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Title:  Burning
Rating:  M
Characters:  Tenkuuji Takeru, Fukami Makoto
Summary:  Takeru and Makoto and a sense of urgency.
Warning(s):  None


Takeru can’t even get his words out, hand clamping down over his mouth to smother a pitiful moan as Makoto continues to bite and suck dark red marks on the insides of his thighs.  His legs are shaking, weak and trembling, held open only by Makoto’s adamant grip.  Makoto isn’t even saying anything, answering all of Takeru’s gasps and moans with almost animalistic grunts—pleased noises of his own.

Takeru wonders if maybe it had been some sort of last minute desperate relief, something Makoto couldn’t hold back when he came to visit after seeing Kanon.  They had been talking, Takeru delicately avoiding the topic of fighting Ganmas and whatever else had happened in the ten years that Makoto was gone.  Makoto had answered in turn, until Takeru found himself hauled in for a desperate kiss.

Needy, so needy, and Makoto mumbling half-formed prayers against Takeru’s lips and praising him like the god he isn’t.

Embarrassing, it had all been embarrassing.  Takeru is used to affection in spades, smothered under Onari and Akari, but this had been different all on its own.

Is different all on its own, because Makoto touches him with an intensity that sets his soul ablaze and distantly he wonders ah, is this what it means to burn brightly?

But Takeru doesn’t seek to burn from Makoto’s touch, he’s left to simmer and stew, the desire pulsing like thick syrup through his veins.  He can’t expel it, has no means to, because Makoto is insistent to keep him pinned.  Keeps him there, drives him wild with lips and tongue and teeth, and Takeru wonders if he’ll ever be able to find himself again lost as he is (and distantly, humorously, wonders if he’ll ever be able to close his legs again thanks to Makoto’s pushiness).

“Ma—makotoooo,” Makoto’s names come out in broken syllables.  Long and breathy, disconnected all at once, and like before Makoto just answers with a groan of his own.  Muffled vibrations that may be Takeru’s name, or may be something else, but Makoto doesn’t move from decorating Takeru’s thighs.

He gets bolder—


--with each movement.  Trails dangerously close to Takeru’s straining cock only to pull away, leaving only a phantom breath, and then his tongue is too close to Takeru’s entrance and he can’t, Takeru just can’t focus because Makoto is a tease.

A tease.

Takeru wants to plead, wants to beg, but Makoto takes his time.  Kneads flesh, kisses tender skin, marks him all over, and Takeru whines.


When Takeru finally hazards to look, finally looks down to stare Makoto to see what he’s doing instead of trying to muffle his groans, instead of looking at the ceiling, his breath catches.  Makoto’s staring at him—dark eyes and intense stare, a storming ocean underneath—all while his lips are still pressed to Takeru’s leg.  It shouldn’t be hot, it should be ridiculous, but Takeru’s heart leaps into his throat, his eyes taking in the slow drag of Makoto’s tongue along his flushed skin (along all those bite marks Makoto left behind).


Just his name, whispered harshly, before Takeru’s biting down on his knuckles to smother the scream that wants to wrench its way from his throat.  Takeru comes from Makoto’s mouth alone, spurts of cum landing on his abdomen.  Without preamble, without any push, Makoto moves to hover over him.  Takeru continues to watch, captivated, as Makoto presses the flat of his tongue against Takeru’s quivering abdomen.


Another weak whisper, and Takeru finally moves.  He tangles his fingers in Makoto’s hair, urges him up, and desperately, desperately, mashes their mouths together.

Takeru’s needy, so needy, mumbling prayers against Makoto’s lips and praising him like the god he is.



(I’m so thankful you’re back)

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