Hello all! This is the first in an ongoing series of 100 Donuts drabbles. I have a few more written, and they can be found on my LJ page (see my profile for link).
I hope you all will enjoy them, and I would appreciate your reviews, comments, etc.
I do not own the characters in these works of fiction. They are the property of the group of mangakas known as CLAMP.
Watanuki's skin was not like silk. Silk, as far as Doumeki had experienced, is smooth and there is no variation. Sure, the texture is pleasant, but your fingertips feel the same cold smoothness until they trail off the fabric. Silk is far too…predictable, too static, to be comparable at all to anything of Watanuki's. Every bit of Watanuki is unpredictable, full of nervous energy and the hum of life; He dips and curves and dances and dodges, hides in open sight and somehow succeeds to do it all within a series of momentary whirlwinds that blend into eternity.
Watanuki's skin is no different from his personality. Run your fingers over it and you'd discover the bumps of lean muscles, the unexpected dips where his bones were a little two close to the surface, the slight brail-raise of old and nearly invisible scars, the shudder of a breath drawn in too quickly that spreads ripples over his whole being. Because everything, everything he did, everything he does, ripples out, affecting, shifting, changing everything. In Watanuki himself, in the world, and in Doumeki.
No, Doumeki decides, silk is far too stagnant to be comparable in any way.
But perhaps, the most convincing argument of why silk cannot possibly compare is because Doumeki knows for a fact that silk does not taste anywhere near as good as Watanuki's skin.
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