#tacky fics

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Apodyopis

Nebtho, under the cut. Nsfw-ish?

Nebris didn’t want to consider the repercussions if Etho ever discovered what he would think of the ninja during the more mundane hours of the day. More often than not, Nebris would be conveniently looking at Etho while he stalked him (by the loosest definition, of course, Nebris was merely preparing for Etho’s next attack).

He wouldn’t consider his thoughts to be wild sexual fantasies, per say, but they were at the very least on the border. Or…a few meters over. Either way, Nebris was always nettled by a small bit of guilt from the farthest corner of his conscience, but it was much more fun imagining Etho in rather suggestive situations. 

Etho wore too many layers for Nebris’ liking, and for starters, Etho’s green vest would always be the first to go in his mind. His dark navy shirt would then land on the ground in satisfying crumple, shortly followed by a slow, agonizing slip-off of his gloves. 

While he would be slipping off his baggy pants, Etho always looked up and smirked at Nebris behind his mask. Etho’s mask, which Nebris never could take off early, no matter how dominant Nebris was in his daydreams. Etho’s mask, which always infuriated him to no end, which he begrudgingly admitted.

It was only a matter of time before Etho was only in his underwear and mask, and this was usually when Nebris took matters into his own hands. The subtle foreplay–just watching Etho undress, enthralled him the most in many of his fantasies. But he couldn’t wait for the day that his daydreams would true, whether they would be in the near-future or in an unknown time beyond.  

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Mamihlapinatapei!

I haven’t written any SMS in awhile, so here’s a drabble below the cut! I’m sorry if nothing makes sense I’m dead tired.

There was never a convenient moment where Kurt or Zisteau could draw a quick breath and let confessions tumble out. Somehow, they could never get around to sorting out their feelings in concise, straight statements. And it didn’t help that destiny fooled around with the men, as mistimed interruptions distracted them, or the notion of romantic admissions would slip from their minds during their hurried interactions. It was even more so difficult, nowadays, to settle down and converse over late-night drinks (time always passed the quickest during these moments, they thought). Even then, during those brief visits, neither men really wanted to acknowledge that they shared something intricately intimate between them. As if, by forming those feelings into words, they became tangible and all too real.

Neither Kurt nor Zisteau were quite ready to cross that bridge, despite the muddled signals from their hearts. Even if it took a single step for Kurt to begin his greatest journey, even if it took a single sign for Zisteau to begin his conquest through treacherous death traps, they couldn’t do a single thing to push…whatever they had, forward. They were too worried about attempting to discern whether they felt an attraction, or if they were being too nonsensical.    

So, they shared glances. At first, they were casual, thrown-over-the-back glances. Rushed glances and side-glances. Before long, they became shared, embarrassed looks, joyous looks that shared snarky grins and contagious laughter. But then came remorseful and regretful looks as well, and with those looks, both men would try very hard to hide from each other. More often than not however, Kurt and Zisteau shared looks that no word or action could communicate, often lasting a few more seconds than they deemed within “friendship boundaries” (Kurt often wondered if anything like that actually existed, but it was Zisteau who was tempted to push said boundaries, yet he never got around to challenging it).

Yet, not a single love word passed between them–both too occupied with their eyes than to confirm their own feelings to each other. Maybe it was for the better, or maybe it wasn’t. After all, they were content, yet discontent, with this current relationship. And in reality, they were really all too afraid of stepping out into the unknown, beyond the eyes, because they knew that words and actions would take them so much farther than either of them wanted–but really, neither of them could accept what they really yearned for.   

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Roses and Rain - Mindcrack Mini-Fic

I don’t usually write, and nothing exceptionally detailed, but I was in the mood to deal out some sweet, sweet revenge against my friend sharkvechs. This is a BTC x Vechs ship fic. And I’m pretty sure I screwed up punctuation somewhere, oh well.

The first drop of rain landed on the petal of a vibrant red rose, the flower bouncing slightly because of the small impact. More drops followed, peppering the flower arrangement with crystalline beads. However, no one paid attention to the roses, and the only indication that the Mindcrackers noticed the rain was soft rustling -- dark umbrellas unfurling as they extended high above the heads of the mourners. Beyond the black sea of umbrellas, a simple wooden casket sat on a raised platform. From the crowd, a lone man stood in front of the casket, his head bowed as low as he could. Yet, his tall stature made him distinguishable from the people behind him, and perhaps it was his own lack of an umbrella as well, because drops shone faintly in his black hair.

Vechs Davion had no words for the dead man before him, so instead, he heard the increasing pitter-pattering of the rain; heard the soft breathes and stifled cries from his friends behind him. Felt the soft dirt beneath his dress shoes, slowly turning into mud; felt the tightness of his suit, and the biting, chilly air on his face and hands (and of course, the cold wetness that stuck his suit to his skin). He smelled the faint aroma of the roses, enhanced by the smell of rain--but it sickened him, bile forming in his stomach. As he nervously chewed his tongue, he tasted a minuscule amount of his own blood, and he quickly stopped, because he didn’t want to be reminded of the past, when he received the news of his friend’s bloody death. Despite closely attuning to his senses, he couldn’t see, didn’t want to see the body before him, of Blame the Controller.

He coughed dryly, and suddenly he found the words he wanted to say, words Blame would’ve wanted to hear, hopefully. Blame, I’m sorry, for being an annoying dipshit, for being the cause of many furious words from you. And I know, I know you’ve hated me, I remember your seething rage slipping between your teeth, your clenched fists when you wanted to strike me. But, you held back. And even more, I remember your sighs of relief when you and Nebris saved me from the Nether, your faint chuckles when I was being a silly derp, I remember those moments even more. I’m, I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you died, and I don’t know if I could’ve handle it anyways, seeing you die. Because, well it’s selfish of me to say, but I want to see you when you’re raging or laughing and not struggling to breathe, bleeding out as I see the life die from your eyes. Because…I love, I loved you. And I’m gonna miss you, Blame. I’m just sorry I haven’t told you sooner.