dead on the pavement you had to stop him from trying to pray for. ‘I don’t even go to temple,’ he had said at the time, sounding so offended that you decided to drop the subject altogether and just let him go for the little dead bird he said he wanted to give to a friend). “I’m not.”

“You are. I know you are. You…”

“I can assure you, hon, if I were stalking you, you’d already be roadkill,” he twists one of his earrings, making a show of staring at the painted nails of his other hand, dark purple, before tsk-ing at you, sassy. “Not like you run from me, anyway.”’

You feel your stomach turn in embarrassment, in shame. You know he’s partly right, but you’re not about to admit that to the man who started it in the first place, who chased you home that whole first month, who, despite the familiarity you share now, still takes pleasure in your pain.

“Because, because no matter what I do, you won't quit chasing me. I’ve been running from you. ‘Cos you won’t leave. Me. Alone.”

Touya rolls his eyes, then sighs like you’re being a hassle. “If you really didn’t want me here I woulda left. I’m not stupid.”

“But I don’t want you here. I never did. You show up out of, of, fucking nowhere, acting like you know me—”

“I’m keeping you safe, lollipop,” he interrupts, though the words hardly register.

“Safe? As if it’s my fault you can’t leave me alone?”

You think of all the nights that had you near paralyzed with terror, from that first day onward, of rubbing your feet raw in your shoes, of wishing someone would come save you, of puzzling why you never ended up dead, to now. You never once thought, realized–

“Not your fault. His. The neighbor stalker.”

You can barely respond, your arms shaking at your sides, eyes watering with distress.

“But you, you’re…”

He smacks his lips with a yawn.

“Yeah, I beat him black and blue, maybe. But only cuz he was trailing you, I wouldn’t…” he shoves one hand in the pocket of his coat, waves the other dramatically in the air, “go after someone unless—”

“Touya?” you question, your throat rough, your swallows heavy and thick with a syrupy confusion.

“They did something real bad, like messed with a—“

“Dabi.”

He finally looks at you, the sheen in his eyes, for once, solemn, as if he harbors a genuine concern for your safety all brought on by your confusion.

“What?”

It’s a question he asks a lot, but this time, he seems to mean it.

“Dabi,” you repeat, “you mean… you’re not the campus creep? The one on the news?”

He gawks at you suddenly. The silence stretching, the night suddenly looming, the breeze even seeming to laugh. His disinterested expression begins to fade into a blank, unreadable nothingness… and then he howls. Hoots. Yells. His smile returning then, wide, blazing, hot.

He laughs like you’ve never seen anyone laugh before, guffawing joyously and jollily, slapping his hands against the ripped holes of his jeans as his chest heaves underneath today’s thin, white tee.

It’s almost contagious. Almost.

“And here I thought we were bonding.”

You prickle like a cat, digging your toes into the tips of your worn out shoes. “Stop it. I’m being serious.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he manages in between snickers, “you thought I was the creeper this whole time?”

“You’re not?”

“That guy?” Touya straightens up to wipe his eyes, and you finally notice the crow’s feet that crinkle around his eyes, “Hell no. You think I do this for fun? Wear fuckin’ ugly hats and shit to terrorize pretty students at the school my ass of a little brother attends?”

You say nothing. He starts laughing again, clapping his hands and keeling over. Even in jest, his voice still has that soft, raspy charm as he hoots at the ground.

“Dabi. Touya. Whoever you are,” you plead, the first time ever you think you’ve voluntarily gotten closer to him, grabbing the rough shoulder of his jacket and tugging. He stumbles, maybe more on purpose than because of your grip, closing the distance between you such that his chest is pressed against yours and his hands are on your hips. “Tell me the truth. What’s going on?”

He snorts, the only difference in sound now that it’s muffled by the closeness of your lips, but responds slowly nonetheless.

“I beat the snot,” he emphasizes, exposing teeth, “out of your stalker. And you didn’t even know he wasn’t me.”

“But…” you say, hesitating against him, your hands slipping from the stiff collar of his jacket to the front of his chest, confused. His eyes are as cold as ice but set you on fire when you meet his gaze. “You didn’t have to. I mean, I woulda been fine, right?”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced. “You tell me, when you’re the one still trying to walk your stupid ass home alone at night.”

You flush, cheeks heating the skin all the way down to your neck. Touya seems to have clocked you far better than you ever knew it yourself–that he was never the enemy, that you were trapped in a self pity so deep only he could drag you out of it before choking, that dying, being tortured, being stalked, was far from the punishment you needed to get that kind of smoke out of both your lungs and your head.

And, if anything, that you were lucky to have him.

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t care.” Touya steps back only to purposely step gently on your toes. When you glare at him, hand still stretched out to link the two of you together somehow, he only grins. “Buy me dinner to make up for it. Or kiss me sometime. With tongue. Either’s fine, cookie.”

It’s been six months. Summer is just about to begin, your roommate has already left on vacation, and the closer you get to the end of the season, the more you feel your worries begin to melt off of you like layers upon layers of frost on an icy window of a warm cabin.

The shadow still walks you home, but he no longer trails behind you, and you no longer call him a creep. You call him Touya–now your lamp, now your arrow–and sometimes Dabi (that is, when you feel like he’s not listening).

Though the sun now sets a whole hour later than it did during winter, excusing as much of a need for Touya’s presence in your routine, you have now welcomed him into it, (even if you spent the first couple months of your real relationship trying to make up for your initial confusion at his presence with bowls of soap and burnt bread from the cafe near your house.)

It is a Thursday when a wispy-haired classmate comes up to you on the steps that lead away from campus. She’s the one you knew vaguely from elementary school in your distant home town, and who made herself reacquainted by sneering at you once for eating a candy bar in class; she bared fangs at you like she herself had never been hungry, and then ignored you every time you saw her after (even during assigned group work, when you realized she wasn’t even that intelligent).

But, now, you know, Touya can sneer, too, and sneer for you in ways that light a fire in the hearth of your existence… and he does so, sharply, arrogantly, when she approaches underneath the fading light of the sun and slate blue sky. She looks almost scared, even more so of his smile, big, wide and scary—that is, until you interrupt the moment by calling out to her from behind his back.

“You ever heard about the campus creeper?” you ask, to which she nods anxiously, big, wet tears welling in her eyes as she hobbles right over to your side, Touya already barking into the warming night air as he begins to walk you both home.

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #touya x reader #oh m god. i want to do another read thru so bad but i am just going to press post.#please please heed warnings but enjoy #i promise it's not so scary #i love you #caitie fic #gen #caitie post #dabi

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