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Description
Walking into "Bone-Dry Antiques", with the chime of a bell, you repeated your same everyday schedule, after leaving your pitiful excuse of a job as a janitor at some steadily-declining, nauseating establishment of a child's favorite pizzeria. Really, how can children not care about being so, so... Unclean? Untidy. Downright revolting. At least the security guard there was kind of cute, he would ask how your day's been and if the the children have been nice to, "the pretty lady cleaning windows". He would be so concerned for your wellbeing that you felt honored, but he would have ever-darkening circles under his eyes which worried you greatly. He could somehow leave his exhaustion behind to compliment your hair or make-up. Nearly everyday he would leave at 6:00 A.M. and remark about your style with a, "Hey, your dress looks lovely today," or a "Isn't it a miracle that the kids don't touch you with their pizza hands?" And even a daring, "...hey, I've heard some girls call you a princess yesterday, Princess." which you would be surprised at, seeing as you don't own a mirror.
If you think that being afraid of clowns is tough, try being afraid of your own reflection. It just looked so... Dead.
But that may have been just your face, who knows?
But that is not at all the reason you entered this dusty old shoppe here, no, you came to buy a clock. A friend noticed that you had nothing but clocks and paintings decorating your small apartments' walls, so they decided to redecorate for you; with the price of throwing away your precious gadgets because of your so-called "obsession", with them.
Time is always a good thing to keep track of. Humans are the only creatures to keep an actual system of the moments passing by, so why not utilize it?

After stepping in and chatting with the kind lady in her early twenties -decked out with piercings and neon hair dye- and her heart-warming grandma, you decided to explore the shops' untouched areas. Also known as, the grandfather clock trash heap. Some hands sparkled, most rusted but that only added to their own flavor of personality, breathing life to gears and cracked glass faces.
Stepping forward to examine the clocks more throughly, you stepped forward in time with the beat of the clocks' inner workings, white heels clicking on the cold cement. Crouching down to feel the exquisite etchings of an especially delicate pendulum, you failed to notice a presence behind you when you stood back up to your full height; which wasn't very tall at all.

"Oof!"
"Oh!"
Whirling around as quickly as the close shelves would allow, you glanced up and the tall stranger who you managed to bring down with you, during your clumsy fall. You realized he was much taller than you almost instantly, he was quite handsome, and he had some strange things about him most people would ignore or shun him for. He had bright, blue skin, a red band (that strangely resembled a clock's hands) stretched across the bridge of his nose, and his hair, which looked not unusually styled at a first glance, but had hidden yellow streaks near the bangs.
In other words, he was the strangest man you've ever seen, and he may or not be the most handsome man you've ever seen.
You stuttered apologies while he shook his head to clear his mind of the pain and confusion you no doubt put in. He blinked twice, then started at you, wide eyed, and grabbed your hands.
Now, from being a young woman whom owned nearly zero social skills, you were greatly flustered; too much to have even taken your hands back.
"Madame... You're bleeding!" The man exclaimed, and you were able to somehow guide your eyes back to your cut palms: they were bleeding quite a lot, and had bits of metal stuck in them, most likely from snapping that delicate pendulum during your fall. Somehow, the cuts weren't painful, probably because you've been too distracted by the man to notice. Crimson petals dripped on the floor, and you couldn't help but notice how the man's white gloves were slowly becoming dotted with dark stains. Letting out a little sound of frustration and defeat, your eyes began to tear up, realizing you've ruined this kind man's perfectly good pair of gloves and that you didn't have the money to pay for them, let alone the most likely expensive clock you've diminished into shrapnels of wood and iron. Said man took notice of this and helped you up, gently pulling your hands to the front of the shop whilst reassuring you with his actions that you shouldn't cry. The punked-out lady in the front curiously looked to you two, saw blood, and rushed in the back, while the old woman shuffled closer with a look of utmost concern etched upon her features. When the mystery man brought you to the counter, the old woman brushed your hair out of your face and rubbed circles in your back saying that accidents happen.
Unable to comprehend why they were treating you so gently, you realized your vision was blurry, and with that, the moisture on your cheeks. With the man holding your wrists together gently, and the fact that you cried in front of a stranger AND the two only people whom you've known since you moved to this town, you felt your face explode with a cherry color, you hit yr lip and hid your embarrassed face deeper into your hair. The piercing lady came out with a dirty rag and gave it to the man, who then wrapped it around your still-bleeding wound, and he then apologized for the mess and broken clock, if you were actually listening. But you were lost in your little world, mortified at the acts you accomplished today. Being pulled out of your dream-like state by the hands not your own, you heard the ring of the shop's bell and a distant yell of, "But this is too much!" And you focused your attention back to the man. After a left turn and some quick cross-walks, you gathered the courage to ask the man where you were headed. "Home, to clean you up, darling." And that was all.
Still being dragged by the hands, you quickly recognized the buildings you were passing and soon saw your apartment. Opening your mouth to say something, you were stopped by a, "I know, you live here. I've seen you leave this building many times, dear, just please allow me to grab your keys and do the pleasure of cleaning you up?", and being unable to say no to the polite man, or rather, unable to say no with this amount of directness you've never experienced before at all, you silently shook off your purse and the man released a hand to dig through its contents to find your keys. Going up the dirtied concrete stairwell, you took a quick left at the door on the fifth level and took hold of the man's gentle grip on your wrists, and pulled him to the ninth door on the lanai*, and stopped, while he took the hint and released your hands once more to unlock your door.
He held the door open, like a gentleman would, and allowed you to step inside. Murmuring a quiet "thank you", you stepped to the side of the hallway so he could enter. As he did, he closed the door and stopped in front of you. To your confusion, he said a small "Forgive me", then bent down to your feet and began to remove your shoes. More flustered than before, you began to fidget but he kept your feet still, and removed the second white heel. Placing them neatly to the side, he began to remove his, when you noticed that blood was seeping through the dirty rag the shopkeepers had given you. Rushing to the bathroom with soundless feet, you turned the sink on and ran your hands under the cold -and now pink- water.
"Hey... Miss, you have some red on your face..."
Blinking back at him stupidly, you let his words process before pulling your hands out of the tap and wiping your face furiously, now without a doubt stained in a deep blush. Such a shame, though, because your hands still bleeding. Drops of carmine scattered like cherry blossom petals on your bathroom counter, your dress, and your face. The blue-tinted man let out a noise of strangled surprize, and reach up to grab your face, stopping only centimeters away from your flushed skin, seemingly hesitating. For some reason, though it was most likely your imagination, he seemed to have a darkened expression on, one of seeing something that you love so deeply, you've grown to obsess over, and do anything to keep it. He seemed to stare lovingly, oh, how lovingly, at your face as his gaze shifted from random places you couldn't see, but he was only shocked to see your face so dotted with your own lifeblood, as anyone should be, correct?
"D-....Do you own a mirror?...", the man asked, almost timidly, but there was a strangely forced and quiet sound to it, almost like white noise on an old recording, because no matter how much you try to ignore it, it still wormed its way into your consciousness, even if you'd look right over it.
You could feel your heart stop, or speed up, the difference unknown to you, to be asked such a mocking, obvious question.
"Of course I don't, I don't need such a stupid, vain gadget!", your words came out much more harsh and condescending than you had though, the words were spit out with the most vile, offended tone a person like you could muster, anger filling from your very core to the outermost pores in your body. Realizing your misdeed, you gasped and apologized immediately, hoping he wouldn't react like anyone else would; by slapping or simply leaving.
He simply laughed, which left you possibly the most stumped you've ever been, since encountering this man.
"Not a fan of reflections, are you, miss?" He chuckled.
"Not at all"

A comfortable silence passed, where he grabbed a towel in your bathroom and wiped the blood from your face, and gently patted your hands dry, picking out the clock hand you had forgotten to drop. At this he smirked and placed it on the counter, where a metallic 'ping!' was heard. Digging in your hands with deft nails, he removed the small triangles of metal still left in your flesh. A soft hiss escaped your lips when he pulled out a piece especially embedded in your left palm, slightly below your thumb's joint, and he shuddered, almost unnoticeable except from his fingers quivering. He straightened his back and announced he was finished before you could question him about his suddenly odd behavior. He smiled and your face returned to its bright cherry color.
"It would be fitting to both of us if we were to meet again, would it not?", he asked with a playful expression on his features, only encouraging a befuddled one on yours.
"Y-Yes?" You answered, somehow hoping you answered correctly. Before any more words could be exchanged, he gripped your hands tighter than he had been holding them before and in his bloodied gloves, declared, "I am Tony; Tony the Talking Clock, if you will. And your name, miss?" Looking at him in awe, seeing how unusual you are, it was a great shock to see someone even more unique and individual.
"I am (F/n). (F/n) (L/n). Nice to meet you, Tony the Talking Clock."
Tony looked vaguely surprized that you called him that, and seemed to fail at hiding his amusement, bringing a new wave of red embarrassment to your face. He suddenly bent down on one knee and kissed the back of your hand softly.
"It has been a pleasure to meet you, (F/n)"

After Tony left and your face regained its natural color, you couldn't help but trace small shapes on your pillows before falling into a dreamy sleep, thinking about how nice he'd been...

...He couldn't help but grasp that clock hand that drew your blood, so tightly that it broke his skin, and think about how nicely your lovely, red blood will look against his own hands, or how the heart he could hear beating when he caressed your face will feel in his palms, slowly pulsating until (F/n) (L/n) lived no more...

Because, after all...

Your blood is his favorite color, and he wishes to see his favorite color again...

Description
Walking into "Bone-Dry Antiques", with the chime of a bell, you repeated your same everyday schedule, after leaving your pitiful excuse of a job as a janitor at some steadily-declining, nauseating establishment of a child's favorite pizzeria. Really, how can children not care about being so, so... Unclean? Untidy. Downright revolting. At least the security guard there was kind of cute, he would ask how your day's been and if the the children have been nice to, "the pretty lady cleaning windows". He would be so concerned for your wellbeing that you felt honored, but he would have ever-darkening circles under his eyes which worried you greatly. He could somehow leave his exhaustion behind to compliment your hair or make-up. Nearly everyday he would leave at 6:00 A.M. and remark about your style with a, "Hey, your dress looks lovely today," or a "Isn't it a miracle that the kids don't touch you with their pizza hands?" And even a daring, "...hey, I've heard some girls call you a princess yesterday, Princess." which you would be surprised at, seeing as you don't own a mirror.
If you think that being afraid of clowns is tough, try being afraid of your own reflection. It just looked so... Dead.
But that may have been just your face, who knows?
But that is not at all the reason you entered this dusty old shoppe here, no, you came to buy a clock. A friend noticed that you had nothing but clocks and paintings decorating your small apartments' walls, so they decided to redecorate for you; with the price of throwing away your precious gadgets because of your so-called "obsession", with them.
Time is always a good thing to keep track of. Humans are the only creatures to keep an actual system of the moments passing by, so why not utilize it?

After stepping in and chatting with the kind lady in her early twenties -decked out with piercings and neon hair dye- and her heart-warming grandma, you decided to explore the shops' untouched areas. Also known as, the grandfather clock trash heap. Some hands sparkled, most rusted but that only added to their own flavor of personality, breathing life to gears and cracked glass faces.
Stepping forward to examine the clocks more throughly, you stepped forward in time with the beat of the clocks' inner workings, white heels clicking on the cold cement. Crouching down to feel the exquisite etchings of an especially delicate pendulum, you failed to notice a presence behind you when you stood back up to your full height; which wasn't very tall at all.

"Oof!"
"Oh!"
Whirling around as quickly as the close shelves would allow, you glanced up and the tall stranger who you managed to bring down with you, during your clumsy fall. You realized he was much taller than you almost instantly, he was quite handsome, and he had some strange things about him most people would ignore or shun him for. He had bright, blue skin, a red band (that strangely resembled a clock's hands) stretched across the bridge of his nose, and his hair, which looked not unusually styled at a first glance, but had hidden yellow streaks near the bangs.
In other words, he was the strangest man you've ever seen, and he may or not be the most handsome man you've ever seen.
You stuttered apologies while he shook his head to clear his mind of the pain and confusion you no doubt put in. He blinked twice, then started at you, wide eyed, and grabbed your hands.
Now, from being a young woman whom owned nearly zero social skills, you were greatly flustered; too much to have even taken your hands back.
"Madame... You're bleeding!" The man exclaimed, and you were able to somehow guide your eyes back to your cut palms: they were bleeding quite a lot, and had bits of metal stuck in them, most likely from snapping that delicate pendulum during your fall. Somehow, the cuts weren't painful, probably because you've been too distracted by the man to notice. Crimson petals dripped on the floor, and you couldn't help but notice how the man's white gloves were slowly becoming dotted with dark stains. Letting out a little sound of frustration and defeat, your eyes began to tear up, realizing you've ruined this kind man's perfectly good pair of gloves and that you didn't have the money to pay for them, let alone the most likely expensive clock you've diminished into shrapnels of wood and iron. Said man took notice of this and helped you up, gently pulling your hands to the front of the shop whilst reassuring you with his actions that you shouldn't cry. The punked-out lady in the front curiously looked to you two, saw blood, and rushed in the back, while the old woman shuffled closer with a look of utmost concern etched upon her features. When the mystery man brought you to the counter, the old woman brushed your hair out of your face and rubbed circles in your back saying that accidents happen.
Unable to comprehend why they were treating you so gently, you realized your vision was blurry, and with that, the moisture on your cheeks. With the man holding your wrists together gently, and the fact that you cried in front of a stranger AND the two only people whom you've known since you moved to this town, you felt your face explode with a cherry color, you hit yr lip and hid your embarrassed face deeper into your hair. The piercing lady came out with a dirty rag and gave it to the man, who then wrapped it around your still-bleeding wound, and he then apologized for the mess and broken clock, if you were actually listening. But you were lost in your little world, mortified at the acts you accomplished today. Being pulled out of your dream-like state by the hands not your own, you heard the ring of the shop's bell and a distant yell of, "But this is too much!" And you focused your attention back to the man. After a left turn and some quick cross-walks, you gathered the courage to ask the man where you were headed. "Home, to clean you up, darling." And that was all.
Still being dragged by the hands, you quickly recognized the buildings you were passing and soon saw your apartment. Opening your mouth to say something, you were stopped by a, "I know, you live here. I've seen you leave this building many times, dear, just please allow me to grab your keys and do the pleasure of cleaning you up?", and being unable to say no to the polite man, or rather, unable to say no with this amount of directness you've never experienced before at all, you silently shook off your purse and the man released a hand to dig through its contents to find your keys. Going up the dirtied concrete stairwell, you took a quick left at the door on the fifth level and took hold of the man's gentle grip on your wrists, and pulled him to the ninth door on the lanai*, and stopped, while he took the hint and released your hands once more to unlock your door.
He held the door open, like a gentleman would, and allowed you to step inside. Murmuring a quiet "thank you", you stepped to the side of the hallway so he could enter. As he did, he closed the door and stopped in front of you. To your confusion, he said a small "Forgive me", then bent down to your feet and began to remove your shoes. More flustered than before, you began to fidget but he kept your feet still, and removed the second white heel. Placing them neatly to the side, he began to remove his, when you noticed that blood was seeping through the dirty rag the shopkeepers had given you. Rushing to the bathroom with soundless feet, you turned the sink on and ran your hands under the cold -and now pink- water.
"Hey... Miss, you have some red on your face..."
Blinking back at him stupidly, you let his words process before pulling your hands out of the tap and wiping your face furiously, now without a doubt stained in a deep blush. Such a shame, though, because your hands still bleeding. Drops of carmine scattered like cherry blossom petals on your bathroom counter, your dress, and your face. The blue-tinted man let out a noise of strangled surprize, and reach up to grab your face, stopping only centimeters away from your flushed skin, seemingly hesitating. For some reason, though it was most likely your imagination, he seemed to have a darkened expression on, one of seeing something that you love so deeply, you've grown to obsess over, and do anything to keep it. He seemed to stare lovingly, oh, how lovingly, at your face as his gaze shifted from random places you couldn't see, but he was only shocked to see your face so dotted with your own lifeblood, as anyone should be, correct?
"D-....Do you own a mirror?...", the man asked, almost timidly, but there was a strangely forced and quiet sound to it, almost like white noise on an old recording, because no matter how much you try to ignore it, it still wormed its way into your consciousness, even if you'd look right over it.
You could feel your heart stop, or speed up, the difference unknown to you, to be asked such a mocking, obvious question.
"Of course I don't, I don't need such a stupid, vain gadget!", your words came out much more harsh and condescending than you had though, the words were spit out with the most vile, offended tone a person like you could muster, anger filling from your very core to the outermost pores in your body. Realizing your misdeed, you gasped and apologized immediately, hoping he wouldn't react like anyone else would; by slapping or simply leaving.
He simply laughed, which left you possibly the most stumped you've ever been, since encountering this man.
"Not a fan of reflections, are you, miss?" He chuckled.
"Not at all"

A comfortable silence passed, where he grabbed a towel in your bathroom and wiped the blood from your face, and gently patted your hands dry, picking out the clock hand you had forgotten to drop. At this he smirked and placed it on the counter, where a metallic 'ping!' was heard. Digging in your hands with deft nails, he removed the small triangles of metal still left in your flesh. A soft hiss escaped your lips when he pulled out a piece especially embedded in your left palm, slightly below your thumb's joint, and he shuddered, almost unnoticeable except from his fingers quivering. He straightened his back and announced he was finished before you could question him about his suddenly odd behavior. He smiled and your face returned to its bright cherry color.
"It would be fitting to both of us if we were to meet again, would it not?", he asked with a playful expression on his features, only encouraging a befuddled one on yours.
"Y-Yes?" You answered, somehow hoping you answered correctly. Before any more words could be exchanged, he gripped your hands tighter than he had been holding them before and in his bloodied gloves, declared, "I am Tony; Tony the Talking Clock, if you will. And your name, miss?" Looking at him in awe, seeing how unusual you are, it was a great shock to see someone even more unique and individual.
"I am (F/n). (F/n) (L/n). Nice to meet you, Tony the Talking Clock."
Tony looked vaguely surprized that you called him that, and seemed to fail at hiding his amusement, bringing a new wave of red embarrassment to your face. He suddenly bent down on one knee and kissed the back of your hand softly.
"It has been a pleasure to meet you, (F/n)"

After Tony left and your face regained its natural color, you couldn't help but trace small shapes on your pillows before falling into a dreamy sleep, thinking about how nice he'd been...

...He couldn't help but grasp that clock hand that drew your blood, so tightly that it broke his skin, and think about how nicely your lovely, red blood will look against his own hands, or how the heart he could hear beating when he caressed your face will feel in his palms, slowly pulsating until (F/n) (L/n) lived no more...

Because, after all...

Your blood is his favorite color, and he wishes to see his favorite color again...