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she's thunderstorms by randomwriter

Format: One-shot
Chapters: 1
Word Count: 1,000

Rating: 12+
Warnings: Scenes of a mild sexual nature

Genres: General, Romance, Angst
Characters: OtherCanon

First Published: 10/30/2014
Last Chapter: 11/05/2014
Last Updated: 11/05/2014

Story and its title have been inspired by the Arctic Monkeys song: she's thunderstorms. It contains four paragraphs, each exactly two hundred and fifty words long. Four stand-alone stories. A bit ambiguous. An excercise in brevity. A hopeful attempt at microfiction. 

♥ to Avi (apparition@TDA) for the perfect banner!

Chapter 1: she's thunderstorms
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She's thunderstorms.  
The war is over, but the girl is waiting to be won. She is small and dishevelled and the wind splays her golden hair in twenty different directions as she runs towards you. This is different, you are aware. Any moment now, she will slap your arm away, warning you about the nargles buzzing around in that particular spot, or maybe she will tell you of her latest discoveries, of her effervescent dreams. She may pull out carrot earrings or potato peel necklaces, and you will laugh as you remember how you went to live near the sea, how you sat amongst the water, salt, sand, running amidst jagged rocks. You laughed in the face of war, head tipped back, youth escaping your lips. Sometimes, you're aware of the growing realisation that all of this, everything, is because of her and what she did to you. In those stolen moments, you forgot what it was like to be running away from something so potent. The eclectic, eccentric girl stole your heart without meaning to, and you let her, without meaning to. The last thing you had ever expected to find within the walls of that damp, dark dungeon was this soft, beautiful love. With her, you don't just exist. You live. So this is what it feels like to breathe, to really breathe, you think. She has calmed you down and turned you this way and that, whirled you around and flipped your world upside down. She's thunderstorms.

She's fireworks.
It starts off with a tentative spark, a hesitant crackle of bonfire twigs, and much like all first kisses, with a double dose of uncertainity. Her lips are soft and wet against yours, her eyes clamp shut as you snake your arms around her waist, pulling her closer, cautiously. You don't want it to end. A seed is planted in your heart, and it's growing, blossoming, quickly too. But it does end. You're not entirely sure of how it happened or whether she'd wanted it to happen, but you do feel the tug of a hundred fluttering butterflies in your stomach and a weakness in your knees. You dare to sneak a look at her face to find a curious expression painted across her innocent features. First time, she informs you. I know, you whisper back. Feels funny, she tells you, and you kiss her again. What are you doing, she laughs and you coyly tell her that you're exercising your lips,  trying, in vain, to ignore the slow warmth that is spreading through your soul. The feeling is palpable, almost. Nobody else has made you feel this way. Her beautiful eyes, like crystalline sapphires are round and wide with curiosity, and you wonder with a stiff pang if that's all this is to her: an exercise in curiosity. As her grip slackens, you smile sadly. Still, you give yourself up when she comes close, relishing how the slow warmth has given way to burning desire. She's fireworks.

She's cannonballs.
She doesn't know how to string the words and sentences together, how to tell you how badly she needs this, to leave, to live. She sounds so apologetic that it breaks your heart. It's your life, you should go, you tell her wistfully, and so she leaves. No surprise. You had always known that it was only a matter of time before it happened. She lives enough for you both. It has always fascinated you, how she yearns for the taste of adventure, how she longs to see colours of another sky, another ocean; how she aches for a chance to speak in another tongue, with strangers who show her foreign bushes and berries; how she pines for a chance encounter with the ever elusive Crumple Horned Snorkack. The bland skyline of the city could never hope to hold the attention of a stargazer, after all. The faraway expression is forever fixed into her eyes. So you let her go on her journey. You know she will come back, you know it will change her, but you can never guess how. She taught you to take chances. All that is left is hope. Even as you let her go, you note how the news hasn't sunk in yet. And when it does hit you, right in the chest, you shake your head a little, thinking that with news like this, she's punched you in the core of your stomach. It's a slightly sweet kind of pain. She's cannonballs.

She's thunderstorms.
She stands at your gate, taking in the view, admiring how far you've come. You rush to her in disbelief. For the second time, you feel her all consuming presence grip your life and steer it her way. You have filled countless thick marble pages with drawings of her, but somehow you can never quite capture the magic of her smile, or the look in her eyes. She is not extraordinarily beautiful, nor has she ever been, but she couldn't lose her charm even if she tried. After all these years that  have come between you, her smile has not lost its wonder, but those eyes- those eyes, no longer so lost- and that's how you know, with a twinge. She doesn't have to tell you. Congratulations, you choke out, disguising embitterment with acceptance. She bobs her head to one side, almost asking, what did you expect? Not this, not someone else, you'd say certainly. You look at her eyes again, looking for that distant gaze, instead finding a pool of serenity, certainty. She walks away, and you wonder if things would have been different had you gone along. Maybe in another life, as she walks, you think. Today you will paint a whirlwind of regret, a mélange of vibrant colours, exciting, like her. There are a hundred ways to mix your paint, but you are sure that with each varied stroke, with each new hue, you will always love the same girl every time. She's still thunderstorms.