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earthquakes are to a girl's guitar
The master fic list is complete! There's some stuff missing that I wrote back in the Dark Ages (read: 2003/4) and am now not owning up to having had anything to do with, though if I am seized with nostalgia I may add the single Yami no Matsuei fic for which I still retain some vestiges of fondness.
~
Currently pissing me off about being sick: I can't SING or HUM without pain in my throat muscles (from dry retching, oh joy) so I am having trouble finding music to listen to. Because I sing along to everything. Or hum. Or both. And I do it without much conscious thought.
Currenly mildly okay about being sick: I swear I have almost dropped a whole clothing size through not being able to eat a) anything nice, b) any large meals. Hello, flat stomach. Long time no see.
~
The kink drabbles are going to take quite a bit longer than I thought, so I might post the one I've actually finished:
Like everything else in Kyouya's life and Kyouya's mind this is incredibly, impeccably exact: it isn't just feet, it's Haruhi's feet, and it isn't just any shoes, it's the glorious teetering things from the Hitachiin label that the twins press upon her as often as they can get away with it. He likes the way her unpainted toes slide under the satin and then reappear at the end, the way the buckle sits snugly against the bump of her ankle, the perfect arch that is created when she stands. Blue shoes, green, silver, white, and one night the Suou group throws a fundraising ball and Haruhi spends the night balancing equally on Tamaki's arm and the obscenely red shoes that enclose her feet. The slow shift of sensuality, from her practical smile down past her less-practical black dress and down even further, to where the scarlet straps snake around her legs like covetous fingers, gives Kyouya a headache by the end of the first hour. He sips wine very sparingly, keeps track of everyone's movements, and allows himself to glance at Haruhi's feet exactly once every half-hour. It's still almost too much.
When they're all home she sits down with a sigh and lifts one foot onto the seat, already fumbling for the buckle, and Kyouya says, "Let me."
She nods in gratitude and settles back into the chair, closing her eyes, and Kyouya kneels down and slips one finger underneath the widest strap so that it lies on the very top of Haruhi's foot, over the skin. Over a faint warm pulse. When he glides the finger back and forth there's barely any resistance from the soft lining of the shoe; the worksmanship is sublime; he must compliment the twins.
Next he places his fingertips against the rigidity of the heel and pulls his thumbs over the asymmetrical lines of leather, pressing down hard enough for her skin to turn pale on either side. Haruhi lets out a low wordless sound that's like a sigh with extra sibilants, and when he glances up at her face, her eyes are open once more. She's not smiling. She doesn't look practical in the slightest.
She says, "Keep going."
~
Currently pissing me off about being sick: I can't SING or HUM without pain in my throat muscles (from dry retching, oh joy) so I am having trouble finding music to listen to. Because I sing along to everything. Or hum. Or both. And I do it without much conscious thought.
Currenly mildly okay about being sick: I swear I have almost dropped a whole clothing size through not being able to eat a) anything nice, b) any large meals. Hello, flat stomach. Long time no see.
~
The kink drabbles are going to take quite a bit longer than I thought, so I might post the one I've actually finished:
Like everything else in Kyouya's life and Kyouya's mind this is incredibly, impeccably exact: it isn't just feet, it's Haruhi's feet, and it isn't just any shoes, it's the glorious teetering things from the Hitachiin label that the twins press upon her as often as they can get away with it. He likes the way her unpainted toes slide under the satin and then reappear at the end, the way the buckle sits snugly against the bump of her ankle, the perfect arch that is created when she stands. Blue shoes, green, silver, white, and one night the Suou group throws a fundraising ball and Haruhi spends the night balancing equally on Tamaki's arm and the obscenely red shoes that enclose her feet. The slow shift of sensuality, from her practical smile down past her less-practical black dress and down even further, to where the scarlet straps snake around her legs like covetous fingers, gives Kyouya a headache by the end of the first hour. He sips wine very sparingly, keeps track of everyone's movements, and allows himself to glance at Haruhi's feet exactly once every half-hour. It's still almost too much.
When they're all home she sits down with a sigh and lifts one foot onto the seat, already fumbling for the buckle, and Kyouya says, "Let me."
She nods in gratitude and settles back into the chair, closing her eyes, and Kyouya kneels down and slips one finger underneath the widest strap so that it lies on the very top of Haruhi's foot, over the skin. Over a faint warm pulse. When he glides the finger back and forth there's barely any resistance from the soft lining of the shoe; the worksmanship is sublime; he must compliment the twins.
Next he places his fingertips against the rigidity of the heel and pulls his thumbs over the asymmetrical lines of leather, pressing down hard enough for her skin to turn pale on either side. Haruhi lets out a low wordless sound that's like a sigh with extra sibilants, and when he glances up at her face, her eyes are open once more. She's not smiling. She doesn't look practical in the slightest.
She says, "Keep going."