comma_chameleon: (Jin is usually invalid.)
So I have been absolute shit at doing ANYTHING outside of work this month (which has been a mess of spreadsheets, meetings, emotional vampirism, negativity, and me having the growing urge to play dumb so that I stop getting put in charge of things...).

Which is why it's four days to the end of the month and I only have ONE headcanon finished and [personal profile] telltale_commas gets here in THREE DAYS AHHHHHH and I am still cleaning my apartment because I keep getting distracted by shiny objects (and naps).

Whoops. >.>

Also yes, I used to suck at naming, but then I got attached to the character with that name and couldn't rename him. I'M SORRY. Sort of.



Featuring: Cillian Catherwood, Makoto Nanami
Word Count: 357


It’s nearly a ritual by now.

Blood runs pink down the drain as the shower falls hot over their skin, but that’s not what Makoto’s focused on. He’s used to the blood, and when he knows that Cillian’s not bearing anything more than surface scrapes and heavy bruising, it’s easy to push from his mind.

Instead his focus is on dark ink and the contrast it creates against pale skin. He can faintly taste the salt of Cillian’s skin through hot water as his tongue traces the delicate black lines that decorate Cillian’s freckled back.

Yggdrasil. The tree of life.

He tastes each line like he can feel Cillian’s pulse running through them. Their life is dangerous, but that’s why he knows the tattoo means so much to the other man. It’s a reminder. It’s a caution. And it’s hope.

A shudder ripples through Cillian as the coarseness of his goatee rubs against skin made sensitive by a combination of adrenalin and the heat of the shower. The involuntary motion has Makoto smiling and repeating the press of his chin against Cillian’s back.

It’s always cute how such a small thing can be a turn on. Maybe it’s sensory overload from their recent firefight, but Makoto doesn’t mind. Not when he knows it’s not the only time Cillian is eager for his touch.

Licking a lazy path downwards, Makoto smiles a little wider at the tension he can feel where his hands rest on Cillian’s waist. It’s the best kind of tension. A quiver of muscles. A show of restraint. It’s easy enough to tell that Cillian wants to move, but knows that it will be much more enjoyable if he doesn’t. The fight between want and instinct would have him whining—or maybe even begging—if he could make any sound at all.

Makoto doesn't need the sounds. He can read Cillian’s body like it’s talking to him directly and he doesn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees onto the slick tile floor, mouth never leaving Cillian’s skin.

They have their own kind of after care.

It’s not like anyone else’s, but it’s right for them.


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