101 - Rainbow

Scarlet Fury

The moment your glamorous eyes swept over the ebony curves of his angular body, you'd caught him. He'd fight, of course, with all the dirty, underhanded tactics of the coward he was - but you claimed him, buried the spike of your flag deep into his hollow chest and you always knew he could never escape. I hate you! He'd scream, face red with vehement rage but you had him twisted as your jaden vines around your fingers. His livid words would blister with hatred but you knew, you knew it was only a matter of counting the days before he was yours.

Bittersweet Citrus

It began with the odd suggestive comment, sweeping glances as though you could lick the salmon skin beneath his heavy leather with your eyes. But you underestimated your own self control and it was his amaranth lips you bruised with cerise passion and helpless, unstoppable lust. It left an acrid taste on your tongue and a readable confusion on his gorgeous features, a different kind of rift between you that blurred the distinctions between apathy and ghosts of emotion.

Flaxen Blonde

And they told you you couldn't dream, that when you slept your salmon body was as empty as a shell. But it was his golden hair in the sunlight that burned the backs of your eyelids, skin a paler shade of ethereal white in perfect contrast to his raven attire that imprinted a flawless image in everything you saw. You'd wake, body crystalline with sweat, hard and fast and burning desire for the beautiful colourless scientist to melt into shades of grey at your fingertips.

Emerald Eyes

He tried to run. Of course he tried to run, he was afraid of the power you held over his non-existent heart. But you'd caught him, always kept him tightly bound in a steel cage and all it took was your azure eyes to meet his, every hue tinted and saturated by the ceaseless pour of clear, nowhere water and colours spoke for every world trapped in your throat. He could not leave. He could not run. He could not hide. He would be yours.

Feeling Blue

In every world, the sky was a constant. The sun rose in the morning, reached zenith at precisely midday, sank to the tune of a thousand purple orange blues every night. The sky was overcast, the sky was black, the sky dazzled in cloudless perfection but it was always the sky. When all that you owned deserted you in the bitter ice you could always look up and see the sky. When your chest was the emptiest, when not even hollow remnants of inspiration were left the sky was still blue.

Playing Purple

If you'd known, oh, if only you'd known that all it would take to crack him was one single, smouldering gaze through heavy lashes on the desk of his complex basement laboratory. Of course it also took for him to be in the right mood, the perfect concoction of brittle anger, colleague harassment and a desire to do anything other than waste another night working on futile missions and scrawling incessant reports. In truth all you ever needed to do was wait until he was ready to unleash his sub-zero wrath on something - anything - then provide adequate distraction. But you were lucky and he was furious and the timing was perfect for your bodies to crash together and your tongues to play and clothes to disintegrate, forgotten, on the floor. And nothing in the world could have come through that door and stopped either of you, because finally, in a rush of passionate rage and indulgent, sanguine lust, he was yours.