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[personal profile] ciircee
Randomly: You know what the internet needs? A random sexual-action generator. Like a title generator only it spits out a sexual act or position instead of a title. TELL ME I'M WRONG.

In other news, I am in a total writing slump as many of you know. Sometimes I will hit you up for things—songs or words or lines or images—in an effort to use you for inspiration or motivation.

Tonight's victim was one of my favorite men, [personal profile] bamcycle. Probably not used the way you expected, but thank you. ♥




Prompt.

Have no doubt

"I don't get it," FDR says the moment he walks through the door. "I seriously don't get this," he says, kicking the door shut behind him. "Are you drunk yet?"

Tuck sits on his couch, slumped forward and staring at his hands. "If I were drunk I'd be sprawled out," he points out softly.

"Right?" says FDR triumphantly. Tuck can see his shoes, just beyond the hopeless clasp of his hands. A second later, FDR's shoes are there too. "I told Nana I should bring booze! She said to just bring myself but I knew I should have brought booze!"

"It's all right," Tuck says and maybe it is, maybe it isn't. "I don't mind."

FDR's shoes don't move. "Tuck."

Serious voice.

Tuck looks up. "Franklin?"

"I don't—" FDR looks broken open "I don't get why she left."

Tuck has to look away. "Neither do I."

"I mean," FDR goes on "I mean I really, really don't understand why she left you."

"I couldn't begin to tell you," Tuck says. Which is a total lie.

FDR throws his hands up; Tuck can see the move from the perhipery of his vision. "Okay, so this time when she walked it's because you have a dangerous job—hell, you had a dangerous job before and it didn't bug her then—"

"Being a travel agent isn't dangerous."

"—and, okay, she knew from last time that you weren't going to change jobs even if she asked you to—"

Tuck swallows. "For my safety. For her peace of mind. For Joe."

"—so nothing changed except she realized you're still fucking awesome just more badass so I don't get why she left."

"You're not helping," Tuck says. And because it's FDR, he leans forward and wraps his arms around him, burying his face against his hip.

FDR pets his head. "I don't know how to help," he says softly. "I don't know why anybody would leave you."

"You're a lying wanker," Tuck tells him, muffled by bespoke trousers and, under that, probably silk underpants and beneath that the solidness of his best friend.

"Well, okay, I know why a little. But not—" and FDR stops.

"For forever?" Tuck offers. Because he knows it, bone deep, that Katie will never come back and he will never have her and Joe and himself all together again. She doesn't love him as much as FDR does.

"She doesn't love you as much as me," says FDR. Tuck can hear the tone of his voice trying to be his charming, pompous self but he can also feel the way FDR's fingers tremble as they card through his hair, petting and petting. It's the truth, they both know it. No reason anymore not to say it.

"Thanks, mate," Tuck says softly.

"Yeah," FDR says, so soft and quiet. Louder, more boisterously, he says "CHiPs marathon?" Tuck feels the way FDR jostles him and holds on for only a moment longer. "I know you've got the whole thing on your Netflix."

Tuck lets go. Scrubs the heels of his hands over his eyes. "As though you haven't," he says. He blinks as he lowers his hands. FDR gleams, golden boy, in the low lights of the apartment. "I—" he starts. But though he's tried and hurting he doesn't want to be alone; CHiPs will keep FDR with him. "Go on, then," he tells him. "You know your way 'round my queue."

And he does because marathon viewings of the stupid television shows that made up their youth used to be something they did often. It is something that Tuck's tried so hard to keep up despite their marriages and engagements and everything because FDR is important. Because he's loved FDR, and has been loved in return, since before they knew either of the women in their lives.

FDR is staring at him, still standing, despite the cheesy music signaling the start of the program. "I—"

Tuck has to laugh a little. FDR is never so bad with words. Never. "You can sit down. It's not contagious." He is a little bit horrified by the way his chin quivers as he says it but it's not like FDR will call him on it. They're men.

"I wouldn't fucking care if it was," FDR says, fierce as a gunshot. "Do you want popcorn?" he asks a heartbeat later.

Even the thought of food is a sick, heavy weight in Tuck's stomach, a choking tightness in his throat. "No. No, I—" He's pathetic is what he is. "If you want, though," he puts on offer.

But FDR shakes his head. "I'm good."

FDR sits down beside him and Tuck relaxes back against the sofa. Only that isn't really true because it's not so much relaxing as it is a helpless collapse as his muscles give up on him one by one, finally exhausted by trying to hold him together inside his skin. One episode passes, two, possibly more. He's not aware of much more than the awful ache in his heart and the way FDR talks, like he's trying to fill in the void around them with words.

After a while, Tuck turns his head, watching FDR watch the television. "I'm keeping you from Lauren," he says when FDR glances over at him.

"Nah," FDR denies it but Tuck knows it's true. FDR has been in Washington D.C. for the last week, meeting with the big, big bosses. Tuck always stays behind because he sounds 'too un-American' and, this time, because he'd been trying to keep his life from falling apart. He'd not even called FDR when Katie took Joe and left again. He'd called Nana after the first day and Nana, he guesses, had called FDR because here it is two days later and FDR is here. Home a week early. "No, seriously," FDR says because Tuck is sure it's showing on his face. He's apparently lost his poker face. He can't keep a hold of anything lately, his poker face, his wife… "Tuck," FDR insists.

Tuck is fully capable of being just as much an asshole as FDR. He doesn't have to like it, though. "I'm…" well, not fine, obviously "better. You can go home. Thank you," he says with finality "for coming 'round."

"Quit being a dickhead," FDR says firmly.

"Franklin," Tuck says.

"I would rather be anywhere other than right here right now," FDR says, staring right through him. "But I am right here right now and I—shit. Shit, Tuck, I wouldn't be anywhere else and you know it. I don't want to be anywhere else. Not home or Nana's or even inside Lauren."

Only a handful of people on earth have a hope of taking Tuck apart and the only one who has ever managed it, without breaking him, is FDR. "Go home, mate. You should—"

"I'm not leaving, man," FDR says, shaking his head and his eyes are blue like daybreak skies, warm like a lifetime of summers in each other's backyards. "I don't want to, I'm not going to, and you can't make me unless you want to wreck your place."

"Sure of yourself," Tuck says mindlessly, the smallest of smiles tugging at his heart if not his lips. "I've got guns, you know."

"Yeah, but you've never got a spare mag and I'm not lending you one," FDR says, smiling at him and Tuck knows that his own smile might actually be making an appearance. "I love you," FDR says. On the couch between them, his hand slides over the stretch of Tuck's arm, up over his wrist, over his own hand. Their palms hold a cupped pocket of air and warmth as FDR's fingers slot between Tuck's own.

His life is kind of shit, his heart is horribly broken, FDR is on his couch and Erik Estrada is on his television. Tuck laces his fingers firmly with FDR's.

Some things last forever. If his marriage isn't one of them, he has no doubt that the best friendship he's ever known, the other great love of his life, is. "I know."

"Good. I'm staying. Deal with it. Deal?"

Tuck curls his fingers tightly, holding on to FDR and the way FDR is holding on to him too. "Deal," he agrees.



A short bit that is actually based on [profile] beinghuman_rp because I love Kacy like Mint loves Osaka.

Prompt.

Ryo's hand was comfortable and warm around Misono's as he let her lead him resolutely toward his real job. She liked holding his hand, even with his webbing. It had come to be just something that made holding his hand extra special. "You could come to the trade show," she offered, still thinking a little bit about her own work. "People will try to sell us things."

That would be fun and new!

"And you know what else?" she said, turning a corner. "I—"

Yellow fluttering overhead stopped her in her tracks, in her very thoughts.

Tape was caught up in the branches of a tree, twisted in the branches, the word 'caution' big and black and caught up in the breeze. "That's a metaphor," she said, pointing up at it with her free hand.

He wrinkled his nose. "I think it's a pun."

"No, it's a metaphor," she insisted. She knew what she was talking about. She was way, way older than him. "I know," she told him, "because I'm older than you."

Ryo snorted.

"It's very true," she told him.

"What was the 'what else' I should know?" he said, and a faint tug on her hand reminded her to follow him, now, because he had to go to work.

She'd cleanly forgotten what it was. Well, only maybe it wasn't forgetting so much as remembering something more important. "I love you," she told him.

He glanced her, smiling and handsome in the dusk of a warm spring day. "'Course you do," he said flippantly.

Misono grinned. "I shouldn't because you look up my skirt!"

"You love it," Ryo said, stopping at the door to the Fat Cat.

Misono flung her arms around his neck with all the abandon of the caution tape in the wind. "Yup!"

"Me too," Ryo told her, hugging her back.
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Circe

November 2012

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