#ruby writes

[jinxedruby]

Whumptober Day Four: Hallucinations/"You're still alive in my head"

Featuring Legend. (and Warriors, technically, but mostly Legend lol)

AO3

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Legend inspected the arrowhead with a frown. He twirled it slowly between his fingers, watching the light catch oddly on the tip.

“Something wrong?”

He glanced up to see Warriors headed toward him, running a cloth along his bloodied blade as he walked.

“I think the arrows might be poisoned,” Legend said. He pushed himself out of his crouch, holding the arrow out to Warriors. Warriors’ brow knitted as he took it. He held it up to the sun the same way Legend had, his frown deepening.

“I think you’re right,” he said after a moment. He lowered the arrow and dabbed a corner of the cloth he’d been using to clean his blade against the arrowhead. He huffed and shook his head before holding the cloth out for Legend to see. A small, purplish-gray dot of liquid soaked into the cloth where he’d touched the arrowhead.

“Definitely poisoned,” Legend concluded.

Warriors gave a grim nod. He crouched and drilled the arrowhead into the earth. “We’ll have to be careful. I don’t have a lot of experience with poisons, but I’d rather not find out what this one does.”

Legend agreed. “Well, we should probably head back and warn the oth-”

A twig snapped and he froze. Warriors gave him a quizzical glance, apparently having not heard the sound. Legend quietly drew his blade, turning to look for the source of the noise. Warriors followed suit, quickly putting the cloth away and taking out his shield. Legend’s gaze bounced across the bodies of the bokoblins he and Warriors had slain. He thought they’d gotten them all, but maybe there were more hidden in the trees. The density of the forest made it difficult to see very far, trees disrupting his line of sight in every direction. He carefully sidestepped around one, squinting.

Warriors slammed into him. Legend grunted as Warriors threw them both back. Two arrows struck the tree not a moment later. Legend whipped his head around to see two bokoblin archers some dozens of feet away, using the trees as cover, bows drawn. Legend and Warriors split as the archers fired again, arrows zipping past them. Legend dove behind a tree. He quickly swapped his sword for his bow. Nocking an arrow and drawing it back, he leaned around the tree. He fired at the same time as one of the bokoblins. He yanked himself back behind cover, the arrow streaking past. He couldn’t tell if his shot met its mark, but he didn’t hear any accompanying monster screech, so he probably missed. He nocked another arrow. A beat passed before he took a step to the side and launched it. He cursed as he missed again, hiding once more as the archer targeted him. He spared a glance toward where he last saw Warriors. The captain stood behind a tree across the way, bow drawn and ready. As Legend watched, Warriors leapt out from behind cover. He fired an arrow then dove forward, ducking behind another tree just as the bokoblins shot at him.

Legend, realizing Warriors was trying to get closer, changed tactic. He leaned out to fire another arrow. Then he twisted around the other side of the tree and fired again in quick succession. He kept it up, trying to avoid falling into a predictable rhythm while also trying to keep the archers’ attention on him so Warriors could get in close.

Just as he stepped out again, he heard a monster screech. He looked around the edge of the tree to see Warriors with his sword plunged into a bokoblin’s middle. Legend paused, bow drawn, hesitant to fire and risk hitting the captain. He kept his eyes trained on Warriors for a moment too long. He realized his mistake just as the other archer fired. An arrow slammed into his leg. Hot pain erupted from the point of impact and he yelped, staggering back behind the tree.

The pain progressed to a horrible burning. He ground his teeth, stumbling to his knees as the feeling raced through his veins up his leg. He gripped the arrow shaft protruding from his boot. Before he could psych himself out, he gave it a sharp yank, ripping it from his leg. A shout tore from his throat, hot blood pouring from the wound and soaking his boot. With a trembling hand, he stabbed the arrowhead deep into the dirt like Warriors had done earlier.

He dragged in a gasp, vertigo suddenly overtaking him. He sat down hard, his back hitting the tree behind him. One hand he pressed to the burning wound, digging around in his pouch with the other. The sun seemed to double in intensity in both heat and light. He squinted against it, blinking as sweat beaded on his brow and rolled toward his eyes. He fumbled around in his pouch, fingers slipping from one item to the next and back again. He had to remind himself what he was looking for several times. He grabbed what he thought was a bottle and pulled it out. It immediately slipped from his shaking fingers. He slurred out a curse, patting the ground weakly as he tried to search for it. The world blurred together into a muddy mix of too-bright lights and too-vivid colors. Nausea clutched at him violently and he went still, tipping his head back against the tree and squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to focus on taking thin breaths, but even that had become difficult.

“Collector!” Warriors’ voice echoed and sounded much too loud. Legend winced as the captain’s abrasive voice pummeled his ears, wanting to cover them but unable to lift his arms very high.

“Hey, look at- look at- look-”

The words bounced around in Legend’s head far too many times until he couldn’t make sense of them anymore. He felt a groan leave his lips, the sound amplified in his head. A sharp ache took up residence behind his eyes and at the base of his neck. His whole body ached, now that he thought about it. Everything felt sore and his leg felt engulfed in flame, his toes and fingers tingling slightly.

“Link!”

He jolted at his name. He peeled his eyelids apart. A blurry figure leaned over him, the color of their hair bleeding into the bright green leaves overhead. He blinked again and the image became slightly clearer, blond hair giving way to dark brown, little red splotches dotting the leaves above. The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners with mirth.

I should’ve known I’d find you here.

Link squinted, trying to see the man against the bright sun. Uncle?

His uncle chuckled. That tired, huh? Did you fall asleep out here again?

Link’s throat felt dry and scratchy. He tried to swallow to abate the feeling, but found himself unable to. In fact, he could hardly move at all. In spite of that, he somehow managed to speak. I guess so.

His uncle gave a fond sigh, lowering himself to sit beside Link. He gazed up at the boughs of the tree, bright red apples dangling from the branches. This might be the biggest harvest we’ve had. We’ll certainly have our work cut out for us.

Link hummed in affirmation, staring up at the apples. Red abruptly appeared in his vision, close to his face. It morphed into an apple that his uncle held to his lips.

Here, why don’t you-

“-drink, c’mon, please-”

-try it?

Link felt sick. He frowned slightly, brushing his uncle’s hand away. Even though he didn’t feel himself actually move. I don’t know if I can keep anything down.

That’s okay.

With no warning, liquid flooded Link’s mouth. His breaths sucked it into his larynx and he choked. He coughed harshly, spitting it out, the liquid burning all the way back up. His uncle held him as he hacked, turning him toward the side so he could more easily get the fluid out of his throat. What just- what was- Link couldn’t finish the thought, too preoccupied with coughing. After he could breathe again, though his throat pinched with every inhale, his uncle moved him back to his previous position, propped up against the tree.

“-please, I don’t-”

Link’s leg clenched painfully. He stiffened, hissing through his teeth and trying to reach toward it. Something stopped him, but he couldn’t figure out what. All at once, heavy drowsiness came over him like a blanket. He blinked slowly, slumping back against the tree.

You look tired, Link. His uncle leaned over him again.

I… Link stared at the tree branches past his uncle’s face. Hadn’t his uncle said he’d been sleeping earlier? He couldn’t quite remember. I am… tired.

Why don’t you rest? his uncle suggested. I can watch the orchard for a bit.

But… Link frowned. Grogginess tugged at his eyelids and vertigo swirled in his head. Exhaustion pressed at him, gently coaxing him down into the earth. His blinks became longer, slower. Something itched at the back of his mind, something important he’d forgotten. His leg didn’t hurt quite so much anymore.

A hand brushed his bangs back, a voice pleading with him to do something he couldn’t quite hear. He thought he heard something about his blood.

His uncle appeared over him, tucking a loose lock of hair behind Link’s ear.

You can rest, his uncle said softly. It’s okay.

It didn’t quite feel okay. But he’d never felt more exhausted in his life. With each blink, it became harder and harder for him to open his eyes again. He… he was really tired. A rest sounded very, very nice. The itch at the back of his mind remained persistent, but the echoing, pleading voice had begun to fade into the background. Everything felt muffled and heavy. The next time he blinked, he didn’t open his eyes.

“-no, no-”

Something in him struggled to stay awake. It tried desperately to focus on the pleading voice, on the itch in the back of his mind.

I’m… He fought his eyes open just a crack. The blurry figure of his uncle still leaned over him. The world had turned muddy and gray, like a veil had been placed over his eyes. I’m not ready. For some reason, the thought made his eyes sting.

He thought his uncle seemed surprised, but he couldn’t quite tell with his bleary vision. Are you sure?

I have something I need to do, still.

For a moment, his uncle remained quiet. Then his eyes crinkled at the corners again. I understand. He held the apple to Link’s lips. Link realized it had been against his mouth the whole time, only leaving when he’d choked. It seemed shinier than normal, the red almost appearing blue, inexplicably.

I’ll be here when you’re ready, his uncle said.

Tears welled in Link’s eyes. He nodded. With a short breath, he bit into the apple.

And blue potion poured down Legend’s throat.

[rubyreadd]

Do you ever think about how in the aftermath of Multi21 Sebastian told Mark that he didn't respect him as a person? For nearly five years Mark bore Red Bull's institutional yoke, because at least at the end of that short leash there was someone holding it. At least when he did the collar of his overalls up Mark knew where he belonged.

But then Mark gets in the way of Seb's ambition and in a single sentence, which has since been enshrined in Seb's indomitable legacy as a marker of rebellion and the will of a champion, Seb denies Mark his personhood.

They were no longer equals. Not in titles, not in the team, and not as people.

And do you think about how after Mark retired Sebastian started going out of his way to mention the tremendous respect he has for Mark? It was his crutch word for describing the enormity of what Mark meant to him. It was a show of goodwill to the media that had picked their headline articles from the carrion of Seb and Mark's relationship.

And it was an apology.

Sebastian may have been unable to rewrite history, but he wasn't going to be doomed by it either. Not with Mark. So Mark was written back into Sebastian's legacy, this time as a respected colleague, a fondly missed teammate, and a friend that to this day Sebastian is very good with.

[cat-lady-in-space]

You are both a cavalier and the daughter of God. Dead but not sleeping, the hollow space within the remnants of your chest cavity will never heal until you find her.

But she left. And didn’t have the decency to eat whatever part of you won’t stop hurting. Even her lips left you cold when her body crept back into your so called life.

Separated by fate and about a meter of iron, you don’t stop searching for her even as you push away the handful of people who don’t hate your guts the way you do and your absentee dad drifts further into the weirdest horny depression you’ve ever seen.

The first time you laid eyes on her since time meant anything, she dropped you for the slut who cut in line.

Then the one time you weren’t looking for her, she finds you. Words fail despite all the shit you left unsaid and you can’t help but hang there like your runaway heart stopped for the second time.

Without warning, she takes one look at you and slaps you across your perfect, incorruptible face. Your eyes go wide. It’s the first time you’ve felt anything in God doesn’t know how long.

The pain lashing through your body that can’t be hurt, not by those weak ass arms, is interrupted by a thought that strikes you dead again as you remember: she told you to always wear the face paint, idiot.

[ruby-myth-dreamer]

Did a little bit of writing, I haven't really written in a while but its my birthday, I can be a little self indulgent and write about my silly bugs if I want to

Its mostly dialogue and not the best but I'm having fun so who cares !! Probably not gonna finish and post it but maybe,,maybe,,,

[stars4ruby]

“oh yeah! i’m writing a book!” i say as i kick away my unfinished first draft that i haven’t touched in two months

[practically-an-x-man]

Jimmy stared down at the pages of his book, though he wasn’t able to read them. His brows furrowed without him knowing, as his thoughts floated away from the story he used to be engrossed in. His rumination ended as he heard the door open and Lars walked by his cell, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Oooh cute! Thank you! I can definitely see some elements of my style here, that's really interesting to me :D

[luverofsupernatural]

I dreamt I created a play that was basically in the format of Dracula Daily (alla events event timelines), but had musical numbers for some things. And the performers were in the audience were doing it in audience tired to give it more feeling. And I was trying to join in too (i.e. fake being a dancer) because I had wrote the choreography too. Abd I was having so much fun and smiling and all.

And then we got to second intermission. I need to eat (and I can't eat chicken tenders that are $4 because they're too loud? Actually because of greasy but that's not the only reason).

And I just wake up. And I want that reality back so badly right now

[dragonnadder]

It takes you a minute to realize you don't need to breathe.

It takes a while longer to actually get used to it. You'd gone snorkeling once, and had a horrible time trying to convince your lungs that breathing through your mouth and not your nose was fine. Honestly, in that regard, you're almost thankful you weren't wearing a spacesuit when your ship exploded—you'd have been unbelievably stressed about the tinny electronic timer reminding you of your dwindling oxygen load. At least you got that over with.

You've still got problems, though. Your ears are ringing something fierce, for one; not that there'd be much to hear, anyway, floating in the interstellar medium like you are. There's also the pieces of ship hull embedded in your back, freezing your entire body as your heat saps into them and dissipates. Unfortunately, if the blast didn't kill you, that probably won't, either. If only you could hop in a sauna.

You turn your head with a wheeze of pain, searching for the wreckage of your ship. It's a nearly futile effort, you know that—you're too far from the nearest star system to have any real light, you'd have to hope any of the pieces were blocking distant stars, enough for you to notice.

Nothing catches your eye.

Nothing? All of your key documents were on that ship. IDs, bank cards, everything. How are you supposed to hail anyone properly without a signal pad? How are you going to pay for lodging and medical care?

...How is anyone going to know you're here?

You begin to turn your head again, and the metal in your back tears something, and you instinctively try to suck in a sharp breath, but nothing comes. A short bout of choking ensues, every movement causing something to dig into you harder, until you finally manage to bite your own tongue and get a hold of yourself. You don't really have many other options. This might be how I die, you think. Then you try to laugh, and regret it.

You know the average distance between star systems is about five light-years, give or take a few. If you got unbelievably, obscenely lucky, you might be on track to come into orbit of Dehon and Parie, the binary pair you were flying towards. If you're even luckier, maybe you're still hurtling forward at half again lightspeed, and if the gods have chosen to smile at you with every single tooth bared, you might even avoid getting shredded by the many other things that hang out in space. That would put you on track to arrive after... oh, two years or so of total space isolation. Of course, you can't confirm any of those assumptions, and you don't know enough to make even reasonable estimates. Really, your best bet is for some other ship to just happen to come by and notice you, and the odds of that are ridiculously low. Interstellar travel takes too long and requires too much energy, so little ships like yours generally only undertake the journey once or twice in a lifetime. Cargo ships are more frequent, but those don't tend to stop for stranded ships, let alone minuscule lone humans like yourself. Even if one does vacuum you up, they'll probably drop you in the body hold, anyway.

So, here you are. Alone, in the glittering lights of space, unable to even see your nose in front of your face.

This will be a fun few years.

You stare at the stars and sigh. There are worse ways to discover you're immortal. Finding out after your starship exploded in deep space is definitely one of the worse ones.

[drumlincountry]

If your life is horrible and you need a new source of meaning and direction.... Do NOT find religion. Learn to identify plants.

[stevebabey]

the four steps between (best) friends and lovers

summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.

How hard could it be?

[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]

STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL

"Be my girlfriend."

The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.

You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"

Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.

"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."

You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.

Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.

"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."

Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."

Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.

"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"

Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.

"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.

"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"

"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."

He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.

"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."

Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.

"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"

He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.

"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."

You take in his words. "But you're not."

"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.

"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."

You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."

Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."

His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.

"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."

You take a moment to think it over.

"When is it?"

"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."

"Dress code?"

"Formal. Duh."

"How many people?"

"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."

Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.

You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?

Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.

You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.

It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?

Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.

Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.

Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.

"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."

You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.

He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."

You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.

Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.

He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."

Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.

"You've got a deal, mister."

Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.

"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."

Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."

You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.

"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.

Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.

His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.

He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."

"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."

—

A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.

You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.

Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.

You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.

You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.

It would take an hour, tops.

A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.

"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.

Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"

You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.

"And just what are you trying to say?"

Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.

"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."

He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."

You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.

Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.

You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.

"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.

"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."

"Different?"

"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"

His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.

You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"

Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.

"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"

You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.

You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.

His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.

You could do that.

"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"

"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."

You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.

A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.

"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."

You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.

Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.

"Think this'll do?"

Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."

You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.

"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."

Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.

"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."

Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"

Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."

Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.

"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."

Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.

"And Brandon."

"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."

"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."

Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."

You blink, perturbed. "What?"

"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."

You cringe a little. He does have a point.

"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.

You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."

Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.

"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"

You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.

"Yeah," You say.

Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.

Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"

"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.

You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.

"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"

Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."

"You lost that game."

"I still scored!"

"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."

Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."

You laugh again, soft and light.

"Who asked who?"

"I asked you." Steve says.

You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.

What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.

Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.

That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?

You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.

You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.

For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.

"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"

"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."

He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.

"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.

Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"

Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."

Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!

Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"

Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.

"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.

"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"

STEP TWO: THE ACT

Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.

Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.

You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.

"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.

He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.

You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.

"We got together the 20th—"

"—of June, last year." You finish for him.

Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."

You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"

"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."

That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.

"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.

"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."

"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."

Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.

"Thanks." He murmurs.

He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.

What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.

You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"

Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.

"They definitely did."

There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.

Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.

"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.

The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."

"Steve."

"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."

"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.

"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.

"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."

"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.

You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.

"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.

Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.

You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."

Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.

Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.

Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.

"Ready?"

Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."

You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.

He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.

A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.

As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.

Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.

Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.

Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.

Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.

Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?

“Steven.”

The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.

You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.

“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”

He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.

“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”

You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.

“No, Mom, you didn’t.”

There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.

That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.

“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”

The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.

Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.

“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”

You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.

Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.

“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”

This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.

The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.

“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.

Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.

“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”

It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.

Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.

“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”

“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?

You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.

Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.

“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.

“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”

Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.

He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.

“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.

“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.

Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.

The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.

“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”

The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.

“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”

For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.

However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.

“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.

Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.

A new voice interrupts.

“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”

You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.

He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.

The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.

“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.

Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.

Then he does the same to you.

It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.

God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.

“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.

You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.

“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”

Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.

Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.

“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.

He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.

Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”

He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.

You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.

And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.

Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.

“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”

“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”

Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.

You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.

“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”

Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.

“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.

He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.

“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.

You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.

“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.

“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”

There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.

You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.

The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.

You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.

“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.

“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.

He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”

He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.

You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.

Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.

It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.

As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.

“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.

From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.

You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.

“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”

“You think?”

You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.

If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?

"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."

Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.

"Touchy?" He provides.

You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.

The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.

And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.

You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.

How different would it really be?

Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.

Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?

The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.

Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.

Just more. More of this.

Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.

"Hm?"

"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”

Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."

Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.

"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”

The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.

Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.

The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.

“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?

He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.

“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.

How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”

“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.

“Okay," You say. "Fair."

"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"

It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.

"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."

Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

"What about you?"

Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."

"Too late."

“Yeah, well, obviously.”

There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.

“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.

He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”

“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”

Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.

Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”

You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.

“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.

You’ve met him thrice.

Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.

Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.

“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”

Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”

Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”

Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.

Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.

You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.

You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.

“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.

Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.

“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”

There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”

Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”

“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.

“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.

A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.

“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”

Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.

“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.

You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”

He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.

“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”

The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.

Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.

Does he really think all those things about you?

Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.

He turns back to his father’s business friends.

“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”

You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.

It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”

You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.

Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”

There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.

“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.

“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”

“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”

Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”

Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.

You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”

Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.

“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”

“Eh, what’s the big difference?”

“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”

He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.

“Steve? Leaving so soon?”

The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.

“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”

Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.

Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.

Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.

“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”

He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.

“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”

He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.

“It’s like- wait, no—”

Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.

“Is he paying you?”

You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.

Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.

“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”

He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.

STEP THREE: THE KISS

You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.

You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.

And… oh.

He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.

For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.

And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.

Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.

He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.

“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”

The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.

“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”

Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.

STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH

It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.

You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.

Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.

You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.

Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.

Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.

By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.

Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.

As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.

“I'm sorry, okay?"

Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.

"What?"

"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.

"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."

You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.

"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."

Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"

His particular wording isn't lost on you.

"But you are mad." You press.

"I'm not."

You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?

"You sound mad."

Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.

"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"

“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”

Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.

"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"

“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”

That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?

Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.

His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.

"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"

He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"

He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.

A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.

"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.

"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."

"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."

He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.

"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.

"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”

There's desperation in his final plea.

A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.

A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.

"Wha... You never said anything."

It comes out a little insulted.

Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"

"I didn't think I was your type!"

Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.

"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"

"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”

Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.

“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."

"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.

He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.

"And... now?"

Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.

"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"

It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.

"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"

Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.

"Would you... want that?"

"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.

Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.

But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.

And there it is; the true revelation.

"And I don't think I want to."

The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.

He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.

How the hell did you miss it?

"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"

What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.

"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.

Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.

But you want to try.

That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.

He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.

He pauses just before your lips can touch.

Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.

Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.

You're excited.

His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.

"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."

The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.

He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.

You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.

"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.

"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"

"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.

God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.

"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.

You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.

"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"

Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.

"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."

Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.

You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.

Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.

One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.

Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.

As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.

taggin some peeps below! @illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime

@katsu28 @inthehystericalrealm @djarinova @cheugyphobe @sunshinesteviee

@sunlitide @citrinesparkles @bigfrogs

just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm

[letyukisayfuck]

day 2 of my attempt to write something every day! happy halloween <3

[jinxedruby]

Whumptober Day One: Race Against the Clock

Featuring Twilight, Wild, and Four.

Here we go for the... second time this year. Yeah, I didn't plan this out very well. Burnout be damned, we're doing this. I'll be doing half-and-half of this and Inktober with companion pieces. The "next part" link will go to the art piece once it's up, then to the next chapter, and so on. We'll see if I can do all of this one as well!

Heads up for some wound description in this chapter.

AO3

Next part ->

-------------------------------

A sharp whistle startled Twilight from a deep sleep. He jolted upwards, fumbling for his sword as vertigo swirled in his head. A growling roar sounded beside him. Something heavy slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to his back with a grunt. Teeth flashed in his vision, something sharp digging into the skin of his chest. He threw his hands up, caught the wolfos’s neck before the jaws could close around his throat. A strained cry escaped through his gritted teeth as he struggled to get the wolfos off of him. It snarled and snapped its teeth inches away from his face.

A short yell preceded the sound of metal through flesh. The wolfos yelped and Twilight managed to hurl it off of himself, scrambling up with a gasp. Wild darted past him and plunged his sword into the monster again, finishing it off. Twilight quickly snatched up his own sword, yanking it from its scabbard and whirling around to locate more enemies. He saw Sky swiftly kill a wolfos, Wind cutting down another behind him. He turned farther, but there didn’t seem to be any more monsters.

“Is that- is that it?” Legend said breathlessly, bare feet twisting in the grass as he looked around, sword raised.

“Seems like it,” Sky replied.

“You okay, Rancher?” Wild asked, wiping his blade on the grass.

Twilight nodded then winced, reaching up to rub his stinging chest. He stuck a hand down his shirt, gently brushing his fingers along the skin. He felt wetness and some shallow abrasions, but it didn’t seem to be anything serious. “Just some scratches.”

“I’m sorry for not waking you all sooner,” Time said with a frown. “I didn’t hear them until the last moment.”

“No worries, old man.” Legend collapsed facedown into his bedroll. He mumbled something into his pillow before going still.

Twilight patted his chest lightly, frowning at the blood seeping into his shirt. It really didn’t hurt all that much, but he should probably get a bandage over it to at least keep his clothes clean. As he pulled a roll of bandages from his bag, he noticed Warriors standing at the edge of camp, sword still in hand.

“Where’s our smith?” Warriors called.

As if in response, distant howling rang out. The haunting sound echoing out into the night sang familiar to Twilight’s ears. The song of a hunt. He stiffened. Barely giving himself time to pull on his boots, he shoved the bandages into his pocket and sprinted into the trees.

“Rancher-!”

“Hang on, I’m coming with!” Wild cut off Warriors, jogging after Twilight.

Twilight heard Time say something to Warriors but he didn’t pay attention, hurrying away from camp as quickly as he could. As soon as he deemed it far enough away, he shifted into his wolf form. Immediately, the sharp, tangy scent of blood became glaringly apparent. Another howl came, this one accompanied by a yell, high with pain. He shot toward the sound, Wild dashing after him. The scent of blood grew stronger as he went. He spurred his legs on faster, the trees whipping by in a blur. A dark splatter of blood painted the grass just ahead. He lunged over it, followed the trail of red droplets beyond it. He heard growling, spotted a blob of black and gray through the trees. His ears flattened. The wolfos didn’t even have time to turn before Twilight dove into it.

He sank his teeth into the wolfos’s shoulder and held on as they rolled in a mass of fur and claws. It landed on its back, Twilight tearing at it with his teeth. The wolfos howled and thrashed. It kicked its back legs, claws ripping slashes along Twilight’s middle. He yelped and rolled away, pain burning in the wounds. The wolfos growled and pounced. He darted out of the way, the wolfos streaking past. It readjusted quickly, claws of its long forelegs digging into the ground as it turned. It and Twilight lunged at once, the two colliding midair. Twilight’s teeth found its throat. As they hit the ground, he clamped down and yanked. Something snapped, blood burst into his mouth. He twisted and flung the wolfos to the ground. He held on until the wolfos’s flailing turned to twitching. He only released it once the monster fell still.

He stumbled back and collapsed to his stomach with a huff. He lay there for only a moment before abruptly remembering Four. He forced himself to his feet and turned. Wild stood several paces behind him, sword drawn, staring at him with wide eyes. Twilight froze.

“Well, damn,” Wild said simply. No fear in his voice. Twilight relaxed minutely then returned to looking around, trying to find any sign of Four. The smell of blood choked his nose, coming from seemingly everywhere. He absently licked his muzzle, then grimaced as he realized why everything smelled like blood. He shifted back into a human so he could clean himself up. Searing pains erupted in his abdomen and his wolfish yelped warped into a human cry.

“Rancher!” Wild shouted, hurrying to his side.

Twilight hissed through his teeth, wrapping an arm around his middle, the other braced against the ground to keep his balance.

“It’s fine,” he gritted out, struggling to push himself back into a kneel. The lacerations along his chest cried out in protest. “Just- just smarts.”

“That does not look fine,” Wild replied, brow furrowed as his gaze darted around Twilight’s abdomen. He reached for his slate. “Here, I-”

“No, we have to find the smith,” Twilight interrupted. He forced himself to one knee with a grunt, willing the burning of his wounds to subside faster.

Wild grabbed his shoulder to keep him from standing. “I will find the smith, you will take a potion.”

Twilight opened his mouth, reaching to push Wild’s hand off of him, when he heard a soft noise. He went still, holding a finger to his lips. Wild quieted, glancing around. The sound came again, hushed and cracking. Twilight turned to the direction it came from, narrowing his eyes at the forest.

“Guys,” a small, weak voice croaked.

Twilight and Wild both shot to their feet, the former stumbling as pain burned deep in his wounds. He blinked the reflexive tears from his eyes, following Wild to the tree the voice had come from. It appeared half dead, bark graying and cracking, shrubs encroaching on the space around the trunk. Stubby, splintered remainders of branches stretched toward the sky, devoid of leaves. Not immediately seeing Four, Twilight circled the tree, trying to find him. A dead wolfos lay beside the tree, Four’s sword sticking out of its skull. Twilight moved faster, eyes darting between ferns and bushes and trees.

“Is he up top?” Wild suggested, craning his neck back to look in the branches.

“Smith?” Twilight called as he completed the circle around the tree. He kept one arm pressed to his chest, resolutely ignoring the harsh stinging in his flesh.

“In- in here,” Four called weakly.

It seemed to come from directly in front of them. Twilight moved around the tree again, frantic confusion fraying his nerves. Just as he opened his mouth to call out again, his gaze landed on a spot in the trunk partially obscured behind a shrub. He crouched down, shoved the branches of the shrub aside. Doing so revealed a small split in the trunk of the tree, wider at the bottom and tapering off about a foot or so high. The widest part appeared barely big enough for him to fit even his hips through, let alone his shoulders. But it might have been just big enough for a very small hero. He positioned himself by the bush to keep it pushed aside and ducked down.

Four lay huddled on the ground inside of the hollow tree, half-curled to fit within the trunk. Both of his hands pressed to his right thigh, doing little to staunch the flow of blood. The red liquid utterly soaked his pant leg and the hem of his tunic, growing into a pool beneath his leg. He slowly turned his head to look at Twilight, eyes hazy, blinks long and languid.

Twilight’s heart leapt into his throat. He threw a shout over his shoulder. “He’s in here!”

“Wh-” Wild lunged toward him, crouching and wedging in beside him to look into the hollow. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and immediately pulled out his slate, tapping the surface rapidly. “Smithy! How’d you get in there?”

Several beats passed before Four responded with a hum. “Dunno. Ju… just dove f’r it.” He looked paler by the second. The edges of the pool of blood beneath his leg crept steadily outwards. His face scrunched up. “Think I’m gonna be sick.”

Glowing blue strings sprouted from Wild’s slate and merged together into the shape of a bottle. Wild snatched up the potion the moment it finished forming. He nearly dropped it, cursed, fumbled to stick his arm through the split in the trunk, and held it out to Four. “Can you keep an elixir down? Should stop the bleeding.”

Four’s gaze settled on the bottle, brow furrowed. He stared at it for a very long moment before slowly taking a hand off his leg and taking the potion. He kept one hand pressed futilely to his bleeding thigh, struggling to open the bottle with the other. After several failed attempts, he brought it to his mouth and pulled the cork out with his teeth. Spitting the cork to the ground, he drank about half before his movements stalled. Then he slumped all at once, arm going slack, the half-empty bottle thudding to the ground.

“Smithy!” Wild shouted.

Twilight stretched his arm into the hollow, only to find Four just barely out of reach. He cursed, lowering onto his back and pressing as close to the tree as he could, stretching his arm out as far as it would go. The movement caused the wounds in his chest to protest but he pushed past it. His fingers brushed the fabric of Four’s tunic. They scrabbled before hooking around the edge of his hood. Tightening his grip and praying this wouldn’t hurt Four any further, he braced his other hand against the tree and began dragging Four out. Pain screamed from the gashes along his chest and he choked on a yelp, screwing his eyes shut.

Hands wrapped around his underarms and pulled. He clenched his teeth against the onslaught of pain as Wild hauled him back. He kept a death grip on Four’s hood, dragging the little smith out of the hollow and onto the grass. The moment he came free, Wild released Twilight and rushed to Four’s side. Twilight struggled to sit up, black specks fizzling in the edges of his vision. He blinked them away in time to see Wild’s hands hovering over Four’s leg, face stricken. Eventually, he just wrapped his hands around it best he could before throwing a helpless look up at Twilight.

“You don’t have bandages?” Twilight asked breathlessly as he moved to check Four’s pulse. The little smith’s face was stark white, chest rising and falling in time with his quick, shallow breaths.

“I- it- it’s all back at camp I only have what’s in my Slate,” Wild stammered.

Twilight knotted his lips. He didn’t have anything on him, either. He’d only grabbed his sword before- His eyes widened. He dug a hand into his pocket, withdrawing the wad of bandages he’d grabbed for himself before the howling started. He’d forgotten he had those. He quickly took Wild’s place at Four’s side. He grabbed the edges of the hole in Four’s pants and tore it open wider. Blood completely obscured the wound and he mopped some of it up with the bandages. Large puncture marks wreathed the smith’s thigh, oozing dark blood that trailed over his leg even as Twilight wiped it away.

“Bite marks,” Wild realized.

“Must have been the wolfos he killed.” Twilight wound the bandage tightly around Four’s leg before any more blood could be lost. The movement pulled at the wounds on his chest and he bit back a groan. He absently pressed an arm to his chest after securing the bandage, watching as little circles of red bloomed on the cloth. If the half of a potion Four drank had slowed the bleeding, it wasn’t by much. “We need to get him back to camp.”

“Wait, wait!” Wild’s call just as Twilight moved to lift Four made him hesitate. Wild leapt up and dashed back to the tree. He lay flat on his stomach and shoved his arm into the hollow. After a moment, he reemerged with the half-empty potion in hand.

“You drink the rest,” he said, hurrying back to Twilight and holding it out. “You’re still bleeding a lot.”

Twilight opened his mouth to refuse before refocusing on the severity of the burning in his chest. He would need to carry Four, but the pain of the wounds would make that difficult. Not to mention it would probably take longer that way. He chewed his lip but relented after a moment, accepting the potion and downing the rest. Wild darted off again as he did. Twilight heard a wet sounding shunk before he returned with Four’s blood-slicked sword in hand. Twilight gave him a grateful nod before lifting Four up. Pain flared in his chest but at a more bearable level than before he’d drunk the potion. The moment Twilight made it to his feet, Wild began leading the way back. Twilight trotted after him, trying to avoid jostling Four as much as he could. He hadn’t exactly been paying attention to where he’d been going on the way here and felt glad Wild remembered the way back.

He glanced down at Four’s pale face. Four’s breaths came shallowly through whitened lips, but he still breathed. Twilight held onto that fact as he tightened his grip on Four and quickened his pace.

[rubyreadd]

https://www.tumblr.com/rubyreadd/767317434950647808/i-have-1600-words-of-omegavale-meta-i-hope?source=share

genuinely starving.

Me too anon, and I'm writing the damn thing.

As of right now I have added another three thousand words to my meta and honestly, I reckon I'm well on my way to having six thousand by the time I'm done. However, I have been sitting on this piece for so long and making various vague posts about it that I think it's high time I gave you all some context.

So here are an assortment of excerpts from the current draft:

From the second part of my doc regarding character analysis -

It's entirely unintentional on Valentino's behalf, but he does become somewhat of an "omega activist", if only for simply existing in an alpha dominated space without suppressing his designation. If you asked Valentino about this role model status however, he would just laugh you off. Being a rider is not about being an omega or alpha or whatever.

Except that more often than not it is. Valentino cannot keep up with the raw strength and aggression of his alpha competitors, even if he does have a mean right hook. So he hones his cunning instead, becoming a force of luminous charisma that is as intoxicating as the heady florals of his scent.

Valentino's myth is veiled in sensuality, the romancing of man and machine that transforms an entire sport; underpinned by the allure of an unattainable omega. It becomes another tool in Valentino's arsenal, the same way the celebrations and the yellow are part of his shtick as The Doctor. Valentino's modus operandi is to pick his competition apart at the seams and let them unravel the rest of the way themselves, and he knows that his being an omega plays on the fault lines of alpha superiority. Valentino, who should’ve been kept as an accessory to his alpha’s success, rising well above his station to beat out said alpha wheel to wheel.

It rankles and Valentino is counting on that.

Another facet of character analysis, Uccio & Vale -

There is one exception however. Uccio. The fundamentals are the same – boyhood friends who carry each other in triumph and through defeat. The friend Valentino trusts unequivocally and unwaveringly to keep him grounded, and the man Uccio has devoted himself in his entirety to. Uccio just also happens to be an alpha.

It's a relationship dynamic that bucks the prevailing convention that alphas and omegas can only consort with the intention to mate, or at least fuck. Uccio is the one who finds Valentino feverish and confused with the onset of his presentation heat; who takes it upon himself to guard Valentino's room with resolute determination until his heat tapers out three days later.

Uccio's presentation rut comes the following week, and when he emerges Valentino is waiting for him, smelling like spring, lush with the promise of becoming. Valentino is the first person Uccio ever scents – a tentative exploration that is more an awkward bumping of wrists and noses than anything else. But it makes Valentino laugh, bright and toothy, notes of fig and orange blossom filtering through his scent. It settles like a ball of light in Uccio's chest, and Valentino tells him he smells like cloves.

Sete/Vale. These following three sections are all ship analyses -

Sete is Valentino's first heat partner.

Sete finds this out while he's got Valentino half undressed and squirming in his lap, his scent blooming with syrupy heat. It's 2000 and Sete has been the altruistic hand guiding Valentino through his transition to 500cc – a familiar, friendly face that Valentino can seek out when he needs a breather from his boywonder persona. Sete is also unconcerned with the alpha posturing of some of his competitors, a trait that draws Valentino in when they first meet in 1998. Apart from a cursory sniff Sete doesn’t comment on Valentino’s designation, focusing instead on teaching him the mechanics of rear-wheel riding. It makes Valentino feel normal in a way he gets with sparingly few people – like a competitor and not a conquest.

Valentino likes Sete. He trusts Sete. And two years later, when Valentino is on holiday with Sete and his heat takes hold, Sete, broad and handsome and undeniably alpha in a way that makes Valentino’s head swim, takes Valentino into his arms and apart in his bed. Valentino isn’t a virgin, but this – Sete’s back flexing under Valentino’s hands, his mouth an iron-hot brand on Valentino’s skin, the drag of his cock inside Valentino – is something else. Valentino exists only where Sete touches him, drifting on his firewood and leather scent.

Casey/Vale

Casey isn’t stupid, he knows this can only end poorly. But Casey is only a man, only an alpha, and he has spent so long denying both of those things that now, with the object of his most base desires in front of him, Casey can’t keep pretending that he doesn’t want. Casey does make an almost valiant attempt to suggest they find Uccio, but then Valentino presses the whole length of himself against Casey and whines and that’s that.

Casey doesn’t tell him, but Valentino rightly guesses that he’s never had an omega in heat before. The underlying accusation of incompetence makes Casey arc up and he manhandles Valentino into the bedroom and onto his back. Valentino only smiles up at him, satisfied. He’s being a dickhead but Valentino didn’t seek Casey out to beat around the bush. He’s seen Casey ride like a devil and now Valentino wants to know if he fucks like one too.

Valentino leans up as far as he can against the iron-sure grip Casey has around his wrists, manacling him to the bed, and noses along the line of Casey’s jaw until he gets to the soft skin at the juncture of Casey’s throat. He exhales, feels gooseflesh shiver into life against his lips, and licks right over the scent gland there. A throwing down of the gauntlet that hits all of Casey’s pressure points. He puts Valentino on his knees, face down ass up, and takes.

Marc/Vale

Marc is Valentino's reminder.

He boasts a quintessential alpha attitude; ambitious, aggressive, flush with ego. He stinks of alpha pheromones too. However, the eager genuineness Marc approaches the sport and Valentino with bevels out the less refined aspects of his personality. So Valentino doesn’t mind Marc’s overenthusiastic efforts to seduce him. He can appreciate a man who knows what he wants. 

And what Marc wants is world championships and Valentino. Initially he aspires to wanting to be like Valentino, but after Marc presents that aspiration shifts to wanting Valentino full stop.

[dreadfuldevotee]

Ruby: Yeaaaah, The Doctor just constantly trauma dumped on me starting from the day we met

Yasmin Khan, who has finally been convinced to come back to companion support group after finding out that The Doctor settled down with a family 48 hours after leaving her: I have to leave

[ruby-myth-dreamer]

Thinking about bug fables again reminded me i have a fanfic in my google doc thats also an hollow knight crossover bcus i love that specific crossover sm and its just "hey what if quirrel just went exploring after chilling at the blue lake and ended up in bugaria" and i have a timeline of events and everything and ideas

I even have liek 2k words almost of a kind of fic

No i will not be sharing it its from ages ago and i fear showing the public my writing

[quantumshade]

the first time the word "lesbian" was said out loud in doctor who was in reference to a trans girl. peace and love on planet earth