I should be doing my Functions homework. Instead I'm writing a half-assed fanfic for a pairing that I didn't even consider until about five minutes ago.
clocks and hourglasses
For someone who's always so cold, his body is surprisingly warm.
And she feels flushed; dizzy, and not too far away from a nervous breakdown; her dark-rimmed eyes are so wide, and her dark hair (so much like his in color, but thicker, warmer to touch) is strewn everywhere and haphazard, because she's never been scrutinized like this before, as if she matters, as if she exists and it's--
That was the only word for how those cobalt eyes were scanning her; lingering on the backs of her hands (placed over her heart; she feared it would beat right out of her chest) where scars still remained from that little episode with the devilishly cute little Noah girl and her clock, her beloved clock.
Clocks and hourglasses.
Whether it was the ticking of those minute, nimble hands or the trickling of grains of sand, time was time and to her, it was all the same.
He was staring into Time's eyes. Time was what he had pinned to the haphazard sheets. Time was what he tasted on his tongue and in his mouth; and maybe that was why it was a flavor so unfamiliar to him, because he'd never had enough of it in the first place.
That would explain why he craved, craved more.
And there's mouths, tongues, hands – gasp for breath – and she's writhing, eyes clouding, fingers falling short of the ink trapped under his skin that marks the fact that he's less, has always had less than her.
But for now, that's alright, she tells herself as tears sting her eyes and her fingers grasp thin shoulders.
For now, time stands still.
f i n . . .