14. Collars in the Shape of Hands
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cw: burning, failed escape, inhuman whumpers
Your vision blurs, choked with the sight of Valian’s blood and flashing steel. You can’t watch this. You–
You panic. And the world panics with you, slipping away and blurring into vague, indistinct shapes. You run, heart ripping apart your throat– you don’t think an internal organ is supposed to be there, but you brush it aside– you have to run.
You have to get out of here.
The ring of trees that’s a fuzzy line of green means freedom. Safety. You draw close, panic turning to exhilaration. You’re going to make it. You’re going to be safe. The thought settles comfortably inside you, all dull edges and warm fall colours.
You never make it.
You never had a chance.
Keres materialises directly in front of you, coming up from the grass with the finality of a mountain.
Fall colours fade to winter and despair.
Grinding to a stop, you try to backpedal– you still have a chance to reach the woods. To escape this nightmare of a clearing–
Keres tilts her head and gives you a paper-thin smile. A smile that says, “Hey, congratulations, you messed this up splendidly. Good for you for being so bold and so utterly stupid.” Really, who needs words when they can smile like that?
Someone grabs your shoulders from behind, grip tightening with an impossible strength. No human should be able to make your bones feel like they’re about to turn into powder.
Solis drags you back to the middle of the clearing. In a final fit of resistance, you dig your heels into the ground, leaving scratch marks in the grass.
Solis drops you. Pieces of green grass twist between your fingers and wrap around your wrist.
Voices echo like they're coming from the end of a very long tunnel. “You shall regret that.”
“Helect, you should not have tried to run.” Mocking. “But, alas, that is your loss.”
It’s Solis who hauls you back to your feet. There are flecks of Valian's blood on her face. She doesn’t let go of your collar, but twists it to the point of choking.
Leaning in close, she whispers, “Have you ever been in so much pain, death seems like a mercy?”
The lightning in her eyes seems like an entire flashing storm. The air contracts with suppressed energy.
She slips into an old way of speaking. A hymn. A threat. “Prepare thyself.”
“For– for what?”
Solis raises two of her four hands and the light catches on the dead skin. Then you realise it's not sunlight on her skin, but white flames. Her hands are on fire.
And she smiles. “For this.”
Terror spikes through you, filling every nerve in your body with a silent scream. You try to wrench away, fighting with the strength of a trapped animal.
Keres grabs your wrists in a vice-like grip. With another hand, she grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back.
You stare at the sky through the tree branches and wonder if it's the last time you’ll see the sun.
Flashing red wings.
Cicadas buzzing.
The green of the forest.
Don’t think about the burning--
The sound of sizzling hits you first, then the pain.
Solis’s hands are around your throat, forming a collar of fire.
The sunlight beats down on you as you scream. Back arched, clawing for even the slightest relief.
The first scream is choked, strangled and half-swallowed. It rips at your throat, crawling out of your mouth and falling dead beside you.
Just like your dignity.
You never had a high pain tolerance.
“Oh, be quiet,” snaps Solis, withdrawing her hands. But the burns remain. A mark that won’t heal and is unable to be hidden.
Burns in the shape of a collar.
Keres lets go of your wrists and you sink to the ground. Your vision blurs– worse than before.
Unconsciousness is a mercy you would beg for.
You slip further into the grass.
Bare feet appear in the corner of your vision and Valian crouches next to you. Their bottom lip is shredded, blood dried to their face. They're really not much better off than you are.
There’s concern in your eyes, but it’s darkened by fear. “You should stand up for this next part,” they whisper. “Do you need help standing?”
Nausea rises up with an unbidden horror. The agents aren’t finished?
taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @d-cs, @annablogsposts, @sorrowful-hyacinth, @whumpsday, @whumpinthepot, @whumpycries (lmk if you want to be added/removed!)
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Part 4 of Mob AU
(♡-_-♡) @xinxiaojie
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
--
"Isn't that...?"
Madam Lan pauses in the aisle, turning to look in the direction where her husband is pointing and catches herself before she drops the can of peaches in her hand. “Is that…?”
Next to her, she hears him laugh. “Yeah, I think it is.”
On the other end of the aisle, right by the spinach, Madam Lan sees Gong Shangjue locking lips with a young man. Completely indifferent to how it’s a Wednesday morning in a supermarket out in the suburbs, and they were both dressed in black suits that look horribly out of place where they stand in the vegetable section.
She has to cover her mouth, biting back a flustered smile.
In her mind, Gong Shangjue is still that lanky teen who’d dutifully accompanied his mother to all her doctor visits and who’d always been respectful to her, even after her divorce.
Especially after her divorce.
Last she'd heard, her ex-husband had married an old acquaintance of hers, Lady Wuji. She'd seen them in the society papers sometimes. They look happy.
“Auntie, Uncle.” Madam Lan jolts, coming back to herself and face to face with the said man in question.
Smiling, she shakes her head. “I haven’t been your Auntie in a very long time.” Her husband presses close to her shoulder and she draws some small comfort from his presence.
“Still,” Gong Shangjue says, lips curling slightly. “There’s no wrong in me calling you that.” With a careful gesture, he introduces, “This is my husband, Yuanzhi. Yuanzhi, this is Auntie Lan and her husband.”
The young man bows and quickly excuses himself to the next aisle over. Her husband gives her a kiss and tactfully allows them a moment.
“How have you been?”
Madam Lan relaxes at the question. “Good. We are leaving for America in two months because he has been invited as a visiting professor.”
“That’s great,” Gong Shangjue says, voice sparkling with quiet honesty. “I’m glad to hear this.”
“So,” She tilts her head at the back of the young man. “Married life, eh?”
There’s a distinct softening of his eyes when he says, “I find that it suits me.” And that, Madam Lan thinks, is something she can believe in.
They chat for a while before her husband comes back to her side. “Take care of yourself Shangjue.” She bids.
He seems to hesitate for a moment before meeting her gaze. “You should call him. I know he misses you very much.”
Madam Lan physically deflates at that, looking up at her husband when he wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Would that child even want to speak to me?"
There are a lot of complicated emotions when she thinks about her son and thus, it's not an activity she partakes in often. Sadness and guilt war in tandem with a thick streak of no remorse about her decision to file for divorce when Ziyu was 5. She won't deny that she had paused when signing away custody to Ziyu, but it was only a moment, and it passed before the ink had even dried.
Shangjue purses his lips before pulling out his name card and a pen, writing down something with a flourish that he hands to her. "You won't know if you don't try." He tips his head, saying his goodbyes.
Her husband squeezes her shoulders. Madam Lan smiles wanly at him, looking at the number scrawled elegantly on the cardstock. She knows, even without him saying it, that he will support her if she chooses to reach out again.
But will that child even pick up the phone for his selfish mother?
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Title: flickering
Warnings: Hearing voices similar to intrusive thoughts (the voices are from sentient fire, not from the character’s own mind), pyromania, session 3 spoilers
~*~
Tango might be hearing things.
That is, beyond what the rest of his friends have already been joking about this entire session. The secret task bestowed upon him seemed like pure hilarity at first: pretend to have an imaginary friend. And he had to go all out, too, having imaginary conversations in the presence of other people. He wasn’t confident enough in his improv skills to pull it off without some kind of prop, though, so he’d assigned the role of imaginary friend to a torch in his inventory.
Torchy, a new best friend for the resident blaze hybrid on the server. Hilarious.
Except, as the hours went on… carrying Torchy around and randomly placing it down… hosting one-sided conversations with a piece of burning wood while his friends watched on with baffled amusement… it started to get a little less hilarious. Because he started to imagine that he could actually hear Torchy talking back to him.
Looks bad. Burn it. Kill him.
Just pleasant little things like that. It made for great conversation fodder; nothing turned heads on this server faster than a randomly overheard, “No, no, we can’t kill him!” And it was funny to carry on that kind of dialogue, chastising a flaming stick for its apparent bloodlust. The looks on his friends’ faces were priceless.
But at the end of the session, after Tango had been found out and failed his task, after everyone bid their farewells and went their separate ways to end the session… he hears it again; a flickering whisper of a voice in his ears.
Burn it.
It startles Tango so badly, his blaze rods ignite. “Aaagh- who? What?!” He spins around, flames spitting.
“Huh?” Skizz pokes his head up from behind their little clump of chests, his wing flared out in surprise. “What happened?”
Tango clutches his pounding heart. “Did you- did you say something, Skizz?” he asks breathlessly.
“What, just now? No?” Skizz frowns, then his eyes widen. “Oh, wait, I get it…” He chuckles. “Very funny dude, but uh, you can drop the ‘imaginary friend’ thing now.”
Burn him. Kill him.
There it is again. “No, I’m not…” Tango hesitates, glancing around warily. “You seriously can’t hear that?”
Join us. Burn it. Eat it all.
Now Skizz looks a little concerned, rising to his feet. “Uh- no? What?” He takes a few steps towards Tango, holding out a hand. “You okay, buddy?”
Tango rakes his claws through his hair. “Th- the whispering, the…” Swallowing, he creeps a bit closer to Skizz- and as he does so, he happens to move closer to a random torch. The voice gets louder.
Free us. Join us. Let it all burn.
There’s a chunk of solid ice in Tango’s stomach. “I think it’s coming from the torches,” he whispers.
Skizz stares at him for a moment before he sighs bemusedly, shaking his head. “Oh, brother. You’ve been talking to yourself all session, dude, I think you’re starting to hear things.” He claps a hand on Tango’s shoulder. “Get some rest, buddy, and I’ll see you back here next week, alright?”
Skizz doesn’t hear it. Tango makes himself laugh. “Right, yeah. You’re right. See ya.”
With a parting smile, Skizz logs off.
Tango waits. Soon enough, the voice returns. The whispering is now a chant, a dull roar echoing in his skull.
He’s gone. Burn it. Burn it all. Sets us free, let us spread. Join us. Burn it. Eat it all.
Tango’s heart is in his throat. He can see it, in his mind’s eye; the soft pink cherry blossoms engulfed in flame, a ring of smoke outlining the entire island… his inner fire thrums with want, with need.
Yes, yes, burn it all…
The smell of burning snaps him out of his trance. His clawed fingertips are pinching a cherry blossom from a low-hanging branch, a trail of smoke rising between them. Wait, when did he walk over to the tree? Quickly plucking the flower, he incinerates it in his clenched fist, the flame extinguished as soon as it’d ignited.
And now he’s got a handful of ash. Great.
Okay, that’s it- he’s gotta get off this crazy server. It’s all these stupid tasks! They’re totally messing with his head. The secrecy, the deception, the mind games- he just needs a break. He needs to go back to something familiar, some place where things make sense.
Tapping his communicator, he brings up a portal.
Tango steps through it into Hermitcraft, into blue flames and his dungeon master’s robes. He blinks, acclimating to the change of light. He’s in the underbelly of Decked Out 2, of course- most of his time this week has been spent working on the redstone for level four. And over the months, he’s taken care to light everything up (because a single creeper in the skadoodler could derail his entire operation here) so there are torches everywhere…
And he hears nothing.
Just the idle sounds of the dungeon above him. The occasional warden sniff or ravager growl, bats squeaking in the dark. A slime slapping against stone somewhere in the distance. He can even hear the ambient flickering of the countless torches around him, but no freaky voices accompany it.
Tango exhales heavily. It was just the Secret Life server messing with his head, after all. Relieved, he ignites a rocket to take off, whirling through the air in the tight hair-pin turns required to escape from the dungeon’s inner workings. He swoops into his storage room and dives into the bubble-vator, arriving swiftly back in the citadel.
Hopping off the platform and into the air, Tango glides toward his private entrance to the lobby. He needs to go cover up the barrel at the start so he can make a couple changes to the dungeon. Nothing major, maybe just an extra warden or two. Ideas for names are already flashing through his mind. Debating whether to go intimidating or silly, he’s so deep in thought as he passes through the lobby that he almost doesn’t notice it at first. But as he walks past the soul flames, he hears it.
The flicker of a familiar voice- though more haunting, now, almost mournful- whispering in his ears.
Join us. Burn them. Eat them all.
~*~
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Arlecchino is a cold person.
(Arlecchino x Reader Blurb)
It's no suprise to anyone. It is simply an objective fact of the matter. She is aware of this. The House of the Hearth is aware of this. The Fatui are aware of this. It's ironic given the nature of her vision, but it nonetheless rings true despite the fire she possesses on her blackened fingertips. She is callous and curt, and underneath her skin there is nothing except frigid ice that envelopes her being like a fitted coat. She speaks with no warmth, acts with the absence of heat, exists in a constant state of cold emptiness--a state in which there is a void inside of her, as if sucking all that is human of her.
Years ago, when she was just a child of the same orphanage she headed, she had naive thoughts of finding companionship, someone who would provide the warmth she sought on lonesome nights. She was barely just an adolescent who dreamed of lying in someone's arms, feel the heartbeat of another so surely, it would remind her that she was indeed alive. For even the briefest of moments, she yearned for someone who would, if not shield, then distract her from the cruelties of this world.
She had shed those foolish wishes aside. In the House of the Heart that she was raised in, such notions were admonished, in fact, the wishful thinking was one of the reasons she had nearly lost her life. Never again, she had promised to herself, when she mercilessly beat the backstabber. It was then that she believed when the time came, her tale would end the same way as it began for her: alone. As the years of being a Fatui, then becoming a Fatui Harbinger, hardened her, there was comfort in that view.
That is what she believed in. Until you came.
Iciness wraps her being. It is present in her expression, in her words, in her touch. But that is exactly why she finds solace in your being. Her vision could only grant her a synthetic flame, but, you, you're an everlasting hearth. She melts in your embrace every time she slots herself in your arms, as it feels like a kindling ignited in her heart. It is only with you, that she learns how warmth can be found in.
Arlecchino is a cold person.
It is why you, as a warm one, is perfect for her. You whisk away the most depraved thoughts, ease her of any emotional and mental turmoil, and you do not treat her with the same coldness as the world seems so fond of doing to her. You are her flame, the one that sparks her being and reminds her that she is alive because her heart beats with you, beats for you.
Except you are cold now. It is unfathomable to her how you can be this way when your entire being exists to warm her, but when she touches your skin, you are unbearably frozen. Your body does not tremble like it does when her clawed fingers ever so gently trace your skin. The corner of your lips doesn't quirk up into the usual small smile of yours when she appears in your sight, but they remain ever rigid like the rest of you. Uncharacteristically, your expression doesn't soften with her presence.
You are cold, just like her. And that makes her afraid. Her hand searches for it, prodding your skin for a familiar thumping that is nowhere to be found. You continue to stare at her, unblinking. Here would be the moment where you give her a beaming smirk and you'd cup her face tenderly as if she was glass. And she would let you, because you are her beloved, who has watched her shatter so many times before and wordlessly each shard back together, and it is for that reason that she would lean closer towards your touch.
Because you lie broken in her arms and her hands are stained again with the familiar color of red. Your eyes are glossy and gaze unblinkingly at her. Frozen. Even when you are covered in your blood, you are beautiful, she notes, but oh, so cold that it makes her doubt if you were warm to begin with.
She misses your warmth. Where has it gone? Or has it died along with you?
Her hearth is gone. And as she clings onto your form, her body wracking with a fear and desperation she's never known before, two revelations come to her: that there is no such thing as an everlasting fire, and even after so many years ago, she was right along.
Arlecchino is a cold person. And she will remain always cold.
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let the kisses linger
word count: 3.3k
summary: Steve Harrington is not your boyfriend, not yet. So far you’ve had a couple sweet kisses and an infuriating amount of dates spent with him making you nervous. Now, you just want to kiss him like you mean it, more than a peck, and maybe ask him to be your boyfriend while you do it. Steve beats you to it, on both counts.
[cheeky tiny makeout + gn!reader (but r is mentioned to wear a bikini) + first relationship!reader]
It starts with a touch.
You’ve come to learn it always does with Steve. Fingers skirting along any bare skin he can find, drawing a line on your waist when just a sliver is exposed. Along the ridge of your neck, curling his hand to rest against your shoulder. His fingertips tease at your neck, feather-soft touches that can make you shiver if you’re not expecting it.
You think he does it just to see the goosebumps that trail in the wake of his touch. From the way he always grins, like the cat that got the cream, you’re probably right.
Steve can’t help it. You’re so responsive.
Maybe it’s because it’s new, this thing between you and Steve — you’ve been on a couple dates together after a string of painfully obvious flirtations over the Family Video counter that Robin had been forced to witness. You’ve just not quite sealed the deal yet.
However, even though Steve’s had more girlfriends than he can count on one hand, this part? Never gets old.
The electricity. The dance, the build-up; getting to see how you react when you’re not quite expecting him to be as close and touchy as he is.
He adores all of it. The delightful shudder you give when he slips his fingers into your hair, gifting a soft scratch along your scalp when you two had gotten cozy during a film. Your gloriously warm cheeks give you away even though Steve can read exactly when you’re nervous.
You’re utterly precious to him — and Steve wouldn’t exchange your shy smiles, flushed cheeks, or your nervous little reactions that are all because of him, for anything in the world.
Maybe it’s because you’re new to this.
First date, first time holding hands, first kiss — you’ve given them all to Steve. With the seriousness he takes them all, wholly prepared to blow your expectations out of the water, you feel you can trust them with him.
But even with trust, there’s no quelling the sticky nervousness that runs free beneath your skin when his hands begin to wander.
At first, it made you freeze. Not sure how to relax under hands that just want to hold you, touch you, just cos’ they can.
You think it took, maybe, a whole hour for you to relax and let yourself slump against Steve on your fourth date, curled up together on the couch. You think Steve knew of your nervousness and thanked him silently for his nonchalance at your stiffness. Not one comment was made.
You had relaxed into his side eventually. Steve, of course, had then gone and wrapped an arm around you and pulled you back into his chest and you’d gone straight back to tensed up.
His arms were wound around your middle, hands resting on your tummy and you hadn’t a clue on how you were supposed to be calm about it. You had mentally cursed his pretty hands, and his warm arms, and prayed to whoever was listening to grant you some semblance of strength.
And then, the bastard had leaned down, lips ghosting the shell of your ear, and whispered, “Y’can relax, sweetheart.”
You could practically hear the grin, cursing how you tensed up more — and forced yourself to melt against him. His arms tightened, pulling you closer as if this had been his plan all along. Steve’s chuckle wouldn’t have been audible if you hadn’t been so close to him.
Yeah, he definitely knew how nervous he made you.
The difference between then and now? Now, you want his wandering touch. Steve had been so sweet and good in the beginning, a little bit of teasing to watch you blush and squirm, and then he’d back off. Make sure you were actually comfortable.
You’re not sure you’ll shake the nerves with him — it’s just a Steve thing. He’s gorgeous, you’re nervous, the sky is blue, yadda yadda.
But how do you send a different message — tell him that he’s started a hunger in you that’s not quite satisfied with fleeting touches — when all you can do is shiver and blush when he puts his hands on you?
However you do, you need to figure it out, like, stat.
Today, in the blistering swell of summer, it’s getting near unbearable. At the Harrington house, Steve’s invited the party around for a bit of a pool party and you think you might die if you get to see him shirtless for any longer without getting your hands on him.
Steve’s meanly decided to forgo his shirt. It leaves him walking around in only slightly too short swim shorts and a smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You get a tasty eyeful of his warm tan skin on display through the patio doors, your eyes tracking each mole on his skin. He’s scooping the pool free of leaves and you honestly feel like this is the start of some shitty porno with you lusting over the pool-boy. You’re fairly sure he knows you’re staring which makes it worse. He’s evil.
The muscles in his back ripple as he cleans, biceps bulging deliciously and you might seriously start drooling at the sight—how did you get him to go out with you, again?
“You’re drooling.”
Beside you in the kitchen, big sunglasses pushing back her fringe, Robin manages to startle you with her silent appearance. You jump just a bit, tearing your eyes away from Steve — you hadn’t heard her approach.
Your hand flies to your mouth, wiping fast. Embarrassment flushes up when you swipe at nothing and Robin cackles at the sight.
You roll your eyes but it does little to deter the heat in your face.
“I’m just messing with ya,” She nudges her shoulder against yours, her grin looking far too cheeky for your liking. Like she could read into every thought that had just been streaming through your head. You silently hope not.
“I wasn’t- there was no drooling.” You say, the conviction in your voice weakening with each word.
Robin wrinkles her nose. “That was a lie of epic proportions. You so were.”
You pout a bit, embarrassment still shining through. Robin just grins further and adjusts her sunglasses. She heads to the fridge, pulls it open, and plucks out some orange juice, beginning to drink from the bottle.
“No shame.” She says lightly, between a gulp, then reconsiders after a moment, her eyes bright. “Okay, a little shame — you looked ready to jump him right here and now.”
Your face might rival the sun in heat right now.
“But he’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” It comes out a bit gargled from the juice she’s yet to swallow. Boyfriend comes out like bwoyfend. She continues after a swallow. “If anyone’s allowed to ogle, it’d be you, no?”
Uh oh. The B-word. The not-yet official name that you’re not sure you’re allowed to use in reference to Steve just yet.
“Um,” you cough a bit, wondering if you can skirt around the question. Yes some part of you sings, because you really really want him to be. You have to scold yourself for fibbing, even if it’s only in your head. Robin takes another swig, her eyes still on you.
“Not exactly.” You admit sheepishly, a hand coming up to rub the back of your neck. “We haven’t— he hasn’t- it’s not like that. Yet.”
Robin grins as she watches you fumble for words, screwing the cap back on the OJ. She leans her hip against the countertop, casting a glance out the window.
You go to follow her look and then think the better of it, focusing back on Robin. Like you need your blush to get any more fierce.
“Dingus is being stupid. He probably just needs a nudge.” Her eyes spy the thin cherry-red strap of your bikini, peeking out beneath your cotton shirt. “I’m sure that bikini will do the trick.”
She seems to hear herself, her eyes widening a moment later, slipping into a raspy ramble you know well. “Though, it should be said I totally believe Steve likes you for your personality. He’s not like— he wouldn’t just- he’s a multi-faceted man with many many layers!”
It all bursts out a bit frantic, so very Robin. You’re both amused at her insistence that Steve doesn’t just view you as eye-candy and grateful for the way she’s managed to melt off some of your nerves, huffing a small laugh at her dramatics.
“Who is?” Steve asks, voice cutting into the conversation.
You startle a moment, surprised. He’s standing in the doorway that leads out to the pool, both arms stretched above his head to grasp the top of the door frame, leaning into it. You can’t help the way your gaze instantly draws up along his arms, far too fixated on the delicious show of his muscles to properly focus on answering his question.
“Certainly not you, dingus.” Robin comments, already clocking the hazed expression on your face. She recognizes the same absurd flirting face on Steve she’d become far too familiar with at Scoops and takes her cue, orange juice in hand.
“People arrive in like 5 minutes, just remember!” The knowing in her tone makes you consider blushing again, just to be ashamed of how quickly she had read you for filth.
Steve certainly seems to know too. He drops his arms, waltzing in to meet you in the kitchen and you will yourself not to step back when he comes a little closer than expected.
“This is a nice little number,” he murmurs, voice low. His eyes are trained on your shoulder and before you ask what he means, his hand comes up, fingers toying with the strap of your bikini. Where his skin meets yours, fire streaks beneath it, like a connecting point of static electricity.
“You think?” You ask a little breathier than you’re intending. It nearly makes you scrunch your face up in cringe, feeling a familiar glow in your cheeks.
You don’t, only because when Steve nods, teeth scraping his bottom lip for a moment and eyes wandering over your face, he looks a little lovestruck. Like he can’t believe you’re real.
His other hand comes up, both his palms resting on your shoulders and he trails them down your arms lightly, soft touches, til both your hands are in his.
“Come show me out in the sunlight?” He asks, cocking his head back out to the pool. His hands tug you ever-so-slightly. You can’t help but oblige, letting him pull you out, barely holding back your smile as he does.
There’s just something about when he touches you. Steve Harrington is a man all about touch and you’ve been going crazy finding out just how touchy he can get when you’re the one in his heart.
You amble out onto the tiles behind him and squint just a bit at the change in lighting, the bright rays of midday casting down onto the backyard. It’s mildly warm out, balmy, and with just a hint of a breeze that ruffles your shirt for a moment.
Steve’s feet move nimbly to suddenly redirect you both — walking you both against the side of the house, til your back presses against the wall. You’re just out of view of the sliding doors, and you’d be foolish to think it’s not by design. Come show me out in the sunlight? His words echo in your head, inciting a familiar warmth in your cheeks.
“Steve—?”
“I’m gonna kiss you now if that’s okay,” He breathes, voice suddenly a lot heavier than it had been inside. Like it might actually ache inside if he doesn’t get his lips against your skin — like perhaps your lips held the antidote to a poison that was making his blood sing for your touch.
One of his hands releases your own to travel up, curling along your jaw, fingertips sliding into your hair. His eyes are still drinking in every detail of your face, affection mixed with something darker conveyed across his features.
His fingers caress along your scalp, thumb along your neck, tantalizing touches that you’re sure he’s not even aware he’s doing. But still, he doesn’t kiss you, waiting for a yes. God, he’s sweet.
Especially considering the answer is a huge fat unanimous yes.
It’s been a yes since the moment you saw him today. It’s been a thousand yes’ piling up in the weeks of seeing him, building up from the first time you kissed him and somehow bit his lip and he had only laughed and soothed it against your own.
Your yes has been growing inside you, the desire to kiss him like you mean it and leave him pink in the face and pretty.
It only takes one tiny please falling off your lips for Steve to close the gap, his lips brushing against yours. He kisses you, gentle for a moment - til a hunger overtakes and the kisses quickly turn hot and fast.
There’s urgency coiled up beneath your skin and it bursts to the surface at his kiss, the feeling you’ve been desperately craving. Steve gives you what you want gladly.
His grip in your hair tightens slightly, his kiss turning a little more fierce, and you keen and eagerly return it. His other hand has found your waist, startling a small gasp out of you when his warm palm covers your hip and bring you closer. His lips break away, just enough to take in some air and let you breath a moment, then he dives back in.
Kissing Steve, you’re quickly learning, is pure delirium.
His lips are soft and greedy and he steals kisses as quick as you can give them. There’s a quiet hum in the back of his throat, borderline a groan — and when you remember your hands, moving them from awkwardly hovering at your side to cup his face, fingers delving into his hair, the groan breaks free.
“You,” He pauses his attack of affection, lips still an inch from yours. Your eyes blink open, not aware of when they had closed. Steve’s scanning your face, looking for something, lips already pinker from your kisses. “You good? Not too much f’you?”
Your heart pounds a little faster at his care. His attentive gaze tracks your emotions to make sure he hasn’t pushed you too far, that you’re not overwhelmed by the affection. He’s so fucking nice.
You are overwhelmed, just a bit. It’s impossible not to when Steve kisses the way he does; so sweet, and like he envies anything that’s ever touched your lips. It’s pure passion, in a way you can’t even begin to describe.
The heat under your skin burns hotter. The places he touches you — his fingers in your hair, his hand on your waist, the press of his body against yours — all glow gloriously warm. Steve looks so stupidly hot, you nearly want to whine aloud about how unfair it is.
His chest is heaving a bit, a flush up his neck, his hair tousled from your grip on it. In the buttery sunlight, he’s golden and the same moles you had been staring at not 10 minutes ago look even more divine this close. You want to kiss each one, connect them with a press of your lips, and leave little marks of your own.
You want to devour him; you start and answer his question, with another kiss.
Steve’s surprise is only shown in his parted lips, a small gasp swallowed in the kiss, and you take it as an invitation, a hot swipe of your tongue across his lower lip. You take it between your own, a ghost of a nibble that makes him shudder delightfully beneath you.
Steve kisses back fervently and just when you think you’ve got the rhythm, sighing into his mouth, he pulls back. You make a noise of dissatisfaction and he chuckles lowly at it.
You don’t even get a moment to ask what’s wrong, your eyes still comfortably closed as Steve stays close, pressing his forehead down against yours. In a raspy whisper, just for you, he says, “Be mine?”
Your eyes fly open at that, some pocket of air whooshing out your lungs. He’s watching you intently, caramel eyes that give away his nervousness even if his voice hadn’t wavered. This close, you can see a smattering of freckles that dot his nose and you swear, inside your chest, your heart just sighs. He’s so pretty it hurts.
You’ve only been awed silence for a few seconds before his nose nudges yours, hand on your waist pulling you even closer. Before you can find your words, he asks it again— in between peppering soft kisses up the side of your face. “Be mine, please?”
“You- You wanna be my boyfriend?” You ask, not meaning to sound so disbelieving.
A nervous laugh titters out as you lean in closer instinctively. Your heart feels as though it’s going to beat out of your chest, as wild as a hummingbird’s wings, and it makes you grin— your lips curl up involuntarily, completely unable to help the way you beam.
“Of course,” Steve laughs lightly, nuzzling his nose against yours. Then, because he seems to have a pattern of being awfully repetitive today, his voice turns softer, all sincere when he whispers, “Of course.”
Damn him. Every time you think you’re close to settling those butterflies, to biting back the nerves that make your spine tingle, he swoops in and one-ups himself — does or says something else stupidly romantic so that all you can is grin like a dope.
You’re not proud of the giddy little noise that slips out of you when you nod excitedly, cheeks already starting to ache from how wide your grin is. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, trying to stop smiling enough to kiss him again but Steve doesn’t bother waiting. The next kiss is a bit fumbled, both of you smiling too much to properly kiss but one or two more softens your smiles.
You kiss him hard, remember your hands and tug him close, closer, he’s not close enough — a pleased hum comes from your boyfriend’s throat and even the word in your mind makes you smile too much to keep kissing him.
A sharp rap against the sliding doors makes you whip your head to the side, both you and Steve looking perfectly guilty of being caught in your makeout. Slightly swollen lips, bitten and pink, on the both of you, not to mention the close proximity of the pair of you pressed against the house.
“Ahem,” Robin clears her throat from where she stands, out from the doorway since she had come looking for you. “Guests are arriving if you’d cared to notice.”
Part of you droops, entirely fixated on stealing a thousand kisses from Steve and maybe leaving a few marks of your own. His disappointed huff, barely audible, lets you know Steve is well on the same page as you.
Extracting yourself from his arms, you press him back with your fingertips planted in the middle of his chest. Steve turns back to you, groans aloud like he’s about to complain, and it just furthers your smile into a smirk.
“Plenty of time for that later,” You say, still sounding too giddy to come out as confident as you’re aiming for. Internally, some part of you sings, glad you’re finally confident enough in yourself that you verge from skittish nerves into playful teasing.
Your fingers on his chest twitch, walking up to the line of his collarbones and lingering on the base of his throat. Steve watches you closely, gaze a little hungrier than before, and then he huffs again, playfully slapping your hand away from his chest.
“Oh my god, I’ve created a monster!” He covers his face dramatically and throws his head back, egged on by the laughter that escapes you. The expanse of his throat is bared, hot tan skin that is begging to be littered with love bites. You take the thought and bookmark it, for later.
“C’mon then, boyfriend.” You say, just ‘cos you can. Steve grins. Your chest burns beautifully, in a way you never want to quench.
Besides, you can quell that hunger later. He is your boyfriend now, after all.
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