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enigmawriteswhump · 2 months

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The Last Librarian

Part 2

💠 Previous

______________

Rubbing the line out, I sigh. Pushing my chair back, the pencil clatters against the desk. This face was never coming into fruition, no matter how many lines I drew over.

I could never see his face clearly. I've always felt alienated when drawing faces. There are just some faces I found hard to see. A nose that never could be quite seen from any angle, ears that merged with hair, eyes which blurred colours between brown and black. A smile that disappeared at the edges.

I've tried to explain it to doctors, to opticians, and been prescribed a few dozen different supplements to combat my literal face blindness.

I'm not even shortsighted. I'm longsighted, if anything.

I'm used to it now, though. I don't think mum ever truly believed me. She called me her little pansy, and sometimes I wondered if I was half plant with the way I saw the world. Trying so hard to make roots. Focused on looking upwards. Finding light was warming, that made me want to absorb it as if was the only sustenance I needed.

But I supposed a child would lean on something comforting as imagination. I've always known really, it a childhood fantasy, and the world was so much blurrier as a child. Memories always are. The logic pointed towards the fact my short-sightedness had gotten better as I got older. But sometimes, sometimes it had days where it flared up.

I once even thought it was a brain tumour, but because I didn't have floaters or specks, it was swatted down as easily as a fly.

"Tiredness." They said.

Of course, why didn't I think of that?

But sometimes, it was just nice to believe in a little fantasy. Maybe it was why I drew to the holistic hands of Clara and her spirits, her world where rituals and tarots were true. Kinship between two souls sharing a belief. A faithful link to the world.

Lucas and his love of books, Clara and her spirits... And Theo, the subject of my drawing.

You would think that if I could not see someone clearly, that drawing it would be illogical. But, ever since I grew old enough to realise that this curse of uniquely poor sight that was mine alone, my sketchbooks were my proof. Of sanity, of having a repeat experience - like dejavu. You'd write it down in your journal, right, if you experienced that too?

I take myself to bed, pushing aside my drawing for now. Both frustration and indignation swirling in my chest, swearing that tomorrow, when I saw Theo, I was going to focus.

I've known him nearly a year... And I still can't draw his face. Not quite the illustrator I always wanted to be.

Surely the cramp in my hand would be worth it.

______________

"You're still here." a silky baritone slid against me, a warm pulse of my heart at the slight tilt of his head. Inwardly, I berate myself for wanting to ask him out. Take him for a good meal, with a nice sophisticated wine I could imagine him drinking. Having deep, fuzzy conversations over scallops and patte and whatever else those fancy restaurants served.

He's married, for God's sake.

Still, I'm blaming my hormones and lack of nice, gentile males available. Maybe, maybe seeing someone warm, sophisticated eased something in me. That feeling I had when I leant over the table to stare at my English lecturer in college, entranced with the way she spoke. Her articulation and ringing nuance of her voice lifting. Orating to hundreds, but speaking to one. That feeling when you've breathed too deeply and you're searching for more air around them. Someone who spoke to me.

"Of course. Sarah asked if I could upload these textbooks to the system." I shrug, half-smiling as Theo browsed the shelf in front. Daring to strike my gaze across his face, I hoped I would finally see the edges of his smile.

Then he's turning and I curse. I curse because he's never mentioned his wife (or husband!), and I see those fine, neat fingers clasped around a new hardback. One I'd put there, giddily, the day before.

There's a hole where my breath should be, the slight effeminate touch of his eyebrows. That balanced jawline that throws his face in dichotomy with that sharp, feral smile. At least, the blur around the edges feel rough, unpracticed. Unnatural.

"You're reading a Si-fi fantasy? I thought you stuck to the classics?" my lips puckered in false mockery.

There was laughter that seemed to glint, as his huff of air brought me back to the book placed in front of me. His curved, arched fingers of a pianist now retreating.

"I do not indulge usually, however today I felt this book may challenge my preconceptions."

I raise a sardonic eyebrow and pass the scanner over the barcode, the beep the only sound between us.

"Oh, and what preconceptions do you have?" I raise the book back to him, it half hanging into the air until his fingers webbed out and caught it.

"Many." his dark hair swooped across his neck as he leant forward, "And what about you, little bird? Do you enjoy your perceptions challenged?"

"Bird is a funny nickname for me, a flightless animal."

His grin widened a touch further, the blurriness spreading. His meticulous smile bordering on animalistic, if I was indulging in the fantasical.

"Bird or not, one invented flight and one discovered it. Which came first?"

I grin, this a riddle of his I could answer, "Well birds were around in the time of dinosaurs. So birds were first in discovering it."

Theo leant back, a conceding head nod, "Perhaps. I think it truly depends on the semantics of those words, even if you were not inherently wrong."

I roll my eyes. Presumptious know-it-all. And yet, I loved being right, of outsmarting someone who'd been so obviously ensconced in riches and education. Of besting someone who seemed to carry such wisdom.

"Are you planning on a trip soon, since it's nearly been a year?" a small knot grew in my stomach. I reached out to fiddle with my spare key chain.

"I was thinking so..." his eyes grew distant, and he looked out of the windows facing the street, "But I feel unsure of my destination. I've spent so long wondering, I don't know if I have a calling now as much as I used to..." his sigh brought me to a strange longing in his eyes. I almost felt sorry for the guy, until I saw his armani watch and suddenly discounted it. It wasn't like he had financial problems that he'd have to cover before he got out of here. He could escape. Forever.

"I've always wondered why you came here. It's not that pretty, it doesn't have a lot of facilities cities offer, and we have one decent forest." I smile sardonically, "Those who stay here are those who have family nearby, or who want a quiet, normal life."

"Unlike you." it was not a question.

I shrug, peeling away a stray strand from my small guinea-pig keyring.

"I'll go and change my life at some point. I'm just... Working up to it."

He raised an eyebrow, showing his welcome for more.

He always was. Always so giving.

But I grimace, seeing this small fantasy of us walking into our local restaurant, dressed in those fine clothes... It all disappearing if I told him the truth. His long, powerful thighs wrapped in dark jeans, glinting with the small chain that hung from his pocket. The chain for his vintage pocket watch I've wanted to wrap my fingers around for months. A striking figure in that silky black button-up, with his hair down swaying gently as he greeted me. or That smile I wanted to earn. His hand waiting for me. Him insisting on paying, but I fight for my own right to do so with our shared laughter. He makes me swear that he'd pay next time.

Not the lowly library assistant too piss-poor to figure out if I could work the gym into my schedule. But knowing that if I quit the library I'd loose Lucas. That spark of joy I've missed I just couldn't let go of.

That this guy was married, and if I stepped out of my small world... I might create ripples I couldn't take back. But I'll live in this world. It's safer that way. It won't hurt so much when it breaks apart.

"Are you wanting to order another book in?" I tap against the desk as the hollow, plastic top rattled.

Theo shook his head. His eyes dropped in a way that would have made me feel guilty, if he didn't have someone to go home too.

He doesn't look like a Theo, not really. Looks more like a Byron, like the poet. Or a Sir of Lancaster. Something kingly. He has the face for it, at least with what I could see.

I feel him drift back to the shelves, as if waiting for a moment to speak. As if buying time in the ten minutes before I close up. The textbooks could always be done tomorrow.

There's a gust of wind that flurries by the windows, sending a whistle of air through the cracks.

"That child who comes here on a Wednesday... Who is he?" his question came unexpectedly, and I almost jump. It's nearing the most personal question he's outrightly asked.

Theo always came later than Lucas. Perhaps Theo saw Lucas on his way in today.

I turn away, a frown twisting pensively on my lips.

"Just a child I help look after. He's a good kid. Has a dad in the army too, and the mum's run off her feet." I trail my finger down the desk, "He reminds me of someone I used to know. Lucas just needs some attention, especially since he has an older brother who's not the best influence."

"So you are trying to keep him on the straight and narrow, even while you're not related?"

I glance up, mildly perturbed at how close Theo's assumption hit so close to home, "No... I just want to guide him. Be a friend, for when he needs one. I'm hoping I'll be able to be there for him for when I persuade his mum to get him an ADHD diagnosis."

I think of my attempts of conversation with her so far, my subtle hints, my tips for his attention span. The answer to why he couldn't sit on his chair without wiggling incessantly. All flagged down with that offended look in her eyes.

"How do you know?" he asked quietly.

I give Theo my best half-smile and gesture to myself, "Four words. Like calls to like."

Theo's brows raise ever so slightly, "You have decided to trust me with that information."

I chuckle, "It's not like handing out that information could get me killed."

Theo shrugs and I laugh - I laugh before I could help it. And it's loud, boisterous and I would hate it if it hadn't brought that same smile to his face. The smile I wanted to recreate.

He bows, slightly, nothing more than a slight dip of his body, before he retreats.

"The night calls, and I find myself parched... So good evening, my lady." he murmurs, and I feel wistful as he exits. He has this way of speaking that was so archaic sometimes I almost think he's pulling my leg with it.

I hope one day soon, I'll slip in a note that had my number on there. Brave the future with hope in my heart. To ask him if he wore that ring for show or whether there was a place for me too.

______________

Okay, so the real story starts soon *rubs hands* 😏

Thank you for reading! Once again, this is an ongoing AU inspired by @oliversrarebooks, so please check their work out if you hadn't already!

Let me know if you want to be on a taglist for this! 😊

#The Last Librarian #Enigma Writes whump #Fantasy whump #Urban fantasy whump #Whumpee #Whumper #enigma writes

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enigma-selfships · 23 days

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~Golden Brown~

Doug Penhall x Reader

A quick little thing I had to write. Maybe he’ll get out of my system now 🫠

“Every time, just like the last~”

You look up, eyebrows furrowed as you wonder who could be singing so softly.

It was late at night, you and a few other members of the team were forced to stay late to finish paperwork.

The only other person next to you was Doug, being your work buddy since you both hated paperwork more than anything.

By the lamplight you gazed over sleepily, and sure enough, his lips were moving softly, ever so quietly singing.

“To distant lands, takes both my hands, never a frown with golden brown~”

You watch, lips parted as your heart hurt for the man in front of you.

Finally, he looked up.

“Golden brown, finer temptress.” He stopped singing as he registered your eyes on him, looking as surprised as he could with the sleepy look on his face.

“I love that song.” You mutter, finally dragging your eyes back to the paperwork in front of you.

Just as you thought he had turned back to his work, you heard him hum softly.

“It reminds me of you.”

#doug penhall x reader #21 jump street #doug penhall #enigma writes

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saw-tistic · 12 days

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saw vi is like edging for ppl with competence kinks because hoffman will pull off some of the hottest, most mouth-watering and brutal quick thinking i've ever seen in my life and then, just to shake it up, just to keep me humble, he'll make some utterly incomprehensible decision like using strahm's fingerprints to cover his tracks again, despite the fact it clearly didn't work the first time. and he does it in a room he was gonna set fire to anyway. the money i would pay for a single glimpse into his mind

#at least you finally get to nut when he gets out of the bear trap #genuinely tho i am tying him to another chair and making him write a five page essay explaining his thought process behind the fingerprints #[hoffman voice] the inner machinations of my mind are an enigma #cider.txt #mark hoffman #saw

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eluminium · 21 days

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I find it hilarious how both Imp and Skizz express their love for each other in different kinds of unethical ways

like if Impulse betrays you that's actually a sign he likes you because he trusts you enough that this betrayal won't hurt your feelings too hard. very people pleaser of him.

and skizz punches and wrestles people he likes. very cishet man of him.

they both subject each other to their respective immoral love actions at alarming (?) rates.

#imp and skizz #impulsesv #skizzleman #my writing #they're such weirdos #the machinations of their minds are enigmas #boys will be boys i suppose

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thee-great-enigma · 8 days

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Price would only give you the slightest hint of what you really want to see in his nudes, or around the house.

M!reader

Oh you're rock hard and want to rub against his ass for some relief? He sits down on the couch for three hours, completely ignoring you.

Oh you wanna eat him out, feel the weight of his cock on your throat? He'll walk around in sweatpants that are hanging so low on his hips that you can see the salt and pepper fringe of his happy trail and the very base of his thick cock, not that the sweatpants are hiding the outline of the pretty thing. But he swats your hand away anytime you try to touch him, walls away anytime you sit on your knees and plead for him to let you touch him because you "Need to so bad, sir, please? What have I done wrong that you won't let me touch you? Just- please? I'll be good, just please- please I need it, need you so bad sir," you whine only to be shut down again and again.

You want to fiddle with his chest whether it be playing with the soft hair or lightly pinching or sucking his nipples? He'll swat your hand away, wear a thick coat, send you pictures of anything else, make sure you can't get what you want.

And of course it makes it all the sweeter when he does finally let you have your way. But he's also busy doing his own thing, watching TV or reading a book. Bonus points if he's wearing his little reading glasses on the lower bridge of his nose to see the pages of his book or even paperwork. Since you've begged so nicely, been so good for him all day, he might as well give you a little bit of relief. When he first told you to kneel in front of him, you grinned stupidly, thinking he'd finally let you use your mouth for something other than pleading for him all day.

But instead, he shoved his foot between your thighs, shin practically crushing your cock. You let out an embarrassingly high pitched noise as pleasure and a small bit of pain rushes up your spine, making you slightly dizzy for a second. Your jaw gapes as you try to register this, grappling at his thighs for purchase. He doesn't even pay you a glance, just hooked his leg under your crotch and made sure there was enough pressure to keep you short of breath.

You give an experimental buck of your hips and when he doesn't do anything about it, you keep going, keep snapping your hips forward. You find purchase in his thighs, blunt nails digging into the plush skin as shaky gasps and moans escapes your lips. You don't mind this so much, it feels good and at least he's giving you a bit of pleasure. You just wish he'd look at you.

You whine up at him, pursing your lips and tilting your eyebrows up, murmuring into the couch cushion, "Baby please– please look at me– I'm begging you lovie, just look at me. C'mon, that book/show can't be that important"

And yet the only sort of attention his gives you is a low grumbled. "Dirty horndogs like you don't need to be looked at. Go ahead and cum, I don't care, just don't make me watch you do it."

You groan as you rub your poor abandoned cock against his leg, complaining about him being "too mean". You reached up for either the remote or the book, but he swats your hand away, again no even giving you a small flicker of attention.

Woah Enigma knows how to write!!! Yeah sorry for not being active, life has been kicking my ass and motivation is a rare visitor that only likes to come when I'm busy but this time I actually finished something!

Honorable mention, @rodolfoparras a lil gift since I may or may not have participated in the train me gnome and a few others ran through your husband

#enigmas •★• obsessions #captain price #enigmas-•★•- thoughts #price cod #john price #enigmas •★• idiot babbles #enigmas •★• fics #enigmas •★• writing for once!!#price x male reader #cod x male reader #x male reader #male reader #sub male reader

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somebluemelodies · 3 months

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@atthebell's SPIDERBIT WEEK DAY SIX: it couple | enigma revisiting the coffee shop au for this one, which you can read here! consider this a couple months or so post first date :> featuring: qroier being hopelessly in love and qcellbit being a total fucking nerd (/affectionate. and also hopelessly in love) this is a little lengthy like the last one my apologies-

"Roier, I can hear you thinking from here, man."

Roier abruptly stands from his spot leaning against the counter. "Perdón."

"Keep thinking that hard and you're going to destroy your last functioning brain cell." Mariana eyes his best friend. "Are you still trying to ask that guy out?"

"Yes," he answers, exasperated. "I don't know what the fuck to do."

"Just fucking ask him, man! It's not hard."

"I don't want to just ask, man! I want to do something cool for him, you know? He deserves it." Roier eyes Mariana right back. "Besides, I don't think you're allowed to offer relationship advice. You and Slime just started making out every day and eventually slapped a label on it."

Mariana looks smug and punchable. "And we're engaged now."

Roier only flips him off, leaning back against the counter and returning to his moping pondering. The other barista huffs after a few seconds, finally attempting to make himself useful. "Well, what does he like?"

"He's an investigator," is how Roier answers, "he—"

It's like a flip is switched in his brain, and he shoots back upright. "That's it! I know!" And before Mariana can question it, he's rushing out back to grab his phone.

When he returns, he's near-silent for the next several minutes upon grabbing a pen and napkin, save for occasional mumbling to himself as he studies intently whatever is on his phone screen.

Mariana doesn't bother stepping over yet, watching as Roier eventually starts writing something down on the napkin. Only when the pen has been capped, and Roier sighs to himself, seemingly satisfied, does he finally question the other again. "Happy now?"

Roier nods, smiling. "Sí."

(And so it goes.)

...

“And someone left this on one of the tables?”

Roier nodded. “Sí. Shortly before my shift ended.”

Cellbit seems mildly skeptical, but he doesn’t question it. Besides, who would he be to pass up solving a jumbled mess of letters?

“Well, it’s not a Caesar cipher. Doesn’t make sense. But…” He leans down, reaching for his satchel and rummaging through its contents before he finds a piece of paper, placing it on the coffee table alongside the napkin.

Intrigued, Roier scoots closer from their spot on his couch, hooking his chin over Cellbit’s shoulder. It looks like a table, but it’s full of letters instead of numbers. “What is that?”

(It’s just to get a closer look.)

(Cellbit wills his cheeks to cool down.)

“It’s for a Vigenère cipher. The letters in the middle are for all the encrypted letters. The left-hand column is the alphabet for whatever the key is, and the top row is the plaintext, or the 'normal' letters, if you will. In this case, it's what we're going to solve for."

(Cellbit explaining is leagues better than reading a bunch of words on a screen.)

(He could listen to Cellbit talk all day.)

“So how exactly do you solve it?” Roier asks. He has somewhat of an idea, but it was mostly him filling out the criteria on the website to encrypt it for him.

“I want to try and figure out the key first. I’m guessing the little coffee cup in the corner here has something to do it.” Cellbit points to the little doodle in the bottom right-hand corner, thinking for a moment. “It might not work, but let’s say the key is the word café. Vigenères are polyalphabetic ciphers; it utilizes multiple Caesar ciphers inside of itself, but the increments depend on whatever the key is— sorry, not important— polyalphabetic just means that they—"

“Use multiple alphabets?”

Cellbit smiles, and warmth blooms in Roier’s chest. “Yes!”

He pulls a pen from his chest jacket pocket. “We’re going to repeat café until it matches the length of the message.” He starts writing the letters underneath the cipher, continuing to talk. “We’re only going to be using the C, A, F, and E letters on the left-hand column, none of the others. Let me just finish this…”

Roier waits patiently until Cellbit gets to the last letter. When he does, he reaches for the table he’d pulled out. “Okay! So, now, to actually decipher it, we’re going to take the first letter of the key, C, and we’re going to locate the first letter of the cryptic message, Y, in C's row.” Cellbit’s pen lands on the letter Y. “Next, we’re going to follow that up to the top row for the plaintext.” The pen travels up. “W. So, the first letter of the decrypted message is W. Does that make sense?"

The barista nods as the investigator glances over to check. "Yeah. You're very smart, gatinho, you know that?"

Cellbit chuckles. "Gracias, guapito."

With that, he starts to work on decoding the rest of the cipher. Roier can't help but marvel at the speed he's able to work at - and doing it manually at that, not just putting it through online like he did. But Cellbit solving it fast is doing nothing for his nerves, his heartbeat starting to pick up.

He lets the other work quietly, trying not to shuffle and shift too much from his place leaning against him. He can't tell if he's regretting this or not, with the way the anticipation is killing him.

(But he also knows shit like this makes Cellbit happy, so maybe it won't be the complete end of the world.)

When Cellbit gets to the last word, though, he starts to slow down, processing exactly what the message is in front of him. He becomes acutely aware of Roier's head on his shoulder, the way his dark eyes are flitting back and forth between him and the papers, and pieces start clicking into place.

But he finishes it, because he knows Roier made it. Because he's stunned someone would go to this length for him. And so, the decoded cipher stares back up at him.

(WILL YOU BE MY BOYFRIEND)

Cellbit reads it back over to himself, once, twice, heart hammering in his chest as a haziness washes over him. He feels Roier lift his head, momentarily mourning the loss of contact, but wills his voice to work. "Roier..?"

"Well?" Roier asks after a moment, and Cellbit feels brave enough to glance over at him. They lock eyes, and he looks just as nervous as Cellbit feels, if not more. "Will you?"

For a moment, Cellbit doesn't move, expression unreadable, and Roier wonders if maybe this was a mistake after all. But then he sits upright, and orients to face him. "Cellbo—?"

He's effectively cut off by lips pressing against his, one of Cellbit's hands cupping his face as the other rests against the back of his neck.

Roier's eyes close immediately, melting into it as one arm wraps around the investigator's neck. His other hand goes up, threading through Cellbit's hair and subconsciously deepening the kiss.

(It feels warm, it feels right.)

They only pull apart when their lungs demand oxygen, foreheads resting together.

"Does that answer your question, guapito?" Cellbit breathes out.

Roier grins. "I think I need a little more clarification, gatinho."

Cellbit can't help but laugh. "Let me try again, then."

"By all means."

And somehow, the second kiss is almost better than the first.

(Enigma solved.)

#i think a lot about how qroier has said he wants to make an enigma for qcellbit #and while i was trying to think of something to write today i remembered that #and sure i could've done a canon divergence sorta thing #but upon further thinking #i thought it could be such a cute expansion to the coffee shop/modern spiderbit au #i think this is comprehensive. is this comprehensive?#i researched ciphers for this i'm pretty proud of myself #qsmp roier #qsmp cellbit #spiderbit #qsmp #blue writes qsmp #atthebell's spiderbit week

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mournfulroses · 6 months

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Joseph Brodsky, from The Selected Poems; "Enigma for an Angel,"

#lit #joseph brodsky #writings #quotes #pain #poetry #enigma for an angel #p

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variksel · 9 months

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*henry oak voice* guys check this out ... this ken is excited to see the barbie movie with his best buds !

darryl: oh! i think grant told me about this.. thats great henry, this ken is.. excited too

ron: yeah this barbie will get a bucket full of butter with popcorn.

darryl: ron i think youre supposed to call yourself a ken .. you know, because youre a man..?

ron: no, i am like barbie. she has a very good business plan and she is making good money right now! and because i am a business man, and so is barbie, i feel like i am definitely a barbie.

henry: darryl, dont be so close-minded! if ron feels that he relates more to a female character, then he relates more to a female character. you know, its a shame that men arent allowed to really like a female character without finding her attractive. the patriarchical society we live in limits us so that we cant really truly see women as people and we have to always aspire to be the macho, strong men on screen and -

glenn: guys check it out i got pink molly for the movie

#awful post one of my worst #very late #im very confident in my henry and glenn and darryl dialogue writing but ron is just a bit of an enigma to me #dndads #dungeons and daddies #shitpost #dungeons and daddies odyssey #dndads s1 #henry oak #glenn close #darryl wilson #ron stampler #barbie #barbenheimer #dnd #dungeons and dragons

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milflewis · 6 months

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1.2k sewis. The Winner’s Room. past tense

It isn’t until the main course — and seven bottles of wine in — that the conversation turns to the world champion’s pick for The Room. Sebastian, as par on course for the night and most of the weekend, is the focus of the chatter.

Everyone knows that Lewis only ever used his turns twice. He was the first ever driver to refuse to choose for The Winner’s Room ceremony. It didn’t earn him any goodwill or love but then again, Mick thinks, that has never been why Lewis does what he does. It is one of the things that Mick respects most about him.

(It is one of the things that he dislikes most about him. Mick has never done well with envy.)

"They've never shared a Room," Daniel is saying loudly, because Daniel says everything loudly.

He pauses, mouth slack at the corners.

He frowns.

There is an expression on Valtteri's face, which is enough of a concern without Mick realising that this is what he looks like when he's planning murder. He doesn't look at Lewis, who has stopped talking beside Sebastian, focused completely on Daniel.

Guanyu refills his glass to the brim and promptly swallows half of it.

"Wait," Daniel says, like a gunshot. "There was that one year, I think?"

He turns in his seat, swaying, and calls out Sebastian's name. Sebastian leans back in his chair, the ends of his hair brushing Lewis's bare forearm, half dangling off of the back of Sebastian's seat and half on his shoulders.

Lewis's fingers are curled into the side of Sebastian's collar.

"Sebastian," Daniel says again.

"Daniel," Sebastian replies.

"When did you and Lewis do The Room again? It was before '17, right?"

Sebastian hums. Valtteri's expression has grown it's own presence, seating itself at the table. Mick feels the urge to hunch in his shoulders to make himself a smaller target. He doesn't like not knowing the blast radius.

Lewis's mouth is doing the thing that he does when he would give nearly anything in the world to be wearing his sunglasses right at this moment. Mick remembers being smaller, with bonier wrists, and his dad pointing it out to him as if it was the funniest thing ever.

"2013," Sebastian says casually, eyes calm. He blinks. Daniel scrunches up his nose as he tries to remember.

Everyone goes that bit more still as the knowledge that it was Sebastian who picked Lewis, but even more importantly, it was during a time when they weren't even friends, sinks in.

Mick has known this for a long time but still, he has no idea what to do with it. He has never asked Sebastian if it had anything to do with Nico, or worse, with Mark.

Mick has known him for over ten years, and in that time, Sebastian has never given nor asked for a straight answer. It's not as endearing as he likes to say it is.

It would be cruel to ask Lewis.

Mick does not like being cruel.

"Yeah, it was 2013," Daniel agrees as if Sebastian himself hadn't just said it. "I always forget about that."

George looks like he's about to burst. Pierre isn't doing much better. Guaunyu seems to have acquired another glass and is drinking out of the two of them with several straws.

Valtteri has gone unnaturally still. Yuki eyes him from behind Pierre, fascinated.

"Was it just one of those things, you know? Like, fuck it, yeah, why not? Be a bit of a laugh."

"Something like that."

"Huh."

And then: "Well, c'mon, who gave it to who? I know Mark told me but I can't remember. Head's like a sieve." A laugh.

"Hmm." Sebastian says nothing else, only smiles placidly.

It doesn't matter. Daniel has smelt blood in the water.

He and Valtteri rowed recently, Mick knows. The best way to hit back at Valtteri is to go after Lewis, Mick also knows.

"I never got fucked," is all Lewis says, quiet. He could be saying it is raining outside. It's the same voice he used when Toto told him Mick was going to be their reserve driver, and he just said, yeah, cool, for sure, before remembering that there is protocol and social niceties to observe and properly congratulated him, smiling wide.

Sometimes, Mick can understand the urge that some of the other drivers have, especially the older ones, to shake Lewis until something, anything, falls out.

It is tiresome to remind yourself that people owe you nothing but Mick tries to do it anyway. His mother taught him well.

"No?" Daniel asks. "And what about now?"

Fernando is mimicking eating something out of his hands. An ass, maybe. Or an apple. Lewis doesn't look at him.

He opens his mouth to say something terrible and most likely going to send several people here to an early death. Mick has realised over the last few months that Lewis is, like, sort of awful and that he should be grateful that he is so busy with all his different charities and rich bitch friends who eat hummus and whale sperm and whatever to have enough time to be a cunt like he used to be.

Jenson, it turns out, has a lot of opinions.

"Why." Valtteri's eyes are bright. His hands are flat on the table. Sebastian raises an eyebrow. He's fucking amused, Mick realises. Like a fucking lunatic.

Gina doesn't like the term lunatic. She says it's inaccurate and unfair. Mick thinks it anyway.

"Are you asking," Valtteri continues. Mick wonders if the lack of inflection is a Finnish thing or a Valtteri thing. Mika is Mick's main and pretty much only frame of reference to Finland. But Mick has been told he deserves his own box and should not be compared to anyone else.

"How's everyone doing tonight?" Their waiter is tall and broad shouldered and dark haired. He has a beard. Mick fights the urge to tell him that he may have just saved Daniel Ricciardo's life right now. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, thanks," Sebastian grins. "We're doing just fine."

"Actually," Fernando cuts in, and Kevin looks up at the ceiling beside Mick with the same twist to his face that he always gets around Guenther. "Do you happen to have any peaches?"

#everyone is just. like. kind of terrible #sewis being an enigma to everyone including me who is fucking writing them #sewis #dantteri #? sort of ????#to both ? idk my head is a fucking mess and this came out pls dont at me #little fics #to come back to

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mysticscorpia · 10 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera Characters: Christine Daaé, Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny Additional Tags: A couple of children OCs, But they're not who you think they are, I like using parallels in my writing, Kind to Raoul, I made this tale up, Stories of the North?, death mention, Grief/Mourning, little bit of romance, post-musical, Post-Canon, Fix-It, AU, Set in Sweden, They have fields

Summary:

Christine finds a long lost man from her past, and listens to his tale.

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT!

I’m now offically on AO3! I’m still EnigmaWritesStuff, though!

But, here’s the FFN link too, incase that’s your prefered one!

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14248829/1/The-Bird-and-the-Whale

I credit both @birdstooth and @nipuni in my AO3 author’s notes about their inspiration for me, for this phic! Thank you guys, keep being awesome!

#enigma writes stuff #poto #poto fluff #phanfic #phan fic #christine x erik #erik x christine #Enigma writes #I MAKE A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING #I SURVIVED ISH #poto fic #Erik #erik the phantom #raoul de chagny

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enigmawriteswhump · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023

Safety Net | Swooning | How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up

No: 1

Evanshi closed her eyes, even while she was the last of her tribe who should be trusted with meditation. And yet here she was. Curled legs, a simple, relaxed posture. But that thrumming energy couldn't sit still, her anxiety confined to to all but the flexing of her toes.

Why did Modar have ever believed she had potential in this area of study? To converse with the living and the life? To hear words of rippling bark, if one knew just right. Not heard, but to sit and know the yew tree behind her was whispering of fellow dangers, of orangisms trespassing against their roots, or leaping from arm to arm with little claw marks left behind. A remnant of the wood's passengers.

To be able to feel the sensitivity of the dark cylinders of bark, curled around the unscavenged center... To be able to feel the herbal remedies between each root, and know which fungus grew - just on the way the breeze flowed. To read the earth as if she were also a sapling, taking root and sampling what this earth had to offer.

Bogus. The lot of it.

Modar had never wanted her to succeed.

Evanshi let her hands slide from her lap, the bitter smile hard to keep away. This, these small strands of grass beneath her - all she could feel was the tickle against her soles. Not some hocus pocus druid magic. Still a fresh wound, knowing the truth; knowing she disappointed her mentor even now.

"Did you find it out here? What you were looking for?"

His voice caught her insidiously, and she startled, whipping her head around.

A low snarl ripped from her throat.

Evanshi felt the trill of fear, even as she rose lithely to her feet, light on her toes. Ready to pounce, or dart away.

"Catch you off guard?" Kazian's grin slipped through his nocholance. The long, beautiful wings curled outwards slightly, an expression of his proposed boredom.

She didn't believe it, not with the glint in his eyes.

"Why must you make me do all the talking? You sound like a rabid animal when you refuse to speak." he managed to step closer, while grimly inspecting his sharp, unbitten nails. Near talons, except for chipped nature of them.

A warrior clothed in littered, unspoken secrets.

She narrowed her eyes, unwilling to bite back. His baiting meant nothing, even if her pride prickled even so.

Evanshi knew the wise move was to kneel without flare, to snark back with a hint of sharp banter, wait for his hand to come and lift her head. To lean into the tenderness and pretend her feelings weren't flooded with his touch.

That she would be saved his game, if she bared her teeth threateningly, he would see a smile.

Her lips moved back, scowling.

Kazian huffed, rippling his wings in a flutter of irritation.

"If you are not being the elf I knew you were, we must treat you like the prey you've become." his lips retreated in that snarl, the look he gave her oppressive as he roamed down her body.

"Now run. Run," he took one more step, and his wings lifted, a bronze cloud blotting her light.

"Run, before they get you, little fox." his eyes darkened, and the playful spark dripped into ominous cruelty, "Run, for when I get you, you surely will not be able to reply."

***

Her attention snapped to the beat of her heart, like Isbasal's fastest fire-drumming, branches underfoot crushed as her passage erupted harmony.

Dipping between branch after branch, a silent fox as she could be, apart from the almost-humanoid howls which followed her. His favourite game - chase, hunt, kill.

She had naively assumed he wouldn't let his ire consume him. But with each wide wing-beat above the forest, the very real trickle of terror slipped down her legs. No, no, he couldn't - he was waiting for something. He had been for months!

She couldn't die like this, a head on a table, blood which dripped onto his curling nails as her eyes stared lifelessly above. She couldn't be the leg bone his heathens drank from. Not now. Not when she had been so brave. Had hidden her terror for so long.

"Oh Evanshi! Where have you hidden my little one?" his voice bellowed from above, a laugh crackling through the treetops. By Silas he'd suddenly sounded much closer!

Her mouth forced a wheeze of panic, her time confined unused to such a sprint. Each breath had too little air, each step sent a spiralling spike to her side.

Oh by Silas' crooked blessings, there was the tree!

With a last step, Evanshi pushed herself to the bark of the tree, inhaling moldering earth, and willow's green fingers ticking her neck.

Her fingers moved into the threads of hundreds leaves, her strings of fate as she tested their weight.

A stem of one snapped and she bit back a breathy curse, even as air trailed from her mouth and the appendage landed against her wrist.

These Willows were not the ones of home. She didn't have time to pinpoint the location of pain that sparked at the knowledge, but evaluated the hulking girth of the trunk.

Just maybe...

She was no acrobat, but even with her uneven gait, she gave her best leap into the tree branch's grasp. Using the extra strands she'd pulled down to loop around the other side, she used the multitude to haul the rest of her body onto the branch, large gasps echoing from her that she tried to stifle with a sweat-laved hand.

The eerie howls of creatures almost-human trickled to her ears, and she struggled to remain calm with her hands as sticky as they were.

Deep breaths, he can't smell you. He can't smell you.

The bark bit angrily into her thighs as she saddled the branch, waiting the howls to quiet, before she shuffled to the trunk.

Wrapping her arms around the tree, as best as she could manage with its width, she slowly rose to her feet. There was a moment where she froze, hearing that distinct snap of wings, a curling voice which had found her even in her most peaceful dreams, until it disappeared.

A sudden, treacherous weight lifted from her gut.

Tonight, tonight she would be safe nestled in the bowed nest of the tree trunk.

Even while she was proud to remember such a hiding place, she knew it was only a matter of time before they found her.

This was his safety net.

Kazian would have never let her into a real forest, after all.

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miss-spookhead · 17 days

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thinking about a Blast From the Past steddie au tonight. like, think about it for a second--steve as the sweet, well-meaning himbo raised in a fallout shelter and eddie as the cynic who shows him the world as it is:

The year was 1962, and an atomic bomb had just dropped on top of the Harrington household.

Okay, not really. It was actually a fighter jet that suffered a mechanical failure just above the little plot of land the Harringtons called their home, but Walter Harrington took it differently. Far differently.

See, the thing was that the man was living in a state of paranoid delusion over the Cold War--terrified of the possibility of an outright nuclear holocaust over the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Soviet Union. He had been carefully building a fallout shelter under his home for his wife and possible children to live in with the works--canned food, running water, and even a working television.

And one day they went in and simply never left. The explosion right when they closed the door was tangible proof that the nuclear war was happening right above them.

A few years later, around 1968, a baby boy was born in a fallout shelter with no one but his mom and dad to keep him company.

They raised Steve the best they could, even if Walter Harrington was a mad genius and Madeline Harrington was a borderline alcoholic. Even if the boy was living in a perfect little time capsule of the fifties and early sixties. Walter made sure to educate him right and teach him how to be a sociable gentleman--even if he had no idea what swear words or the concept of sex were. That was for another time. Although, twenty-four years came and went for Steve Harrington, his father still owes him 'another time'.

Steve Harrington grows twenty-four years in perfect seclusion, but that changes at the flick of a switch.

The year is 1992: supplies are dwindling Walter is growing sick, and Steve is tasked to bravely set foot in the nuclear fallout to retrieve more material. (The only reason why Walter assumes they can even get more stuff is because he observed the outside world when the shelter unlocked and mistook it as a post-apocalyptic mutant society.)

The moment Steve made it outside his little bubble, he was utterly fascinated by the world--how different the people were outside of his television and his little books, how bright the sky was outside, how the irritable man on the bus wouldn't accept the money he tried to give him, how the bus moved and didn't fling him right off his seat.

(He even saw an adult bookstore. Dad told him that those things were filled with poisonous gas. How were they even to operate if they were filled with poisonous gas? That's dangerous and totally inconsiderate of the general public's safety.)

Anyway, he tries to follow the grocery list that Mom and Dad gave him the best he can, stocking up on poultry and tissue paper and the works. But by the end of the day, he doesn't know where he came from. Not a single sign or building or person can give him a single clue where to go.

After a few hours of wandering, suitcase in hand, he comes across a store with WE BUY BASEBALL CARDS written on the window.

Golly, Steve loves baseball cards--could look at Dad's collection for hours, and with the collection he has, he could make a pretty penny selling them for supplies. Despite the little hobby store being beside an adult bookstore with poisonous gas, he scampers right in.

"I see you're looking to buy baseball cards," he says breezily to the gruff, scary-looking man behind the counter.

"That I am," he replies.

Steve pulls a few from his jacket's inner pocket. "Well, these are a bit old, you see, but I was hoping you still might be interested."

The gruff man yanks them from his hands, a spark in his eye. He looks delighted to see them, and it fills Steve with an excitement he hadn't felt at all today. Nobody has been this happy over something he's done today. "Woah," he gasps, then covers it with a cough. "Mickey Mantle rookie season...how much do you want?"

"I was hoping to sell all of my cards, actually!"

The man sputters incredulously. "All of 'em? Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not sure what that means, but all I have are hundred-dollar bills and I need something smaller. Like, uh...ones, tens, fives..."

"Tell you what, I'll give you five hundred in small bills for all you got."

Steve smiles brightly. "Oh, that would be wonderful, sir--"

"Five hundred for a case-full of rookie season Mickey Mantles, Rick, are you fucking joking?" A deep voice cuts through Steve's thanks from the other side of the small store. He turns around to find a man leaning against a magazine rack, arms folded sternly.

The man is unlike Steve's ever seen before. Long, long limbs and big brown eyes that look traced with black and smudged around the edges. Pretty lips, too almost girl-ish, in the way they were big and plush like the women he'd see on the television. The strangest thing about him, though, was the curly hair that tumbled past his shoulders.

He looked mad, though. Madder than mad.

"Tell the poor guy you're fucking with him," long-hair-pretty-lips says to the man behind the counter, who bristles.

"Were you raised in a fucking barn, Munson? Who told you to interrupt on business?" Rick counters. Steve was really not appreciating the amount of f-words dropped in the conversation, it was uncouth.

"Sure I was!" Munson saunters towards the counter and Steve's eyes follow him like a moth to a light. "But my morals go past your business practices at this point. You remember the ninth commandment, yeah?"

"You shut your Goddamn mouth--"

"Excuse me sir, but I really don't appreciate how you're using the Lord's name in vain like that," Steve says firmly.

"See?" Munson smiles. It's like sunlight. "He gets it."

He plucks the baseball card from Rick's hand and holds it over his head when he tries to reach for it again. "See this little thing?" He says to Steve sweetly. "This guy costs six grand alone."

"Get out of town! Really?"

"Oh yeah, big guy. Selling the thing would give you a small fortune, and Rick over here is trying to con you out of it."

Steve frowns. "Is that true?" He asks Rick.

"Nothing but," Munson says in place of him. He slips the card back into Steve's hands and gives them a pat.

"The Hell is even keeping you here, Munson?" Rick sneers. "Did the gig you won't shut up about fall through like they usually do? Better to bum it out here than in your shithole apartment? Stop loitering in my damn store and make like a fucking tree. You're banned."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Munson says rolling his eyes. He looks at Steve, then the door, gesturing at it with a flick of his head. "I'll see you out, Beaver."

He walks them both out the door, stopping to gesture at Rick strangely--hands balled into fists with only his middle fingers up--before stepping outside onto the sidewalk.

"Well merci, Monsieur," Steve says appreciatively, because Dad taught him French was always to be used on such occasions.

"What, you're French?"

"Oh no, I'm"--he thinks back to what Dad told him if a mutant asks where he's from. Gosh, he thinks he's supposed to be--"out on business."

"And you don't even have a clue about the little business trick that Rick tried to pull?"

"No...no, I--"

"Yeah, doesn't matter." Munson shrugs. He smiles sympathetically at Steve before turning on his heel and walking off. Oh boy, what would he do without him?

He follows him like a lost puppy, that's what.

"...You going the same way?" Munson asks incredulously. Steve shakes his head.

"Well, I'm following you."

Munson stops in his tracks, blinking, and Steve almost runs into him in his state. "Me?"

"Well yes! Where are we going?"

"We?" Munson asserts. "I'm going back to my shithole apartment, and judging by that jacket you're wearing, you should be taking the next left and hop-skipping straight to the barber college."

"Oh, I'm lost, though."

"Aren't we all?"

"Say, did you just get banned from that hobby store because of me?" Steve says to change the subject.

Munson sighs. "Seems like I did, sailor. The place was shitty anyways, with that dickhead running the operation. Wayne could get better cards from a different joint."

...dickhead? Steve's never heard that leave the seams of anyone's lips before. "Dickhead?"

"Yeah, he's a real fucking loser. A walking talking penis capable of human speech."

Steve gets queasy at the image he's concocted in his head. He leans against the nearest brick wall, his suitcase tumbling to the ground as he drops into a contemplative squat.

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

"Well, the mental image that I..."

Munson's eyebrows scrunch before he reaches out a hand to Steve. He takes it, letting the man haul him upward. "Look, man, where'd you park your car?"

"I came by bus."

"Aren't you full of surprises."

"I am?"

"Okay look." Eddie raises his hands, palms splayed in the air. "It's your first time in Los Angeles, right? Everyone wants a taste of it, I know, and you're out for business and fucking famished. You got the opportunity to see the great big world outside of your little bubble and you got excited--but you took a bus and got mixed up in the middle of San Fernando Valley without a clue in the world. Am I correct?"

Steve listens in wonderment. So far, Munson's been correct in a way. He's convinced he might be psychic. He nods slowly and seriously just to see Munson flash that lighting-strike smile.

"Great, great. Which brings us to here. Correct again?"

"Oh yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

Nowhere, at the moment. Steve opens his mouth to say so, but Munson interrupts quickly. "Holiday Inn?"

"Yes, the Holiday Inn!" Steve says totally truthfully.

"Okay, cool. Cool." Munson claps his hands together with finality and starts walking. "The nearest bus station is a couple of blocks away if you take a right--"

"Don't you have a car?"

Munson stops in his tracks again. He turns to face Steve once again. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Something warm pools in Steve's gut at the pet name. Something about the way those pretty lips form that word sends blood rushing to his cheeks. "Steve," he says.

"Alright, Steve." Oh boy, his name sounds even better when Munson says it. "Rule number one in Los Angeles? Never let a stranger drive you anywhere."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve says sweetly, "I don't have a gun."

Munson pales, then starts running.

"Hey!" Steve cries and makes haste to follow him. "I must've said something wrong, please forgive me!"

"Nope, nope--get the fuck away from me, man!"

He grabs Munson's wrist to pull him back, which is a bad move since the man starts writhing around in his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, sir!"

Steve drops Munson's hand and raises his in surrender. "See?"

"...Just let me get to my car."

"I'll give you a Rogers Hornsby if you take me to my hotel," Steve reasons.

Munson stills. "...That's like four grand, don't bullshit me."

He pulls the card from his jacket and presents it as evidence. "See? I was holding it back." He wants Munson to feel safe. "I got two." He reaches for the other cards in his pockets and pulls them out. "And-and all these other ones, too!"

"Okay, okay. You'll give me four thousand dollars if I drive you to your place?"

"Uh-uh!"

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"And I don't have to give you a quickie in the backseat or anything?"

"Yes sir--wait, what?"

Munson blows past his question like it didn't even leave Steve's mouth. "Can you stop with the sir crap?"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir--"

"My name is Eddie."

Eddie...Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Wow, what a name. It's almost like something he's heard on the television.

"Why, it's nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Tolerable to meet you too, Steve."

Steve smiles shyly, then asks, "So are you a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well it's just your hair...it's so long." Steve points at his as an example. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Dude, it's 1992, every other guy looks like this--have you been living under a rock or something?"

Something like that. Steve shrugs.

"Well guys having long hair doesn't mean that they're girls, Steve, that's a given. It's not 1962 anymore." Eddie backtracks. "Well, I mean, dudes can have long hair and be chicks and chicks can be dudes too but that's not--"

"Oh, wow, my dad told me about one of those the last time he went here!"

"Oh that's fantastic, sweetheart," Eddie says, sugary-sweet. "But how about I drive you home?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Eddie."

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stealingyourbones · 2 years

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Short DPXDC Prompts #200

Mr. Lancer transfers to Gotham High

#danny phantom #dc comics #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #writing prompts #like this teacher is equally far too oblivious to be in gotham #and yet he isn’t scared in the slightest when a rogue attacks #he is an enigma #bones prompts

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oldsargasso · 30 days

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ficlet: under cover of the same night

four day weekend starts tomorrow!! and I can start it early today as soon as I process these payrolls so while I wait for the info to come in, I am thinking about a particular Way & Kenta-centric idea that woke me up in the middle of the night last night and made me scramble for notes.

like. what if Kenta's alpha power was bringing people back from the dead? but he has to take a life first.

There's nothing in-between dying and coming back. Way gets shot. He says his goodbyes, lets his life slip away, willing himself to embrace the cold and unknown. Way blinks his eyes open to the harsh artificial lighting that graces the room he finds himself in. He's blinded; his eyes water and he blinks rapidly. The air is ice-cold. The metal underneath him stings at his exposed skin. His jacket's vanished along with his shoes and socks, but at least his shirt mostly remains. It's stiff and thick with dried blood. The whole room stinks of bleach.

There's someone breathing by his side. Way's eyes finally obey his mind, and he turns his focus to the figure.

"Finally," Kenta sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks bored, as much as any expression can be read on his face. "You took forever to come back."

An apology isn't really in Way's modus operandi, especially not to Tony's little lapdog (and especially not to someone with such history with Pete---it's not like Pete is Way's exactly, but he's certainly not for Kenta.) Instead he keeps his mouth shut and pushes himself up to sitting. Kenta unfolds his arms and hovers his hands but doesn't quite reach out to help. There's a deep pain in Way's shoulder when he moves; when he raises his hand to it, he finds nothing but smooth unscarred skin.

"Didn't I get shot?"

Kenta nods. "Yes."

Memory flickers back on in the back of Way's mind. He feels a little light-headed, unmoored in the steel and white expanse of the hospital morgue. "And I---Didn't I die?"

Another nod from Kenta. Like a puppet on a string. "Yes. I..." He sighs deeply, like this conversation with Way is so very tiring for him. A spark of irritation begins to warm Way's body. "I brought you back."

"Why?" Way is incredulous and unable to mask it. Of all people? There's no love lost or won between the two of them.

"I don't get a choice," Kenta says. "I take a life, I have to give a life."

How did you find that out? burns on the tip of Way's tongue, but he holds it back. Sometimes it's better not to know. "No other options laying around, I take it," Way says instead. The bitterness in his tone is for himself, but of course Kenta takes it as his own.

"I wouldn't have had to kill our father if you all had just---" Kenta cuts himself off, taking a deep unsteady breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Can you stand? We need to go."

Way can stand, as it turns out, but only with judicious assistance from Kenta. They shuffle their way to the exit. Way's feet are bare; the heels of Kenta's shoes click on the shiny clean linoleum.

The car parked outside in the loading zone isn't one Way's familiar with. White, compact, nondescript. Kenta eases him down into the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel. He turns the car on and the radio comes to life as well, too quiet to make out anything but the general idea of music.

"Where do you want to go?" Kenta asks, hands neat and tidy at ten and two once he's pulled onto the street.

"What," Way says more than asks, "you don't have this all planned out?"

He watches with sick amusement as Kenta's knuckles go white around the steering wheel. "No little hidey-hole all stocked up and ready to go?"

"If you don't have anywhere to go---" Kenta says in a carefully calm tone.

"Pete's," Way cuts him off sharply. "I want---Let's go see Pete."

Kenta doesn't ask for directions. They don't speak again as they navigate the night-time traffic. Way wants to know what time it is. He wants to know everything that happened from when he clocked out, how long it's been exactly, how everyone is doing, if they're all okay. Somehow, asking Kenta any of it feels like admitting defeat. So Way sits in silence and shivers a little in his short sleeves and ignores the growing ache of hunger in favour of watching the way Kenta drives out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't anticipate other drivers enough, has to hit the brakes harder than he should at times, but he's defensive when he needs to be and aggressive enough to make the lights when he should, so. Serviceable, at best.

----

and then ??? how long HAS it been. how is everyone? what is Pete's reaction? is he happy enough to have them both there that he can ignore the way they snipe at each other? (how long until he has to call in reinforcements)

#pit babe #my fic #I'm like obsessed with writing around Pete via Way & Kenta interacting #you could say Pete is like a mystery. perhaps. you could say...#he's an enigma.#anyway I will be spending the long weekend WRITING #and maybe one day getting high and playing the sims because that's one of the joys of being an adult

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