Christmas Moon Fic Advent
Title: Hours of Folly
Author: ModestyRabnott
Format: Ficlet
Rating & Warnings: R (for implied sexual situation)
Prompts: Clock
Word Count: 497
Summary: “The hours of folly are measured by the clock, but of wisdom no clock can measure.” - William Blake
The clock is my enemy.
Or at least it feels as such while I pace my flat, attempting not to look at it. The timepiece mocks me with its incessant ticking as I rationalise to myself that he didn’t really promise he’d be here. It wasn’t a firm commitment, Christmas or not.
“Surely you won’t leave town without seeing me?”
“No, of course not. I’ll stop by.”
It’s long past midnight and still no sign of him. No sign from him.
The clock is my saviour.
I check it repeatedly, with the obsession and panic of one whose time is running out. He made his appearance at 1am, after I’d fallen asleep waiting. And said he’d need to leave by daybreak.
And though I allowed myself the luxury of pulling him down with me into the warm bed, and indulging in the way that I wished for so desperately, the way that I used to, I haven’t been able to lose myself. Not completely. With every touch from him, every gasp from either of us, I’ve kept one eye fixed on the face of the clock.
So far, like a reprieve, it has complied with my wish, the one that I’ve been repeating in my head like a mantra since he got here: Not yet. Please, don’t let it end yet.
The clock is our accomplice.
It perpetrates the lie like a third presence in the room. Like us, it denies the reality of the present situation, or the impending disaster. When I reach down to pull and stroke, I pretend not to notice that his resulting smile is a bit forced and a little broken. He pretends not to see the tears brimming in my eyes as he slides into me, as he bends to kiss my ear. We both ignore the marked absence of the whispered endearments we shared so easily when we made love long ago.
The clock is my enemy.
It taunts me when it chimes five times and I feel him slip from where he is nestled warm against me. I don’t let him know I’m awake. I can’t bear to look in his eyes one more time and see the conflict there. The struggle between what he thinks he wants and what I know he needs.
Instead I hold my breath and listen to the sounds of him dressing, and lacing his shoes, and closing the door behind him as quietly as he can. Within minutes the room is silent again, except for the cruelty of the ticking of the clock.
Author: ModestyRabnott
Format: Ficlet
Rating & Warnings: R (for implied sexual situation)
Prompts: Clock
Word Count: 497
Summary: “The hours of folly are measured by the clock, but of wisdom no clock can measure.” - William Blake
The clock is my enemy.
Or at least it feels as such while I pace my flat, attempting not to look at it. The timepiece mocks me with its incessant ticking as I rationalise to myself that he didn’t really promise he’d be here. It wasn’t a firm commitment, Christmas or not.
“Surely you won’t leave town without seeing me?”
“No, of course not. I’ll stop by.”
It’s long past midnight and still no sign of him. No sign from him.
The clock is my saviour.
I check it repeatedly, with the obsession and panic of one whose time is running out. He made his appearance at 1am, after I’d fallen asleep waiting. And said he’d need to leave by daybreak.
And though I allowed myself the luxury of pulling him down with me into the warm bed, and indulging in the way that I wished for so desperately, the way that I used to, I haven’t been able to lose myself. Not completely. With every touch from him, every gasp from either of us, I’ve kept one eye fixed on the face of the clock.
So far, like a reprieve, it has complied with my wish, the one that I’ve been repeating in my head like a mantra since he got here: Not yet. Please, don’t let it end yet.
The clock is our accomplice.
It perpetrates the lie like a third presence in the room. Like us, it denies the reality of the present situation, or the impending disaster. When I reach down to pull and stroke, I pretend not to notice that his resulting smile is a bit forced and a little broken. He pretends not to see the tears brimming in my eyes as he slides into me, as he bends to kiss my ear. We both ignore the marked absence of the whispered endearments we shared so easily when we made love long ago.
The clock is my enemy.
It taunts me when it chimes five times and I feel him slip from where he is nestled warm against me. I don’t let him know I’m awake. I can’t bear to look in his eyes one more time and see the conflict there. The struggle between what he thinks he wants and what I know he needs.
Instead I hold my breath and listen to the sounds of him dressing, and lacing his shoes, and closing the door behind him as quietly as he can. Within minutes the room is silent again, except for the cruelty of the ticking of the clock.