Fandom: Kamen Rider Ghost
Character(s): Tenkuuji Takeru, Fukami Makoto
Summary: Post second Necrom fight, Takeru and Makoto and wanting to show they care.
Warning(s): Wound licking
Takeru pushes Makoto back against the sheets of the futon. His hands are on Makoto’s shoulders, grip tight, and his eyes (teary, but stern in their look) stare Makoto down.
“Takeru…” Makoto opens his mouth a fraction, as if to say something more. Instead he sighs—deep and wistful, regretful—and mumbles “sorry” instead. Quiet, barely heard even in the silence of the room they have him in. Takeru isn’t going to have any of it. He isn’t going to—
“Makoto-niichan, that’s not going to cut it.”
He says it so strongly, so firmly, that Makoto’s eyes widen. He returns Takeru’s gaze with slight bewilderment, perhaps wondering what had happened to the Takeru he knew so long ago (that Takeru is dead, no longer can he lose himself in the whimsy of childhood, nostalgia). Takeru doesn’t know why Makoto is as surprised as he is. He had been reckless, charged in headfirst, and now here he lies bloodied and bruised and broken.
Too broken, with ten years of pain behind him.
“…you’re right, it’s not,” Takeru hadn’t been expecting an answer from Makoto. Certainly he had expected silence, perhaps Makoto looking away and avoiding the subject. Even telling Takeru that it’s not really any of his business. Whatever is going on between Makoto and this Alan person is just between them, something Makoto has to solve on his own. He hadn’t been expecting such…easy admittance.
Takeru’s sentence is cut off by Makoto’s hand (the good one, not the one currently wrapped up along with his arm) cupping the back of his head to pull him down. Their foreheads touch, noses brushing against each other, and their breath mingling. Makoto’s closed his eyes, lashes resting against the sharp curve of his cheekbone, all marred only by the cuts and scrapes on his face.
There’s more underneath the thin undershirt Makoto wears, the worst of it covered by bandages and gauze. It makes Takeru ache just as much, makes him feel pathetic because Makoto bruises and bleeds so much easier than he does.
It seems to be the only thing Takeru’s going to get out of Makoto at this point. Makoto, who fights alongside Takeru, Makoto who sometimes kisses Takeru like he’s going to lose him any minute, Makoto who looks at Takeru with regret, happiness, a mix of emotions that Takeru can’t really read. But now, now that he has Makoto under him, after Makoto’s been injured so badly, he can understand.
He can understand.
“Unfair,” Takeru ends up whispering, voice shaky. “Makoto-niichan you’re unfair.”
There’s really no words said after. Takeru doesn’t think there needs to be words as there should be action. He remembers all too well what happened after he came back, his time reset, how Makoto pinned him, lavished him in kisses and marks until Takeru came undone. It had been a sign of relief, of gratitude and affection—and perhaps it’s time for Takeru to return it.
His lips press against the open sore above Makoto’s eyebrow, gentle and sweet. He hears how Makoto’s breath hitches, feels how Makoto’s fingers twitch against his neck. Takeru keeps his hands firmly on Makoto’s shoulders.
“Let me, okay?” he mumbles, and then follows the kiss with a slow swipe of his tongue. There’s the slight tang of copper, the salt of Makoto’s skin mixing in, and Takeru swallows before he moves on to the next wound. Each cut, each scrape, on Makoto’s face Takeru kisses with care. Presses his tongue flat against each one, cleans them as much as he lavishes attention on them. Every kiss, every lick, he presses to Makoto’s wounds Takeru wants him to know every ounce of gratitude and adoration he holds.
Makoto squirms underneath him, breath coming up in sharp bursts. His fingers tangle in Takeru’s hair, brows furrowed, and Takeru moves so that he presses a kiss to Makoto’s lips.
“Takeru,” a bare whisper of his name, Makoto shifting again.
“I’m,” Takeru pulls back, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Makoto drags him in for another kiss.