So I haven't wrote any fanfiction in quite a while, but I'm currently suffering immensely with inspiration for my novel and so I'm taking a break in order to present some hopefully half-decent writing for you to read.
I had this idea and I figured I might do the same structure for a few different fandoms.
I'll stop boring you now and I hope you enjoy.
Touch.
When she touches him, his skin catches fire.
All it takes is a simple graze, a small moment of contact for his whole world to light up in blazes. His skin tingles, his blood pulsates with a heat that melts his bones, the warmth shakes him to his very core.
He loves it.
He's addicted to it.
She's grabbed his hand before now, in times of fear, for safety and comfort, always platonic, and his world has ignited before his eyes. His fingers set fire, he fears he'll melt her hand the heat is so strong. It warms him, she warms him, it hurts like hell but he misses the pain when she's gone.
And when she's gone, once the contact is lost, it feels like she's tipped a bucket of ice cold water over him, extinguished the flame that she has brought about. It makes him feel numb. It hurts even more than the fire does, the nothing. It hurts like rejection.
Sometimes, he swears she must feel it too. When their fingers have touched as she's passed something to him and he sees her flinch as he does, as fire begins to burn in his soul. She breaks eye contact, doesn't speak a word and he's convinced she feels it too.
But other times, he knows for sure she didn't feel a thing. Countless times she's accidently brushed against him in the hallway, or her knee bounced into his under the lunch table, and he's set alight, left looking dumbfounded and startled as he feels so much more than just being. But she carries on her conversation, or finishes her lunch, without even the slightest hint of recognition in her eyes.
He'll take it anyway.
When it happens, when he can feel himself on fire, he's so acutely aware of her, so much more than before. Every breath she takes he sees, if a bead of perspiration appears on her neck he knows, and if she looks at him, oh God he's aware, he's so aware of her eyes on him that the burning, the fire, it rises straight to his cheeks.
It doesn't deter him, he's a addict after all, he needs to touch her, even in the simplest of ways.
Sometimes, he reaches out for her hand, just to feel the fire. He even casually bounces his leg against hers as if he was thinking about a song just to feel a spark. Occasionally he bumps into her in the hallways, or holds the book she needs a little too close to the middle so their fingers would touch. He looks for any excuse to hug her, to push her hair out of her face.
He'll take whatever he can get.
He's glad the burns don't show, because that's what it feels like to him, like she's burning his skin, branding his flesh with her touch so that no touch will ever feel the same as hers. Sometimes he does wish he could show someone the effect she has on him, but he's glad there's no explaining to do.
After all, it's hard to breath with ash in your lungs.
The heat is sweltering and it's only May, everyone has lost their jackets, shoved them half-heartedly across the floor into a deep dark corner of the library after hours. Books are thrown across the table, everything from human biology to ancient mythology, anything that could possibly help them, anything even remotely connected to their current situation.
"I think I found something," Stiles' voice is heard above the tropical rain pouring outside, only adding to the muggy heat in the two storied room.
The friends gather around Stiles from where they all sat on the floor in the space around him, getting close enough to hear and read with him but far enough so no body heat was shared. That was the last thing they needed right now, sweating and fanning themselves.
"A couple of the words are stuff we've heard before, I think it's a story," Stiles spoke, "I'm not sure though, it's in Latin."
With that, a strawberry blonde head pokes up from her book, just as everyone else's heads turn to her. "I can give it a shot," Lydia replies to the unasked question, "But I'm not promising anything."
Stiles picks up the book he was just trying to read from where he had placed it on the floor and Lydia grass it with her outstretched hand as he offers it to her.
Their fingers brush against one another, a spark ignites into a flame and their breath gets caught in their throat.
It's so fast and yet so slow that the only way to describe it is that it feels like falling in love for the first time.