Drabbles.
That are all old and I just wanted to post here.
All were posted at the kinda defunct am_100
All of them are MiyavixBou.
Most of it are 100 words.
1. Ring
Bou thought for a moment, the ring on his finger sparkling with the small diamonds. He looked at it, admiring it simple design.
The door opened, and there stepped in another guitarist. Bou turned around at a heartbeat, facing Miyavi who stood by the door. A couple of his tattoos managed to crawl out of his sleeve and now peeked at the two, who were somehow thrown into that awkward silence.
“You found it, huh…?” More like a statement, with a small laugh to match. “So, what do you say?”
Bou stared surprised, but he smiled happily at Meev, “Yeah”
2. Chains
Bou squirmed.
The small sounds of metal chinks, connecting a pair of hands and feet. The blond guitarist lifted his hands, the very ones being held captive by chain cuffs. He tried to pry them apart by getting his hands to move opposite sides of each other. No such luck occurred.
Miyavi grinned, rather madly at the sound of struggle.
The feminine boy looked up with tears rolling down his eyes. If it wasn’t for the many drugs inside his system, Miyavi could;'ve almost felt sympathy.
Miyavi touched the wetness of the skin, as he traced with a fingertip those pale cheeks.
“I love you, you know”
Bou just cried harder.
3. Cute
Miyavi stared at the open flesh that was the small peek of a flat tummy between pink shorts and childish shirt. Bou remained oblivious as he shifted in slumber, pulling up his rabbit shirt a tad bit higher.
The eccentric guitarist just watched his hands stationed on both sides of the sleeping form. His eyes hungry for more than what is already shown.
Pink lips covered in cherry lip gloss opening a bit.
"Mm..." a yawn, he rubbed his eyes a bit then looked up hazily at attentive orbs with a sheepish smile. Lazy hands went over to each cheek "Good morning-" then a kiss on the lips "Busy?"
“Not much, baby”
4. Holding Hands
When Miyavi was five, his mom would tell him: the best way to make a ten is to hold someone else’s hand.
So when Bou looked at him with a smile that asked for an answer for his sudden need to envelop his palm with the other’s petite ones, he started: “My mom…”
“Is that so?” the blond guitarist laughed, “So cute”
He lifted both of their connected hands, and traced a finger at the tattoo on the back of his hand.
Miyavi was forever thankful of his mother teaching him this. It was good enough excuse for holding hands.
5. Practice
Miyavi stood right behind Bou, his hand guiding the other’s carefully on the guitar hanging by the feminine boy.
“Do it like this, so that it would sound like its flowing” He leaned his head on his shoulder, feeling the tiny shudder past through Bou.
“Thanks… a lot…”
“Don’t mention it” he kissed the neck. “You’re very good”
“Not as good as you though”
“Hm” then Miyavi hugged his lover from behind “Go on, play… I want to listen”
And Bou did a small song without lyrics and words. Just a few notes strung together without thought.
“How was that…?”
“Perfect”
6. Pants
Miyavi didn't feel like smiling.
"Why are you so down...?" Bou asked, lifting the sides of his lover's lips. He took his fingers, for a moment the smile clinged on his face. But it went down without a second's hesitation.
His reply came in a groan and a wave of a hand in the air to that showed annoyance.
The blond boy had a curious expression on his face.
They didn't fight. No troubles from the recording studio. His new bands mates- for the first time in history- weren't acting like the primma donna assholes that they usually were.
As Bou thought to himself, the now quiet eccentric guitarist took a peek at his wondering form and sighed to himself.
When will Bou learn that he looks horrible in pants...?, Miyavi buried face in his arms.
7. Fantasy
"What is fantasy?" Mana asked. Leaning by the window, a moment perfect for a camera with the moon spilling like a spotlight.
"It is a picture, a running memory or a dream"
Like what Mana could be.
Like what Mana should be.
When Gackt pushed the knife through his chest maybe somewhere near the heart; Mana was fantasy.
A picture of perfectness bathed in the moon's milk, a beautiful red somewhere to compliment his skin.
A running memory that was all in his head, kisses and sex part of the past.
A dream, maybe even a nightmare; from where he will never wake up again.
All were posted at the kinda defunct am_100
All of them are MiyavixBou.
Most of it are 100 words.
1. Ring
Bou thought for a moment, the ring on his finger sparkling with the small diamonds. He looked at it, admiring it simple design.
The door opened, and there stepped in another guitarist. Bou turned around at a heartbeat, facing Miyavi who stood by the door. A couple of his tattoos managed to crawl out of his sleeve and now peeked at the two, who were somehow thrown into that awkward silence.
“You found it, huh…?” More like a statement, with a small laugh to match. “So, what do you say?”
Bou stared surprised, but he smiled happily at Meev, “Yeah”
2. Chains
Bou squirmed.
The small sounds of metal chinks, connecting a pair of hands and feet. The blond guitarist lifted his hands, the very ones being held captive by chain cuffs. He tried to pry them apart by getting his hands to move opposite sides of each other. No such luck occurred.
Miyavi grinned, rather madly at the sound of struggle.
The feminine boy looked up with tears rolling down his eyes. If it wasn’t for the many drugs inside his system, Miyavi could;'ve almost felt sympathy.
Miyavi touched the wetness of the skin, as he traced with a fingertip those pale cheeks.
“I love you, you know”
Bou just cried harder.
3. Cute
Miyavi stared at the open flesh that was the small peek of a flat tummy between pink shorts and childish shirt. Bou remained oblivious as he shifted in slumber, pulling up his rabbit shirt a tad bit higher.
The eccentric guitarist just watched his hands stationed on both sides of the sleeping form. His eyes hungry for more than what is already shown.
Pink lips covered in cherry lip gloss opening a bit.
"Mm..." a yawn, he rubbed his eyes a bit then looked up hazily at attentive orbs with a sheepish smile. Lazy hands went over to each cheek "Good morning-" then a kiss on the lips "Busy?"
“Not much, baby”
4. Holding Hands
When Miyavi was five, his mom would tell him: the best way to make a ten is to hold someone else’s hand.
So when Bou looked at him with a smile that asked for an answer for his sudden need to envelop his palm with the other’s petite ones, he started: “My mom…”
“Is that so?” the blond guitarist laughed, “So cute”
He lifted both of their connected hands, and traced a finger at the tattoo on the back of his hand.
Miyavi was forever thankful of his mother teaching him this. It was good enough excuse for holding hands.
5. Practice
Miyavi stood right behind Bou, his hand guiding the other’s carefully on the guitar hanging by the feminine boy.
“Do it like this, so that it would sound like its flowing” He leaned his head on his shoulder, feeling the tiny shudder past through Bou.
“Thanks… a lot…”
“Don’t mention it” he kissed the neck. “You’re very good”
“Not as good as you though”
“Hm” then Miyavi hugged his lover from behind “Go on, play… I want to listen”
And Bou did a small song without lyrics and words. Just a few notes strung together without thought.
“How was that…?”
“Perfect”
6. Pants
Miyavi didn't feel like smiling.
"Why are you so down...?" Bou asked, lifting the sides of his lover's lips. He took his fingers, for a moment the smile clinged on his face. But it went down without a second's hesitation.
His reply came in a groan and a wave of a hand in the air to that showed annoyance.
The blond boy had a curious expression on his face.
They didn't fight. No troubles from the recording studio. His new bands mates- for the first time in history- weren't acting like the primma donna assholes that they usually were.
As Bou thought to himself, the now quiet eccentric guitarist took a peek at his wondering form and sighed to himself.
When will Bou learn that he looks horrible in pants...?, Miyavi buried face in his arms.
7. Fantasy
"What is fantasy?" Mana asked. Leaning by the window, a moment perfect for a camera with the moon spilling like a spotlight.
"It is a picture, a running memory or a dream"
Like what Mana could be.
Like what Mana should be.
When Gackt pushed the knife through his chest maybe somewhere near the heart; Mana was fantasy.
A picture of perfectness bathed in the moon's milk, a beautiful red somewhere to compliment his skin.
A running memory that was all in his head, kisses and sex part of the past.
A dream, maybe even a nightmare; from where he will never wake up again.