Megan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
themegaloo) wrote2008-03-24 04:26 am
themegaloo) wrote2008-03-24 04:26 am
Entry tags:
I can't believe this exists.
And it is totally not ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xredribbon's fault. :|
Yeah shut up. All of you. I wrote crack fic even though I should be writing 235987235 OTHER things of much better and not pooped out in NOTEPAD in about five-seconds quality.
But it's funny like a train wreck is funny. At least to me.
Sooooo. Don't shoot me. That's all I can ask for.
Title: Train Wreck [aka, what the hell do you title a train wreck?]
Rated: N for Never Should See The Light of Day. Though I guess that would technically be...NSSTLOF?
Pairing: Mista 2/Mista 3. Yeah, you read that right.
"UN! DEUX! MIIIINE~!" There was twirling involved. Which made this even more awkward that it was simply by the EXISTENCE of the situation.
The three on his head drooped miserably and the flame flickered half-heartedly. This is not what being a part of the elite Baroque Works was supposed to entail! He was supposed to be on top of the world! He was a numbered agent, for goodness sake!
Clearly not high enough.
The prancing, he could ignore. The annoying voice, he could attempt to ignore. The garish and terrible sense of fashion, well. It wasn't his fault that it offended his sensibilities so much that his eyes were DRAWN to it like a moth to a flame. Or something. He rather disliked moths. Having them flutter around his head was annoying.
But just because he couldn't NOT look at the train wreck that was Bon Clay's sense of fashion didn't mean he was checking the crazy okama asshole out. At all.
As the twirling circus landed a firm pinch to his butt on one of his strange gyrations about the equally disturbing bedroom where Mr. 3 wished he was anywhere BUT....he decided that clearly there should have been some sort of warning when he signed up for this job.
Warning. Insanity lies ahead.
xredribbon's fault. :|Yeah shut up. All of you. I wrote crack fic even though I should be writing 235987235 OTHER things of much better and not pooped out in NOTEPAD in about five-seconds quality.
But it's funny like a train wreck is funny. At least to me.
Sooooo. Don't shoot me. That's all I can ask for.
Title: Train Wreck [aka, what the hell do you title a train wreck?]
Rated: N for Never Should See The Light of Day. Though I guess that would technically be...NSSTLOF?
Pairing: Mista 2/Mista 3. Yeah, you read that right.
"UN! DEUX! MIIIINE~!" There was twirling involved. Which made this even more awkward that it was simply by the EXISTENCE of the situation.
The three on his head drooped miserably and the flame flickered half-heartedly. This is not what being a part of the elite Baroque Works was supposed to entail! He was supposed to be on top of the world! He was a numbered agent, for goodness sake!
Clearly not high enough.
The prancing, he could ignore. The annoying voice, he could attempt to ignore. The garish and terrible sense of fashion, well. It wasn't his fault that it offended his sensibilities so much that his eyes were DRAWN to it like a moth to a flame. Or something. He rather disliked moths. Having them flutter around his head was annoying.
But just because he couldn't NOT look at the train wreck that was Bon Clay's sense of fashion didn't mean he was checking the crazy okama asshole out. At all.
As the twirling circus landed a firm pinch to his butt on one of his strange gyrations about the equally disturbing bedroom where Mr. 3 wished he was anywhere BUT....he decided that clearly there should have been some sort of warning when he signed up for this job.
Warning. Insanity lies ahead.