A/N: This is just a short companion piece to 'The Mad and the Conqueror' while I'm hard at work writing the next chapter ;P. It doesn't necessarily fit into the timeline of the story. It is more an interlude than anything. I really wanted to try this '50 themes; 1 sentence' idea purely for fun and also as a writing exercise. I think I accomplished both!
Disclaimer: Full credit for this type of story telling goes to the folks at community(dot)livejournal(dot)com/1sentence/profile. At least, that's how I discovered it. The theme set I'm using is Epsilon.
Okay, enough of that. On with the story…
In A Few Words… (an Interlude)
She watches him stretch and the ripple of his body gives her skin goose bumps, it takes all her strength to stop from shivering.
It is the early morning hours that captivate him the most, when she snuggles into his warmth and his heart melts a little.
Some restrictions just cannot hold them back.
"This worries me," she says and even though he understands, he asks anyway, to which she replies, "Because it can't be this forever."
He loves their arguments the best, especially when he knows she's right.
He's always surprised by a certain look in her eyes, by the unconscious sweep of her hand across his brow, down his back, by the squeeze of her hand on his hand, but not as surprised as she when she does it.
She likes to keep count of their kisses, keep them at a prime number so they categorize easily, just like the rest of her life; he's only concerned about the main one, the initial one, the one that started her counting.
1000 is not a prime number, it will have to be more – 1000 is still not enough.
She makes him feel like a king every day, even though she never tries, even when she attempts to do the exact opposite.
They've both taught each other to breathe instead of yell… usually for entirely different reasons.
Everything before, everything during, everything after, she wishes she could slow things down, if only to analyse, to compartmentalize, to put things in their order; he just wants time to stop completely.
She's getting really impatient of having to do what he says; he's getting really impatient of having to do what he says.
They're both afraid, but they welcome it greedily.
It is her favourite game; it is his too.
Her arms are soft, silky, smooth skin, forever searching, racing, revelling in the heated places she loves best; his arms are always open.
Sometimes he thinks he will die if he can't touch her, kiss her, smell the fragrance of her skin, taste the curve of her neck, tangle their tongues in a dance as old as time, and when he finally does, he dies a little anyway.
If she ever believes in the supernatural, it is the times when she can almost predict his every next move; when she runs her hand down the middle of his torso, he'll always stop it just as it reaches his belt buckle, sometimes accompanied by a curse, most times followed by a kiss, she defines it with a knowing smile.
It is the places she doesn't expect his lips to touch that he tends to focus on the most.
As she sleeps he strokes her hip, he feathers her hair between his fingertips, he counts the eyelashes touching her cheek and knowing that though the windows are closed, his mate lays behind them, before him.
She knows that when they walk together, though they aren't touching or acknowledging each other whatsoever, people stare anyway, so she tells them to take a picture because it will last longer; he stops her from throwing the nearest hard object.
He has heard only fools fall in love, which forces him to find a whole new respect for the word.
She longs for it now because she has found a new method to cope and he's always happy to do her bidding, even if he encouraged it in the first place.
"I still can't believe you baby-sit kids," he says. "Children, attack!" she commands in response. He is doomed.
The place was never a concern to him, the reason has stopped concerning her, but the time is always, always the same.
There are bad moments too, when the light is hindered, when she is alone in the dark, she wonders if he is just a shadow passing through, and so hope is born and it worries her even more.
The past has taught her to believe a farewell is as quick and easy as the word itself, so he's learnt to just walk away, saying nothing, because that means they are unfinished and so he must come back.
She's always annoyed when he can put a name to things she doesn't want to; he's always amused when she tries to hide it anyway.
He wonders about her reaction when she discovers he is to inherit millions; she wonders why he's always trying to initiate conversation when she's enjoying her Big Mac.
There is a certain emotion in his gaze, a certain intention in his smile, the heat in his words, the security in his arms, a question in his kiss – she likes to capture these things and lock them away in the vault that is her heart where they are safe and untouchable.
She likes it when he thinks her asleep, when his fingertips slide down the bare skin of her arms, through her hair, along her side, into the curve of her waist, resting on her hip; like five little ghosts dancing their way upon their own wonderland.
A handful of their fights have begun when she's reading and he seeks her attention by attempting to steal her book, to which she slams his fingers in between the heavy pages, so he yanks his hand away, he tackles her to the nearest flat surface and then it is on.
He has never before felt the urge to spout poetry, but when he looks in her eyes he thinks he can see the sun rise and fall within the gold, his forever punctuated by a blink; she finds green is now her favourite colour.
Not in their vocabulary.
He knows just where to press, to stroke, to blow, to strum to make her body sing; she doesn't even mind the times he hums while doing it.
Their desire is so swift, so intense, so consuming, so expected, yet it surprises them every time.
He sometimes thinks 'stop' is his new favourite word because it is always used as a preface to each of his most enjoyable moments.
He has learned to tell when it is close to six in the morning by the way she wakes with a groan, a stretch and then a whack to his head/side/back/stomach with a lazy hand/elbow/knee/foot.
It is the phone calls he receives, the same interrogation, the every day paternal doubts that tell him no sweet kiss, no tender embrace will ever wash his past away.
Between two: her pride and her pleasure – she's not even certain which one she wants to win anymore.
They're creating something to look back on – they just hope they are together when they do it.
It is always a race to the top, but he likes letting her succeed right at the last minute; either way, it's a win/win.
He's lost count of how many euphemisms she knows to tell him just how precisely he is annoying her; she wonders which word will finally break through.
They don't know how many times they've said it, but it seems almost blasphemous, especially since neither of them is religious.
His most favourite memory of all.
It is in the moments of silence, alone together, still stuck in an embrace, pulses slowing and their eyes lost in each other that it hits; sudden, overwhelming, like a swooping frost, reaching everywhere and she wants to close her eyes, to look away, shutting off her own vulnerability because she's scared of what he might see, what he might discover, what he might choose as an excuse to walk away.
Her determination, her ambition, her need to succeed and to get out is her fuel, it's her air, she thinks if she fails she would have lost everything, but then he came into her life and losing suddenly doesn't seem so bad.
He worries about her everyday, every second he can't see her because she's so hard-headed and reckless, a red-hot temper that acts before it can even think about thinking; he hasn't had to step in yet, but it's only a matter of time.
To him, every kiss she initiates isn't half as precious as the smiles afterwards; she just loves kissing him.
No one ever told him that gluttony could burn, no one needed to tell him that it could feel so good; she's found she likes licking but biting is her favourite.
She's never believed in love; he stopped believing in it a long time ago, yet despite their differences, they agree that a single word will never define them.
A/N: And yes, I do know that one of the sentences had three in one, but it's the idea that counts, right? Oh well, thanks for reading anyway. I hope you liked.
Oh and ALSO, a huuuuge THANK YOU to whoever nominated TMATC for the SKOW Awards. Jeepers, I'm absolutely thrilled and flattered and honoured and surprised and grateful and all those good words!!! Thank you so much. You humble me!! Now let's hope I get some votes… not to sound all self-promotional or anything, hehehaha… but yeah, just saying… just saying…