Categories > Cartoons > Class of the Titans > His and Hers

His and Hers

by NuuoaEclaire 1 review

Each physical attraction blooms into an emotional and trait as one begins to love. The law of human attraction is as unstable and unpredictable as snow in July... and sometimes just a beautiful, f...

Category: Class of the Titans - Rating: PG - Genres: Drama, Humor, Romance - Warnings: [!!] - Published: 2007-06-07 - Updated: 2007-06-08 - 1120 words - Complete

His and Hers
By: Nuuoa Eclaire

A/N: Musings before final exam studying. Long planned. Forgotten. A concoction of romance and insight, with a dash of humor. Tired authoress. Sleepy time for moi. Comments welcomed... a lot! But I did write this for a reason, I'd like to dedicate, though she deserves more than this, this short to aik sachcha ruh. She's been such a support to me! Sometimes her reviews are the only thing that keeps me going. You deserve more than this, but I couldn't wait to recognize you. You are also very talented. Cheers! -Nuuoa Eclaire

Each physical attraction blooms into an emotional and trait as one begins to love.

The law of human attraction is as unstable and unpredictable as snow in July. Not only are the flaky flurries a shock in themselves, but also they come from different angles, fall from different heights, and no frozen drop is the same. Each snowflake is so intricately carved, that only you can see every aspect of that one individual person. Occasionally another condensation will pop in, but it's only a minor disturbance. The storm of snow is your relief in the heat of summer. The eye of the blizzard watches over you.

Ironic how that it was his eyes that first drew my ship in.

I cannot truly say that it was solely that, but I pretty sure that it was the first spark of lighting in my stormy snowing sky. Because, wow, his eyes. I'd never really noticed the perfect contrast of steel and... well; I can only say it was a storm.

His eyes. His eyes are a storm; gray and deep blue steel clashing against one another upon restless seas. Never standing still, never ending, so deep. Deep enough to drown. I'm almost afraid, yes afraid, to say that I've been cast out alone upon the ever crashing waves, a lone crewless galleon. And I'm cold, salted, shivering, barren, and a speck in an abyss... And yet...

His eyes are the sun after the storm.

Lighting comes before thunder. A loud crash of electric noise blaring invisible across the vast spaces.

His nose. His nose is a crippled war general. Strange, crocked and misplaced, but strong and firm, powerful and sure-set.

His heart. His heart is a rusted gate; mocking and laughing at those who attempt to open it in a futile struggle. Opening backwards. Hanging on a hinge. Gold rests behind the old frozen gates, more than anyone could've ever guessed. Riches in thought, courage, mind, love, and kindness. Forever locked...

Perhaps open sesame started with a kiss.

His shoulders. His shoulders are stone. Alabaster and ivory, chipped and cracked into an almost unrecognizable shape, and hoarsened by the weather. Each drop of acid rain sliding off, but leaving permanent damage to the rotting core. But rocks don't have feelings? Right?

Can stone be molded into a place to lean on?

His feet are jello. Distorted, wobbly, awkward, and unsure were to step next. A never-ending wiggle of confusion. But perhaps the jelly will cease squirming, and settle into a fine mold. Heck, maybe it will even learn to smell good!

A girl can dream, can't she?

I will tame the seven seas of his soul. I will entice the man with scents of cinnamon. I will oil his hinges until he opens with a chaste glance. I will sculpt the stone to perfect, a perfect gem in a sea of sand, and a David amongst first grade art projects. And I will... not eat the jello... but perhaps his mouth will be just as good.

Yes, from the amount of time he uses to blab with it, for once maybe it will be put to good use.

Nope, still mumbling...



I don't know why I've always liked fire. Maybe it was my dangerous side coming out to play again, or the thrill. Or maybe it's the warmth, that sheer glow that illuminates from a simple spark. And boy, can it become a bonfire!

Ironic how it was her hair that first lit me a blaze.

But it probably isn't just that, I'm not that shallow, because though her vibrant red hair first caught my attention, it was her heart that held the most fire. The match was lit.

Her hair. Her hair is the brightest bonfire in winter; showing off her temper, jolt of agility, and spunky attitude. Everywhere she goes you just have to turn to watch that brilliant color as it enters the room.

And every time my face is just as red.

The fire threatens to burn with unrelenting passion as it is contained.

Her ears. Her ears are sonar. A keen sense of smell and vision. Every sound, every noise, every word, every image... every thought! And for some reason, she will always pick up on my snoring...always. She picks up every detail, with the eye of a huntress. And I am her prey, tormented and hunted! Hmm... perhaps that not such a bad thing after all.

Her lips. Her lips are ripe fruit. Forbidden, fresh, glossy, tempting, and sweet. Each day I long to wink my teeth to taste the pure juice, and drink it up in all it's glory. They're waiting for the picking.

Her hands. Her hands are a story. Calluses tell you of her skill and determination, and how she isn't one to sit back, and each line tells the story of her heart and pain, joy and love. The lines never end, and stretch far across her palms, and never ceased to explore every corner, going on an adventure. Maybe the next time she reaches to grasp a moment, it will be my hand instead.

Her legs. Her legs are ghosts. Moving so fast, you hardly even know they were ever there, always moving, wandering... restless! Striving for a desperate, seemingly unreachable goal. Never tiring, almost so smooth and creamy you believe she must belong to the dead! But of course...

It's only because she's an angel.

I will run my hands through the flames of her hair and not get burned; I am immune. I will make the sonar only detect me, and whisper in her ears until all she can hear is my voice, and a future of us. I will eat at her fruit until I have tasted every corner of her mouth. I will trace the lines in her hands until I find me as a part of her stories. I will bring her back to life, and watch her legs blur from a far, but know that they slow done a bit, just for me, and only me...

Yet she still won't let me win...

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