ciircee: (Can't brain today)
[personal profile] ciircee
The short answer is no. The longer answer is: I probably should add the porn to my [ profile] bigbang_mixup. I hate writing porn. ;__;

Normally I do a link roundup of comment fics at the beginning of the year. I ralphed on Taiyou and that didn't happen. But hey, Mycroft here is willing to work with me!

So it took a few months but my first comment fic was (surprise, surprise) at [ profile] beckerbell's journal. It's HanaKimi which IS a surprise!

My 100th comment fic! Written for [ profile] flange5, it's just some Aiba/Jun(ish) little thing right here!

A quick little Ohmiya thing over at [ profile] ohmiyaday.

It is NOT the end of the world as we know it even though Tendou thought it was over at [ profile] lazulisong's.

Whenever [ profile] beckerbell talks about pairings, I almost always drop some fic on her. This is Aiba/Jun! With some retardery!

Comment-fic in my own journal! It helps to read the Sex-Demon AU as this is a continuation of the entry above. Mostly.

My favorite fic (of my own) from last year is undoubtedly French Revolution. I enjoyed the hell out of writing it and, in glancing back at it, I'm still satisfied with it.

Erm. Now have some 'This Means War' fic. SHUT UP, DUDES, I ALREADY KNOW.

This means Bangladesh
In his head, FDR knows better. In his big head. In his little head, he knows that this is a fine idea. FDR's heads rarely, if ever, agree. Whenever they're in direct conflic, he has to combine the intel from both sources and work out a plan of action.

Fact: Big head says he's on a live mission and that he knows better.

Fact: Big head doesn't say he cares about this very much because the word is that it'll a few hours before anything happens, mission-wise.

Fact: Little head is right and this is a very, very fine idea.

Fact: Big head completely agrees with the assessment of 'fine' and applies it to the beautiful woman underneath him.

And she is beautiful, all dark hair and eyes and smooth skin the color of a perfect chai latte. He licks a stripe up the underside of one full breast and curls his tongue around her nipple. She's warm and spicy on his tongue, tasting of sweat and good, hard sex. "Baby, you're beautiful," he says in Bengali. He reaches back and shifts her leg higher over his hip, grinding into her as he moves her. "So beautiful."

He's about to take her over the edge when the door bangs open, slamming against the wall.

"We've got to move now, Mobarrak and Nukala are—" Tuck stops dead and so does FDR, staring at each other over the back of the couch. "Oh, please don't tell me," Tuck says.

"I need a minute," FDR tells him. The woman arches against him and he can't fight the way his eyes flutter shut for a long moment before he manages to wrench them open again. "Or, you know, a few. Five. Ten. Thirty-seven."

There's a sound from the hall, a food cart rattling past, and it seems to spur Tuck into action. "You don't have a minute," he says, scooping up FDR's shirt and holster from the floor. "We're on a mission!"

"I know, I know, I just—," FDR makes to pull out but fuck. "I'm really close. Just—" Seriously, he needs just one single minute here. "Tuck, seriously."

"Arms up," Tuck says. Like he's freaking Joe or something.

The even more wrong end of this is that FDR sits back enough to lift his arms and let Tuck put his shirt on him. "I just—" he says because he's still in his lovely girl and he's so fucking close. He starts to roll his hips. Just a minute, even with Tuck standing right there, trying to put his holster on him. "Just a minute."

"Sorry, mate," Tuck says.

FDR doesn't scream when Tuck yanks him back, pulling him away from the heat and the friction and the edge of an unbelievably great orgasm. It's pretty close, though. "Fuck," he wails.

"Zip up, we've—oh, shit," Tuck says, staring at his cock. FDR would stare too but he can hear the sounds of gunfire and that's over the sound of his blood still pounding in his ears.

There's a gunfight and he can't make his hands work enough to pull up his pants instead of reach for his dick. "Shit, shit, shit, we're so fucked."

A second passes, if that, and then Tuck's close against his back, wrapped around him with one hand curling tight around FDR's cock. "I can't believe we're friends," Tuck mutters, all hot breath and frustration in his ear.

He can't believe they're friends either, jesus holy fuck, because Tuck is goddamn aces at this and FDR isn't normally one to go for guys but he could seriously get behind Tuck jerking him off on a regular basis. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whimpers as Tuck's fingers go tight at the base of his cock and then, on the upstroke, pull off his condom. "Gonna—" he gasps because Tuck's bare hand on his bare cock is hard and wide and so hot that FDR has probably only managed to hold off coming due to sheer shock value. "Tuck, 'm gonna—"

"Please do," Tuck says and okay, okay, there's a gunfight outside and they're on a mission and FDR really screwed this one but Tuck sounds polite and pissy and like he's laughing.

FDR comes sharp and sudden, vision going white for a second, maybe two, while he sags back against his best friend in the world. "Did you just jerk me off?" he asks when he can see again.

"Needs must," Tuck says. "On your feet, now." He's shoving at him and he sounds gentle and there's a gun in his hand. The one not covered in—

"Right." FDR fumbles his zipper up as the door slams open again and Tuck empties his whole clip at the first three guys through it. The woman on the couch shrieks.

It takes him a moment to translate. "What about me?"

FDR blinks. "Well, Tuck's busy right now." Damn, she's hot. "I'm so sorry about this, maybe after—"

"Shit, I need a mag!"

FDR carries extras in his pants pockets. FDR carries ammo like condoms—seriously, everywhere he goes. He tosses Tuck a magazine and looks back at the woman even as he shoots to cover Tuck's reload. "Yeah, I'm not even going to call you," he tells her. He can see a freaking helicopter skimming up along the side of the building, so close the blades nearly take out their damn window. "Really, sorry!" he calls back as he vaults the couch, following Nukala's shooters out of the room. "C'mon, Tuck! Shake a leg!"

"Piss off!" Tuck shouts from behind him.

It's a race to the roof and a sharpshooter showdown once they're there but he and Tuck are better than anybody the CIA can find to throw them up against. Mission objective was to nab Mombarrak and Nukala and bring them in. Stealing the nice, shiny helicopter is just a bonus.

FDR grins over at Tuck as he lifts off, their targets hogtied and unconscious behind them. "This went well."

Tuck checks their instruments and nudges the stick for him. "This did not go well. You nearly fucked this up with actual fucking."

"You didn't even bring a spare round," FDR points out.

"Oh? Maybe I'd have had one if I'd not bothered with you, you tosser."

"Tosser—no, no, that was you. You—Jesus, Tuck, you jerked me off. That was awesome, by the way. You should probably get laid more often if you're that good, though. Just sayin'."

"Oh god," Tuck says, shaking his head, making a huffing sound that's a laugh he's trying to stifle.

"That wasn't even your right hand, man, that was your left. Get laid, Tuck," FDR tells him and he doesn't even try to stifle his laughter.

"I can't believe you're my best mate," Tuck laughs, his head tipped back against the seat.

"I can't believe you're mine," FDR returns. And he can't. He's a lucky bastard.

Both of his heads agree on that.


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November 2012

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