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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Downfall of a Dark Avenger Part 2: Shadows of Manhattan

Having finished reading Al Ewing’s El Sombra trilogy and having had enough time to digest it, I’d like to talk about the trajectory of it’s titular protagonist, the character and series’s relationship with it’s influences. Relating to The Shadow and Zorro and general pulp archetypes, and also the way it incorporates Astro Boy’s Pluto into the mix.

This part is focused on Gods of Manhattan and El Sombra’s first appearences in Pax Omega and the ways in which the urban vigilante manifests itself in the books.

In Gods of Manhattan, El Sombra takes a backseat to it’s central players, Doc Thunder and The Blood-Spider. I’ve mentioned how Thunder, while ostensibly a Doc Savage/Superman amalgam, also combines aspects that allow the character to condense the entire history of the superman into a single being, but to a character very much centered on the future and in progressive ideals, described in the book as someone considered both the city’s ultimate savior as well as viewed as "a faggot, a liberal and a miscegenationist”. In that regard, the Blood-Spider becomes his opposite. Perhaps the most comprehensive savaging of the dark detective/The Shadow ever put on paper, that has a larger point behind the questions and criticisms it brings up to what this kind of figure can be.

"You can hardly have a war on crime unless you are the one defining what a crime is. First rule of the war on crime: everyone is guilty or something"

Us am vigilantes! Am us not men? Us use violence to effect social change! Am us not men? Us bring terror to underclass, make streets safer for overclass! Am us not men? Am us not men?

Making them loved rather than feared. Having them fight crime, or the right kind of crime, at least. Created a persona designed to appeal to the worst in people, to bring the citizens of New York around to his cause, his war on crime, which would, of course, then become a war against ‘urban crime’. Or some other little euphemism. ‘Inhuman’, for example. Sounds a lot more relatable than subhuman, doesn’t it? Comes to the same thing, though.

Although The Blood-Spider is an evil take on The Shadow, most of his character traits are taken from characters that followed him. He’s got the moniker, savagery, fright tactics and branded murders of The Spider, he climbs buildings and has a civilian identity akin to Spider-Man’s, with constant name references to characters like Stacey, Jonah and a redhead named Mary Watson, with him sharing a name with Peter Parker as well as Batman villain Jonathan Crane, he’s got Rorschach monologues that are echoed by his associates past his demise in white supremacist organizations dedicated to carrying off Spider’s legacy, predating HBO Watchmen’s take on Rorschach legacy. If Doc Thunder is all about taking the superhero’s past to create a better future with it, Blood-Spider takes the future of the urban vigilante and uses it as a conduit to enact a barbaric and reactionary agenda in service of undoing everything Thunder stands for, even before he’s revealed to be a Nazi agent.

Blood-Spider is what happens when the absolute worst aspects of said characters are brought to the forefront and twisted by a dose of reality. He’s to The Shadow what Plutonian is to Superman, the most sour way said character and legend can be twisted into something horrendous. He’s the Doutrinador in a fedora, everything I vehemently argue that The Shadow wasn’t, and yet seems sadly ever closer to as more and more comics dehumanize the character. He’s Howard Chaykin’s Shadow, naked and raw and exposed for what it ultimately is. An insult and a wake-up call, if a necessary one.

In fact, said poisoning of a legend is explicitly a plot point in the book, because the book establishes that, before The Blood-Spider, the city’s main vigilante used to be a man by the name of Blue Ghost, friend of Doc Thunder and, although a mysterious public figure, still firmly on the side of good. Unfortunately, moral victories aside, “good” alone doesn’t cut it in the world of El Sombra.

You took a look at the Blue Ghost - mysterious masked avenger, operatives all over the place, big fan-following with the working classes, and you figured...we need one of those. Just take away the Japanese orphan kid and replace him with a foxy Aryan chick.

Blue Ghost is almost a textbook Spirit analogue, even defined as being beat up a lot as his main asset, except here, he’s placed as Doc’s counterpart that died before the story began and is now replaced by a darker and more horrendous counterpart, and because The Spirit was influenced by The Shadow, it opens a roundabout connection. You can read this as a comparison between the shift from Adam West’s Batman to Frank Miller’s Batman, or a comparison between The Shadow and earlier more straightforward pulp vigilantes like Jimmie Dale, or a comparison between the pulp/radio Shadow and later iterations of him or analogues to his archetype that upped the nastier aspects. Again, nothing in El Sombra is ever quite just one thing.

And at last we come to El Sombra, who spends much of the book caught in between the duels of Doc, Untergang and players in between. And it’s interesting that here, while El Sombra’s final victories over the story’s major conflict lie in his willingness to team up with Doc, despite knowing of his origins as a Nazi weapon, his victories over Blood-Spider instead come from turning tricks of The Shadow against him. First, when he discovers Spider’s true nature, spying on him by pulling a Fritz the Janitor. And then in the finale, when he schools Spider on what a real shadowy avenger looks like.

"Amigo...that's my sword"

The voice came from the darkness above them, where the gaslight did not reach. The Spider's blood ran cold for a long moment, and then he grabbed hold of his other gun, tearing it from its holster and raising it to fire a volley of bullets into the darkness. "Where are you? Show yourself!" he hissed, turning in place, the gun raised to fire at the slightest sound or movement.

"You're not the only one who can hide in the shadows, my friend. I've got very good at it, over the years."

"Show yourself!" Another volley of shots, with no result. Was he throwing his voice? Was he everywhere at once? Was he a shadow himself? A ghost?

The voice echoed from another place now, continuing his speech exactly where he had left off. And still that mocking voice echoed from the shadows above.

"See, I didn't know if you were a good guy or a bad guy. I mean, sure, you killed people, and you were kind of a dick about it, you know? But I didn't know if you were one of the bastards. I didn't know if you needed to die or not, amigo."

The gun clicked empty. He was out of bullets. He turned again, and there was the man in the red mask. Just standing there, in the middle of the concourse. His smile didn't look human. And his eyes. Oh, his terrible eyes...

"Stay back." The Spider whispered, and his voice sounded in his ears like a frightened, animal thing, waiting to curl up and die in its hole.

The man in the red mask only laughed. A rich, deep, joyous laugh, a laugh that echoed and filled the whole station, bouncing from pillar to pillar, careening through the great vaulted arches. Such a laugh!

Then the laughter stopped, and he fixed the Blood-Spider with a look that would freeze the fires of Hell.

And suddenly - quite suddenly - there was no Blood-Spider. There was only Parker Crane, the Nazi. Parker Crane, the traitor. Who thought he could destroy America, and only managed to destroy himself. Parker Crane. Just a man wearing a mask. He ran, and left the sword behind him.

"Nice trick," Doc murmured, turning to the masked man. "Throwing your sword from up on the balcony - good aim, by the way - then throwing your voice and a little mental suggestion to make him think you were up in the arches where he'd been. Where did you learn that?"

The masked man shrugged, lifting up his weapon. "In the desert. You can learn a lot in the desert, if you put your mind to it."

By the story’s end, once Lars Lomax, Thunder’s arch-enemy and Lex Luthor, takes center stage as it’s ultimate threat, Parker Crane is left a traumatized, broken shell unable to even move, utterly stripped of any mystique or power that his mask and guns may have brought him. And in the end, El Sombra finds him, neutralized and no longer a threat to anyone. And he makes his choice.

El Sombra knew what it was to hate, to hate so hard and so long that you knew nothing else, to hate so strongly that it crossed that line into something beyond reason.

He lifted his sword, resting the blade in his palm for a moment, considering. Crane only stared, weeping and making his soft, mad noises. El Sombra sighed, shaking his head. "You know, I don't know if I can kill a guy who's already dead. Even if he is one of the bastards."

"Don't let him in here." Murmured Crane, his eyes wide.

"Shhh, I won't let him in," smiled El Sombra in response, trying to be reassuring. "You'll never have to face him again. I promise. It's okay, amigo. It's okay."

It was strange. He knew he should feel hate for Parker Crane. It was Djego's job to bear things like pity and doubt, to feel sorrow and shame. That was Djego's role in their team of one. El Sombra was there to take never-ending revenge and to laugh and to never look back. But to know that his murder of Heinrich Donner - his righteous kill - had resulted in so much harm coming to so many... and now to see the leader of Undergang, the man he'd come to New York to kill, just an empty, broken madman, a shell of a person... El Sombra wondered if he was changing.

"Don't," whispered Crane, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Don't let him back in."

El Sombra smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, amigo. I'm going to go and make sure nobody ever needs to see him again. And I couldn't have done it without you." He squeezed lightly. "You didn't mean to, but you did some good. Remember that."

Then, gently, he pushed the tip of the sword through the front of Crane's skull and into his brain.

He was not incapable of pity. But he was who he was, and he did what he did.

And broken or not, the bastards had to die.

We’ve seen El Sombra struggle and be faced with choices, choices between Djego and El Sombra, choices between kindness and violence, between peace and conflict. We’ve seen the conflict in his soul between things that he knows are right, because Djego is a good man with a good soul who wants good things for himself and others, and things he knows he must do, because he is El Sombra and El Sombra was created to kill the bastards that brought his world to ruin and therefore it’s what he must always do. And in the end, El Sombra is simply stronger. He has to be. But strength and violence and hatred can only get one so far.

Gods of Manhattan is the trilogy’s moral compass, the book that most clearly defines the morality the series operates on. And in between the spectrums of justice embodied by Doc and Crane’s approach, between the two urban avengers in The Blue Ghost and Blood-Spider, El Sombra made his choice. And it’s the first choice that dooms him.

Enter Pax Omega, and we learn that, 4 years since the previous book's events, El Sombra joined a squad of agents called Yankee Bravo Seven, who work for an organization named STEAM, who enact missions against Nazis to turn the tides of war. He is joined by several other types of characters, including The Blood Widow, Crane’s former assistant Marlene Lang now having taken up the moniker (just as Nita van Sloan did for The Spider, even with the “Widow” prefix). We see that El Sombra has joined a team of bantering heroes and even formed a friendly rivalry with a man named Savate, modeled after Batroc the Leaper.

But we see that the hunger for vengeance still burns, still burns beyond reason, restless because it’s been 4 years and the war still isn’t over and Hitler still isn’t dead by his sword. And it’s that restlessness that again dooms him, when he once again makes the wrong choice and betrays leader Jack Scorpio, Scorpio who had personally brought him on board and gave him the best shot he ever had at getting to Hitler.

El Sombra frowned. "We need to make our move now."

Scorpio shook his head. "Not yet."

"What?" El Sombra looked incredulous.

"Wait for my signal, I said! Damn it, I need you to trust me!" Jack Scorpio reached up to brush the back of his finger across his forehead, and realised he was sweating.

Through his special glasses, El Sombra's aura was glowing an angry, pulsing red, like a throbbing vein. "Just...trust me. I'm asking you to hold back for just five minutes. There's more going on here than you know."

El Sombra just stared at him, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a cold snarl.

"Trust me. That's all I ask." Jack Scorpio looked into the blazing eyes behind the bloodstained mask, and spoke softly, soothingly, almost desperately. "Can you just hold back for one minute?"

The eyes behind the mask narrowed.

"Can you?"

PERSONNEL FILE: DJEGO "EL SOMBRA". TO EYES ONLY: THIS INDIVIDUAL IS HIGHLY DANGEROUS. IT IS STRONGLY RECOMMENDED HE NOT BE INCLUDED IN ANY OPERATIONS CLASSIFIED ABOVE TOP SECRET OR HIGHER. (I'll take the risk - J.S)

El Sombra spat in Scorpio's face.

"Chinga tu madre."

Then he drew his sword and leaped down into the fray.

After the mission is over, with the base destroyed and a major victory secured, although with Jack Scorpio having been killed, the team disbands. El Sombra continues to wander the forests near the Luftwaffe base for about two weeks, killing as many Nazis as he can, until an explosion blast hits near him, knocking away his mask and portions of his leg and arm, and rendering him unconscious for 8 months. By the time he wakes up, the war has ended, and so has El Sombra for the past 7 years.

Djego was afforded the best of medical care at the hospital in Venice. El Sombra was nowhere to be found.

His mask had been torn off in the explosion, along with some of the meat of his leg and arm. He walked stiffly, now, with a pronounced limp, and his left arm was all but useless, hanging limply at his side. The Wildcat crew had salvaged his sword, but Djego had little interest in using it.

Gradually, he regained his mobility. The back of his head itched constantly, and he suffered from horrendous mood swings, when he would rage against the Fuhrer and the bastards, or weep helplessly, like a child. But gradually, he found his personality stabilising in the gentle, antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital. He found that Djego - so long despised as a weakling, a coward and a fool - was capable of a kind of gentle, melancholic wit that made him popular.

Djego healed and grew, and the itch in the back of his skull began to subside, as El Sombra relinquished his grip.

Djego felt his heart seize in his chest. The cloth was missing a scrap at the end, and there was mud ground into the fabric along with the old bloodstains; but it had two evenly-spaced holes in it, and was unmistakably a mask. It seemed to be looking at him.

He takes up gardening and establishes himself in the city of Brandenberg, he becomes a fixture of the city and a friend of it, he enters a relationship, and El Sombra never appears again.

Until a mysterious stranger named Leonard Lorraine, walks through his door one day, saying he’s got a mission to fulfill, and hands him his mask. And, once again, El Sombra is simply stronger, and he makes the wrong choice again.

Djego shook his head and tried to step back from it, but his legs wouldn't move.

"No," he whispered. "No. Please"

"I was happy," pleaded Djego. "Doesn't that matter to you?" He picked up the cloth in trembling fingers, looking into the empty eyeholds. "Doesn't that mean anything?"

There was no answer. The patrons of the bierkeller did not even notice anything was happening.

"I was happy," Djego choked, and then, in one spasmodic motion, he pulled the mask onto his face, and secured it tightly, so that the knot once again rested in the back of his head, where it belonged: so tightly that it might never come off again.

El Sombra looked at his hands.

He prodded his belly, amused at the rounded shape of it, and took a couple of steps back from the bar. The limp was gone.

He laughed, very softly, so as not to disturb the patrons.

Djego and Lorraine walk through the desolate streets of Berlin, which in the years since has completely sealed itself from the outside world through an impossibly thick dome, and Djego discovers the city completely bereft of life, with only a few lobotomized robotic citizens aimlessly wandering and chewing on the mountains of corpses in the city, as their Nazi ideology reached it’s inevitable outcome of total annihilation of any and all that the party could find an excuse to slaughter in the name of purity, which eventually included it’s few remaining members. In this world, Hitler has been a brain inside a robotic contraption ever since 1945, and it’s amidst this scenario that El Sombra, while thinking about how his final confrontation with Hitler would play out, eventually finds what’s left of Hitler.

All around them, there were the sounds of machinery, but the Mecha-Fuhrer was completely silent, utterly motionless. In the centre of its chest rested a tank of toxic green fluid, and on the surface of the fluid, a human brain floated, like the corpse of a goldfish.

It was quite dead.

El Sombra stared at the Fuhrer for a long moment. Eventually, he spoke, and his voice was cracked and raw, and choked with rage. "Is...is this a joke?"

De Lareine smiled his terrible smile. "The Fuhrer's body needed a great deal of maintenance and repair, you know. After two years, one of the processes delivering oxygen to his brain failed...and there was nobody left to repair it. He died, slowly." There would have been some pain, at the end".

El Sombra slammed his fist into the great iron throne on which the massive body sat, shattering his knuckles and tearing the skin from them. He didn't seem to notice. "Some pain," he choked, through gritted teeth."

El Sombra was still staring into the empty, dead eyes of the Fuhrer.

El Sombra again chooses poorly. It’s this moment, above all else, that truly damns him to his fate, as we come to see what is it exactly that a persona created for the purpose of vengeance has, when said vengeance is robbed from it. Like Parker Crane, his persona crumbles completely to expose the petty, ugly little feelings that drove it to such grandstanding antics in the first place, and the allmighty El Sombra is exposed for the all-too human failings that damned him once and for all.

"This isn't right," he said, eventually, in a strangled voice. "How...how can it end like this?"

"Why shouldn't it?" De Lareine shrugged. "Here's a thought. Maybe, despite his twenty-year tantrum and all his dressing up, spoilt little Djego is not the centre of the universe -"

El Sombra turned, face red, tears streaming from his eyes, and charged at De Lareine, slashing his sword. El Sombra crashed down onto the floor, into the soot scattered about, as De Lareine walked around him.

"Did you really believe Adolf Hitler would wait around for your sword? Did you not imagine that it might be better for him to seal himself off in a hole to die, instead of murdering and enslaving continents until you finally got around to him? Did you think you were the hero of your own little story, El Sombra, with your mask and your laugh and your-"

"Shut up!" El Sombra cried out, scrambling to his feet, the sword shaking in his hand, tears and snot running down his face. "He was mine! He was mine to kill!" He lifted the sword, the tip trembling. "Bring him back," he screamed, "do you hear me? Bring him back to life!"

De Lareine had to laugh at that.

And in the end, El Sombra is crushed, spiritually and physically as his spine is shattered by Lareine, who begins to experiment on him as he lays dying, ready to fulfill fate’s greater purpose for El Sombra. Ready to become not just the perfect machine Pasito’s conquerors intended, but a superior design. Ready to abandon his former life, ready to abandon everything that defined him, ready to shed any and all traces of Zorro and Shadow and pulp hero in his system, because the age of pulp heroes and superheroes has passed.

The metal man emerged from his hole, dragging the corpse of the Fuhrer behind him.

The brain in the metal man's chest would, perhaps, live for thousands of years. He wondered how he would spend the time.

He remembered little of his former life; he had been a man named El Sombra, or perhaps Djego. He had been stupid - he realised that now - but that was something he would never be again.

Apart from that, there was only a succession of faces, the memory of laughter and of a final, awful betrayal that had destroyed him. But there was also the sense that a great and terrible mission had ended at last, and it was time for a new life to begin.

The metal man took a last look back at the great dome of Fortress Berlin. Somewhere in there, the Leopard Man was hunting, freed from his own mission. And in the Fuhrer's old office, the empty, lifeless clay of El Sombra - or was it Djego? - lay, discarded, like a butterfly's cocoon.

The metal man thought on this, as the Fuhrer rusted at his feet and the tanks began to approach from over the hills ahead.

He would need a new name.

It’s now the age of Pluto.

#replies tag #pulp heroes #al ewing #el sombra #pluto

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sachigram · 5 years

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Hearts like Ours chapter 9

((click here to read on ao3!!!!))

Izaya has a list of odd habits Shizuo is starting to notice. It's impossible not to, since Shizuo insists on being in Izaya's space more often than not, but Izaya seems to take people knowing him so personally, like it's something foul and rude. Shizuo wonders a lot why Izaya is the way he is. That, at least, is something from high school that hasn't changed between them.

Izaya cares a lot about his appearance. It's funny, actually, that someone who belittles others for such flippant things probably cares more than anyone else. Izaya has a skincare routine that has at least ten steps. Shizuo never remembers to count them all, but Izaya's skin always smells like different things. Izaya also seems to have an obsession with his nails. He always mentions getting a manicure, but Shizuo doesn't really notice a difference in Izaya's nails. He just notices Izaya picking at them a lot.

“Don't you have a scale?” Izaya asks the day after Shizuo forcefully held him all night to make him sleep.

“No,” Shizuo says.

Izaya gives him an incredulous look, and then disappears into Shizuo's bathroom for a long time. He comes out looking perfect as always, but he looks unhappy about something. Shizuo knows better than to ask, since Izaya seems to just like to blurt out things on his own terms. Shizuo is in the middle of brushing his teeth when Izaya finally voices his thoughts.

“Your place is so basic. You don't have anything to groom yourself! Not even tweezers. How does someone like you even keep up with bleaching his hair?”

“It's easy. Roots show, go to the salon. It's not hard,” Shizuo says after he spits into the sink.

“But what salon do you go to? How do you afford it? It's not cheap. And you don't make jack shit, I already know how much you make,” Izaya says flippantly.

“Wha— Shitty flea! Don't snoop into my stuff!” Shizuo growls in vain. He knows Izaya already knows most of what there is to know about him.

Izaya hums and crosses his arms while he looks up at Shizuo inquisitively. Always thinking, that's two words Shizuo would use to best describe Izaya.

“Why don't I take you to my salon?” Izaya finally asks. There's a gleam in his eye Shizuo doesn't trust. Old habits die hard.

“No.”

Izaya pouts. “Oh come on. You aren't doing anything better, and you're going to follow me even if I go, right? So you might as well agree with me now.”

“Why do you care how I look?” Shizuo asks. Izaya rolls his eyes.

“I don't. It'll be fun just to watch you try to fit in with the other patrons. Also, it might be good for you to learn some proper grooming habits, lest your beastly facial hair consume your entire body.”

Shizuo rubs a quick inconspicuous hand over his chin to make sure he doesn't have stubble growing in. He doesn't. Izaya is grinning at him smugly when Shizuo returns to glaring at him.

“Don't you have something better to do today than to give me a makeover?” Shizuo huffs.

“Nope! I'm all yours for the day, Shizu-chan, isn't that exciting?”

“It's annoying. You're annoying.”

“And yet, you insist on being around me anyway. Perhaps you're a masochist. It would explain a few things.” Izaya turns on his heel and goes to grab his coat.

“Maybe I'll just stay here,” Shizuo says, but Izaya is already going out the door.

“That's fine. I've got no problems going alone. See ya!”

Shizuo waits a full ten seconds before following after him.

“Goddammit,” he mutters as he locks the door behind him.

***

The place Izaya drags him to is swanky and reminds Shizuo of the embodiment of a higher tax bracket. It's filled with women, some in chairs getting their hair done, others on the opposite side, getting their nails or toes done. The smell of acetone, bleach, and shellac burns at Shizuo's nostrils, but he has to admit, this is definitely nicer than the little hole in the wall he usually frequents every few months for touch-ups.

“Izaya-san!” A woman with wild red hair motions them over. Shizuo follows behind Izaya, who greets the woman like an old friend.

“Jeni, how are you?” Izaya asks, taking her hands in his and smiling in a way that makes Shizuo want to walk quickly in the opposite direction. He rarely sees Izaya being genuinely nice to people. It's weird.

“I've been great! Business is booming, as you can see.” Her curious eyes land on Shizuo. “You brought a friend?”

“More like a rescue,” Izaya says. “He doesn't even have tweezers, Jen.” Izaya takes his hands back and motion to Shizuo, then makes a face that the woman laughs at. “I'm hoping to shower him in my wisdom and have him actually retain at least a third of it. He's very stupid, you see.”

“I-za-yaaaaaa...” Shizuo growls menacingly.

“Well, this is something else!” Jeni laughs and then smiles warmly at Shizuo. “I don't see the great Orihara Izaya in forever, and when I do see him again, he actually brings in someone else.”

“Oh, make no mistake. I'll be getting my nails done while I'm here,” Izaya assures her. “Only if you're free, though. I don't want anyone else touching me.”

“Of course,” Jeni says flippantly. “I know how peculiar you are.”

They end up waiting a while. Izaya didn't call to make an appointment, and the salon is really very busy. Shizuo sits beside Izaya in cushy chairs, frowning as Izaya opens a fashion magazine. Izaya crosses his legs and seems completely content, and Shizuo has only sat for about five minutes before he can't stand it anymore.

“Oi.”

Izaya glances at him, closes the magazine, and offers his attention with only a hint of underlying smarmy asshole lurking beneath. It still makes Shizuo's teeth clench from reflex, and he's having to pry them apart before he slips and gives Izaya what he wants, which is clearly Shizuo's aggression.

“Why the fuck are you doing this?” Shizuo asks.

“I've never been thanked in such a roundabout fashion before, but I'm still happy to receive your praise, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says.

“I'm not thanking you. I don't see why we're even here. If you wanna do this namby-pamby shit, that's fine, but maybe just do it to yourself.”

“The fact you consider basic grooming as 'namby-pamby' is exactly what's wrong with the patriarchy. This is a lesson in hygiene and masculinity.” Izaya hums, and then smirks in that way of his. “Besides, you're too high-strung. I don't even know what an amoeba like you has to worry about, but I get tired of hearing you think. I can practically smell the fumes from your brain short-circuiting.”

“Yeah? And who do I have to blame for that, huh? Oh, let's see, the same guy who's been a pain in my ass since the second I met him?” Shizuo barks.

“Yes, but I don't even have an ulterior motive here. I'm not bothering you. If you want to leave, leave. The door is there, and honestly these ladies would probably be happy to not bleach your hair today. It takes a while, you know? But I am staying. I need some r&r.”

Shizuo chews his cheek, tastes blood, and then huffs. He watches with irritation as Izaya opens the magazine back up, and then in a last ditch effort to annoy him, Shizuo takes the magazine and throws it as far as he can across the salon.

“You know what I hate?” Shizuo asks when Izaya glares at him.

“Is it me? Please say it's me.”

“I hate the way you do things. How hard is it to say 'hey you've been stressed so I am taking you out today'? Is it that hard for you to admit when you're doing nice things for other people? It's like you coat every action in bullshit and then expect everyone to get it.”

“I don't know what you mean, as usual. You're here because you refuse to leave me alone. I'm here because I want to be. Thinking I'm doing any of this for you is incorrect, but if you want to see it that way, I can't stop you.” Izaya glances wistfully at his nails. “I really do just want to be pampered by beautiful ladies. Surely you can relate.”

Shizuo can't, actually. The woman who usually bleaches his hair could probably give Simon a run for his money as far as muscles go, and she wrenches at Shizuo's hair with a Godzilla grip so tight it's a miracle he has hair left to bleach. Sometimes Shizuo considers going back to his natural hair color, but he doesn't want to get confused for Kasuka. People only ever say he looks like Kasuka after getting close to him, but from a distance, with his golden hair, it's easier to differentiate.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Shizuo says. “Thanks anyway.”

Izaya blinks, and then the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “You're welcome.”

Izaya is called first, and he chats it up with Jeni, who seems so immersed in her work it's a wonder she can carry a conversation. Shizuo is collected by another pretty woman, who comes to escort him to her chair, and wants to know how Shizuo usually gets his hair done.

Shizuo doesn't have any answers other than the obvious one, and the girl's smile remains a patient one, and she's more than happy to take the reigns. Izaya wanders over a little while later, and takes a seat on the arm of Shizuo's chair.

“You look like one of those conspiracy theorists who wrap their head in foil to stop the aliens from reading their thoughts.”

“Yeah, this is taking forever,” Shizuo says.

“It's supposed to.”

“I do this all the time. Swear it's taking longer than usual.”

Izaya rolls his eyes, and then lifts his hand to take a piece of Shizuo's foiled hair between his fingers.

“It's being done right. Learn some patience, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo considers this, and also considers his life at this point, which is definitely more bizarre than he ever could've imagined. He's in a beauty salon with Izaya Orihara, and they're behaving like old friends rather than two people who have tried to kill each other more than once.

He wants to voice these things and talk them out, but it's pointless. He can't articulate, and even if he could, Izaya is a human blender who mixes up the words and jumbles them into something else so it's insulting even when it wasn't originally. Izaya isn't ready to hear things that Shizuo wants to say. Still, Shizuo wants to say them.

“How do you know that chick anyway?” Shizuo asks, his eyes on Jeni.

“She works at the strip club Shiki frequents. She came to me for a job once.”

“What kind of job?”

“Ah, ah, Shizu-chan, what have I said about asking me about work? Don't. I'll never say anything you like.”

Shizuo wants to see Izaya's face but can't, mainly because Izaya is perched at his side and looking away, but also because Izaya rarely looks right at him anymore.

“Sorry, Orihara-san, but we have to rinse the bleach out now!” The peppy girl appears at Shizuo's other side and whisks him away to the sink, but Izaya is still perched on the chair arm when Shizuo comes back, though he's looking at his phone. He looks up at Shizuo finally and nods.

“Much better. Your roots were really bothering me.”

“Yeah, no shit. You only mentioned them all the time.”

“It had to be mentioned. Otherwise you would've kept thinking you looked fine, which you didn't.” Izaya goes with the girl and Jeni to pay the bill, which Shizuo doesn't even want to look at. Sometimes he feels bad about how little money he makes, but then he remembers it's not from lack of trying, and Izaya is the one who kept getting him fired, so then he just usually ends up angry about it.

“Your nails look the same,” Shizuo says bitingly when Izaya returns. Sometimes, most of the time, Shizuo can't help needling at Izaya, because he still thinks Izaya deserves it.

“You're lying,” Izaya says, clearly unconcerned. “If you're going to insult me, you should mean it.”

“I do mean it!”

“Please, Shizu-chan. You can't lie to me, and trying is pointless.” Izaya has his phone out again. “Shinra is adamant, and I'm tired of dealing with him. Don't you have your phone? He's trying to talk to you through me, and it's insulting.”

“Oh, no, I left it. Not working today, and you're here, so I don't need it.” Shizuo wishes now he'd sat still to have his hair dried, because it's cold and windy, but he's also just so happy to be out of that salon. Fair trade, he decides.

“How pathetically simple.”

“What does he want now?” Shizuo asks.

“Our presence. He's having a New Year's gathering.”

“I hate gatherings.”

“We can agree on that. Also, I'm not a fan of anything relating to the new year, though I do love watching people get so worked up about it. There's a certain thrill in the air when people convince themselves they can change everything in their lives in one night.”

Izaya has that manic gleam, and Shizuo tries not to be bothered by it.

“It's not even Christmas yet,” Shizuo says.

“It's almost Christmas, and Shinra always gets up in arms about the holidays. He uses them as an excuse to be even more obnoxious.” Izaya tucks his phone away.

“Do you celebrate the holidays?” Shizuo asks, feeling stupid because he's sure Izaya will be a condescending prick about it. Shizuo loves the holidays. Or at least, he loves what they represent.

“Not usually. My sisters sometimes invite themselves over, but we don't have a tradition. I suppose you do?”

“Kasuka is always busy, and I find reasons not to go to Shinra's. But yeah, I like Christmas. And New Year's. It's fun to do different shit.”

“Shinra would probably shit himself if we showed up to his gathering then. I never go either.” Izaya pauses. “I haven't been invited the last couple years, actually. But that's understandable.”

Shizuo can tell from Izaya's tone that Izaya doesn't find it understandable in the least, but surely some part of Izaya does understand just how intolerable he was for a while there. Shizuo understand how intolerable he was, so consumed by hatred. He and Izaya certainly used to bring out the worst in each other.

“So, let's go together,” Shizuo says. Izaya looks up at him like his head is on fire.

“Why, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, a grin forming on his face, “are you asking me out?”

Shizuo frowns. He shrugs. “Sure. Yeah, I am. Let's go.”

“In that case, it's a definite no,” Izaya says, going back to walking. Shizuo growls and wraps a hand in Izaya's hood, pulling him back forcefully. Izaya glares hatefully up at him, his hand in his pocket, probably holding a knife handle.

“What's wrong, flea? Scared of a crowd?” Shizuo baits. He can see Izaya not wanting to rise to it, but Izaya's eyes darken at the challenge.

“Of course not. But going with you—“

“So then we're going. Or I'll drag you there myself.”

Izaya's eyes narrow further, and then he huffs, looking away. He kicks his legs out, and it's only then that Shizuo notices he's lifted Izaya off the ground a bit. Izaya really does weigh nothing.

“You're the worst. I hate you.” Izaya straightens as his feet land safely on the ground, and then he turns his back on Shizuo again, resuming his walk. Shizuo follows, of course, noting that Izaya never said it wasn't a real date they're going on.

***

Christmas comes and goes. Neither of them acknowledge it. Shizuo meets up with Celty in the park to exchange gifts, but otherwise life remains the same. Izaya gets himself some swanky hotel room and Shizuo is given the privilege of having his own key, though Izaya maintains it's only because Shizuo would break down the door otherwise.

He's sitting on a bench with Celty, smoking a cigarette as she fawns over her alien stuffed toy Shizuo gifted her with. Finally she turns to him, her PDA already lifted.

How are things with Izaya?

Shizuo blows out some smoke. “Fine.”

Her helmet turns to the side. Define “fine”.

“We don't fight as much. But we sill fight a lot.” Shizuo shrugs. “I don't think we'll ever really not fight. But he's not so bad.”

Celty's shoulders shake with silent laughter. Wow. I never thought I'd see this day. You and Izaya. Who would've thought?

Shizuo smiles. “I used to think if I'd given him the time of day back in school, things would've been different. If maybe we'd have been friends. He was always around people though, and it pissed me off because I thought I couldn't be. And now I see he was around them, but he wasn't part of them. Izaya has no idea how to be with anyone. I think we could've helped each other there.” Shizuo takes another puff of his cigarette. “But maybe I'm overthinking it. Things probably wouldn't have changed much.”

Celty takes a moment to respond. You've grown so patient. It's wonderful to see, Shizuo. I'm glad you and Izaya have worked things out. You've even made him more tolerable. I'm happy for you.

Shizuo laughs. “He isn't more tolerable. He's the worst guy I know. Don't put those expectations on me.”

The next message on Celty's PDA has him choking on smoke.

Do you love Izaya?

He coughs, accidentally crushing his cigarette and splintering some of the wood of the bench in the process. He looks at Celty with watering eyes. “Celty—what the fuck, don't ask me that!”

It's funny that even without a head, he can see her expression perfectly. She's pouting at him, it's clear to see.

I think it's okay you love him. I was worried about you for a while. But then Shinra said you two were the only ones who could handle each other, and I thought about how right that sounds.

Shizuo grinds his teeth together. “I never said I love him!”

But you do.

Shizuo stands and brushes the ashes off his pants, hating where this conversation has gone. This isn't how any conversation should go.

“I'll see you later. Gotta get back to work.”

Her hand catches his wrist.

Are you coming over New Year's Eve? It would mean a lot to Shinra and me!

“Yeah,” he says.

Is Izaya?

He chews at his cheek. “Yes.”

She lets him go, looking entirely smug, and never has Shizuo so badly wanted to throw a bench in his life. He hurries away and tries not to think about what she said.

He fails miserably.

By the time New Year's Eve rolls around, Shizuo feels anxious in a way he never has before. He's never had to worry about things like this. No one has ever wanted to date or be around him. He has an awful reputation, which he built himself to keep people away, but somehow he still ended up in this position with Izaya, who is very vocal about not wanting to be around Shizuo either.

But Izaya is the only person who really ever stayed.

“This is so stupid,” Izaya says for probably the tenth time in an hour. “Why did you agree to this? Why did you insist I go? I already suffered one gathering with these people.”

“You were gone a long time,” Shizuo says, pulling on one of the sweaters he brought to Izaya's hotel room. Izaya's apartment will be ready in the morning actually, but Shizuo has already gotten used to this huge hotel. Still, the TV can't compare to Izaya's. Neither can the couch.

“It's not like I was missed,” Izaya says. “They only want me to come because they know you won't go without me.”

It's actually funny how mad Izaya is getting about this. He somehow seems more pissed than he was that night they tried to kill each other. Izaya is huffy and keeps throwing stuff around. His shirt is short sleeved because Izaya hasn't been able to find anything else to wear yet, and Shizuo is getting an eyeful of the mark on his arm.

“What are you looking at so smugly?” Izaya snaps, looking from Shizuo to his own soulmate mark. “You've seen it before. Stop looking at it like it means something!”

“You're so mad. Just pick a sweater. They're all overpriced and swanky, what does it matter which one you pick?”

“Appearances are everything in my line of work,” Izaya huffs.

“You aren't working. You're going to a party.” Shizuo crosses his arms and grins at Izaya, who scowls at him.

“I'm always working!” Izaya snaps. He finally picks a soft black sweater and pulls it on. The static dishevels his hair, and his expression is still sour.

“Cute,” Shizuo says without thinking. Izaya pauses and looks up at him, some of the anger replaced with surprise. Then he scowls again.

“Don't look so smug, you stupid beast,” he says, but his cheeks are tinted pink. Shizuo's stomach tightens, and then feels weightless somehow.

“Are you almost ready? It's been an hour of you throwing around your clothes.”

Izaya throws a pair of socks at his head in answer.

By the time they arrive at Shinra's it's after dark and freezing outside. It's already snowed a bit the last week, but the clouds are ominous overhead, promising a snowstorm soon. Shizuo loves the snow, but he doesn't want to get stuck at Shinra's. They'll have to keep an eye on the weather outside.

“You guys made it!” Shinra shouts, hurrying to them. He lunges at Izaya, capturing him in a nonnegotiable hug, which Izaya looks mortified over. Shinra releases him and turns to Shizuo.

“Don't even try,” Shizuo says, holding his hand in front of himself. Shinra laughs in that stupid way of his.

“Come on guys, it's an exciting holiday! Live a little.”

“You're more annoying than usual. Have you been drinking all day?” Izaya asks.

“I've had a bit! It's a holiday!” Shinra reiterates.

“On that note, I'll be going to where the alcohol is,” Izaya says, leaving Shizuo's side. Shizuo frowns after him.

“Remember last time!” he calls. Izaya waves him off.

“Well,” Shinra says, “if there's ever a time to drink too much, it's a holiday.”

“If you say the word 'holiday' one more goddamn time, I'm throwing you out the window.”

Thankfully, Celty comes over and saves him from a drunk Shinra, who goes back to his usual mode of clinging to Celty, barely caring at all when she shoves her fist at him.

Don't mind him. He's been cut off until further notice from drinking.

“Probably best for everyone here,” Shizuo says. Celty nods sagely while Shinra wails, somehow knowing what her screen said without even reading it.

There are a bunch of people in the apartment. Some people, like Kadota's gang, Shizuo recognizes. Others, he doesn't. But he's wary of everyone. Some of these people could know the guys going after Izaya, and Izaya is probably going to drink himself stupid again.

Speaking of, shit, Shizuo should find him.

Izaya is speaking to some guy in a suit, a glass of wine in one hand, his other hand moving through the air as he emphasizes his words.

“Everyone here is probably thinking of how different they'll be tomorrow. It's like an archaic process that still holds true and has meaning for a month or two, but then everyone gives up on the resolution and goes back to their basic habits. It's ridiculous to celebrate but somehow we get roped into it every year,” Izaya is saying.

“Is this your way of saying you don't have a resolution, Orihara-san?” Suit Guy asks.

“Of course not. True change comes from life experience and human trauma. But I do love hearing what other people are doing. How about you, Nikimura-san? Are you starting anything new tomorrow?”

“My wife signed us up for weekly pottery classes.”

“How nice. Do you have any interest in pottery?”

“No, but it makes her happy. And the deposit is non-refundable. So we'll be sticking with it.”

It's incredibly amusing to see Izaya partaking in such mundane conversations. It seems more likely that Shizuo should approach and find Izaya talking about blowing up the world or something. Then again, Shinra works with the same people Izaya does, and the suit guy has probably killed more than a few people. Shizuo decides to go get something to drink himself, because unlike Izaya, he does enjoy the spirit of letting go on a holiday. At least a little.

“Shizuo!” Simon barks at him. Simon is in the kitchen, standing by the food and drinks. “You come to party, too?”

“Wow, Shinra even roped you into this, huh?” Shizuo asks.

“I bring sushi. Sushi good for New Year.”

“You think sushi is good for everything.” Shizuo decides on some of the fruity looking punch he finds. It's sickeningly sweet. He's sure it's filled to the brim with alcohol, too. Who makes stuff like this?

“Shizu-chan!” Erika calls, bounding over to him. “You're drinking our punch!”

Of course.

“What's in this shit?” he asks.

“Stuff,” Erika says, grinning deviously. “It's a tipsy punch.”

“It's full of bad decisions,” Walker says, joining them.

“I'm not drinking this,” Shizuo decides.

“Good, your teeth will fall out,” Izaya says, suddenly beside Shizuo. “Why not drink something nice? Then again, your alcohol tolerance is through the roof. I don't suppose anyone brought straight vodka, did they?”

“Shut up, I can drink what I want.” Shizuo sees beer, doesn't want it. He grabs some of the same wine Izaya has. It doesn't taste good, but it'll shut Izaya up for a moment. He can nurse this all night and keep an eye on Izaya, who has a flea-sized alcohol tolerance.

Izaya smirks at him, and Shizuo is reminded again of the last time they drank together, and how Izaya wound up sick and miserable.

“Relax,” Izaya says, seemingly reading Shizuo's mind. “I won't overdo it.”

“Good. Don't.”

“So, are you guys fucking yet?” Erika asks loudly, drawing stares from everyone around them. Shizuo spits out some wine. Walker slinks quietly from the room. Izaya gives her a placid stare.

“Yes,” Izaya says. “Shizuo is a power bottom.”

“What?!” Erika shouts, looking at Shizuo with glee. Shizuo glares at Izaya, who looks pleased with himself.

“What's that even mean?!” he barks.

“Erika, really, clearly he's a virgin. I don't know what you want from me,” Izaya says, motioning to Shizuo.

“I can give you some pointers...” Erika starts, and Shizuo stomps over to Izaya, picks him up with one arm, and carries him to the other side of the apartment.

Throughout the course of the night, Shinra somehow gets even drunker despite being “cut off”, and at some point he starts playing music on the stereo, some fast, techno music. He dances, and no one really joins him, but clearly no one is as drunk as he is either.

“This reminds me of high school,” Izaya says into Shizuo's ear. He has to get close to be heard over the music, and Shizuo thrills at the feeling of Izaya's breath against his skin, feels goosebumps.

“Why?” he asks.

“Shinra and I have drank together before. He came over to my place because my parents were never home and of course I knew how to get alcohol. He said Celty would never forgive him for underage drinking so he stayed the night.” There's a gleam of joy in Izaya's eyes. “He got wasted, danced, and threw up the rest of the night.”

“Sounds like you, minus the dancing,” Shizuo says. Izaya pouts at him.

“I rarely drink that much!” Izaya defends. “Clearly I overdid it last time, but here I am, on my second glass of wine, completely fine!”

“Did you dance with Shinra? Back then?” Shizuo asks, trying to picture it. He never really hung out with the two of them together. Each and every time he got near Izaya, they would start their usual shit despite Shinra's wailing.

Izaya smiles widely.

“Yes,” he says. “Does that make you jealous?”

Shizuo grumbles. “Yes.”

“Well then,” Izaya says, downing the rest of his glass in one gulp. Shizuo tries too late to take it from him. “You're about to get really jealous.”

When Izaya crosses the room to Shinra, Shizuo at first can't believe what he's seeing. But then, Izaya has always been good at pretending to not care what other people think. At the end of the day, he's always posturing, but for now maybe, with wine coursing through him, he really might not give a fuck. Shinra makes a gleeful noise and the two of them drunkenly sway together to the cheers of the crowd. Celty is shaking her head, helmet gleaming in the apartment lighting. Shizuo is jealous, but he's also glad to see Izaya having fun. He doesn't notice Kadota by him until Kadota speaks.

“Man. You've got it bad.”

“What?” Shizuo asks, turning from Izaya's laughing face to Kadota.

“When Shinra told us you were Izaya's soulmate, we all didn't really know what to make of it. But clearly it's working out. You're good for each other.” Kadota takes a swig of beer and nudges Shizuo, who feels extremely warm.

Maybe he is tipsy. He forgets how much he's had at this point, has been too focused on making sure Izaya hasn't had too much.

“Shut the fuck up, Kadota,” Shizuo grumbles, but of course Kadota isn't bothered by it at all.

“Are you having The Talk with Shizu-chan?” Erika suddenly shouts, coming over and draping herself over Kadota's back. Togusa is with her, who waves at Shizuo.

“Yeah,” Kadota says.

“I tried to, but he ran from me!”

“Probably because you made it nasty,” Togusa says.

“I don't need a talk!” Shizuo snaps. “Get away from me!”

Celty appears like an angelic vision and shoves her PDA in Kadota's face, who shrugs. She turns to Shizuo and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Don't listen to them. You can make move on Izaya in your own time!

“Is everyone here drunk but me?!” Shizuo shouts, wondering how the hell Celty even could be without a head. “Shut up about me and Izaya!”

“Are we torturing Shizu-chan?” Izaya asks, joining them as Shinra basically tackles Celty, begging her to dance. He holds his hand out and Erika hands him another glass of wine. Shizuo growls at her.

“No one's trying to,” Kadota says.

“I am.” Izaya grins deviously and pulls Shizuo to him, who goes willingly, albeit confusedly. “You're going to dance with me.”

“You're drunk,” Shizuo accuses, but he still holds onto Izaya, who is swaying in his grasp.

“Guilty,” Izaya agrees. “But I'm not wasted. That's about all you can hope for.”

“It is a holiday,” Shizuo says, and Izaya smiles up at him in such an unguarded way and Shizuo can only think of how beautiful Izaya is like this, and like always, even when he's being a pain in the ass. Other people are dancing now too, though Shizuo doesn't notice anyone else really. He can't look away from Izaya, who seems to really enjoy the attention.

The party winds down later after people start filing out due to increasing snowfall outside. Celty invites them to stay the night, which they both turn down. Izaya is definitely verging on wasted by this point, and so is Shizuo for that matter, who had to drink twice as much just to match Izaya. Shinra hugs them both, weeping big tears, saying they're all going to dance at his and Celty's wedding.

Izaya arranges a cab for them and they stumble outside together, Shizuo drunkenly holding Izaya upright, though Izaya is draped over him for the most part. It's even colder than before somehow, and the snow is drizzling on them threateningly, telling them to get home soon or else. Izaya's cheeks are red from the cold, and he still just looks so happy. Shizuo's mind is a hazy fog and he finds he's forgotten half the night but he doesn't think he'll ever forget this, Izaya looking up at him through glazed eyes, windswept and gorgeous. Shizuo touches his cheek and leans down, capturing Izaya's lips in a kiss.

Izaya pulls away quickly, wide eyed and panic stricken.

“What are you doing?” he asks, though it comes out soft. “You can't do that.”

“Sorry,” Shizuo says dumbly.

“We're drunk,” Izaya says. “So it's...excusable.”

“I wanted to do it sober, too,” Shizuo says. Before Izaya can respond, their cab comes, and they get into the warm car in silence. The driver looks back at them and asks where to, and Izaya gives him the hotel address.

“Looks like you guys will barely beat this storm,” the driver says. Izaya strikes up a conversation with him but Shizuo barely listens to it, too busy thinking of Izaya's lips on his and how much he liked the feeling. And maybe it's because he's drunk and barely aware of what's going on, but when the car stops and Izaya helps drag him outside, Shizuo is confused by how they got back so fast.

“Really,” Izaya huffs, tugging at Shizuo, “you were worried about me overdoing it. You're the wasted one.”

“Sorry,” Shizuo says again.

“Whatever,” Izaya says, a sturdy anchor at his side. They reach the room and Izaya helps Shizuo reach the bed. Shizuo topples into it face-down, ready to sleep a thousand years.

“Oh,” Izaya says suddenly. Shizuo looks up at him blearily. “It's after midnight.”

“Wha...”

He finds himself cut off by Izaya's lips on his again, Izaya's weight settling beside him on the bed. Shizuo groans and lifts his hands, pulling Izaya closer, licking wetly at Izaya's lips until Izaya opens to him. It's definitely uncoordinated, but neither of them are sober. And Izaya isn't pulling away even if Shizuo is sloppy. Izaya tastes like wine and like everything Shizuo wants, and when Izaya pulls away at last, pupils fat and lips red from abuse, Shizuo decides he loves him more than anything, then and there.

“Happy New Year's, Shizu-chan.”

#shizaya #hearts like ours #drrr!!#Shizuo Heiwajima #Izaya Orihara #drrr!! fanfiction

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raywritesthings · 6 years

Note

Could you maybe write something about what happens when the doctor and donna come back to the tardis from the library?

Hoooookay, anon. I wrote...something. Idk if it’s at all what you were picturing, but here we go!

Sleep Mode

AO3 link

He knew it still was not alright, possibly wouldn’t be for a very long time, because of how quiet she was.

Not that Donna was loud all the time, of course. But even when her voice turned soft there was always an underlying strength, a presence. This Donna, he could tell her mind was far away, reaching back for the Library datacore and Lee. Something twisted painfully in his gut, and he had no scientific explanation for it at all.

“I think I might turn in,” she said, just above a whisper, and he looked away from the door he’d just snapped closed. “Bit muddled on how long I’ve been awake.”

“Of course,” the Doctor immediately replied. “We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

She offered just the slightest attempt at a smile before turning away and heading down the corridor to her room. The Doctor watched her go, then went to the controls to place them in the Vortex. Time and space could wait as long as Donna needed it to.

—-

She came and found him after a much shorter interval than was usual whenever she decided to sleep. He didn’t comment, and merely took them somewhere new.

It worked a little. She had all sorts of questions like always, and he thought she even forgot once or twice what had happened only yesterday. And yet she was still too quiet. Withdrawn.

By the second day she was yawning between bouts of running, and he knew it wasn’t because she was bored. Donna could gripe about the weather or the running better than anyone, but she never found their travels boring.

She was tired, and the longer it lasted the more he feared it would grow to mean she was tired of this. That he’d failed to shield her from the worst and she’d soon leave him like everyone eventually did.

Donna retreated to her room whenever they got back to the TARDIS. He thought to ask if she felt up to a movie or a game of some kind, something to draw her out, but his courage always failed him and he watched her walk away instead.

This particular night, after a few fruitless attempts at TARDIS maintenance that he was too distracted worrying to complete, the Doctor decided it was past time for him to sleep himself. Not that he was entirely eager to, and so he took a more roundabout route to his room.

He hadn’t realized his wandering had taken him past her room until he heard a door open behind him. “Spaceman?”

The Doctor spun about on his heels. “Oh, sorry, did I wake you?” It couldn’t possibly be time for her to wake up yet.

Donna grimaced. “I haven’t exactly been sleeping. I try, but it’s just...I don’t know. I’m not used to, um—”

“You can’t get to sleep on your own,” he finished for her.

“Yeah,” she admitted, eyes on her toes.

Neither of them spoke for an awful stretch of time.

“Do you think you could—no, it’s daft, forget I asked.”

He reached for her hand before she could retreat behind the door.

“Donna, whatever you need, I’m here.”

She visibly struggled for a moment before finally opening the door a little wider.

He’d had glimpses of Donna’s room on occasion, poked his head in now and then. But never had this sort of invitation been extended to him.

On any other occasion a thrill of excitement or joy might have accompanied this moment. The nerves at least carried over.

He shut the door behind him with as much care as he could, but the soft click was enough to cause her to drop his hand, casting an almost skittish look in his direction. The Doctor, who was desperately trying to keep control of his own composure, crossed to the loveseat sitting against the far wall.

But Donna could truly be contrary at times. “Oh, don’t sit over there. I’ll have to turn my neck all funny just to look at you.”

He changed course and perched on the side of her bed. “I thought the point was for you to sleep.”

“Who can sleep with you looming?” She began turning back the blankets. “And I don’t like people sitting on the covers.”

The Doctor had the thought that perhaps this was not the best idea, at least not for him, but it was what Donna wanted and thus he was powerless to do little else.

He toed off his shoes and debated a moment or two before shrugging out of his jacket. Then he climbed into the bed beside her. The TARDIS dimmed the lights on her own.

A good several inches separated them, and it was more likely his imagination was convincing him he could feel some kind of heat radiating off her. The Doctor fixed his gaze on the ceiling and focused on keeping his breath slow and even. A quick glance at Donna showed she was doing the same.

Just as he was about to ask whether this was helping or merely making it all worse, she spoke.

“If I go to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll see them and think it’s real, and then when I wake up I’ll have to lose them all over again.”

“See who?”

“Josh and Ella. My—the children that the Library made up. It’s them I really miss,” she said. “That’s not really kind to Lee, is it? I mean I do miss him, even if he wasn’t real, but I also...I don’t know what I’d do if I had found him.”

“You could always try making a go of it in real life,” he mused aloud, hoping he sounded completely neutral about the idea even though his mind was fully against it. “Might not be the same, but you never know.”

“Yeah.” It was probably his imagination that she seemed unenthusiastic. Then she rolled onto her side to look at him. “I know I said he was the perfect man for me, but I don’t know how we’d actually make it, him hardly talking and all. I think I can count on one hand the conversations we actually had. And that’s alright for a virtual reality where everything else gets filled in for you.”

“But you wouldn’t want that for actual reality?”

“Well, I’d just be talking and talking at him, and he’d probably be wishing I’d just shut it already. I mean, I’m talking your ear off right now, and anybody else would tell me to let them sleep, but it doesn’t bother you.”

“Even I know it’d be a bit hypocritical if it did,” he remarked. The Doctor didn’t need Donna’s help to realize now wasn’t the time to make this about him, however, so he rolled onto his side as well.

Somehow he forced out the words, “I’m sure if Lee were real and loved you it wouldn’t bother him, either.”

She smiled, and he couldn’t decide if that was good or not.

Donna snuggled a bit more into her pillow. “Goodnight, Spaceman.”

“Goodnight, Earthgirl.”

—-

The Doctor left long before she woke up. Not because he was uncomfortable; far from it. But that wasn’t what this was about.

He had been invited into Donna’s room and bed and confidance as a friend, purely to help her to sleep, not to let her wake up in his arms and be the first thing she saw in the morning. So he extricated himself from the tangled pile they had become somewhere in the half hour or so that he’d dozed off, picked up his jacket and shoes, and tiptoed to the door. Donna slept on.

She found him in the morning under the grating in the console room and carried with her two mugs of tea and a smile that seemed less brittle.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” The Doctor climbed out from under the grating and carefully asked, “Up for a day of running?”

She thought it over a moment. “I think so.”

—-

That night, she didn’t immediately withdraw the minute they got back to the TARDIS. He threw a little something together with noodles that probably wasn’t very good, but she ate it with a quiet, “Thanks,” anyway.

“Don’t get up,” he warned once she’d cleared her plate. He took all the dishes to the sink to wash and dry them himself.

When Donna was still sitting there after he’d finished, he didn’t have to ask. The Doctor placed his hand in hers and let her lead them back to her room.

He waited on top of the blankets while Donna shut herself in the bathroom and started the shower running. He twiddled his thumbs for about ten minutes, then leaned over and snagged a magazine off her bedside table.

When Donna emerged from the bathroom with towel-dried hair and in a set of comfy-looking pajamas, he was engrossed in an article about how proper nail care increased the human lifespan, supposedly. The Doctor didn’t look up until he realized she had stopped and was staring.

“What?”

“Haven’t you got anything to sleep in?”

He looked down at his tie and shirtsleeves. “Er, yes. Should I wear that next time?”

“I thought you’d have gotten them already.” Donna rolled her eyes and climbed into bed, so he wriggled under the blankets with her. Next time, then.

And when she laughed the next night at his pinstripe pajamas, he couldn’t find it in him to even pretend to be insulted.

—-

Donna did dream about the son and daughter she’d lost, but not in the way that she’d feared. He could tell because they weren’t happy dreams.

“No, no please! Please!”

The Doctor gathered her into his arms and stroked her hair, speaking softly in her ear.

“It’s over, Donna. You did everything you could. It’s over.”

He couldn’t tell her it was okay, not when it wasn’t. She deserved better than lies.

When Donna sagged against him, he knew he’d gotten through to her. The Doctor lowered them back down onto the bed, still wrapped up in each other.

They were all the other had. And he had to hope that would be enough.

—-

On Threnau Prime, they got kicked out of the palace for not being devout Frixops.

“You ever heard of tourists?” Donna hollered at the retreating backs of the guards. “Your economy’s loss, mate!”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing even further.

“What are you grinning about?”

The Doctor shook his head, smile only growing. “Nothing.”

Slowly but surely, he was getting his Donna back.

—-

“Do you miss her?” Donna asked out of the blue, her back to him.

“Miss who?”

“Your friend.” She was silent a beat too long, clearly debating whether to clarify. “Professor Song.”

The Doctor stared up at the ceiling, mind drawing a blank. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten River Song — how could he? — but he’d been so concerned with Donna that it had allowed him not to dwell on the woman who’d died for a him that didn’t exist yet.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “It’s hard to know what to miss.” His head fell to the side, resting on his pillow to stare at the back of her head. He wasn’t sure what Donna had made of his response with her not facing him. He wasn’t sure when it had become his pillow, either. “Why do you ask?”

Her shoulders were tense, that much he could tell, almost up to her ears. “I don’t know. I just thought, you’ve let me go on about what I lost in the Library. I wanted to check on you.”

The Doctor shook his head. “You don’t have to repay your time, Donna. They’re two different things.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Yours is real.”

He pushed himself up on an elbow. “Alright, what’s really bothering you?”

The little he could make out of Donna’s face now was flushed, though the exact shade he couldn’t say in the dark. “What?”

“Professor Song. Something about it is bothering you that you’re not saying.”

Maybe he was just hoping for an ulterior motive, but he couldn’t shake the thought now.

“It’s not—I’m not bothered,” she huffed. “I’m just saying if you miss her, I...don’t think I’m supposed to be around the next time.” She picked at a thread sticking out of her pillowcase and continued not to look at him. “So it’s okay if you want that to happen sooner. You don’t have to keep me around.”

The Doctor was completely still. He hadn’t even considered that Donna might think him eager to move onto whatever that adventure was. Certainly, he had some curiosity, but it was sobered by the reality of where it would end for River.

And if it meant giving up Donna, he wasn’t in any hurry to get there at all. Possibly ever.

The Doctor threw his arms around her and hooked his chin over her shoulder. Donna kicked her legs a couple times with a startled squawk.

“Hands!”

Just this once, he ignored her. “Donna, that could be years or centuries away. And I am perfectly content to wait.”

She peered back at him, searching for some hint of a lie. “Really?”

“Won’t even notice the time go by, long as I’ve got you around.”

Her gaze softened. “Daft. Daft Spaceman.” She turned her face away again, though this time he suspected it was to hide a smile.

He dared to snuggle a little closer. “But pretty, though, right?”

“Go to sleep.” Her arms came up, hugging his to her.

The Doctor closed his eyes with a smile of his own he didn’t bother to hide. “Yes, Madame.”

—-

They found themselves at an inn one night. There wasn’t much to be done until the Erinnian ship arrived tomorrow, and Donna had decided it was too far to make the trek all the way back to the TARDIS.

The Doctor trailed a step behind her as she marched up to the desk.

“Hi,” Donna greeted the hostess, who looked up and offered them a smile.

“Hello. May I help you and your husband—”

They didn’t let the poor woman finish.

“Oh, we’re not married.”

“Definitely not married.”

The hostess was clearly well-trained, for she merely gave a pleasant, “My mistake. Were you interested in booking two rooms, then?”

The Doctor and Donna looked at each other.

“Oh.” He scrubbed at one cheek without quite meeting the hostess’ eyes. “Well, one room would be fine.”

“Probably cheaper,” Donna added with a nervous laugh.

“A twin room?”

Another look was exchanged.

“Um—”

“Well—”

“Or we do have a double room available,” she added. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was the slightest amused smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“That’d be lovely, thanks,” the Doctor squeaked out.

The hostess passed over the key and told them the room number, though he was just happy to let Donna accept it and follow her hasty retreat out of the main room.

“So maybe next time, we just let them think whatever they want to think,” said Donna, fiddling with the key as they climbed the steps. “I mean, if they’re gonna think it anyway.”

“Sounds reasonable,” the Doctor agreed.

“Yeah,” she said, the funniest sort of quirk to her lips, like she couldn’t make up her mind whether to smile or frown. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”

—-

He held her some nights and wondered if he made a suitable substitute or if Donna was merely making do. Did she pretend it was a broader chest at her back, bigger arms that held her?

Sometimes he’d catch her murmuring in her sleep unintelligible things, or she’d roll to face him and nuzzle her way under his chin. His hearts would constrict and a lump would rise in his throat. It wasn’t real, no matter how much he longed for it to be.

Inevitably she was going to say a name, and he knew it wouldn’t be his. It couldn’t be.

What the Doctor didn’t know was what he would do when that happened.

—-

They stopped off in Chiswick for a visit. Really, he should have brought Donna here immediately after the Library, but he’d been selfish and worried that she’d choose to remain with her family while the memories of he virtual one were so fresh.

Of course, if he’d known how intolerable Sylvia was going to be, he might have just kept on avoiding the place altogether.

“And how do you even support yourselves? You can’t have jobs, in and out the way you are.”

Technically, it was none of his business, even if the conversation was half about him. Donna and her mother were out in the kitchen and having a supposedly private talk, though he was pretty sure even Wilfred could hear judging by the man’s nervous fidgeting as they sat across from each other in the sitting room.

“Obviously, you’re still eating.”

“Actually lost half a stone since the last time we dropped by,” said Donna, and while he was glad she was standing up for herself, it pained his hearts that she was still looking for her mother’s approval.

“Hm, and I suppose that makes up for the rest of it.”

“What do you mean, the rest of it?”

“The unemployment, the lack of a proper roof over your head. I mean, how’s any of that going to look on your CV?”

“Sorry, is this a job interview? Where do I see myself in the next five years?”

“Donna—”

“Because I can tell you, it’s right where I am now!”

Wilf gave up any pretense of not being able to hear, cracking a smile and remarking to him, “That’s not bad, eh? She’s got plans for you.”

“For God’s sake, Donna, you’re almost forty!” Sylvia hissed like it was a dirty word. “You’ve got to be thinking about your future. A job, or a husband with a steady one, children!”

Sylvia had crossed a line. She didn’t know it, but she had. The Doctor stood and marched straight for the kitchen archway.

“And who says I want any of that?” Donna shouted just as he made it there. Whatever he’d been intending to say flew right out of his head as she turned and caught sight of him. She froze just as he had.

There was a long silence not even Sylvia seemed to know how to interrupt.

Faintly, the Doctor heard himself ask, “You...don’t?”

Donna slowly shook her head. Then, as if that hadn’t been enough, she spoke. “I’ve already got what I want.”

He had to be dreaming. Any minute he’d wake up with Donna’s breath on the back of his neck or her cold toes pressed to his calf — which sounded like a dream itself and therefore wasn’t at all helpful.

They made a quick exit from the Noble house after that, most of which was a blur in his mind. He couldn’t focus on much else except that Donna was happy just as she was and wasn’t looking to leave for anyone anytime soon.

“I mean, it’s not that I don’t ever want children or anything,” she confessed later that night. They were each on their separate ends of the bed like the first time. “I still miss Josh and Ella. And Lee. I suppose part of me always will. But I wouldn’t want to go back to that life.”

“No?”

She shook her head again. “I couldn’t. Cos that’d mean, well, the Library made me forget things. Mostly everything I’d been doing up till then, so I wouldn’t realize it was all fake. And probably so I wouldn’t want to go.”

“It made you forget the traveling?”

She didn’t answer for a long time. “Sometimes I’m scared if I fall asleep, I’ll really be in that world, and I won’t know how to get out. And everything I’ve seen and done out there’ll be gone, and you—” She stopped, too choked up to go on.

The Doctor only had to reach out with one hand before she was moving into his embrace.

“Hey, I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

He didn’t see anything wrong in saying it this time. It wasn’t a lie.

—-

One morning, he made a mistake. He stayed.

He hadn’t meant to. But he’d been waiting longer and longer to depart as the nights had gone on and it grew harder to leave her. Donna slept straight through most nights with no problem now, but he simply relished the feeling of her in his arms, red, red hair falling onto his shoulder.

It didn’t quite register when she blinked her eyes open. Only when her voice, still a little groggy, mumbled a, “Morning,” up at him did he realize with a start.

“Oh!” The Doctor’s eyes darted guiltily to the door he should have been through hours ago. “Uh, sorry.”

“What for?” She had to still be fogged up with sleep, that was the only reason she’d be watching him so calmly.

“Well, um, you probably want a minute, if you’re waking up,” he stammered. Donna usually didn’t emerge from her room until she’d at least combed her hair back from her face and found a robe to put on over her nightclothes.

She hummed a sort of acknowledgement to that, then let her eyes fall closed again. “Five more minutes, then.”

It didn’t seem to be a dismissal.

“Oh. Okay.”

Maybe this was real. Maybe Donna wanted to wake up to him in the morning just the same as he wanted to wake up to her. Maybe that was enough.

They were alright.

Hearts hammering loud enough that Donna had to be hearing them with her head resting on his chest, the Doctor dropped his head back onto his pillow and counted down from five minutes.

And then, since it wasn’t hurting anything, another five minutes more.

#doctor x donna #ten x donna #donna noble #tenth doctor #doctor who #the doctor #my writing #Anonymous

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lynffles · 7 years

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Actual smut didn't happen, unfortunately, but I'm giving myself a tiny pat on the back for successfully writing Kuroro's dirty imagination, anyway. Also on AO3.

There was a dildo on top of his pillow.

He had no idea how he missed it when he first entered the room, but then again, it was a black dildo, and he’d put on his favorite midnight blue bedsheets over the weekend. It—blended into the background, somewhat, at least until he decided to focus on it, and then he’d frozen in the act of setting his laptop bag down on his desk as his thoughts whirred with who and why and what the fuck.

Of course, this being a dormitory, the idea that someone he’d pissed off or humiliated in class might have broken into his room to drop off what was very clearly a juvenile taunt wasn’t that farfetched. He was slightly surprised that it hadn’t happened before now, actually, considering the number of drunken parties and depraved orgies that tended to crop up within the residential halls after hours, in spite of the best efforts of their resident assistants, but, still.

Someone had broken into his room, only to leave a sex toy on his bed. None of his belongings were missing, his books were all where he’d left them, the door had been—picked, most likely, since there was no visible damage that he’d noticed, so the dildo on his pillow was the purpose of the break-in. He just couldn’t tell if it was a simple prank, or an insult, or the most roundabout proposition he’d ever received—there was no packaging, no message, not a single identifying mark to help him track the culprit down.

And that was another thing: he had twelve suspects. Or rather, twelve people with possible motives and enough familiarity with him to dare pull something that could only turn very awkward very quickly if it had come from a complete stranger instead. And depending on which among the twelve it turned out to be, he was going to have pretend it never happened, or laugh it off and plot a fitting revenge for a later date, or run screaming for the hills.

Kuroro really hoped that it wouldn’t come down to the last one.

Actually, he didn’t want it to be anyone from the first group of suspects, either—the ones he was sure felt mostly affection for him, because, if there was more to it—if this turned out to be some kind of weird—confession, he would have to find a way to… refuse. Gently.

… No, it couldn’t be anyone from that first group. Coltopi and Shizuku wouldn’t prank him, he was almost one hundred percent certain; Coltopi was a sweet kid (and too short to effectively pick the locks on their dorms) and Shizuku was nearly asexual with her single-minded fixation on books. Franklin… wouldn’t take part in something so asinine. Nobunaga was too much of a prude—he’d probably spontaneously combust if he got within sighting distance of a sex toy. And Pakunoda had already come out to him—and even if she did find him physically attractive, she’d say it outright.

The same with Machi, who hated crude displays of interest and was notorious for terrorizing any man caught staring too long at Paku and Shizuku. And that left Bonorenolf… who was obsessed with developing a dance-based martial art for his graduate thesis and hadn’t been seen since he disappeared into the performing arts building three weeks ago.

And then there was Hisoka, who would have been his primary suspect, but he’d come to the conclusion that this was actually too subtle for the pervert. Hisoka would have stayed in the room, and he’d have thought the gift of the dildo incomplete without his presence in all its deviant glory.

So, it couldn’t be Hisoka.

Hopefully it’s not Hisoka, Kuroro thought as he gingerly wrapped his fingers around the sizeable… girth… of the toy… and… he frowned in bewilderment. It was actually a good quality dildo—not that he’d held many to really say, but—the soft silicone was far from the tacky plastic he’d been expecting, and it had the tantalizing give of an erect cock. The void-black color was alarming at first glance, but nothing he couldn’t get used to, and he could. Get used to it.

(It was veined.)

Maybe.

(And it was larger than average.)

Definitely.

Kuroro shuddered, fascinated horror and curiosity and warmth flaring low in his gut—because now that he’d all but dismissed any possibility of this being just an elaborate prank, it was all too easy to imagine slicking it up with the lube he kept in his bedside drawer, stretching himself open with his own fingers, slowly working the flared head in, or better yet—pushing it past pale, toned thighs, watching golden blond hair fan out over his sheets, drinking in the cries as he fed the toy in, inch by agonizingly sweet inch, and—fuck.

He was getting hard.

It couldn’t be the guys, no way they’d spend extra money to get him an actual serviceable dildo just to troll him when there were less convoluted ways to go about it. Shalnark was definitely too stingy, Uvogin wouldn’t start shit on his own, and if Phinx and Feitan wanted to screw with him for whatever reason, they’d do it where they could see and get a laugh out of, not break in and drop off something designed to slowly drive him mad with sexual frustration in the privacy of his dorm room.

“Hey, Franklin, just curious, but would you happen to know of any good sex shops nearby…”

“For the love of—Nobu, stop yelling, there’s nothing shameful about shopping in an adult toy store—”

“You recognize the—Feitan got it for you in gold? Wait, what, you and Fei—”

“Look, Shal—I know these websites get thousands of orders every day and it’d be impossible to track down a single purchase without a receipt, but couldn’t you, I dunno, triangulate based on merchandise specifications…? No?”

“—I’m gonna cut your dick off if you touch my ass one more time, you Pogo reject—”

“So, just confirming, you’re still into girls, right?”

“—wait, Machi, no, I swear I’m not trying to hit on you or Shizuku—”

-----

“I heard something funny in the common room today.” Pairo flopped down at the bottom of his bed, leaned back on his arms, and waited for his cousin to acknowledge him—and Kurapika made a wordless, querying noise, but didn’t move from where he was squinting at his laptop screen. He was obviously busy with an assignment, but could be distracted depending on the extent of his personal investment in the rumor…

Pairo grinned.

“Kuroro Lucifer.”

His cousin’s reaction was immediate and obvious: Kurapika stilled, fingers stuttering to a stop on top of various keys, and Pairo was almost irresistibly reminded of a dog sitting up at attention in response to a whistle. “He has a secret admirer, apparently,” he continued. “He’s been trying to find out who it could be.”

Kurapika scoffed, and the stiff set of his shoulders relaxed somewhat. “He has girls trying to ask him out at least once every week. That’s nothing new.”

“He’s never shown interest before, though,” Pairo mused, unable to resist putting on a bit of theatrical puzzlement. “If I’m hearing things correctly, this person broke into his room and left a dildo on his bed. It’s brazen. And different enough from all the other confessions that he can’t resist wanting to figure out who did it.”

“… A confession? That’s how he’s seeing it?”

Kurapika’s voice sounded strange and tight, like rope forced into taut stillness by hands pulling in opposite directions. “It’s what I heard.” Pairo kept his own voice nonchalant, even as he began dropping his pretenses and openly stared at Kurapika so as not to miss a single tic—and the blond still had his back turned to the room, which, really, did nothing to assuage Pairo’s suspicions.

“It’s been days and none of his friends have owned up to it,” he added. “They couldn’t have held out that long, so it’s not a prank from any one of them.”

He got a noncommittal hum in reply, and the careful clicking of keys as Kurapika slowly resumed typing his stalled sentence from earlier. Pairo narrowed his eyes.

“Hey, aren’t you and Killua the only ones outside of Kuroro’s group who know how to pick these dorm locks?”

“Leorio, too,” Kurapika corrected, finally turning his head to look at Pairo over his shoulder. “I taught him in an afternoon—it’s not a difficult skill to learn.”

Pairo raised an eyebrow at that honestly pathetic attempt at deflection. Just for that, he was going to stop acting like he wasn’t here to confirm that Kurapika was the one who’d dropped off that dildo. “You signed off on an unmarked package last week. It looked exactly like one of those discreet deliveries you get from an online sex toy store.”

It would have been easy to deny, seriously; it wasn’t as if Pairo had started hurling accusations already, but, for all that Kurapika could poker face like the best of their most disillusioned, world-weary seniors, he never could make himself lie to his family. The blond folded like wet tissue paper, and Pairo watched with fond exasperation as Kurapika jerked his gaze back to his laptop, the blush rising up the back of his neck the most damning evidence of guilt he could have presented.

“Kurapika.”

A garbled mumble; Pairo couldn’t hear very clearly, but there was maybe a belligerent “piss off” in there somewhere. “Does it matter?” Kurapika rallied after another moment, throwing his head up and mulishly kicking at the floor, pushing his swivel chair into a gentle rotation. “He’s not going to find out, anyway.”

“That’s not how confessions work,” Pairo chided.

“It’s not a confession!”

“What’s it supposed to be, then?”

“It’s a—you know—” Kurapika grasped at the air, hands making vague waving motions as if trying to form the shape of an abstract sculpture, “Fuck you for challenging my rationale in class last week Tuesday just because you didn’t agree with the predicate I used.”

“Uh huh.” Pairo’s drawl was now infinitely more amused than exasperated. He was trying not to be a dick about it, really, but his cousin was setting himself up to be a terribly easy mark for relentless teasing, and it would be remiss of him not to seize advantage. “So you’re not acting out on your repressed crush, then?”

Kurapika’s denial was gunfire-quick, voice rising into a near-yelp. “I do not have a crush on that asshole!”

“So you say,” Pairo soothed, as he held his empty palms up in a placating gesture. “It still looks like you have one, I mean, buying your academic rival a dildo because you lost an argument to him in class? A bit juvenile, if you ask me.”

“Pairo!” Kurapika gasped, the downturned twist of his lips dismayed and betrayed in equal measure. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am, I am!” He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped at seeing his cousin so flustered. A few seconds passed where he tried and failed to contain a shit-eating grin. “I’m trying to help you out here. As your brother in all but name and blood, it’s my duty to see you get laid before we graduate, and if you’re legit crushing on the man—”

“For the last time, it’s not a crush!”

#hxh #kuroro/kurapika #university AU #no nen obviously #everybody's normal here and nobody dies #why am i physically incapable of writing smut omg

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