#when the world knows your name

[normal-person-i-promise]

public transport

arataka reigen x fem!reader

half of it is edited, at least. this has been sitting in my drafts, half done, since march. im sick of working on it, so you get this. sorgy

The sudden jerk of the train starting takes you by surprise, and you nearly fall down — had it not been for the fact that someone gripped your upper arms tightly before your face could connect with the cold, hard floor.

You look up quickly, your face heating when you realize who it is.

★ ★ ★

The familiar "whoosh" of the bus's old doors opening greets you warmly as you step inside, unsurprised to find almost all seats — save for one — vacant. Late nights are always lonely — it's always dark, empty, quiet — but today, there's another person on the bus with you.

He... Looks like the guy you saw on TV some time ago, though in a more... Tired state. Messy blonde hair, unbuttoned grey suit, loose pink tie — he's sitting in the back-most seat, his eyes, heavy with fatigue, transfixed on the window.

He didn't noice you come in.

You stand at the door for a little while, adjusting the bag on your shoulders before coming to a realization that sours your expression. That's your usual seat. He took it.

You scowl, making your way to the window seat a few meters away from him and sitting down with as much annoyance that you can muster.

You can hear the sound of the bus's wheels squeak every time they'd go over a bump, shaking the whole vehicle; smell the sour scent of sweat stained clothes from a long day of work; practically taste the citrus cleaning spray the cleaners use too much on the cloth seat covers.

The bus's doors creak closed. The vehicle abruptly jerks forward, a start, before its motion becomes steady. You settle into your seat, adjusting yourself until you're comfortable, feeling the worn fabric beneath your fingertips as you steady yourself.

As the bus picks up speed, you find your gaze drawn to the man.

His features are... Sharp, though not so much as to look intimidating; his eyes are half-moons as they stare longingly out the window, not taking in the view, more like just... Staring blankly; his breathing — visible from the rise and fall of his chest — is slow and steady, calm; and his nose is pointed, low, coming to a point just above those soft, kissable lips...

...

...Drat.

You clear your throat as if it'll clear your mind. Curse your tiredness, making your thoughts... Inappropriate.

You shift your bag in your lap, trying to distract yourself with the way the strap falls, the feeling of the stitching on the edges.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the man turn his head to face you. His eyes roam down your body before dragging themselves back up to your face, and, noticing your irate expression (due to the fact that he took YOUR seat), he raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side.

He looks at you curiously, scanning your features as the bus bounces up and down when the wheels go over the bumpy road.

He seems to pause, almost hesitate.

"Good to know I'm not the only one with late nights," he says, a grin playing on his lips.

God, his voice...!

"Same here," you mumble, keeping your eyes set on the window to avoid looking into his.

You both slip onto a comfortable silence again, all quiet except for the sound of the bus moving along the tar road, making those distinct noises you've almost memorized.

You can sort of ignore him now, focusing only on the view outside.

It's... Peaceful. At this time of night, there are little people on the streets — those who are still awake are the drunkards, stumbling back to their homes; and the office workers, their gaits slow and steady, tired from the long day of work.

The shops are all closed, and though shutters are pulled down, the colourful lights of their signs remain on; blues, reds, and whites paint the sidewalk a kaleidoscope of colours, one you've never noticed until now. Your eyes roam from the colourful concrete to the signs whizzing past the bus in a blur, your eyes struggling to read the letters.

"What's your name, by the way?"

You're brought out of your thoughts at his question. His voice is strangely soft, his tone understandably wary as you turn your head to face him.

You introduce yourself, and he nods. He tests your name out on his tongue, humming in delight — as though he just tasted something sweet.

"Arataka Reigen, greatest psychic of the 21st century!"

His introduction is over the top, his voice like a salesman's as he spins his hand — so fast that's it's all a blur — before he abruptly stops, bringing it up for you to shake. He flashes you a charming grin, one that makes your cheeks flush.

You take his hand, savouring the feeling of his worn fingers wrapping around yours as he shakes it.

And, leaning in close enough to smell the sharp cologne his wears and said in a low whisper, "But you can call me Arataka."

Arataka leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest in pride as he grins at your flushed cheeks.

"It's the first time I'm seeing another soul at this time of night," he remarks, tightening his tie absentmindedly, almost like an unconscious fidget of sorts. You nod in response. You watch as his fingers wrap around the pink fabric of his tie slowly, getting a better grip before pulling it close to his neck, adjusting it to make sure it's not too tight.

You clear your throat again, averting your gaze.

"I'm... Honestly surprised to find another person coming home from work this late," you parrot, gritting your teeth as you focus on the window. Stop staring, stop staring...

He hums in amusement before it's quiet once more, broken only by the sounds of the bus's engine working to keep the vehicle moving.

It stays like this for a while. Both your gazes are fixed on the window, staring at the buildings passing by in a watercolour blur.

The city is... Nicer? You can't tell whether it's because you have a handsome man sitting across from you, or because it really does look prettier, but all the lights seem... Dreamier than usual, all the tree's leaves a few shades greener.

You can't help but notice his eyes flicker to yours every few minutes, though you never manage to see it directly.

"The city's quite pretty tonight," You mumble to yourself, staring out the window as you adjust yourself in your seat.

Arataka's next words are barely audible, just above a whisper — and his voice is quiet enough for you to be sure that you weren't supposed to hear it, like he was just saying something to himself.

"Sort of like you."

Your heart skips a beat.

"What did you say?"

Your tone is curious as your gaze settles on him again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your eyes sparkling with the lights outside the window.

You can visibly see him get nervous: he breaks out into a sweat, his shoulders stiffening as he brings up the sleeve of his jacket to dry the beads of perspiration trickling down his forehead, his tone rushed and panicked.

"A-ah, hahaa—! What? I didn't say anything!"

You can hear the nervous grin on his face as he avoids your gaze, clearing his throat loudly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"You must've been hearing things! Those pesky spirits..."

Arataka clicks his tongue, scowling at the empty space above your shoulder for a moment before changing his expression to a neutral one again, bringing his eyes back to yours. The speed at which he gains and loses confidence is enough to give you whiplash — not that you mind, though.

"I can get rid of them for you," he says, with total confidence. He's grinning proudly, almost puffing his chest out a little.

It's... Endearing, if you can say that.

You pause, arching a brow at him in confusion.

"Get... Rid of...?"

Have you never heard of psychics before...?

He nods briskly, pointing a thumb at himself in pride. His mannerisms and movements are precise and swift, enough to get you to think he's done this kind of thing hundreds of times in the past.

"You're talking to a world renowned psychic, here."

...There's a beat of silence, save for the sound of the bus going over a bump.

"World... Renowned?" You parrot, your tone confused. You've... Never heard of this man in your life, this... Arataka Reigen.

He pauses for a moment, his jaw going slack and his hand falling a little before he quickly closes his mouth, his expression almost like he's laughing in disbelief.

"A-ah, yes, yes, world renowned! I'm known all across the globe! Surely you know my name?"

He sounds a little bit like he's in disbelief, though his voice remains prideful.

You raise your brow higher. He's egotistical, to put it lightly. Egotistical, but so, so handsome...

"I've... Never heard of you before," you say to him, watching in amusement as you wait for his reaction.

"Oh, come on!"

Arataka's voice is now definitely one of disbelief as he groans in exasperation, his voice and expression growing irate.

Surely you've seen his posters...? He told Mob to paste them on any empty surface.

"Never? Not even once?" He almost begs, nearly pleading, a note of desperation creeping into his words as he tries in vain to convince you of something you've already set your mind on.

...Which is to poke fun at him, of course.

You hum in thought, your gaze flickering to the window before bringing it back to meet his. There was one time — a rather embarrassing moment for him, in your opinion.

"...Well, there was this one time I saw him on TV..."

He's quick to cut you off.

"Oh, why— y-yes! Yes, no, no, you haven't heard of me, especially not on TV! No, nope! Never!"

His grin is too wide to be genuine; panicked, and his hands are all over the place — almost as though he's talking with them, too, as he gestures wildly. You can see the sweat droplets fly off his hands, in addition to seeing the light reflected off of them on his forehead.

You look on in amusement.

"I-I'm just your friendly neighbourhood psychic, providing exorcisms at competitive prices! Never been on TV, no sir-ee!"

He's sweating buckets now, his grin thin as he goes on and on and on. He just... Talks, and the only time he pauses in his speech is to take in a greedy mouthful of air before getting right back to his words, coming out of his mouth faster than you can understand them.

And though it is rather cute funny to see him act like this, you decide that it's about time you changed the topic and spare him the embarrassment.

...And it's at this moment exactly that the bus reaches your destination, and you need to get off.

You pause for a moment, double-checking the sign to be sure that it's your street. You're more than a little disappointed to be parting ways with this strange, handsome psychic, this Arataka Reigen.

"Uh... Bye, I guess," you say in mild disappointment. You give him a small smile as you sling your bag over your shoulders, sitting up from your seat.

You're leaving already...? He only just met you, though...

As you make your way to the door, you run your hands along the bus's seats, feeling the fabric beneath your fingertips. It's a sort of a... Habit, now, to touch the seats before you exit, like how you'd run your fingers over a bridge's railing. It delays you a few seconds.

...Wait. It's probably best to give you his card, y'know, for his number and the address of his office...

You're halfway to the bus's doors before Arataka stops you, calling your name, rifling through his suit's pockets and producing a sharp, white business card.

"My business card, for the exorcism I promised you."

He grins, jabbing the card in your face. Taking a moment to compute what he's doing, you quickly take it from him, thanking him. He nods in reply, bidding you 'bye-bye' in a quick, hasty voice once more as he waves you off the bus.

You stare at the card as you step out of the bus, making your way to the little flat you call home.

Arataka Reigen.

Your eyes trail down to the bottom, where you see a phone number.

His phone number.

Arataka's phone number.

★ ★ ★

All week, you stress. Should you call him? This... Mysterious, handsome psychic? What if he doesn't want to talk to you? What if he really did just give you his business card for business?

...The way his cheeks flushed when your hands brushed against each other tells a different story, though...

You're fidgeting with his card in your hands when you enter the train, finding that it's full with people coming home from work, as usual. It's just after sunset — the sun has only just dipped below the horizon, the last traces of its golden light fading as the pinks turn to blues, the blues turning to black.

You look back down to the card in your hands, still not having moved from far the train's doors, open wide.

Arataka Reigen.

Your fingers wrap around the frigid metal off the handle bar by the train's doors, though your grip isn't strong, still lost in your thoughts. You really, really wanna call him, but what if he really did give you his business card only for business? He didn't seem to really... Do anything special, nor did he say anything special. He just treated you like a normal client, it seems.

You're still thinking about how adorable his pink cheeks were, though...

The sudden jerk of the train starting takes you by surprise, and you nearly fall down — had it not been for the fact that someone gripped your upper arms tightly before your face could connect with the cold, hard floor.

You look up quickly, your face heating when you realize who it is.

Arataka.

He says your name in a disbelieving, breathless manner, his eyes wide and his expression awestruck for a moment before coming back to his senses. He startles, letting go of you in the blink of an eye as he lets out a yelp, his cheeks flushed a sweet pink as you feel yours heat in tandem.

He remembers your name.

Arataka remembers your name.

"We meet again," Arataka says awkwardly, the both of you standing in the middle of the train. It's a little hard to keep his voice steady and quiet, but he manages.

That well tailored grey suit of his is neat and ironed, his pink tie tightened and tied properly close to his neck. He looks... Good. Better than on the bus, at least.

You nod, trying to calm down your racing heart.

"...Arataka. This is a... Pleasant surprise."

...And just like that, it's awkward silence again.

At least it's not totally quiet though: there's the rumbling of the train car moving along on its metal rails, the rapid beating of your heart in your ears, your shallow breathing as you try to calm yourself down in vain...

Your eyes trail to the window, watching as the train emerges from the dark tunnel, getting bathed in the lights of the city's night life. There's the faint smell of disinfectant and sweaty clothes in the air.

It's when you almost fall over again that you finally decide to take a seat. Arataka follows suit, taking the seat beside you, seeing as all the other seats are taken.

He's awkward as he settles down in his seat, his side pressed up against yours. He looks either... Embarrassed, or ecstatic, since you're that girl he saw on the bus the other day, the one who made his cheeks flush and his heart beat wildly in his chest. You're that girl he'd given his business card to, the one that he's been waiting so, so patiently for to call, even so little as text him.

After a while, the two of you get comfortable against each other; the warmth of his body brings some sense of comfort to you, and the same to him. You... Fit, there, right by his side. He likes that.

Your eyes are trained on the window; the buildings are whizzing past the train, the yellows and oranges of the city lights blending together to form a pretty little painting. It seems so... Fantastical, and so... Unreal. You've never really paid any attention to the scenery...

The little cars on the roads are but small strokes of a brush on a canvas, their blacks and greys mixing in with the dull colours of the asphalt. There's people on the streets, since it's not too late in the night yet; they're all smoking, partying, drinking, having a good time... Because, after all, it is a Friday night.

...And you're alone.

God, you're pathetic.

You scowl slightly, settling into your seat, your side shifting against Arataka.

Though you don't notice it, Arataka's eyes aren't on the view outside the glass. He's looking at you, studying you, watching as your eyes dart from person to person walking along on the pavement, watching as you shift your bag on your lap to get more comfortable. His eyes are fixed on you as he roams his gaze up and down your body, using his eyes to trace the outline of your comfortable clothing and sighing, almost dreamily so.

You're really pretty.

...It stays like this for a while. Neither of you say anything to eachother, though both your minds are plagued by the other.

You find yourself fidgeting with anything you can — the cloth straps of your bag, the thin strands of your hair, the knuckles of your fingers. It's hard to keep your thoughts from going haywire when Arataka's body is pressed against yours, especially when it's almost quiet enough for him to hear your racing heart.

He, too, is freaking out — his heart is threatening to burst from his chest, his mind reeling so much to the point where it's starting to hurt. The only difference is that he hides it well, and you're... Well, you're not as experienced. And he's definitely noticed.

As he stares at you, Arataka calls your name softly, absentmindedly, and his heart almost stops when your eyes connect with his.

They seem so... So sparkly, so big and wide, taking in everything. They reflect the environment; Arataka can see himself in them as he gathers his thoughts quickly, clearing his throat loudly.

It's hard to form words around you, especially words that aren't 'kiss me', you know that?

"So how've you been?" He asks smoothly, ending his question with your name.

You hum.

"...Good. You?"

Arataka nods, his posture relaxed in relation to yours. He shifts against you, almost leaning against you, and your heart skips a beat.

"Great, yeah."

He begins to gesture with his hands again, something that you've missed seeing a lot more than you'd think you would — especially considering the fact that the only time you've met him is on a bus, late at night, the both of you definitely not thinking straight under the influence of sleep deprivation.

"So how's that spirit of yours holding up? Gotten it rid of already?"

He gestures to your shoulder, his expression neutral as he analyses the empty air. He definitely notices that you haven't done anything about this supposed spirit haunting you.

So you stay quiet for a while, unsure of whether to lie and keep him in this emotional state or tell him the truth and make it worse.

"I, uh... Haven't done anything yet."

...

"You WHAT?!"

The passengers in the train all shush him in unison, and Arataka mumbles a quick 'sorry' before leaning in close to you, shielding his voice from the outside with a hand, almost like children telling each other secrets. It's just an excuse to get closer to you, to be completely honest.

You can barely focus on what he's saying, your cheeks a bright red as you feel his breath ghost over your skin.

"You HAVE to do something about it, I mean—"

He makes small gestures to the space above your shoulder, trying his best not to upset the people beside him. He fails, evident in the way they scowl at him and take a few steps away.

"This thing is dangerous!"

You sigh, leaning a little away from him as you feel the red in your cheeks fade.

"It hasn't done anything, though."

"Hasn't done anything YET," he cuts you off, hissing in a whisper. "You could've DIED!"

He gets shushed again. He sighs in annoyance, leaning away from you and talking in a calmer, quieter voice. He's smooth with it; his words come out naturally, almost instinctually — it doesn't sound like he's been desperate to say those words ever since he met you, and it doesn't sound like he's begging you to say yes.

"How 'bout this, hm? I'm heading to my office right now for a late night job. Why don't you come and I'll get rid of this—" he scowls, swatting the space above your shoulder again —"horrid spirit of yours?"

You pause. It's a... Very, very tempting offer. On one hand, you want to go back home and rest; while on the other, you want to follow this handsome, blonde psychic and see how he'll 'exorcise' this supposed spirit of yours.

You decide quickly, just as a light rain begins to patter on the glass windows.

"Sure, alright," you say, giving him a slight smile. Arataka nods in response, smiling at you, before his gaze trails to the windows where the rain gets heavier and heavier the closer you get to Arataka's office.

"SEE?!" Again, he's shushed.

"This is the work of the spirit!" He says, gesturing to the heavy rain that's now beating aggressively on the window in an unpredictable drumbeat. The people on the streets panic and try to get to shelter, whilst others bring out umbrellas.

You're quiet for a while.

"The... Rain?"

He nods briskly, seriously.

"Spirits can influence things, you see. They range from small events like how hot you heat up your bento, to this," he says grimly, gesturing to the thunder and lightning that has started to strike the ground in bright white flashes across cutting across the grey sky.

"The bigger the event, the more powerful the spirit. And," he says, leaning back more in his seat and crossing his arms, "this is a crazy powerful spirit. It's unwise to leave it alone for so long. It's reacting in this way because we mentioned its existence."

"Oh, okay, that... Right, that makes a lot of sense," you agree slowly, nodding in response to his words. Arataka knows a lot about spirits, it seems.

He grins in triumph, just as the train announces its location and its doors slide open. He gets up, gesturing for you to follow.

"It's just a 15 minute walk," he assures you.

When you get out of the train station, you find that it's still raining heavily. There's that smell of rain, which is nice, and you get lightly showered with the cold droplets as they bounce up and off the pavement and road.

Arataka scowls, groaning under his breath as he takes out a pocket umbrella, clicking it open.

"We'll have to share. It's small because it's meant for one person."

He gestures for you to get under the umbrella. It's... Close. You're very close to him, just like in the train, though, this time, your bodies are only almost touching. The two of you have to shuffle on the ground a little to walk.

As you begin walking, you find yourself walking closer and closer until you're touching sides. Arataka doesn't seem to argue; in fact, he wordlessly slides a tentative hand around your waist, holding you tight to him as the crystal droplets of rain pitter-patter loudly against the tiny clear plastic umbrella he holds. His grip grows more confident and firm the longer his hand is there.

It's quiet when the both of you stop at a crossing, waiting for the cars to clear and the light to turn to the little man, indicating you can walk.

Then a particularly fast car comes along. It's definitely speeding, and when it nears the large puddle of water near the sidewalk, Arataka smoothly pushes you back, bringing the umbrella up to shield you, and only you, from the dirty water.

The dirty rain water splashes at his pants and the droplets from the sky pelt him, causing him to wince slightly. It makes his golden hair to stick to his forehead, makes his expensive grey suit soaked at the shoulders, makes his sleeves dripping wet.

Before you know it, he brings the umbrella up again, and begins walking again without a word. His hand finds itself back to it's position, holding you securely around your waist.

"Thanks," you say. He pauses, turning to look at you.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?! THE RAIN'S TOO LOUD!"

You mutter a quick apology before repeating your thanks, this time shouting. His bewildered expression disappears, smiling cutely as he nods, before he continues walking.

The both of you continue in a comfortable silence for another minute or so before you reach the office. He leads you inside, shaking off the umbrella. The office smells... Really salty, coupled with the expensive scents of some kinds of incense you can't make out.

"Here we are!" He exclaims proudly. "Ah, oh, right. This is my apprentice, Mob."

Arataka places a firm hand on the shoulder of what looks to be a middle schooler with a bowl cut. He waves at you politely, smiling slightly, and you nod in response, waving back.

Arataka unbuttons his jacket and hangs it on the wall, and you have to clench your fists tightly to stop yourself from staring.

"Now," Arataka says smoothly, taking a seat in his chair and looking so, so attractive, "what package shall you take?"

He pulls out a piece of paper, with three courses labelled.

"Option A, the trial course, gets you 20% spirit reduction; option B, the serious course, which gets you 50% spi—"

Mob leans in to whisper something into his ear, and Arataka seems to be taken aback for a moment. He scoffs, hissing in a whisper, "Of COURSE there's a spirit, you just can't see it," which Mob seems to be placated by, going back to his spot reading manga.

Arataka clears his throat, opening his mouth to speak again.

"As I was saying," he glares at Mob, "Option A, the trial course, gets you 20% spirit reduction; option B, the serious course, which gets you 50% spirit reduction; and option C, the all-out course, gets you 99% spirit reduction." He gestures for you to take the seat in front of the desk.

"Of course," he says, grinning just like the hideous poster on the wall, "if it comes back, I'll get rid of it — for 20% off."

Sitting down, you bring the paper close to you...

...And find that every course is above your budget.

You smile nervously, pushing the paper back to him and getting up from your chair. This has clearly been a complete waste of time, especially since it all seems so sketchy, and you've only fallen for it because he's handsome...

"S... Sorry, Arataka," you apologise, bowing slightly once you've gotten up from your chair. "I can't really afford anything."

You move to the door, and it's only a moment later that you hear Arataka scrambling to get out of that fancy office chair, his brow slick with sweat and his words rushing out of his mouth.

"Woah, woah, woah, hey, my success rates are 99.9%! All my clients leave happy!" He cries, a note of desperation in his voice.

You shake your head, smiling politely. "No thanks."

He panics again as you reach for the doorknob. Your movements are slow — so, so slow, and it's definitely apparent that you're just stalling, as if waiting to see if he'll do anything.

He takes advantage of that.

Half stumbling and half sliding in front of you and using his body to block the door, he stands, gathering himself for a moment before—

"H-hey, hey, wait—!"

Arataka grips your shoulders tightly, beginning to massage. You pause, silent, a little taken aback.

"Feels good, right?" He says quietly as you almost melt at his touch. He's standing directly in front of you, staring at— no, studying your face as he moves his fingers in firm, soothing circles. "Like it?"

Your shoulders are absolutely screwed up.

You hum, rolling your joints a little bit. Arataka feels a surge of pride when a chorus of the cracking of your messed up bones fill the air, though he still presses gentle, relieving circles and dots into your skin, pressing enough for you to feel it firmly below the clothing you wear.

His touch, though soft and caring, is... Firm. Very, very firm, very unyielding. It's clear that he knows what he's doing, and it's clear that he's confident that this will work. His fingers are round dots of alleviation as they press softly into your skin, and their movements and placements are careful and calculative.

He grips your shoulders, dragging you slowly, slowly, slowly to the chair in the middle of the room and sitting you down on it.

Now that you're seated, Arataka feels your neck and shoulders a little. He goes round and round your little chair, pressing at this spot and that spot — he's looking for something, it's clear; he's looking for tightness or rigidity beneath your skin, places to apply pressure, places to soothe and fix.

You barely notice how his hands seem to almost lovingly caress you.

"Here?"

He bends down and shifts his hand a little closer to your neck, near that place that always aches when you look down — the base of the movement and the base of the neck itself. You sigh in delight, leaning into his touch — sending waves of butterflies and pride swelling in Arataka. His heart nearly bursts out of his chest as he sees you get more and more relaxed, enjoying his touch. His cheeks flush and a dopey grin adorns his face.

He hums, pressing more firmly and confidently.

It's about a minute later when Arataka retracts his hands almost reluctantly, his fingers lingering on you. You roll your neck and shoulders, sitting up and off the chair.

"I must say, Arataka," you say, shoving him slightly as a sort of playful gesture. His cheeks flush at the contact, a cute little grin on his face.

"That was a great massage."

His grin grows prideful, jabbing a thumb at himself proudly.

"You're talking to the greatest psychic of the 21st century, here!"

You sigh, almost dreamily so, as Arataka begins to go on and on and on about all his achievements, his accomplishments, his goals...

...

You pause. You have to pay — you can't just get caught up in his silly little endearing antics again.

"Um, Arataka?"

You interrupt him as he's talking proudly about himself, and he stares at you, a little confused and a little annoyed. He doesn't really care if it's you, though.

You gesture to the paper on the desk, the one with all the courses and prices. Your tone is regretful; you shouldn't have fallen so easily for such a blatant scam, c'mon, you're smarter than this...

"I can't pay. I didn't bring enough money."

Arataka pauses. Gears seem to turn in his head for a moment before his eyes light up, another one of those adorable horrible grins settling on his face again.

"Tell you what."

He tries to lean on the wall, finds that it's too far, and stumbles instead. He clears his throat, his cheeks red with embarrassment.

"Instead of paying, how about you..."

His grin widens as he pauses for dramatic effect. You wait patiently.

He's not actually pausing for dramatic effect, though; he's trying to get time to prepare what his tone will be, how his body language will look, how loud and confident his voice is...

It's a really, really long pause.

"...Go on a date with me?"

A date? With him? Mob's just sitting on the little couch in the corner of the room when he looks up from his manga, intrigued by the word 'date'.

Great. Now you've got a 14-year-old's pressure on your back.

You hum for a moment, thinking, as though your answer will be anything but a resounding yes. Your cheeks are flushed, but so are his once he hears what you say in response.

"Yes, please."

His grin widens in absolute joy, and he puts his hands harshly, securely in his pockets to prevent himself from grabbing you by the collar and sloppily kissing you right now.

He opens and closes his mouth to speak multiple times before he decides on what to say. He looks so, so happy — his eyes are wide and full of wonder, his grin is big and silly, and his cheeks are that same sweet pink as on the bus.

"Saturday? Saturday, 8:00 PM?"

You nod.

And waving goodbye as you open the door to leave, "I'll see you on Saturday."

[ghostly-cabbage]

We need to talk about the worst thing about making AUs....

The fact that then when you inevitably think about crossovers you don't want the crossover with the canon you want it with your specific AU. Your brain worms, your circus, but THEN WHAT?

Oh, yeah, to understand this crossover you need to go read this entirely different fic/series? Girl help 😭 you can't do that

[dollypopup]

I just need every single person in this fandom who has ever been mean about Luke Newton to know that Nicola Coughlan hates you. Genuinely and wholeheartedly.

She hates you. Sure, she won't say it aloud, because she's a professional who knows her career lives or dies by fans, but please know that she does. She hates you if you've said Colin gave you the ick, especially so if you said it to Luke, she hates you if you've left a rude comment on his social media, she hates you if you acted like she didn't like him or that she was shading him, she hates you if you bullied the people around him, she hates you if you said something disparaging about how he looks or how he acts, she. hates. you.

And sure, it's not all people who are in her or Pen's fanbase, in fact a lot of people have been cruel about him outside of the Polin fandom, but a LOT of people are Pen fans, and hearing her talking about how defensive she gets over him when people say something rude about him? And knowing there are SO many stupid opinion blogs and youtubers and tiktokers who say they're Pen fans and Nicola fans but are mean as fuck about Luke?

I need every single one of them, in particular those who have been out here making up stupid shit to be mad at him about 'on her behalf' to know that when you say something mean about the man she gushed to her Mum about, and who her Mum was so excited to meet because she just knew he was kind, the man she introduced to her entire family, the man she is always reaching for and hugging and snuggling up to and calling wonderful and giggling around and saying how she wouldn't want to do such vulnerable intimate scenes without and complimenting and leaning on and having fun with and calling a special person in her life, she is taking off her earrings and ready to meet you outside in his honor

because she hates you for being a dick about him. hope that clears things up

[cowgirls-blues]

One of them knows how to install a doorknob.

[urfavisananimegirl]

walter white from breaking bad

Walter Hartwell White (Breaking Bad) is an Anime Girl!

[tommygotwrittenoff]

i just think if roles were reversed and buck was the one saying those gay ass lines to eddie, eddie wouldve proposed like four seasons ago

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

TFA Arachnus Prime

[capricioussun]

hey do you think in the undertale universe the etymology for the word "monster" originated from Monsters just being the name of their race but after their banishment evolved into meaning derogatorily inhuman, evil, inherently violent/unintelligent etc

or I mean we never really see much of the surface or anything so maybe they don't have that word at all or it just fell out of use with their presumed extinction. idk if there's solid proof it exists or means the same

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[milf-harrington]

inspired by @flashyysins

Two days after Hawkins was almost split open, Robin saw a woman pacing in the hospital waiting room.

There were plenty of other people as well, sitting or standing or walking the length of the room in a similar pattern, but there was something about the woman that Robin noticed. It wasn't just that she was beautiful, which she was- it's that there was something familiar about her.

She was in blue jeans and an old-school Hawkins High Letterman jacket, light brown hair twisted up in a claw clip. Robin had never met her before, she'd remember that at the very least, but still.

Something about the angle of her nose or the gentle waves of her hair felt like something Robin had seen before, something she'd be able to find in a crowded room or across a street.

But Robin had somewhere to be, so she shook off the odd feeling, and followed the familiar path to Steve's room.

---

"Hey Stevie."

Steve's smile was tired, but he was looking more lively than when he'd passed out in the waiting room the other day, so she'd take it.

"Robbie, you left me hanging yesterday."

She snorted and dropped into one of the chairs by his bed, swinging her legs over the arm rest and cradling the bag she'd brought with her in her lap. "You're the one who fell asleep during visiting hours."

He rolled his eyes, and she happily noted the colour returning to his skin. "You should be exempt from visiting hours, you're like...essential to my recovery or something."

She laughed to hide the way those words curled soft and warm around her heart, eyes stinging until she blinked it away. The dumbass had almost over-worked himself to the point of no recovery. "'Exempt?' Someone's been reading a dictionary- did one of your children leave theirs behind?"

"Oh fuck you-"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Robin was startled to see the woman from the waiting room hovering behind a nurse.

"You have a new visitor Mr Harrington."

Even knee-deep in confused intrigue, Robin couldn't help but dramatically mouth Mr Harrington over her own shoulder, pleased at the face he pulled in retaliation.

And then the door shut, and Steve looked up to find the woman-from-the-waiting room standing at the end of the bed.

Robin saw his brain grind to a halt at the sight of her.

It was silent (well, as much as it could be in a hospital room, what with all the beeping and whirring) as they took each other in, and Robin slowly brought her knees in closer to her chest like it would shield her from the vague awkwardness chewing at her.

And then-

"Fucking hell, Eve." The woman breathed out, white knuckling the bar at the end of his bed.

At the same time, Steve's face scrunched up as he demanded: "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean 'what am I doing here'? You're in hospital!"

"I thought you were in New York!"

"Yeah and then I got a call from Hawkins General that my little brother was dying in a hospital bed! Thank you for keeping me as your emergency contact, by the way."

"Well-" Steve spluttered and then crossed his arms over his chest, wincing at the pressure on his injuries. "Obviously."

Several things clicked into place like undone locks. Steve had almost been too comfortable about "feminine" topics for as long as she'd been an active member of his life- and even slightly before.

(He'd once run out of Scoops to buy her pads when she'd started her period in the middle of a shift. At the time she'd figured he was just trying really hard to beat the still a douche-bag allegations.)

Then there were the sweaters that he wouldn't confess to the origin of, the jokes he'd make about Robin "not being the only woman in his life" that she'd thought were about Nancy Wheeler, the vehement denial that the rom-com collection in the theatre room were his.

And, while Robin hated to enforce gender stereotypes, he'd always had the kind of mean girl cattiness that was usually only forged in teenaged girls and merely rubbed off on others.

Of course Steve Harrington had a sister.

Now Robin understood why she'd seemed so familiar in the waiting room.

"What happened to you?"

Simultaneously, Robin and Steve shifted uncomfortably, meeting each others eyes and coming up blank on both ends.

Steve's sister swallowed, jaw clenched and lip quivering as she look back and forth between them. She seemed suddenly fragile, like Steve after a nightmare, or right before he'd collapsed in the waiting room after carrying Eddie inside.

Steve cracked first. "Lou-"

"Don't fucking lie to me, Stephen. This is the third time you've ended up in hospital since your senior year."

Steve blinked, startled. "How did you-"

"I'm your sister." She seethed, and Robin could see flickers of Steve with an axe in his hand in the arch of her shoulders. "You might have told the hospital not to call but I still have friends in this town. If that Hargrove asshole wasn't already dead-"

"Lou-"

"Don't-"

"It was a serial killer." Robin blurted, drawing Steve's sisters' attention to her. "I don't now if you heard about it, but someone was going around killing teenagers. It started with Chrissy Cunningham- she was a cheerleader? kind of cute in a preppy sort of way, but, um- she was killed in our friends living room and then he sort of got blamed for it because, I mean, it was pretty sketchy but he didn't do it! I promise, Eddie didn't- anyway, there was this whole witch hunt, and two more people died which just sort of made it worse for Eddie and a group of us were trying to, like, clear his name, you know? Because we knew he didn't do it and we didn't want him to get killed next, but then one of our other friends - this girl, Max, she's a riot - she was being targeted by the real killer so we came up with this...really stupid plan to catch the killer but everything went sort of tits up and Eddie and Steve both got, well-" She waved her hands at the bandage around Steve's throat and the bruising around his wrists from the vines. "And Max, she broke her elbow and her knee when she fell, and I think Dustin twisted his ankle? So now Max and Eddie and Steve are all in hospital and Dustin has these crutches that he doesn't want to use but, I mean, Steve always makes him because it's Steve, and we don't really know if Eddie's okay yet but no one's come to tell us he's not so we're still hopeful-"

"Robin."

Robin shut her mouth, and took a deep breath through her nose. Steve's sister was staring at her in the startled sort of awe that Robin was used to seeing when she got going. She had the lungs of a trumpet player, it wasn't hard for her to talk until she forgot where she'd started.

"You fought a serial killer?" Steve's sister - Lou? - asked, and Robin hysterically felt like she should offer up her seat.

Steve, bless him, only nodded. Lou stared, lips pressed into a thin line and nostrils flared slightly.

And then, quite abruptly, she was straightening her back and stepping around the bed to hold out a hand to Robin. "Louisa Harrington."

Robin blinked, and shook her hand. "Robin Buckley."

Louisa nodded, like that made sense, and smiled the same cupids-bow smile as her brother. "The best friend- it's good to meet the other half of my brothers brain. Clearly the better half, considering you aren't the one in the hospital bed."

Steve made an offended noise, and Robin grinned.

[beatcroc]

Thoughts on the incident?

[moretheta]

without you

[just-wublrful]

not to be obnoxious on main but classic literature is not global literature. it's western literature at best

[supercantaloupe]

saw that stupid "if it sounds like the music is trying to make you go deaf it's beethoven 🤣🤣" post again. i'm totally normal and cool about it and definitely not grinding my teeth or clenching my fist so hard my knuckles turn white. anyway unrelated have you ever heard of the heiligenstadt testament

[petrichal]

obligatory "Oda thank you for sharing this world with us" post

[okurrroye]

See what we not going to do is dangle Darilyn again instead give me Benius you idiotic cowards.