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31_days2013-04-05 01:07 am
treeflamingo.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2013-04-05 01:07 am
[April 4] [Ouran] The Science of Rejection
Title: The Science of Rejection
Day: April 4th - losing track of the body count
Series: Ouran High School Host Club
Character(s): Kyouya
Rating: PG
Words: 634
A/N: Ohhh, Kyouya, when will you ever stop inhabiting my head? Hopefully never.
She was lovely, of course, extremely well dressed, naturally, graceful, and clearly prepared. Her fingers wrapped daintily around the stem of the crystal flute at precisely the point where the glass began to thicken into the basin, twirling it minutely like a master testing the balance of a blade. Her eyes glittered with refined defiance when she laughed even as her French manicure modestly covered her mouth. Her posture on the plush and ebony salon chair was studiously confident, back straight, shoulders low. She made educated, unintelligent conversation, and she wasn't fooling him for a second. She was a common sycophant outfitted in arrogance like a fishing lure; Kyouya as beginning to think of her as a call girl.
Of course he’d be sending her back. Allowing his father and the concerns of the family to dictate his dating partners had always been part of Kyouya's plan; sifting through the options with a jeweler’s eye until he found one that met his own specifications had not always been part of the plan, but that lessened not a whit the fact that it was now. Kyouya watched the swirl of cognac in his glass as the muscles of his wrist tensed and lolled at his command. The physics of liquids were, at that moment, infinitely more fascinating than the inept little huntress and her ill-made camouflage. She was speaking; he ignored her. Rather, he began mentally compiling the dossier he would shortly create on her, as he did for all the omiai failures his father had flung at him, and suffered a minor shock as he realized that he wasn't completely sure how to file her. Was the twelfth or the thirteenth girl he’d met? The fourth or fifth with a professed passion for bonsai (a hobby Kyouya had picked up during his last year as an undergrad, under the eternally serene tutelage of Morinozuka Takashi)? He was nearly certain he’d met another girl who was pursuing a dual major in business management and environmental science along with a minor in German, but he couldn’t be sure that other girl hadn’t been studying French... or was it Korean? No, not Korean...
The girl had paused speaking long enough for him to recognize that she was expecting a response. His eyes snapped back to her face. The low lighting made the balm on her lips look waxy, the powder on her skin like chalk. There was a fear growing in her eyes and the set of her shoulders had grown rigid. She had been speaking of the long term benefits and short term expenses of renovating existing office buildings to adhere to cutting edge sustainability programs. He’d not been able to tune her out entirely. Her voice had a piercing quality that elevated it above the level if simple “incessant drone” and into the territory of “unwelcome distraction.” She was the thirteenth - or fourteenth? - or no, twelfth, no, probably, yes - unacceptable girl paraded at him, and he was nearly positive he’d seen that exact cocktail dress (square necked, to mid thigh, form fitting, purplish burgundy) on someone else before. Ridiculous. He’d have to speak to his father about it. Delicately, of course. There was a fine line between standards and demands.
“Truly, it is a complicated question,” he told her, which, inexplicably, set her at ease: shoulders rolled back down, glitter returned to her eyes, she crossed her forearms and leaned in conspiratorially.
Kyouya had a sudden, alarming flashback to a girl with opera glasses and a stunning poker face. He returned his gaze to his cognac, to regain focus. He would indeed have to speak to father. There had been too many of them - too many women he’d been obliged to reject - and Ohtori Kyouya was beginning to lose track.
Day: April 4th - losing track of the body count
Series: Ouran High School Host Club
Character(s): Kyouya
Rating: PG
Words: 634
A/N: Ohhh, Kyouya, when will you ever stop inhabiting my head? Hopefully never.
She was lovely, of course, extremely well dressed, naturally, graceful, and clearly prepared. Her fingers wrapped daintily around the stem of the crystal flute at precisely the point where the glass began to thicken into the basin, twirling it minutely like a master testing the balance of a blade. Her eyes glittered with refined defiance when she laughed even as her French manicure modestly covered her mouth. Her posture on the plush and ebony salon chair was studiously confident, back straight, shoulders low. She made educated, unintelligent conversation, and she wasn't fooling him for a second. She was a common sycophant outfitted in arrogance like a fishing lure; Kyouya as beginning to think of her as a call girl.
Of course he’d be sending her back. Allowing his father and the concerns of the family to dictate his dating partners had always been part of Kyouya's plan; sifting through the options with a jeweler’s eye until he found one that met his own specifications had not always been part of the plan, but that lessened not a whit the fact that it was now. Kyouya watched the swirl of cognac in his glass as the muscles of his wrist tensed and lolled at his command. The physics of liquids were, at that moment, infinitely more fascinating than the inept little huntress and her ill-made camouflage. She was speaking; he ignored her. Rather, he began mentally compiling the dossier he would shortly create on her, as he did for all the omiai failures his father had flung at him, and suffered a minor shock as he realized that he wasn't completely sure how to file her. Was the twelfth or the thirteenth girl he’d met? The fourth or fifth with a professed passion for bonsai (a hobby Kyouya had picked up during his last year as an undergrad, under the eternally serene tutelage of Morinozuka Takashi)? He was nearly certain he’d met another girl who was pursuing a dual major in business management and environmental science along with a minor in German, but he couldn’t be sure that other girl hadn’t been studying French... or was it Korean? No, not Korean...
The girl had paused speaking long enough for him to recognize that she was expecting a response. His eyes snapped back to her face. The low lighting made the balm on her lips look waxy, the powder on her skin like chalk. There was a fear growing in her eyes and the set of her shoulders had grown rigid. She had been speaking of the long term benefits and short term expenses of renovating existing office buildings to adhere to cutting edge sustainability programs. He’d not been able to tune her out entirely. Her voice had a piercing quality that elevated it above the level if simple “incessant drone” and into the territory of “unwelcome distraction.” She was the thirteenth - or fourteenth? - or no, twelfth, no, probably, yes - unacceptable girl paraded at him, and he was nearly positive he’d seen that exact cocktail dress (square necked, to mid thigh, form fitting, purplish burgundy) on someone else before. Ridiculous. He’d have to speak to his father about it. Delicately, of course. There was a fine line between standards and demands.
“Truly, it is a complicated question,” he told her, which, inexplicably, set her at ease: shoulders rolled back down, glitter returned to her eyes, she crossed her forearms and leaned in conspiratorially.
Kyouya had a sudden, alarming flashback to a girl with opera glasses and a stunning poker face. He returned his gaze to his cognac, to regain focus. He would indeed have to speak to father. There had been too many of them - too many women he’d been obliged to reject - and Ohtori Kyouya was beginning to lose track.