#they make it LOOK like I've never picked up a pencil goddamn!!

[camellcat]

these two are so hard to draw but I'm trying to learn (ᵕ„´- ワ -`„) !

[latibvles]

15 from the soft prompts with Willie/Brady?

YOUR HANDS ARE HEAVEN.

this one got longer than I planned for it to be so here's a read more (and it may go on AO3 after further editing/or maybe a little more in terms of length? who's to say. anyways—)

—

JUNE, 1944

Have you ever read The Odyssey? Sometimes I wonder if this is how Penelope felt waiting in Ithaca for Odysseus to return home. Waiting by the window, forlorn expression, keeping an eye on the sea. I promise there are no overly-pushy suitors waiting for me to pick a husband, but if there was, would that make you come back to me a little quicker?

All of that to say, I miss you. I don't like this kind of quiet. I prefer yours.

All my love, Wilhelmina

—

AUGUST, 1945

Her palms are slick with sweat by the time she pulls up to the house — after three laps around the neighborhood, hoping the repetition of it will help her think of something to say.

Unsurprisingly, her word bank is still empty.

There's a brief thought there, that she shouldn't have come at all. Maybe she should've stayed home, waited for him to come to her. I've spent the whole goddamn war waiting, she huffs almost indignantly, glancing at her face in the rear view mirror. She tucks a curl back into place, jaw set, trying to find the courage for what feels like the fifteenth time. How she was able to fly planes but is now drawing the line at ringing a doorbell is beyond her.

If he didn't want to see her, he wouldn't have written her back. Or he would've kept where he was staying to himself. He wouldn't have laid out in plain terms that it was just to figure out back pay, that he still wanted all the same things they'd talked about for the entirety of his imprisonment: a house somewhere nice, and a steady job.

She always needed to see him in order to know that he was okay. It's been that way since he nearly flew into occupied France.

Willie sighs, wiping her hands on her skirt and eyeing herself in the rear view mirror once again. She's certain she looked odd, breezing past the counter at the gas station and bee-lining into the bathroom to see what damage a nearly four-hour car ride had done to her. Leaving again without a word, with the creases in her uniform mostly smoothed out and doing what she could with the unruly curling flyaways.

Not much she could do about it now. Her chest tightens with a weird yearning for the times when Fern and June could turn their Nissen Hut into a damn salon.

She swallows hard as she forces herself out of the car and up the neat, paved path to the front door. The flowers and shrubs are all well-kept and neatly aligned beneath the windows, and she braces herself before using the ornate metal door-knocker.

It feels like the longest two minutes of Willie's life. Longer than the wait when they'd taxi on the runway before takeoff.

The first thing she notices about the woman is her eyes — because they're John's eyes, or rather, John has her eyes. That blue that Willie could never quite capture with colored pencils. Her hair is a warm brown and pulled from her gracefully-aged face that reminds her of her own mother's: crows feet and smile lines, a few grays streaking her hair. She has an apron on, over her pale yellow dress.

"Hello?" Just the confused nature of her tone makes heat race up Willie's neck, and she has half a mind to bolt. She doesn't though.

"I-I'm uh…" she's faltering here. "Wilhelmina." Mrs. Brady's brows raise up towards her hairline. Willie's mouth feels dry. "I'm John's…" Had he mentioned her? How was she meant to do this. Her parents knew who he was, what he meant to her. Hell, her mother knew it before she did — embarrassingly enough.

It takes a minute for the recognition to settle into her world-worn features.

"Oh…Oh! Willie! He didn't mention you were visiting. Please, come in!" She breaks out into a smile, effortlessly warm as she moves out of the way. Still, Willie hesitates before stepping into the space entirely.

She doesn't know what she expected, and yet it's exactly what she was expecting. A couple candles on the mantle on the fireplace, a few pictures of little boys with strikingly similar faces, hung up on the walls. It's quiet, homey, shoes lined up by the door and Willie looks back at Mrs. Brady, self-conscious again.

"Do you want me to..?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

She's toeing off her shoes, leaving her in socks on spotless wooden floors as Mrs. Brady urges her to sit on their floral couches, assuring her that she'll go get him before making her way up the stairs a little further down the hallway, that breaks off the living room.

Her knee is bouncing restlessly as she tries to grapple with herself, breathing in and out and counting the seconds it takes to do each. Five in, five out, she's gripping the end of her skirt to keep from picking at her hands, which after two years overseas, have finally started to heal.

She hears footsteps making their way down the stairs, has half a mind to thank Mrs. Brady for her time and to just tell John she stopped by, but she doesn't get the chance.

"Willie?"

Her gaze snaps up to meet his. He's so much thinner than when she last saw him, when she was laying in that hospital bed half-awake and he'd seared a kiss to the spot between her brows, murmuring that he'd be back tomorrow, after the mission. That he'd bring her sketchbook, too. That he loved her. He'd said that too and she'd been too tired and incoherent to say it back.

Willie stands up, nearly smacking her knees against the coffee table.

"Hi, John," she manages a smile, even though her throat's closing up something fierce.

"You… you came? I mean— you—"

"Yeah," Willie sniffs, her eyes stinging. She laughs a little, a wet sound. "Yeah I did. I— I missed you."

They're staring at each other now. There's a shine to his eyes that she can see even from here, and it almost reminds her of Regensburg. That boyishness that overtakes him and takes years off his face, makes him look innocent and soft and unmarred by everything around them.

She's crossing the threshold after that without another word, arms looping around his middle and he practically hunches over, squeezing tight. She can feel him burying his face in the crook of her neck, can feel how they're both shaking bad. And she can't help but laugh into his shoulder, into the wool sweater he's wearing that's scratchy in the way all things made with love are.

He's so skinny and yet so warm and alive. She doesn't know who starts crying into the other person first, him or her, but it doesn't matter now.

"I had to see you," she manages through fabric and sniffles. "I had to know you were—"

"I know," he assures, squeezing like she might dissolve if he doesn't hang on tight. "I'm- I'm okay now."

There's that addendum. Okay now, like he wasn't before. And she has half a mind to ask if it's because of her here now. But he lifts his head from where he'd been hiding in the crook of her neck to kiss her temple. The soft affection is so familiar that she's painfully aware of just how long she's gone without it, without him. His gaze falls to the oak leaves on her collar. His smile just grows — bright and warm and lighting up the impossible blue of his eyes.

"You're staying for dinner, right?"

Damn the first impression it may make, she's grabbing his face to kiss him instead of entertaining that with an answer.

[qvid-pro-qvo]

okay but what about sereshace + somebody having to study for some kind of exam + whatever song applies from your shuffle 💜 (pls & thank you)

6. top of my school - katherine lynn-rose. this got long, sorry, but hey, full fic?

And some people know that they're destined to fly I'll go all out Ace every test No doubt Outdo all the rest Don't pout Or settle for second best

Bradley hasn't heard from Jake in a while. And while normally it wouldn't be an issue, there's a nagging feeling in the back of his head that tells him it might be good to check on him.

Of course, he won't admit to anyone that's what he's doing at 10:00 PM on a Friday. As far as most people are concerned, him and Jake are bitter rivals, and Bradley doesn't contradict them. They have been rivals, seated on opposite ends of every class they've shared since the freshman year. While he and Natasha Trace found an alliance in each other (mostly due to their intense love of Red Bull and flight mechanics), he and Jake seemed to only claw at each other's throats, much to Nat's chagrin.

"Boys, you're both pretty," she'd often lament when the inevitable group projects paired them together (never by choice, of course), "and I've got a caffeine headache. Please, please, shut up and pick a variable."

But something changed this year. Maybe it was the level of coursework and the shared realization that any focus on a competition only took away from the fact that their lives were now destined to suck. Maybe it was the group projects, too many nights crashing on each other's couches after arguing about propulsion systems to truly hate each other. Maybe it was Natasha, who despite their constant bickering seemed to like the both of them (and yet would never admit it, even to their faces).

Anyway, Bradley feels the need to check on Jake Seresin. He hasn't gotten a text from him all day (not even one bragging about solving the practice set), and so by 10:00 his worry has built to uncomfortable levels. He texts Natasha, too, to see if she's heard from him, but her response is a quick you're worried, too? and a promise to meet him in the engineering library.

They get there at around 10:30. Backpacks shouldered, food in hand. With a shared look the two of them scale the stairs, moving in sync to the spot that started off at Bradley's and then Nat and Bradley's and then Jake, Nat, and Bradley's.

And of course, as expected, there he is. Jake Seresin. In his spot. In their spot.

Looking... rough.

The grip on his pencil is white knuckled as he mouths out formulas. His punching at the calculator is aggressive, and Bradley winces as he curses and shoves it aside. A few moments later, the two of them watch as he writes down something, erases it furiously, and then shoves the paper aside with... force.

Bradley has an inkling that after class Jake came straight here. Crumpled paper is piled up in the trashcan by their table, and the whiteboards look less than white with the amount of rubbed out dry erase. He recognizes the problem, the one assigned earlier that day. The one they said they'd work on together tomorrow.

"Seresin?" he calls out. No response.

"Jake?" Natasha says, a little louder. Still no answer.

Jake doesn't even look up from the table. His brow is furrowed so intensely that Bradley shares another look with Nat as they listen to the squeak of the Expo marker. Her eyes narrow at him, before walking up and placing the bag of food on the table right over Jake's paper.

"Evening, hotshot," she says, as he's jolted from his concentration. "Food break?"

The sudden movement makes Jake jump, and he looks up with anger at them. "What the fuck, Trace?" he snaps, moving the food off of his paper. "You're gonna get burger grease on my goddamn problem set."

"Our problem set, don't be selfish," Bradley retorts, smirking.

"I got a head start, Bradshaw, all right?" Jake grumbles, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Wanted to look it over. My... head didn't quite wrap around..."

And then he clams up. Mouth slams shut, and he hunkers down. Avoids their gaze. Bradley sees the bags under his eyes, anyway.

"I thought we said we'd get it done tomorrow," Natasha asks him, moving to sit at the table and poking at him. "What happened to teamwork makes the dream work?"

"Yeah, and ignoring the fact that Natasha dreams about us," Bradley jokes, which earns him a sharp kick in the shin, "it seems straightforward, right? If we all put our heads together..."

Immediately Jake seems to deflate, and Bradley realizes just how much his foot has gone in his mouth when Natasha glares at him. "I mean, it's certainly advanced -"

"Whatever," Jake says, shoving back from the table, away from them. His hand tosses his pencil onto it. "Can you guys just leave me alone?"

"We can help," Natasha counters, pushing closer to him. Bradley steps closer to, even as Jake scowls at him. "We can. What part doesn't make sense?"

"Trace -"

"Seresin. Just spill. What don't you understand?"

And then... something cracks. Jake's eyes blink at her, and then Bradley, and he squirms in his seat for a second before biting his lower lip.

"All of it. I don't. I don't get any of it. I... I don't get astrodynamics. It's... it's hard."

It's said with such defeat - like it's the worst thing he could've admitted to them. A shame seems to spread to every part of his body, as he slumps and avoids their gaze, fingers gripping his own sweatshirt with the intensity he held on the pencil.

There's a guilt that lingers in Bradley's gut, as he looks from Jake to Nat to Jake again. How did they not realize how much Jake was struggling? Sure, he always seemed to stay later in class, never seemed satisfied at the end of study sessions, but that was just Jake. Always chasing the goal, always pushing for the top spot. Jake worked and grinded and made it look easy.

And maybe that was the problem - looks can be deceiving.

Finally, Bradley sits down on the other side of Jake. Sighs before nudging the food to him.

"Of course it's hard," he finally tells Jake, whose brow furrows again. "It's a 4000-level course. It's meant to be. It's fucking tough, and Dr. Simpson is an ass. But if you're having trouble, Nat and I can help. You don't have to struggle through it alone. God knows I need all the help I can get... sometimes."

Jake raises a brow at him. "You both hit the top of the curve every time. When have you ever not gotten it by slamming your head into it, Bradshaw?"

Bradley shrugs. "I mean. We both have had struggles. Nat really hated Thermodynamics. Sophomore year was rough."

"And you should've seen how much he pulled out his hair during Solid Mechanics," Natasha says, smirking toward Bradley. "Never shaved because of stress and now we're both stuck with that ridiculous -"

"Hey!" Bradley yelps. Kicks at her, and ends up hitting Jake, who jumps up as Nat chuckles and leans back, satisfied.

But it works. Finally Jake smiles. The tension in his shoulders drops. The furrow between his brows loosens, and Bradley can't help but notice the way that smile lines seem to suit him so much better. "Stuck, huh?" he asks, raising a brow at them. "With both of you?"

"Yup," Nat says, popping the 'p'. "Like glue."

"Both of you are certainly tacky," Jake shoots back, which earns him a pinch from Nat and a snort from Bradley.

"Bad jokes mean you don't get the spicy fries," Natasha tells him, smiling at Bradley as he reaches for Jake's paper, looking over his work. She starts to dig in the bag, passing out the food to all three of them. "Ready to eat?"

"Don't tell me you're staying," Jake says, mouth falling open.

"No more peace and quiet. We're beating astrodynamics into submission," Bradley says firmly. He offers over a fry from his own bag. "Unless you... really want us to go."

And when Jake smiles, it's a full grin. Leans forward and eats the fry straight from Bradley's fingers. "Nope," he says. Popping the 'p'. "You're both stuck with me, too."

"Good," Bradley says. "Now shut up and eat your burger."

[rhysismydaddy]

Prisoner's Game Pt. 1 (Rowaelin)

Synopsis: Aelin Galathynius never thought of herself as a vengeful woman. Until her boyfriend not only testifies, but leads a case against her that lands her in prison for the rest of her life. Post I-Love-You's. He didn't believe her, and she's about to show him that not only is she innocent, he made the worst mistake of his life betting against her. To a woman with nothing but time, life's just a game, after all.

The cinderblock wall dug into her back uncomfortably as she reclined against it, the air in the room was stale, and she hadn't showered in two days. By any measurement, Aelin Galathynius was far from her best.

And yet she somehow managed to look perfectly at ease--happy even--as she lounged in her cell, toying with the ends of her too-long hair.

It was a ruse, of course, just a little trick to piss off the man currently stomping into her space. By the flare of Rowan Whitehorn's eyes, it worked.

"Hello, Rowan," she greeted pleasantly, giving him a little smile and acting like it wasn't taking everything in her not to use the makeshift knife under her pillow to gut him like the spineless coward he was.

She could tell, even across her 8x12 cell, that he was gritting his teeth and fighting a similar action.

The heel of his expensive Italian loafers clicked as he walked across the space to the small table and took a seat at the steel chair in front of it. He tried to push it out further, but stopped when he realized it was bolted to the floor.

"Aelin," he said back, none of the so-obvious anger he was feeling present in his voice. "Been a long time."

Eight years, six months, three weeks, two days, and thirteen hours.

Not that she was counting or anything.

She nodded her agreement, reclining further on the bed and crossing her legs as if she was in the finest dress she owned, not a faded orange jumpsuit.

"What brings you to my side of town, Rowan? Here to finally switch sides and represent me?"

Dressed in a two-thousand dollar suit and tie, hair perfectly gelled back, he looked like he was successful a lawyer meeting with a wealthy client, but they both knew the last thing he'd ever do was work for her.

"You know why I'm here."

She did indeed, but she still said, "I must be exceptionally smart to know why you've come all the way here-"

"Cut the shit," he snapped, finally losing a bit of his cool. He regained it quickly, though, and continued, "I want to know how you did it."

She frowned at her split ends. "Did what?"

Rowan waited until she looked at him to respond. "You know what."

Sighing so deeply it should've rattled the walls, she said, "I can't believe I've spent the last eight years thinking you underestimated my intelligence. You clearly think I'm some sort of oracle genius."

Rowan mimicked her sigh, and she bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

Probably trying to stall, he spent a moment looking at her cell, at the completely bare walls and lack of photographs. All she had was the tally marks drawn in pencil on one wall and a dusty chess set sitting on the table.

When he'd taken inventory of those two things, he sat and just looked at her.

It was clear she wouldn't admit to knowing exactly why he sat in front of her, and he was simply putting off being the one to fold.

Predictable, proud little man.

Eventually, he took his loss and said, "I want to know how you managed to rob me from inside the most secure prison in Rifthold."

She smiled, a full, undulated smile she hadn't used in a long time.

She'd been planning this moment since the day the bars had locked behind her, and it felt damn good to finally see it come to fruition.

According to what she'd heard, definitely not what she knew from personal experience, the private vault in Rowan's apartment had been broken into. Apparently, only one thing was missing: an antique dagger that had been handed down in the family and was now worth over a million bucks.

"Why do you think it was me?" she asked, still smiling.

He gritted his teeth some more, and she internally snickered at the idea he'd have permanent tooth damage because of her. Something else to remember her by.

Green eyes spitting flames at her, he growled, "You left a goddamn business card."

Aelin forced her eyes up to the empty bed above her head, trying her hardest not to laugh. "Maybe I'm being framed?"

"Your fingerprints were on it."

She did laugh then, then laughed some more when his eyes narrowed. He looked like he was about to strangle her. "Rowan, in case you haven't noticed, I'm incarcerated."

She gestured around them to her cell to prove her point.

The bastard just smiled.

Of course he knows that, she thought bitterly, forcing her hand back to her lap and away from where it'd started to creep toward the pillow.

"So how would I rob you?" she asked, getting her mind back on track.

"That's what you're going to tell me," he demanded angrily. "I want to know how you got out of here, got all the way across Rifthold, broke into my apartment, and stole from me without any surveillance camera picking it up."

Aelin ran a hand through her hair, fluffing it just right. When she caught sight of the impatience on his face, she fluffed it some more and readjusted the thin jacket on her shoulders.

It was always too damn cold in this place. She hadn't been warm in almost nine years.

Because of him.

Just for that, she fluffed her hair some more.

Then she said simply, "I didn't."

"Stop lying!" he shouted at her, eyes flashing.

She wasn't, but that was besides the point.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes like he'd won. "I got my cousin to-"

"Aedion spent the night in Wendlyn. His travel is verified, and there are at least a hundred eye witnesses that witnessed him singing karaoke all night. Stop. Fucking. Lying."

Once again, she wasn't lying.

Aedion sure as hell hadn't been in Wendlyn last night. She'd just wanted to make sure his alibi was air-tight as planned.

Sighing again, she asked, "Rowan, even if I did do it, why the hell would I tell you about it?"

His jaw worked for a moment, and she could tell whatever he was about to say was difficult for him. "I'll get time off your sentence if you tell me what you've done with it."

She tried not to laugh, but she couldn't help it.

It burst out of her, full and uncontrollable, and she flopped over on the dirty mattress and howled for a good few minutes.

He glared at her, looking for all the world like he was experiencing a portion of the rage she was made of, but regardless of the threat in his eyes, she took her time composing herself.

"I'm serving ten consecutive life sentences, you idiot."

One for each and every one of her "victims."

"I'll make it nine," he offered generously.

"Even if I was a cat, that'd still leave me dying in a prison cell. Offer me something else."

He just glared at her, unwilling to give her anything she could actually use or want. Just like she'd expected.

"That's what I thought. So no, Rowan Whitehorn, I'm not accepting your little deal. You can think I robbed you all you want; hell, you can even know, in your famous gut, that I did it." She tilted her head, a cruel smile filling her lips. "But it isn't about what you believe, it's about what you can prove. Isn't that right?"

His eyes shuttered at the words, and just like that, they were sucked into the memory of all those years ago.

~Eight years ago~

~Rowan~

Rowan rolled over, edging away from the woman next to him carefully as to not wake her.

Her hair was spread out on his chest, her soft hand was on his stomach, and her leg was draped over his. By all accounts, she was all over him.

And it felt so fucking good.

He'd never met anyone like Aelin before. Anyone so full of life, so hilariously open.

It was like she was constantly on fire, flitting from one place to the next with endless energy and jabs about him being too old and slow.

"What are you going?" she murmured, nails digging in slightly to keep him where he was.

"To get some water. Go back to sleep."

He leaned down and kissed her brow, and she sighed happily and rolled over. Like a total cliché, he watched her sleep for a moment, trying to get his feelings under control.

They'd been seeing each other for less than a year, but he couldn't imagine his life without her. He was in love with her, and if the way she acted and smiled around him was any indication, she loved him, too.

He ran a thumb over her cheekbone, smiling when she tilted her face into his touch.

He was whipped, and he didn't even care.

Rowan shook his head at himself, pulled on a pair of boxers, padded to the kitchen, and held a glass under the faucet.

Then frowned as it sputtered.

He figured he'd at least make himself useful, knowing damn well she would never agree to call the plumber when she could "figure out how to fix it herself on Youtube."

So he knelt down in her kitchen and opened the cabinet door, trying to see what the problem with the pipe was.

Except he never got that far.

His eyes got stuck on the piece of paper sticking out under a false piece of wood covering the back panel.

Knowing it was wrong to pry but somehow unable to stop himself, he tugged the paper loose.

Then fell backwards to his ass, heart hammering and brain spinning as he read it over and over again.

The list of names wasn't long, but all ten of the people on it were highly distinguished members of society.

And they were all dead.

He wouldn't know that, since the death of the last person on the list wasn't even public record yet, but he was the attorney working with the police to find the killer.

Why did she have this list?

And what did the numbers next to the names mean?

One way or another, he knew he had to find out. He also knew he couldn't ask her. He was in too deep, too unbiased to know whether or not she was lying.

He didn't trust himself with her, so he'd have to go the traditional route.

He took a picture of the paper quickly, tucking it back where he'd found it. He snuck back in the room to get dressed, leaving her a note he had to go to work.

He thought he was going to be sick as he left her apartment, a feeling suspiciously similar to dread coiling in his stomach.

There was only one way she could know that last name, only one explanation that made sense.

But he had to know for sure. Had to know if he'd been an idiot this past year; an idiot who'd spent almost every night sleeping next to the killer he'd been searching for.

So he started investigating his girlfriend.

Six days later, he found the security deposit boxes and the murder weapons inside, still covered in dried blood that would be matched to the victims. All with Aelin's prints on them.

Two days after that, the woman he'd thought was the love of his life was arrested on ten counts of murder.

Despite the tears she shed, despite the promises she made to him, despite the love she claimed to have for him, Rowan told the cops everything.

Even though he couldn't imagine her killing anyone.

"It doesn't matter what I believe, it matters what I can prove."

That was the last thing he'd said to her, right as she was being dragged out of the court room and yelling at him to believe her.

The truth of the matter was that when it came down to it, he didn't trust her enough. The facts were against her, everyone on the jury had been against her, and in the end, Rowan was too.

~Present~

~Aelin~

Rowan shook his head, almost like he needed to clear it from the memory they'd obviously both been immersed in, and she smiled.

She hoped what happened all those years ago still haunted him, hoped he went to sleep at night thinking about her and the betrayal he'd served to her on a silver platter.

The first year of her sentence, she was so lost in emotion--in the rage and confusion and deep, deep hurt--that she couldn't bring herself to do anything.

He hadn't even bothered to ask her first. That's what had hurt the worst.

He'd seen that stupid, stupid list and had jumped to the first conclusion possible.

She knew it had looked bad, had looked like she was guilty, but she'd thought that if the worst happened, he'd at least ask her to explain before slapping the cuffs on her.

But he hadn't. She'd gone to prison, and his career had exploded into stardom from the success of the case.

"See, Rowan, when you refused to accept any other explanation other than the easy one, you made a mistake. Because I didn't kill those people."

He rolled his eyes. "Aelin-"

"And I'm not only going to prove it," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "I'm going to ruin your precious little life while I do it. Just like you did mine."

She stood, put a hand on the steel table, and leaned over him.

"If you want it to stop, all you have to do is drop these bullshit murder charges and issue a public apology for locking me up in the first place."

He stood too, so close his loafers brushed the toe of her dusty, prison issued sneakers.

"That's never going to happen," he promised, voice uncompromising and angry.

Aelin smiled, having predicted his reaction down to the facial expression.

His pride, she'd decided, would be the first thing to go.

She reached around him to slide the pawn on the chess board forward, leaned in even further, and whispered, "Let the game begin, then."

~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2

@perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @live-the-fangirl-life @ireallyshouldsleeprn @highqueenofelfhame @gracie-rosee @rowaelinismyotp @nahthanks @ghostlyrose2 @lovemollywho @inardour @tillyrubes10 @claralady @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @thegoddessofyou @awesomelena555 @booksofthemoon @greerlunna @jlinez @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

[slothspaghettiwrites]

Oh but what if there's a new lawyer in town that makes Lee's life difficult?

She dismisses his arrests and such.

They developed a hate for each other, which gets worse when they start to hate fuck all the time.

I've never written about hate fucking, but who boy I am gonna try now 😂

Warnings: smutty mcsmutty, mean names, swearing, sheriff daddy's fat cock, spanking

"Fuck, harder," you moaned, looking at Lee's face in the mirror.

He groaned, almost like a snarl, at your command and picked up his pace, thrusting harder and yanking your hips back each time. You watched him through the mirror, watched how his face turned red and sweat formed on his hairline. His uniform was rumbled, trousers around his ankles. You own blouse was ripped open and your pencil skirt punched up at your waist. With each smack of skin, the more your body shook with need.

"Shit," he groaned. "Fuckin' whore, you already gonna cum on my dick? Fucking slut for a fat cock." He smacked your ass hard, "ya have one good day in court and act like ya fuckin' own the place. Well darlin' I'm the fuckin' law 'round here."

He smacked you again and again and all you could do was moan louder and louder. Your pussy clenched around his cock as you came and Lee picked up his pace to chase his own release.

"Fuck you," you whimpered, struggling to hold yourself up at the sink as the man you hate most in the world railed into you.

"What was that darlin', cum inside me?"

"I swear to god you fucking piece of shit if you do that-"

"You'll what, ya goddamn slut? What the fuck are you gonna do about it?"

There was a flash of fear across your face and you struggled to meet Lee's gaze. With that, he came across your ass, spreading his cum across each cheek.

"Fuckin' bastard," you seethed, glaring at Lee.

"Yeah, and you're a goddamn whore, don't you have a deposition to get to?"

[waka-chan-out]

Hey, it's Fay!

Happy 700 bestie!!!! You know what time it is? Time for your milestone Ushijima fic! (I did take some inspiration from your pet name tag)

You and Ushijima are coworkers. You're not that close. You've got a pretty professional relationship, but he laughs whenever you make a joke and sometimes he'll bring you a drink when he knows you've been working hard.

And yeah, it's no secret, he's extremely handsome. He's solid and well-built under the work shirts that hug tight over his broad chest and shoulders. At the end of the workday, you might catch him with his sleeves rolled up, tie loose, biting his lip in concentration as he looks over some papers. You have a little workplace crush on him, but that's all it is, its never going to come to anything.

You're staying late one day looking over your work for the hundredth time.

"Oh." A deep voice says from the door to your office. "I thought I was the last one here." You look up to see Ushijima, brow furrowed.

You look at the clock on the wall. "Oh, god, it's later than I thought. I'd better get going."

He nods. "I was just leaving. I'll walk with you."

You gather your things and shoot him a smile as you walk past him to the elevators.

"So." He starts. You stop and turn to look at him. "Do you... have dinner plans?"

"Not really, why?"

He runs a hand through his hair in a reflexive gesture. "Well I just- I just thought maybe you and I could grab something to eat."

The two of you step into the elevator and the doors shut on the office. You don't want to make any assumptions. Coworkers got dinner all the time, it didn't have to mean anything. "What did you have in mind?"

He's silent. "I didn't really think it through this far."

That startles a laugh out of you. "Well there's a great pizza place near-"

The elevator jerks and you lose your balance, you fall into Ushijima and the two of you fall to the ground, you on top of him. It doesn't feel very awkward, or even strange. It's a weird thing to thing but you kind of fit like this, in this position. If he notices that you're using him as a mattress he doesn't say anything, he's too busy staring up at the lights, which have gone red. "The elevator stopped."

His eyes flicked back to you and you became increasingly aware that you were lying on top of him. You scrambled to roll off of him so that you were on your back next to him. "Sorry, Ushijima-"

He wraps a large hand around your wrist "Call me Wakatoshi. Please."

"Okay." You turn to smile at him. "Wakatoshi." You pull your phone out of your pocket and hold it above your head. "I've got reception."

The call with emergency services is short and unremarkable, and you come out of it with the news that you're going to have to wait at least an hour.

Ushijima, standing against the back wall,, lets out a dark chuckle, then a switch flips and he's laughing. He laughs with his whole body, his shoulders shake, he throws his head back, revealing the long line of his neck. He's infectious, suddenly the two of you are laughing and you have no idea why.

He's still laughing, he holds out a hand as if to steady himself, and it ends up on your shoulder, you feel the warmth of his touch, the gentleness of his hand. "I'm sorry, its just. I finally get up the courage to ask you to dinner, and you almost say yes. And then the elevator just breaks!"

That sets you off again, you're just thinking about how ridiculous this all is. You're both leaning on each other because you're both laughing too hard to hold yourselves up.

As the laughter winds down, something strikes

"Why did you have to get up the courage to ask me to dinner?" You say, slowly piecing out the answer in your head. Hope rises brightly in your chest.

He looks at you, neither of you have moved away. "I like you. A lot. I think you're amazing, and I know that you probably don't feel the same way, but-"

You grab him by the tie and pull him closer to you, halfway through the motion, he surges forward and your lips meet. He's so gentle. His hands find either side of your face. You tilt your head, press your lips together a little harder and he takes the direction, kissing you a little rougher. You nip at his lower lip and the sound he makes, a low growl, runs down your whole body, you feel it in your fingers, you feel it in your toes, you feel it pooling warmly in your stomach.

The two of you come up for air. Wakatoshi "I'm sorry."

You lean your foreheads together "why the hell would you be sorry for that?"

"This wasn't how I planned it, I was gonna take you to dinner, tell you all about how I felt.

You shrug. "I don't need it. I like you. I really do. Have for a while actually."

"Really?"

You smile. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you, about this. Every time you'd bring me something to drink, or smile when I said something stupid."

"What did you think about?"

"Well, mainly this," you lean up to place a slow, deep kiss on his lips. "And other things."

"What kind of other things?"

"Lots of things." Your hands reach down to unbuckle his belt. "You, earing me out under my desk..." you palm him through his boxers and he gasps. "Ripping those goddamn work shirts off you..."

You feel him hardening under your palm. He clears his throat. "I have. Um. There's a condom in my wallet." He rustles around in his pocket and retrieves it.

You lean your head back and raise an eyebrow as you take the foil square from his fingers. "Hoping for the best this morning?"

He shrugs. "I'm an optimist."

You step back and away from him, he moves to follow but you shake your head and push him backwards. He frowns, confused, but moves where you put him. You lean back against the side wall of the elevator. "Strip."

His eyes go dark with lust, and he wastes no time in ridding himself of his shirt and slacks. He stands there in his boxers.

"All the way."

He pulls them off and his cock springs free, hard and so much bigger than you'd expected.

"Jesus christ." You say before you can stop yourself, and he smiles.

"I know. You don't have to-" he moans into your mouth as you roll the condom on and stroke him slowly.

"Get on your back," you command. "I'm going to ride you, is that alright?"

"Yes!" He clears his throat. "Yes."

Your hand closes tighter around his cock and he whimpers. "Yes...?"

"Yes ma'am."

You could get off on those two words alone. He sits on his discarded clothes and looks up at you, he reaches under your pencil skirt to feel the fabric between your legs. "Oh." He says "you're wet."

He moves the fabric aside to slide a rough but tender finger across your folds.

You gently move his hand away and pull your panties off under your skirt to afford him better access. His hands find your hips, and he rolls up the skirt, leaving your legs bare. "Come here, baby," and he pulls you down toward him.

Together, you line each other up, and when you sink down onto him, you feel like he was made for you. You feel so full. You move apart and then sink together again. "Oh god. Ushi- fuck. You feel so good -toshi, oh!"

You roll your hips and he tosses his head back with a cry. You pick up the pace, and the sound get louder and more intense.

"Toshi," you moan. "I'm close."

His hand comes between you to circle your clit. Your feel yourself clenching around him with a shout, and him bucking up into you, coming, only moments later.

You collapse on to him, letting yourself appreciate how good it feels this time.

"So. That's a yes to dinner?"

You laugh and feel his heartbeat against your chest. "That’s a yes to dinner."

(I hope you enjoyed this! Congrats again!!! You deserve all this and more! (P.s. seeing my name on the masterlist made my heart so happy. I saw it and I thought I was hallucinating. I'm really happy to have made such an impact on you))

FAAAYYYYYYY!!!!!!

i think you can read my mind because i’m such a whore for the coworkers to lovers trope i think i’m going to go insane. and i had to physically set my phone down at that “yes ma’am.” i swear to god you are going to be the death of me.

thank you so much and of course you’re on the list! people (((mostly me!!!!))) have really liked everything you’ve sent in so far and i know i definitely don’t want to lose these so onto the masterlist they go :) god damn. idk what i did to deserve such high quality content in my inbox but i am GRATEFUL.

[lousimusician]

Faking It

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Request: Ik you're busy working on sex pollen right now but when you could could you do one where the reader has never orgasmed with any of their SO and when they start having sex/dating peter they dont want to make him feel bad so they just fake it? And somehow peter finds out the truth and he just turns super dom and makes her cum like....a lot? Thanks! I love your writing so much!

A/N: I fell in love with this request the second I saw it omgggg, it's so goooood. Thank you to the anon who requested this, I hope I did it justice lol. I also wasn't planning to write whole ass fics for the requests and make them more like blurbs or something, but some of your guy's ideas are so good I couldn't help myself.

Warning: Smuttttt, Oral (fem recieving), language, Peter and the reader are both 18

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Peter had really just been passing through when he overheard the conversation that made his stomach twist with shame and embarrassment.

It had to be around midnight when Peter just finished patrolling Queens and he decided to stop by his girlfriend's apartment for a few minutes.

Your window was open, and just as Peter was about to crawl through was when he heard it.

You were facetiming MJ while laying on your bed, and the two of you seemed to be in deep conversation, when he heard her say, "So you've been faking it this whole time?"

Peter stopped, interest piqued to find out what exactly you had been faking.

You groaned and tugged on your hair. "Yes."

"Is he that bad or is there another reason?" MJ asked mindlessly while she worked on her homework.

"No he's good, it's me. I just- I have a hard time.. y'know..-"

"Orgasming?"

You groaned again. "I hate this conversation."

MJ put her hands up in surrender. "Hey, you were the one that wanted to have this sex talk."

You rolled your eyes. "Anyway, I think I'm just scared I won't be able to and then he'll be all embarrassed and then I'll be embarrassed, so I... fake it. And it wouldn't be the first time either, I did the same with Ian and Devin."

"And Peter has no idea?" MJ asked, looking up from her homework.

"Well I hate to brag but by the time I started dating Peter I got very good at faking it." You said pathetically.

"(Y/N) that is the saddest thing I've ever heard, don't worry you're not bragging." She responded sarcastically.

"Yeah, I know. What do you think I should do? I just feel so guilty."

MJ shrugged her shoulders. "Don't know man. Just talk to him I guess, how long can you go pretending anyway."

You shook your head. "Yeah... I'm just- I'm gonna go to bed now, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"See ya." MJ said before ending the call.

Peter backed away from your window, but lingered on the wall as everything you and MJ said sunk in.

And Peter didn't know how to feel anything other than embarrassed and betrayed.

You faked it,

Every. Single. Time.

And Peter began replaying every time the two of you had sex.

The first time you two were together, to when you had done it in the janitors closet, to when you told each other that you loved each other, to even just last night.

How had he never noticed before.

Peter punched the wall in frustration, before swinging back to his own apartment.

-----

"Hey Peter." You greeted your boyfriend the next morning at school, after arriving at his locker.

Upon hearing and seeing you Peter immediately remembered the anger he felt last night, so with gritted teeth and a clenched jaw responded with a simple, "Hey."

You furrowed your eyebrows at his tone but ignored it anyway. "So are we still hanging out later."

"Sure." He said without looking at you.

"Oookay?" You said confused by his attitude. "I'll talk to you at lunch then." You said, backing away before heading to your own class.

The rest of the day had gone by in a similar fashion. Peter was very off and you couldn't figure out why, except for that it had to be something with you because he was only acting coldly towards you.

The walk to his place with him after school was quiet and tense, and it was setting you on edge.

You tried to fill the silence with idle conversation but when his responses came off as less than interested, you finally gave up all together. And even when you reached his apartment, the two of you went straight to the bedroom silently save for the greetings to Aunt May.

The second Peter stepped into the bedroom he threw his bag down next to his desk and immediately pulled his homework out, and started on it even though it was a Friday, further proving to you that he was ignoring you.

Meanwhile, you on the other hand, decided to sit on his bed without a word.

You pulled out your phone and occupied your time with the device. 

And that was how the night slowly progressed. You shooting glances at him, while Peter pretended not to notice as he continued his homework.

It wasn't until May popped in to tell you two that she was going out for a few hours with her friends that you finally said something.

"...Peter?" You asked quietly, and all you recieved was a hum in response. "Are you mad?"

Peter continued writing, "No." He said simply but with a bite that told you he was definitely angry.

"Did I do something?"

"No." He said again, jaw clenching.

"If you don't tell me, I can't fix it."

Peter stopped writing and began tapping his pencil against his paper, trying to figure out what to say. "...You've been faking it." He said as if the words burned his tongue, gaze fixed on the textbook in front of him.

You sat up on your knees, jaw dropped and eyebrows furrowed. "H-how-?"

"I went to stop by your place last night-"

"Y-you heard." You stuttered out in a small voice, shame seeping into your conscious.

"Yeah I heard." He said bitterly. "Did you really fake it every time?" He finally looked at you.

You gaped at him, torn between telling the truth and lying but the look he gave you told you it would be wisest to tell the truth. "...I did."

The pencil in his hand snapped.

"P-Peter I'm so sorry, I was just so embarrassed-"

"Oh you're embarrassed?" He asked sarcastically. "Imagine how I feel knowing that everytime I slept with my girlfriend I've never been able to make her cum."

"No! Peter it's really not your fault. The last two guys I dated were never able to make me cum either."

"Great, now I'm like those two assholes." He muttered, standing up.

You shot up off the bed, stepping closer to Peter. You placed your hands on his cheeks so he would give you his undivided attention. "Listen to me Peter." You said sternly. "I love you so much and I am sorry I never told you. You are so amazing in every way and if I'm being completely honest...I've never been able to make myself cum eith-"

You were roughly cut off by Peter's lips crashing against yours. Your hands fell to his chest, while one of his gripped your jaw firmly and the other tightly held your hip. "Stop talking." He muttered, his lips going to your neck.

"W-what?" You asked breathlessly.

"I said stop talking." He repeated more firmly this time. He picked you up and tossed you onto the bed, raising a hand to shoot a web at the door to keep it locked in case May came back early.

Peter moved on top of you now, leaning back. "This is how it's gonna go, I'm gonna do whatever it takes to make you cu-"

"But Pete-"

"I'm speaking now." 

"S-sorry." You said, biting your lip.

"I'm going to make you cum alright?" He said pulling off his sweater, "And you're going to communicate with me this time to make sure- take off your shirt." You did as he said, taking your bra off too. "To make sure you do cum, and you're not going to fake it okay?"

You nodded profusely.

"Good. Now, you can talk." He said as his hands began undoing your jeans.

"..What if I can't though." You whimpered.

"That's why you're going to talk to me, princess." Peter said gently, voice losing its roughness at seeing how worried you were. He pulled your jeans off your legs. "You're going to tell me exactly what you need, and I'm going to re-learn everything about your body." Peter pulled off your panties next, leaving you completely naked. "...Grab the headboard for a second." He said, an idea coming to mind.

You cocked an eyebrow but did as he said anyway and jumped in surprise when he webbed your hands together. 

You turned your head, looking at your hands, before looking back to Peter with a confused expression.

"I want the only thing you focus on to be on what I'm doing." He said, moving down your body so he was situated between your thighs.

He pulled your legs over his shoulders and you struggled to look down at him because of your bound hands. Without warning Peter flattened his tongue going from the bottom of your slit to the top, making you throw your head back into the pillow with a moan. 

He did the same thing again only this time his lips latched onto your clit.

"Ahh~ fuck." You hissed.

His mouth worked against you until you were a whimpering mess, your hips beginning to grind against his face desperately, making him bring an arm up to pin you to the bed.

He knew you needed more but he wanted to hear it from you first so he pulled away and muttered. "Start talking princess." Before latching his lips back onto your clit.

"Y-your fingers." You stuttered. 

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure down your spine. Peter brought his free hand to your pussy and slid a finger in easily due to how wet you were.

His tongue worked your clit as he started thrusting and curling a finger into you.

And it felt good, it always felt so good. Which was why it was so goddamn frustrating to feel so much pleasure that went no where, built up to nothing. 

But tonight you were as determined to cum as Peter was at making you.

"M-more~" You gasped out. Peter complied sliding a second finger in, his ministrations speeding up and using more force. "Peter~" You moaned. "Don't stop~ f-fuck."

The two of you sat there for god knows how long and Peter was finally starting to understand why you would fake it.

He pulled away, fingers still thrusting into you. "C'mon pretty girl, tell me what you need." You just looked so desperate to cum. Mouth gaping open as you whined and begged, your hips trying to move with him if not for the arm pinning you down, and it was driving Peter crazy. He was so hellbent on getting you to cum that he hadn't even registered how painfully hard he was, his own hips beginning to grind into the mattress for a sense of relief.

"I-I don't know." The words coming out as a frustrated sob, making Peter's heart clench.

That was when he got an idea.

Peter had always been aware of how gentle or rough he was with you, because if he didn't he could seriously hurt you due to his super strength.

But right now he realized that maybe that was just what you needed.

So with new intent, Peter slid a third finger in and started thrusting them into you, curling them to hit your g-spot perfectly. Mouth reattaching to your pussy again, he stimulated you with more force and strength behind every movement than he had ever used before.

And your reaction was immediate.

You practically screamed in pleasure. Body shaking almost violently, as your legs were wrapped tightly behind his back.

Your mind had gone fuzzy, never having felt this much pleasure before. And it was seriously fucking you up. 

An unfamiliar knot started forming making you more and more desperate for Peter. And just as you felt you were about to fall over the edge for the first time.

Peter stopped, removing his fingers and mouth.

Your eyes shot wide open. "P-Peter." You sobbed. "Why'd you s-stop." 

Peter crawled up your body, thumb wiping away the tears you didn't realize had fallen. 

He kissed your lips before saying. "Couple of reasons. First, that's what you get for not telling me about this sooner, and second, I realized that I want to be in you the first time you cum." 

You whimpered as he backed away so he could undo his pants. Your eyes raked up and down his lean muscular body, your fingers starting to itch with wanting to touch him.

"Can you dissolve the webs?" You asked.

He paused, looking at you for a second. "..No."

Your eyebrows furrowed. "B-but Peter-" You whined.

"No. I kinda like you like this, and I have a feeling you're going to need to hold onto the headboard because of how hard I'm gonna fuck you."

Your cheeks burned, he was never usually this forward. "Peter!" You spluttered.

He ignored you while he finished undressing himself, getting up to grab a condom before easily finding his spot on top of you again once he finished putting it on. He pressed his lips against yours again in an intoxicating kiss, while he gripped his cock to line up with your entrance and slowly pushed in, making the two of you moan into the kiss.

He pulled back slightly. "I'm not going to go easy on you." He said breathily, lips grazing yours as he spoke. "Think you can handle it?"

"Mhmm," you hummed.

"Good." He said, sitting up as a hand went to your leg to hike your thigh onto his hip, while his other hand started gripping the top of his headboard.

He admired the way you looked with your hands bound as you stared up at him wide eyed. 

And without any warning he pulled back and snapped his hips roughly into you. You arched your back as a moan passed through your lips.

Peter kept a fast and rough pace, fucking into you hard. And he had found himself enjoying it much more than he thought he would, not having to hold back and be mindful of his powers.

You had been clearly enjoying yourself too. Your head tossed back in ecstasy while you moaned and whined incoherently, forgetting how to form words. You couldn't think at all, only being able to feel Peter.

The relief you felt when that unfamiliar knot started to form, letting you know that Peter may actually get you to cum, was amazing.

"P-Peter I think I'm gonna-" you cut yourself off with a moan.

"Y-yeah?" He grunted out, picking up more speed. "Then do it pretty girl. Cum." His hand that was on your thigh trailed down to your clit and he started rubbing it in rough circles. 

The extra stimulation was what tipped you over.

You came with a loud scream of Peter's name on your lips. And you came hard. The pleasure feeling so unreal that you couldn't believe you had gone this long without ever experiencing it. Your vision turned almost black, seeing stars. 

You had cum so hard you hadn't even realized Peter came too, until after you came down from the high.

You were panting, absolutely breathless, feeling Peter's weight on you as he was slumped against you now.

Your body was shaking, and you muttered out. "Holy shit."

You could feel Peter's smile against your shoulder. He pulled out, making you jump at the feeling and he rolled off of you, panting just as hard while the two of you stared at the bottom of the top bunk.

"You're amazing." You muttered again.

Peter laughed, grin widening. "And to think you could've been cumming this whole time if you just told me."

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah I know... I was just embarrassed."

"Don't be."

You hummed. "Can I stay the rest of the night?"

" 'course. I prefer you stay anyway."

"So.. can you dissolve the webs now?"

Peter turned his head to look at you, making you turn to look at him too. He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't think we were actually done, did you?"

You looked at him confused, "W-what?"

His hand ran down to your pussy again, finding your clit, making you jump. "I plan on making up for every time you faked it, by the end of the night."

"B-but what about May? She'll be back soon."

Peter glanced at the time, seeing that it was only 9. "Aunt May goes out with her friends once a month and she never has gotten home before 1 or 2 in the morning. We have time."

You stared at the glint in Peter's eyes, and knew you were utterly screwed. "Oh fuck."

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@i-alyssa

[cant-icle]

you may be full up on prompts... but if not, i've been thinking about akira getting back to his hometown and just... not adjusting. he's a completely different person from who he used to be before the trauma of the arrest, before being uprooted, before the phantom thieves. his old friends abandoned him over a year ago. his parents can't even begin to understand. he's probably got more than a bit of PTSD. idk, i just want angsty "akira can't handle normalcy any more", lol

(a quick note–akira is a Scorpio and his birthday is the 21st of November and you’ll never take this headcanon away from me)

Everyone who knew Kurusu Akira before his parents transferred him out of town for the year agrees that he’s changed.

He was a charismatic child, a dreamer and a dancer, an ace on their tiny gymnastics team, a drama enthusiast in the school plays. No one would have thought he’d be the sort of person to assault someone; no one would have recognized him when he returned if he hadn’t had the same name.

He doesn’t look any different, except for the way he does; the Kurusu that left, all his teachers agree, moved light on his feet, faster than he should, a recipient of banged elbows and skinned knees from the time he could walk. The Kurusu that comes back…slinks. He places every foot with deliberation, with almost unnatural grace, his eyes cataloguing everything that moves behind a mask as still as stone. “A resting bitch face,” Nakayama-san might be heard to mutter, “that Kashiwagi should learn to emulate.”

He might look the same, but his demeanor has changed completely. There’s no sign of the cheerful boy that left them before the end of their first year; the one that comes back for the start of the third might as well just be wearing his face. He’s silent verging on sullen; his attention is perpetually fixed on the window instead of the chalkboard. He has a cat. The cat sits in his school bag and watches everything with unnaturally attentive eyes, and no one can figure out how to bring it up to him so that he leaves it at home instead.

The students are unnerved. The faculty are unnerved. The only one who isn’t unnerved is Kurusu himself, who parts the students in the halls like a knife wherever he goes, leaving whispers in his wake.

Rumor has it, and time proves it, that he spends every lunch on the roof, tucked over in the furthest corner rain or snow or shine. He’s always on his phone— no one ever is brave enough to eavesdrop, but a pair of eagle-eyed second years peek around the corner with a pair of binoculars and report back that, whoever he’s talking to and whatever it’s about, he’s smiling. It’s downright creepy to watch his face transform from that expressionless mask to something mobile and animated; sometimes his teachers catch flashes of it on his face when he looks down at his phone during lessons.

There’s another thing; no matter how little attention he pays during class, if you ask Kurusu a question he’ll always know the answer. That’s the only thing he’ll say, and he’ll only participate if you forcefully call him out. His grades are top-notch— top of the class, in fact, to the dismay and rabid jealousy of the former valedictorian, who now is known to spend hours after school in the library cramming.

Kurusu never spends time in the library. Kurusu spends as little time at school as humanly possible, and once the bell rings he’s out of there, come hell or high water.

As the spring turns towards summer Kurusu gets jumpy; his resting bitch face never changes, but his foot taps sometimes during class, and occasionally someone will catch him whittling his pencils down into something sharp and deadly, or fiddling under his desk with paperclips and string. He looks out the door more often, is out of class first and soonest; once he just leaves class in the middle of a lecture, and Kashiwagi is too stunned to call him back.

The weirdest thing about the new Kurusu, though, is the out-of-towners.

No one knows how many of them there are; they come in a big old beat-up van at any given holiday. For Golden Week there were only three; during the summer there are six.

The first time anyone sees them is the first time they see Kurusu emote since his return— there’s a slim brunette and a bombshell blonde waiting by the school gates, and those lucky few who were there say that Kurusu actually dropped his school bag in shock, right before he was tackled clean off his feet by another blond and sent tumbling across the grass.

Kurusu’s laugh is unexpectedly lovely, for someone who never uses it. Kurusu’s smile is the same. Kurusu with dirt on his palms and grass in his hair,  looking happy like it’s going out of style? That Kurusu is a heartbreaker, and sets several girls from every year scheming. They’re all in for disappointment; any letter that goes into Kurusu’s shoe locker never sees the light of day. He doesn’t even touch them.

During the summer no one sees Kurusu for a month or more; he disappears right out of the school yard, though one third-year says that she saw him getting into the van with several other people their age, and then popping out of a hole in the roof and yelling, arms up, as they peeled out of town. It’s an audacious claim, but she has blurry picture evidence. He shows up again at the very end of the summer, and this time the out-of-towners are all with him— several ladies, lovely in yukata of every pattern and color, a tall thin boy also in a yukata, and the blond that tackled Kurusu across the grass that one time.

Those who see him say Kurusu looks more alive than he has since he came back, suffused with vitality— they say he wins every carnival game he tries his hand at, offloading plushes onto each of the girls with him in turn, that he poses in front of the shrine for the boy in the yukata to sketch him, that he roams through the stalls and up the hill to the observatory hand-in-hand with the blond boy looking utterly at peace.

Fall begins; several official-looking cars park in front of the Kurusu household, one of them containing up-and-coming politician Yoshida-san, who’s come to Inaba to tout his platform. To everyone’s surprise, Kurusu is his assistant at the schoolwide assembly Yasogami High holds for Yoshida-san, standing up on stage like it doesn’t bother him, his neutral face giving away nothing.

But Yoshida-san speaks to him warmly, and Kurusu speaks back just as warmly— they’ve met before, clearly, and when someone in the audience asks Yoshida-san just laughs and says that Kurusu helped him quite a bit during his year in Tokyo.

Helped Yoshida-san?? With what?!

The further the fall progresses, however, the weirder Kurusu gets. In gym they do a couple lessons of self-defense; the guy partnered with Kurusu can’t so much as lay a finger on him. Kurusu moves like he’s water, like he’s dancing, like he’s weightless; when his partner gets frustrated and charges at him yelling, Kurusu barks a laugh and backflips away, parkour-ing around the gym like a goddamn bouncy ball. He ends up on top of the basketball hoop somehow, his feet planted on the rim as he sits square on the backboard, and the smile on his face as he looks down on all of them is a wild, godless slash across his mouth.

The day they learn how to disarm is the day things go south; Kurusu gets the rubber knife away from his opponent with laughable ease and turns to walk away. The teacher is out of the room for a moment, talking to Kashiwagi about something or other, which is probably why the embarrassed opponent makes a move.

He rushes Kurusu from behind, and Kurusu flips the knife in his hand and stabs backward in a single, vicious strike. He impacts the guy square in the solar plexus, sending him sprawling, gasping for breath; the entire gym goes silent, aside from his breaths.

Kurusu spins the knife across his fingers and spins on his heel, taking in the onlookers; he raises his hands as if to say “any other takers?”

There are. There have been a lot of tensions since Kurusu started dominating the room, a lot of people who don’t like the change in the pecking order. Those people step forward; anyone who doesn’t want a hand flees to the edges. No one goes to get the teacher or Kashiwagi, not until Kurusu has a pile of bodies at his feet and his hand in a boy’s hair, dragging his head back, the rubber knife pressed to his throat.

He’s not even breathing hard.

He’s suspended for three days.

The group of defeated boys get their chance for some petty revenge in late november; Kurusu’d had something delivered to the office, and comes back with a box of cupcakes that he doesn’t so much as pretend like he’s going to share; no, the bastard sits there and eats them one by one in front of everyone. They look goddamn delicious, and expensive— they’ve got the logo of a famous Tokyo bakery on them, it must have cost tons to get them shipped fresh to Inaba.

They’re doing timed races in gym that day, and the gym teacher lets everyone get a chance to fire the starting gun. When he’s out of the room, someone hollers “Hey, Kurusu!”

When Kurusu looks over, seemingly on autopilot, they point it directly at him and fire.

Kurusu…bluescreens.

That’s it— he just stands there, hands clenched, eyes empty. His breath picks up; tremors rack up and down his body, seemingly without his notice. It’s really fucking creepy, and he doesn’t respond even when the one who fired tries to brush it off as a joke.

He only really responds when someone— one of the girls— comes up and pats his shoulder to ask if he’s okay.

He flinches violently away from her touch, staggers back, and barely makes it to a trashcan before he pukes.

He’s not in class for the rest of the day. He’s not in class the day after, either. The day after that, a light-haired, dark-eyed defense attorney visits the school to talk to both the principal and the boy who fired the racing gun. The boy who fired the gun is given a three-day suspension, and the rest of the gym class is treated to an impromptu lesson on PTSD, and why you don’t fire a gun at a person who you don’t want to kill.

Which, for the savvier third years, raises a question— who pointed a gun at Kurusu? Who tried to kill Kurusu?!

Kurusu comes back after a few days, but he’s pale and wan, and makes absolutely no attempt to pay attention in class. He’s on his phone constantly, to the point where he often carries it around attached to a portable charger to bolster the battery; the teachers allow it, if only because his grades are still top of the class and he does it silently. He’s probably the least-disruptive person in class at this point. No one has heard him talk since the incident.

Two days before the winter holidays, the blond is back outside the school gates. There’s no tackling this time; Kurusu’s cat jumps out of his bag, and Kurusu just walks forward into the blond’s arms, clinging back tight enough that his knuckles are white.

They don’t move; his classmates walk by rubbernecking in clumps, but it doesn’t look like either of them notice. Kurusu’s face is buried in the blond boy’s neck, and the blond rubs his hand up and down Kurusu’s back like he’s soothing him. Kurusu’s cat winds around both their ankles, talking in its weird purry chirps.

A few of the stealthier second-years decide to trail them from a distance; the blond wraps an arm around Kurusu’s shoulder and walks him right to the train station. They don’t stop by his house or anything; Kurusu gets on in his school uniform and everything and vanishes.

He doesn’t come to class for the rest of the semester.

No one sees him over the winter break.

He’s not in class on the first day after break, either, and eventually word comes down from on high that Kurusu Akira has transferred out of Yasogami High back to his prestigious Tokyo school.

There’s a weird mood through the third-years after that. No one knows if it’s because of the guy who fired the gun— not even the guy himself, who carries some vague aura of guilt for the rest of the semester. Nobody misses him— well, nobody misses him for who he was. He wasn’t a very friendly boy, after all. Who knows how he got all of those weird out-of-towners to follow him around?

No, the only thing Kurusu Akira is missed for is the breath of fresh air he brought to Inaba when he came back, the sheer mystery of his presence. After a few weeks, few even speak his name.