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31_days2006-10-03 11:59 pm
swollenfoot.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-10-03 11:59 pm
[October 3] [Ouran High Host Club] rose-colored glasses
Title: rose-colored glasses
Day/Theme: October 3 / snow white rose red
Series: Ouran High Host Club
Character/Pairing: Eclair Tonnerre
Rating: G
Word Count: 210
Warning for possible spoilers. If you don’t know who Eclaire is. =)
Day/Theme: October 3 / snow white rose red
Series: Ouran High Host Club
Character/Pairing: Eclair Tonnerre
Rating: G
Word Count: 210
Warning for possible spoilers. If you don’t know who Eclaire is. =)
(Entrance)
She lounged in her private jet, cat-like, peering through her opera glasses, scouting the lay of the land. She was neither impressed nor disappointed----it was conquerable realm, but her interest lay elsewhere.
Accommodation was adequate; hotels had a certain sameness throughout the world. A pink and black arrangement of roses rose from the center of the cavernous penthouse. She was piqued, had paused her saunter to stare at it through her opera glasses.
(Interval)
Roses had thorns. Being wounded by props was not necessarily a bad thing, as it made one more connected to the setting. She discovered she was neither the puppet master nor a mere spectator, just as she discovered that the roses weren’t brackish black or weakling pink. The passionate red on innocent white was as beguiling as the faint throb of her tiny cuts.
(Exit)
On the way out, she sat, coated with a withdrawn silence, regal and proper. The feline air still lingered, especially in the sharp, vivid eyes. She was primarily woman, right now: simple, haughty, undecipherable. Her hands twitched, aching for the feel of the metal wand on the pads of her fingers.
She had to discard the toy, as was her manner; it was no longer of use to her.
~1035 100306
She lounged in her private jet, cat-like, peering through her opera glasses, scouting the lay of the land. She was neither impressed nor disappointed----it was conquerable realm, but her interest lay elsewhere.
Accommodation was adequate; hotels had a certain sameness throughout the world. A pink and black arrangement of roses rose from the center of the cavernous penthouse. She was piqued, had paused her saunter to stare at it through her opera glasses.
(Interval)
Roses had thorns. Being wounded by props was not necessarily a bad thing, as it made one more connected to the setting. She discovered she was neither the puppet master nor a mere spectator, just as she discovered that the roses weren’t brackish black or weakling pink. The passionate red on innocent white was as beguiling as the faint throb of her tiny cuts.
(Exit)
On the way out, she sat, coated with a withdrawn silence, regal and proper. The feline air still lingered, especially in the sharp, vivid eyes. She was primarily woman, right now: simple, haughty, undecipherable. Her hands twitched, aching for the feel of the metal wand on the pads of her fingers.
She had to discard the toy, as was her manner; it was no longer of use to her.
~1035 100306