Remix of THIS fill by garciraki. Blanket permission granted in permissions thread.
Makishima Yuusuke/Tadokoro Jin; Yowamushi Pedal
Word Count: 650 Tags: None
Makishima’s apartment is on the fifth floor, but that doesn’t really mean much when his balcony borders on a narrow alleyway; Tadokoro easily picks up enough speed to run zig-zag up the alley walls and vault onto the balcony.
The night is hot and humid, and the sweat dripping between his pectoral muscles is as gross as it is unnecessarily visible. Tadokoro thinks longingly of the imminent air-conditioned comfort of Makishima’s trendy downtown abode.
He’s still awake. Tadokoro can see lamplight through the garishly patterned curtains, and he taps the window in passing before letting himself in through the unlocked balcony door.
Makishima always keeps the door unlocked. It wouldn’t do to leave Tadokoro out on the balcony, when he shows up at all hours of the night and day in his superheroic regalia. Someone might see. Someone would be bound to see, in fact, given Tadokoro’s general size and the… vibrant quality of his uniform.
“If you touch that, I’ll sew your fingers together,” Makishima says by way of a greeting, not even looking up from his needle and thread. Tadokoro sheepishly withdraws his hand and goes instead to peek over Makishima’s shoulder. He’s working on something shimmering and metallic, plated like snakeskin. The material looks soft and pliant under his capable hands, but thunks solidly on the floor where it cascades off his lap in rigid folds. Makishima slaps Tadokoro’s curious hand, this time. “Fingers,” he threatens, brandishing the curved needle. Tadokoro laughs, then, and bends over to kiss the soft skin under Makishima’s ear.
“For Kinjou?” he asks, modulating his voice down, quiet -- his inside voice, as they call it.
Makishima’s answer is little more than a hum, but he leans ever so slightly into Tadokoro’s touch, even as his hands keep working with his characteristic, terrifyingly precise speed.
Well. He’s not going to get much out of Makishima until he’s reached a stopping point, so Tadokoro wanders over to the well-appointed kitchen to raid the refrigerator. His eyes itch, and he blinks the charmed mask off of his face, leaving it on the counter next to a bowl of olives, and his knee twinges when he crouches to rifle through the cheeses and deli meat in the bottom drawer.
“You’re limping,” Makishima says, not quite an accusation. Tadokoro stuffs half a wheel of brie in his mouth and shrugs. Makishima is on his feet, glasses off and arms wrapped around his waist, and the worry creasing his forehead and dragging under his eyes makes Tadokoro feel immensely guilty.
“Run-in with Shinkai,” Tadokoro half-explains through a full mouth, and he shrugs again in an attempt to downplay the severity of the injury.
He doesn’t like worrying Makishima, but he does really like the idea of eating about six sandwiches and then sleeping for two days. Superhero-ing is completely exhausting. His entire body is sore.
Makishima’s mouth twists. He sighs, “sit down, you big lout,” and when he does, Tadokoro moans in relief. Makishima’s hands are probably his favourite thing in the whole world, he thinks hazily, eyes half-lidded as Makishima’s long fingers spider across his knee, pressing at the pressure points and coaxing the torn ligaments to knit themselves back together. He can feel the tiny threads of his body moving under Makishima’s command, and watches as the hole in his tights repairs itself with quiet efficiency.
“That’s so good,” he groans, and Makishima finally barks a laugh at his tone.
“Keep it in your pants, Tadokorocchi,” he says.
Tadokoro makes a point of wiggling his eyebrows as he points out that Makishima would never dress him in something so mundane as pants, and Makishima laughs again.
“Just for now,” Tadokoro agrees.
Makishima’s fingers may be magic, but Tadokoro’s hands are big and strong and it’s no real effort for him to wrap them around his waist and pull Makishima into his lap.
FILL: TEAM KOZUME KENMA/KUROO TETSUROU, G
Makishima Yuusuke/Tadokoro Jin; Yowamushi Pedal
Word Count: 650
Tags: None
Makishima’s apartment is on the fifth floor, but that doesn’t really mean much when his balcony borders on a narrow alleyway; Tadokoro easily picks up enough speed to run zig-zag up the alley walls and vault onto the balcony.
The night is hot and humid, and the sweat dripping between his pectoral muscles is as gross as it is unnecessarily visible. Tadokoro thinks longingly of the imminent air-conditioned comfort of Makishima’s trendy downtown abode.
He’s still awake. Tadokoro can see lamplight through the garishly patterned curtains, and he taps the window in passing before letting himself in through the unlocked balcony door.
Makishima always keeps the door unlocked. It wouldn’t do to leave Tadokoro out on the balcony, when he shows up at all hours of the night and day in his superheroic regalia. Someone might see. Someone would be bound to see, in fact, given Tadokoro’s general size and the… vibrant quality of his uniform.
“If you touch that, I’ll sew your fingers together,” Makishima says by way of a greeting, not even looking up from his needle and thread. Tadokoro sheepishly withdraws his hand and goes instead to peek over Makishima’s shoulder. He’s working on something shimmering and metallic, plated like snakeskin. The material looks soft and pliant under his capable hands, but thunks solidly on the floor where it cascades off his lap in rigid folds. Makishima slaps Tadokoro’s curious hand, this time. “Fingers,” he threatens, brandishing the curved needle. Tadokoro laughs, then, and bends over to kiss the soft skin under Makishima’s ear.
“For Kinjou?” he asks, modulating his voice down, quiet -- his inside voice, as they call it.
Makishima’s answer is little more than a hum, but he leans ever so slightly into Tadokoro’s touch, even as his hands keep working with his characteristic, terrifyingly precise speed.
Well. He’s not going to get much out of Makishima until he’s reached a stopping point, so Tadokoro wanders over to the well-appointed kitchen to raid the refrigerator. His eyes itch, and he blinks the charmed mask off of his face, leaving it on the counter next to a bowl of olives, and his knee twinges when he crouches to rifle through the cheeses and deli meat in the bottom drawer.
“You’re limping,” Makishima says, not quite an accusation. Tadokoro stuffs half a wheel of brie in his mouth and shrugs. Makishima is on his feet, glasses off and arms wrapped around his waist, and the worry creasing his forehead and dragging under his eyes makes Tadokoro feel immensely guilty.
“Run-in with Shinkai,” Tadokoro half-explains through a full mouth, and he shrugs again in an attempt to downplay the severity of the injury.
He doesn’t like worrying Makishima, but he does really like the idea of eating about six sandwiches and then sleeping for two days. Superhero-ing is completely exhausting. His entire body is sore.
Makishima’s mouth twists. He sighs, “sit down, you big lout,” and when he does, Tadokoro moans in relief. Makishima’s hands are probably his favourite thing in the whole world, he thinks hazily, eyes half-lidded as Makishima’s long fingers spider across his knee, pressing at the pressure points and coaxing the torn ligaments to knit themselves back together. He can feel the tiny threads of his body moving under Makishima’s command, and watches as the hole in his tights repairs itself with quiet efficiency.
“That’s so good,” he groans, and Makishima finally barks a laugh at his tone.
“Keep it in your pants, Tadokorocchi,” he says.
Tadokoro makes a point of wiggling his eyebrows as he points out that Makishima would never dress him in something so mundane as pants, and Makishima laughs again.
“Just for now,” Tadokoro agrees.
Makishima’s fingers may be magic, but Tadokoro’s hands are big and strong and it’s no real effort for him to wrap them around his waist and pull Makishima into his lap.