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sevenswellsHere's chapter 8 finally; next update will be the five-pages doujin I'm working on, I hope. \o/
Title: Hoshi no Suna
Author:sevenswells
Rating: NC-17
(One True) Pairing: Gackt/Miyavi
Warnings: Not safe for work, yaoi, angst, alternate universe.
Word Count: 1806 w.
Comments: Dedicated to the most gentle, caring and fabulous ("I declare you guilty of fabulous") beta in the whole wide worldkamexkame (also wishing her fortitude so she can rule the world), to squeeing partner supacat (where are you my dear?), to my girl thin_lipid (I hope you're doing well baby) and also dedicated to the lovely mattiezumi who ninja'd her way in my dedication list and is here to stay ^^
NB: the title "Moi, Lolita" is a reference to a french pop song which was first sung by a young girl singer called Alizée in the early 00's (it had a huge success at the time, partly because it was also kind of scandalous, reference to Nabokov's Lolita and all). Then the same song has been recently sung by another artist, except that this artist is male, with a very deep crooning voice, and he sings very earnestly that he's a fifteen year old girl called Lolita, who apparently likes to play with men. I've always been a fan of the gap between the image and the reality, and ambiguity of course. Thus, I liked the fact that the guy isn't mocking this very bubbly pop song but sings it seriously and trying to put his real emotions in it.
Moi, Lolita (Alizée's original song)
Moi, Lolita (Julien Doré's remix)
Title: Hoshi no Suna
Author:
sevenswells Rating: NC-17
(One True) Pairing: Gackt/Miyavi
Warnings: Not safe for work, yaoi, angst, alternate universe.
Word Count: 1806 w.
Comments: Dedicated to the most gentle, caring and fabulous ("I declare you guilty of fabulous") beta in the whole wide world
kamexkame (also wishing her fortitude so she can rule the world), to squeeing partner supacat (where are you my dear?), to my girl thin_lipid (I hope you're doing well baby) and also dedicated to the lovely mattiezumi who ninja'd her way in my dedication list and is here to stay ^^NB: the title "Moi, Lolita" is a reference to a french pop song which was first sung by a young girl singer called Alizée in the early 00's (it had a huge success at the time, partly because it was also kind of scandalous, reference to Nabokov's Lolita and all). Then the same song has been recently sung by another artist, except that this artist is male, with a very deep crooning voice, and he sings very earnestly that he's a fifteen year old girl called Lolita, who apparently likes to play with men. I've always been a fan of the gap between the image and the reality, and ambiguity of course. Thus, I liked the fact that the guy isn't mocking this very bubbly pop song but sings it seriously and trying to put his real emotions in it.
Moi, Lolita (Alizée's original song)
Moi, Lolita (Julien Doré's remix)
Kyo was waiting for me.
Not really, actually.
He was asleep, I didn't have the keys, and I had to ring several times before he came to open the door. When he saw me, he didn't look sad or worried or angered; his face was soft and luminous despite his tired features: he was waiting for me.
I shoved him slightly on my way to vomit in the toilet. I dropped brutally to my knees onto the tiled floor to retch chlorinate and my anger. As my stomach churned and emptied itself, Kyo remained, serene, by my side.
I felt miserable, sick and trembling, but he firmly planted a toothbrush in my hand and explained, straight as an A, that gastric acid would corrode my teeth if I didn't brush them. As I complied, it suddenly took my fancy to talk to him, and I started to tell him, everything, up from where I had asked him to leave me at Kamui's door back at the concert. I didn't even edit out the scabrous details; I showed him my back and the cigarette burn, sputtering mint-scented foam at his face all the while. It had his forehead wrinkling up, but my line about plastic surgery and my broad vengeful gestures with the toothbrush made him crack up.
Then he intimated, getting all serious again, that I make my long story short and to spit out the goddamn foam that was leaking down my chin, which I did, before he brought me a change of clothes. I made a remark that his pajamas looked super gay, he called me frigid, thought back on it, finally said I was rather a big slut and led me to bed with a loud smack on my bottom. Of course he wasn't going to make compresses for me and watch up to tell me tales about princesses and dragons, he was smashed, it was supposed to be his night off and I had fucked it up, so enough with me and my bullshit.
But I still felt, maybe, furtively, as I was falling asleep, his big clumsy lips on my forehead kissing me goodnight.
-Kyo, have you seen my pants...?
I found him in the bathroom, getting the laudry out of the washing machine.
-What did you say, cupcake?
-My baggy pants from yesterday, I was wondering whether you...
-Is this the one?
-Ah. Yeah. This is it.
-It stank, oh the horror. But don't mention it.
-Sure. Sure.
I slid my hand into the back pocket. I brought it back full of wet paper pellets.
-And what do you want me to do with him exactly, Gacchan?
The dyed-up old hag with the Dallas-style brushing was blowing her breath which reeked of cold tobacco under my nose, while she clawed at the mess that was my hair.
Kamui, comfortably propped up in a fugly armchair, legs crossed, was having a manicure done.
-Whatever you want, Haruka, he said without looking away from the movements of the file. But do something about it.
-Something that could harmonize with your style? Or with...
-Certainly not. Please, you're most capable of finding something other than spiky blonde or those insipid Johnny's haircuts, aren't you?
-Spiky blonde and insipid haircuts, she grumbled.
She futzed around with my hair a little more with exasperation, then she suddenly caught my face with her two hands, thumbs pressed against my cheekbones, so that she looked at me straight in the face, with her horrid mismatched eyes. I faced the apocalyptical vision of her big toad-like half head.
-Yeah. Yeah. He has a little raw something to him. A little rustic, maybe...
I dropped a deadly stare in the direction of Kamui, who smiled charmingly at the manicurist. The old hag kept on with her diagnosis with a new light in her eyes, without releasing her hold on my face:
-A traditional beauty. A dramatic samurai, shambala with a touch of...
-Sid Vicious.
Kamui had got up.
-Not that again?!
-Don't forget what we're aiming at.
-Yes, I see. The little girl who fancies the tattooed bad boy, but nothing anxiogenic. Femine beauty, of course.
-Nothing the least like Johnny's, though, I believe it's clear?
-Leave Johnny's be, Gacchan, it pays my daughters' college fees. Are you going to have his eyelids fixed, too?
-Of course.
-Of course. Okay. I'm onto it.
Kamui took a random magazine and started to flip through it, leaving Haruka Hanajima, armed with a razor, on my case. With the precise movements of a master calligrapher, she made strands of hair rain like ink on the floor. I was hanging on to the armchair and kept an eye on the blade that was bolting unrelently back and forth, relayed by the thick carmine fingernails that rearranged, dishevelled, pulled, fixed. When the dance of the razor and arms with wobbly flesh ended, she took a step back, squinting a bit as she considered her deed: her green eye was critical whereas the brown one was filled with satisfaction. She nodded, probably convinced that it should suffice and that I was ready to be exhibited in the window: she swiped at my shoulders with a small brush, took off the white towel as big as a tablecloth from around my neck, then another fussy swipe of brush here, another there. Finally she seized a huge bottle of hairspray and sent a whole cloud of it my way, probably with the to intent to fix all of me inside my eternal youth.
-Show me.
Kamui's voice rang graver than usual, with solemnity. Everyone in the hair-dressing parlour held their breath. Had they not pulled the blinds and shut all doors and windows because of Kamui's presence, the whole street would have also interrupted any activity. I couldn't move yet, I was still dumbed down by the hairspray and Hanajima's frenzy. He put his Italian shoe next to my thigh, on a corner of the armchair, the whole of which he made pivot towards him, while he remained anchored into place by his other leg. He cocked his head to one side, slowly, then to the other, drew slightly back, leant forward, resting his forearm against his bent leg. How much time did he remain watching me, his face close to mine, in neverending calculations of the present and the future? I did not back down. Had he already foreseen, in this instant where our stares clashed, the final word to our war?
Breaking the exchange, he turned to Hanajima:
-Gorgeous. You outdid yourself.
The poor she-toad who had secretly been wringing her hands regained her composure and her face lit up, making her yet uglier. He abandonned me and approached her to murmur something to her ear while slipping her a packet of powder. In a shrill voice, Hanajima then invited all her employees to lunch with her on okonomiyakis, a gracious gift courtesy of Gackt-san. The young women uttered small cries of thankfulness and left the parlour in an atmosphere of excitation to rival that of a kindergarten class out on a field trip. Hanajima closed the exit of her pupils walking backwards and bowed on her way out.
There remained but Sachiko, forgotten in a corner, stacked inside the thousands of folds of her gundam suit, who emerged from her long lethargy. She raised her eyes to her idol : what she seemed to understand made her blush from head to toe. With too much of useless gestures, she gathered her things, which basically consisted of a simple black attaché case which she hugged to herself like a teddy bear and exited in turn taking great care to close the door behind her. This scene triggered a mean outburst of laughter in me, which died as soon as Kamui came back to me. He held his hand out to me and I instinctively nestled my cheek into it, but he didn't caress it: he used his fingers to mold it, gently. Then he had them slide along my jaw and his index tilted my chin up. His thumb wandered onto my bottom lip, but when I wanted it inside my mouth, it went roaming along the length of my throat instead to feel the vein beating furiously there. The other four fingers hid behind my nape and followed its curve : I shivered. He passed his other hand over my eyes, grazing their lashes, but when my tongue wanted to taste its palm, it left to go cover my ear and burrow into my hair. It entirely enfolded the back of my head, and upheld it firmly when my nape suddenly weakened like the stem of a wilted flower. Meanwhile, the other hand had stopped, with feigned hesitation, at the collar of my T-Shirt. His fingers stuck to the same hollow spot on my neck, as though in a rut. This little game irritated me : wasn't the way to get past the obstacle obvious? Crankily, I took off my T-shirt, shaking his hands the hell off, and sat back into the armchair. With the tips of his fingers, he superficially traced the lines of my ribcage, the muscle of my midriff, barely sketched the nipples, the tummy hole. Annoyed, I broke the contact once more, and wiggled to unbutton and unzip my jeans. He let me patiently, and when I was naked, he knelt before me. The shock this caused within me was indescribable. Indifferent to my turmoil, he spread my thighs apart, knead them, massaged my calves, methodically caressed the inside of my knees; I surprised myself by letting out a plaintive cry which was unlike me : this cry morphed into a gasp when he took me inside his mouth with no warning. He was so tender I could hardly breathe; orgasm seized me when I was right on the brink of asphyxiation and I held onto him desperately while I shouted at the top of my lungs.
He stood up, swallowed my sperm as though it were the most natural thing to do in all the world and stroked his lips with his thumb to wipe imaginary drops from them. Out of breath, I attempted to get up, because that was what he expected, but my weak legs weren't able to bear the weight of me. He caught me, without apparent effort, before I could collapse. I didn't feel at home in his arms, but he seemed to find it normal. He was caressing my hair with a gentleness I could never have associated with him. I tried to break away from his embrace when I was able to find my breath and stand on my own two feet, more or less, but he held me back and whispered this name like incense burning into smoke:
"Miyavi".
Not really, actually.
He was asleep, I didn't have the keys, and I had to ring several times before he came to open the door. When he saw me, he didn't look sad or worried or angered; his face was soft and luminous despite his tired features: he was waiting for me.
I shoved him slightly on my way to vomit in the toilet. I dropped brutally to my knees onto the tiled floor to retch chlorinate and my anger. As my stomach churned and emptied itself, Kyo remained, serene, by my side.
I felt miserable, sick and trembling, but he firmly planted a toothbrush in my hand and explained, straight as an A, that gastric acid would corrode my teeth if I didn't brush them. As I complied, it suddenly took my fancy to talk to him, and I started to tell him, everything, up from where I had asked him to leave me at Kamui's door back at the concert. I didn't even edit out the scabrous details; I showed him my back and the cigarette burn, sputtering mint-scented foam at his face all the while. It had his forehead wrinkling up, but my line about plastic surgery and my broad vengeful gestures with the toothbrush made him crack up.
Then he intimated, getting all serious again, that I make my long story short and to spit out the goddamn foam that was leaking down my chin, which I did, before he brought me a change of clothes. I made a remark that his pajamas looked super gay, he called me frigid, thought back on it, finally said I was rather a big slut and led me to bed with a loud smack on my bottom. Of course he wasn't going to make compresses for me and watch up to tell me tales about princesses and dragons, he was smashed, it was supposed to be his night off and I had fucked it up, so enough with me and my bullshit.
But I still felt, maybe, furtively, as I was falling asleep, his big clumsy lips on my forehead kissing me goodnight.
-Kyo, have you seen my pants...?
I found him in the bathroom, getting the laudry out of the washing machine.
-What did you say, cupcake?
-My baggy pants from yesterday, I was wondering whether you...
-Is this the one?
-Ah. Yeah. This is it.
-It stank, oh the horror. But don't mention it.
-Sure. Sure.
I slid my hand into the back pocket. I brought it back full of wet paper pellets.
-And what do you want me to do with him exactly, Gacchan?
The dyed-up old hag with the Dallas-style brushing was blowing her breath which reeked of cold tobacco under my nose, while she clawed at the mess that was my hair.
Kamui, comfortably propped up in a fugly armchair, legs crossed, was having a manicure done.
-Whatever you want, Haruka, he said without looking away from the movements of the file. But do something about it.
-Something that could harmonize with your style? Or with...
-Certainly not. Please, you're most capable of finding something other than spiky blonde or those insipid Johnny's haircuts, aren't you?
-Spiky blonde and insipid haircuts, she grumbled.
She futzed around with my hair a little more with exasperation, then she suddenly caught my face with her two hands, thumbs pressed against my cheekbones, so that she looked at me straight in the face, with her horrid mismatched eyes. I faced the apocalyptical vision of her big toad-like half head.
-Yeah. Yeah. He has a little raw something to him. A little rustic, maybe...
I dropped a deadly stare in the direction of Kamui, who smiled charmingly at the manicurist. The old hag kept on with her diagnosis with a new light in her eyes, without releasing her hold on my face:
-A traditional beauty. A dramatic samurai, shambala with a touch of...
-Sid Vicious.
Kamui had got up.
-Not that again?!
-Don't forget what we're aiming at.
-Yes, I see. The little girl who fancies the tattooed bad boy, but nothing anxiogenic. Femine beauty, of course.
-Nothing the least like Johnny's, though, I believe it's clear?
-Leave Johnny's be, Gacchan, it pays my daughters' college fees. Are you going to have his eyelids fixed, too?
-Of course.
-Of course. Okay. I'm onto it.
Kamui took a random magazine and started to flip through it, leaving Haruka Hanajima, armed with a razor, on my case. With the precise movements of a master calligrapher, she made strands of hair rain like ink on the floor. I was hanging on to the armchair and kept an eye on the blade that was bolting unrelently back and forth, relayed by the thick carmine fingernails that rearranged, dishevelled, pulled, fixed. When the dance of the razor and arms with wobbly flesh ended, she took a step back, squinting a bit as she considered her deed: her green eye was critical whereas the brown one was filled with satisfaction. She nodded, probably convinced that it should suffice and that I was ready to be exhibited in the window: she swiped at my shoulders with a small brush, took off the white towel as big as a tablecloth from around my neck, then another fussy swipe of brush here, another there. Finally she seized a huge bottle of hairspray and sent a whole cloud of it my way, probably with the to intent to fix all of me inside my eternal youth.
-Show me.
Kamui's voice rang graver than usual, with solemnity. Everyone in the hair-dressing parlour held their breath. Had they not pulled the blinds and shut all doors and windows because of Kamui's presence, the whole street would have also interrupted any activity. I couldn't move yet, I was still dumbed down by the hairspray and Hanajima's frenzy. He put his Italian shoe next to my thigh, on a corner of the armchair, the whole of which he made pivot towards him, while he remained anchored into place by his other leg. He cocked his head to one side, slowly, then to the other, drew slightly back, leant forward, resting his forearm against his bent leg. How much time did he remain watching me, his face close to mine, in neverending calculations of the present and the future? I did not back down. Had he already foreseen, in this instant where our stares clashed, the final word to our war?
Breaking the exchange, he turned to Hanajima:
-Gorgeous. You outdid yourself.
The poor she-toad who had secretly been wringing her hands regained her composure and her face lit up, making her yet uglier. He abandonned me and approached her to murmur something to her ear while slipping her a packet of powder. In a shrill voice, Hanajima then invited all her employees to lunch with her on okonomiyakis, a gracious gift courtesy of Gackt-san. The young women uttered small cries of thankfulness and left the parlour in an atmosphere of excitation to rival that of a kindergarten class out on a field trip. Hanajima closed the exit of her pupils walking backwards and bowed on her way out.
There remained but Sachiko, forgotten in a corner, stacked inside the thousands of folds of her gundam suit, who emerged from her long lethargy. She raised her eyes to her idol : what she seemed to understand made her blush from head to toe. With too much of useless gestures, she gathered her things, which basically consisted of a simple black attaché case which she hugged to herself like a teddy bear and exited in turn taking great care to close the door behind her. This scene triggered a mean outburst of laughter in me, which died as soon as Kamui came back to me. He held his hand out to me and I instinctively nestled my cheek into it, but he didn't caress it: he used his fingers to mold it, gently. Then he had them slide along my jaw and his index tilted my chin up. His thumb wandered onto my bottom lip, but when I wanted it inside my mouth, it went roaming along the length of my throat instead to feel the vein beating furiously there. The other four fingers hid behind my nape and followed its curve : I shivered. He passed his other hand over my eyes, grazing their lashes, but when my tongue wanted to taste its palm, it left to go cover my ear and burrow into my hair. It entirely enfolded the back of my head, and upheld it firmly when my nape suddenly weakened like the stem of a wilted flower. Meanwhile, the other hand had stopped, with feigned hesitation, at the collar of my T-Shirt. His fingers stuck to the same hollow spot on my neck, as though in a rut. This little game irritated me : wasn't the way to get past the obstacle obvious? Crankily, I took off my T-shirt, shaking his hands the hell off, and sat back into the armchair. With the tips of his fingers, he superficially traced the lines of my ribcage, the muscle of my midriff, barely sketched the nipples, the tummy hole. Annoyed, I broke the contact once more, and wiggled to unbutton and unzip my jeans. He let me patiently, and when I was naked, he knelt before me. The shock this caused within me was indescribable. Indifferent to my turmoil, he spread my thighs apart, knead them, massaged my calves, methodically caressed the inside of my knees; I surprised myself by letting out a plaintive cry which was unlike me : this cry morphed into a gasp when he took me inside his mouth with no warning. He was so tender I could hardly breathe; orgasm seized me when I was right on the brink of asphyxiation and I held onto him desperately while I shouted at the top of my lungs.
He stood up, swallowed my sperm as though it were the most natural thing to do in all the world and stroked his lips with his thumb to wipe imaginary drops from them. Out of breath, I attempted to get up, because that was what he expected, but my weak legs weren't able to bear the weight of me. He caught me, without apparent effort, before I could collapse. I didn't feel at home in his arms, but he seemed to find it normal. He was caressing my hair with a gentleness I could never have associated with him. I tried to break away from his embrace when I was able to find my breath and stand on my own two feet, more or less, but he held me back and whispered this name like incense burning into smoke:
"Miyavi".
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no subject
Date: 2008-05-06 05:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-06 09:07 am (UTC)LJ is a pleasant way of doing that, mind you, so thank you for sharing a little time with me and my fic, it pleases me so! And thank you for commenting each time too, it pleases me even more! ^^
no subject
Date: 2008-05-06 03:09 pm (UTC)*snuggleshuggles and gives you good lucks* :D that should fix you up for your finals too!! :3
Of course~~ cause i love your writing that much x3