Welcome to the Trash Heap

The sideblog for all the anime and other things that don't fit on my main blog. Main Blog: encontrasuya -- My Sinful Writing

[coldergeist]

I had a lot of fun drawing for @fartoomanycrushes​ ‘s fic, In Contempt for the @hxhbb19. Leorio’s monologuing killed me. I…wanted to draw more leopika, but I couldn’t resist the ace attorney crossover since it’s a court fic. The last one is a wip that i didn’t really finish,,

[fartoomanycrushes]

Oh my GOD! This is perfect! I absolutely adore every one of these pieces. The Phoenix Wright vibes definitely guided me, so I'm so happy to see you using it too. Thank you!

[tiburme]

This is the illustration I did for @fartoomanycrushes ‘s fic!!!

It’s my one of my favorite scenes from the fic! It actually made me cry laughing so I had to draw it sdfghfjdk 

Thanks @hxhbb19​ for hosting the Big Bang this year! :D 

[fartoomanycrushes]

This is wonderful! Everything I envisioned with this, you captured. They're both such beautiful, clumsy idiots, and the magic of them stumbling over each other is conveyed perfectly here.

[fartoomanycrushes]

In Contempt (HxH BB 19, Leopika 1)

Here it is: my contribution to the Hunter X Hunter Big Bang 2019, @hxhbb19!

Pairings: Leopika, implied Killugon and Pariging

Rating: M for language and references

Content Warnings:

Be advised that the following things pop up: transphobia, mentions of violence and familial domestic abuse, sex jokes and references aplenty, general exposure to the less pleasant side of humanity, and Leorio’s Filthy Inner Monologue (and often exterior dialogue).

Without further ado, welcome to the dumpster fire that is this fic!

AO3 LINK: IN CONTEMPT

[fartoomanycrushes]

I Can Decipher the Universe (Leopika Week 2018)

Written for @leopikaweek day 7 (free theme based on a song).

Warnings for a tangential mention of death, some swearing, casual nudity, and tooth-rotting domesticity.

Really, this is nothing but domestic fluff involving curry, power tools, and bad days made better.

AO3 LINK

Or, if you prefer to read it here, fic starts below the Read-More.

…Que este mundo gira y algún día he de morir,

Pero contigo

(…That this world turns, and someday I must die,

But with you)

Belanova– Tus ojos

When he turns the key to the apartment he and Kurapika share, Leorio smiles and lets his tension fall away as the smell of curry comes billowing out in a burst of warmth. There are few things that relax him down to his very soul quite like coming home to whatever fantastic meal Kurapika tossed in the crockpot that morning, and the leftovers will be both a reprieve from eating out for his lunch break and a pleasant reminder of a lovely night in. Chances are good that Kurapika is home already, too; he’d mentioned hours ago that he only had a few errands to run before he could make it back.

Opening the front door and revealing the kitchen of their tiny little studio, he’s greeted by the sight of Kurapika’s bare back glistening with sweat as he leans endearingly to one side, a pair of tiny cutoff jean shorts his only concession to modesty in their own private space. There had been one too many instances of their nosier neighbors getting an eyeful of their preferred at-home dress code, so he and Kurapika had agreed that they’d try to stay at least semi-decent until they were both home, but Kurapika is sure to be shedding them soon enough.

Leorio creeps up on his fiancé with arms out and an exaggerated stride, playing at being sneaky but definitely not succeeding in any actual stealth. Still, if Kurapika is distracted enough, he might be able to plant a kiss right behind that red earring…

He’s scant centimeters away, can practically hear that delightful little gasp of surprise turning to a contented hum, when a high-pitched whir starts and turns instantly into an ungodly shriek, sending him flailing backwards. He regains his balance just before falling on his ass, but it’s a close thing. Mercifully, the sound is over as quickly as it began, leaving only ringing silence. “What in the hell?”

Kurapika swivels, a few strands of blond hair that have escaped the utilitarian tie-back Leorio privately calls the Business Bun whirling around and sticking to the sweat on his face. His eyes go wide. “Leorio? You’re home early.”

“It’s almost seven, Pika,” he remarks, arching an eyebrow. “You lost track of time ag…” He trails off, frowning as his eyes latch onto the source of that awful noise from before. “Is that a power saw?”

Blushing has always been an attractive look on Kurapika. He folds his arms defensively across his chest– a gesture made all the more comical by the fact that he’s holding a cordless circular saw that’s almost the size of his head. “It’s been getting warmer again, and I thought… this year, we have the money to buy an air conditioner. We don’t pay utilities on this place, so we don’t have to worry about the extra electricity, either.”

Memories spring to Leorio’s mind of nights spent naked and sticky atop their sheets with their little desk fan on full blast, unwilling to drape a leg or arm over one another for fear of trapping even a fraction more heat than necessary. The heat and humidity had robbed them of hours of sleep, shortened their tempers drastically, and reduced their sex life to practically nil, all the way through the end of a seemingly interminable summer.

“I’m all on board with getting an air conditioner,” Leorio says, “But what exactly does that have to do with you sawing through…” He blinked, leaning around his fiancé to get a better look. “Two-by-fours?”

“Our window opens horizontally, not vertically,” Kurapika explains, cocking one hip and putting on his Lecture Face. “The kinds of air conditioners made for our window are about three times more expensive, and it’s rare to find anyone putting them up for sale on any of the local sites. It’s significantly cheaper to buy a regular used air conditioner and build a frame to mount it in the windowsill, then cover the rest of the opening with plywood.” He gestures to where, sure enough, a sheet of fairly thick plywood is resting against their kitchen wall, a drill placed at the base keeping it from sliding down across the tile.

Leorio nods slowly, digesting the information. “And so you’re… doing that,” he manages. “Where did you even get the power tools?”

A strange quirk of Kurapika’s lips hints at a humorous secret. “Your friend Zepile owed me a favor.”

“Oh god, did he let himself in to raid the fridge while you were naked again and then beg you not to tell me?”

The snorting not-quite-laugh and the grin Kurapika doesn’t even attempt to hide are answer enough. “I believe I’m supposed to say, ‘No, of course not’.”

Leorio snickers. “I can’t believe he thinks he needs to protect himself from some macho caveman retaliation on my part. It’s not even my junk he got a look at. If you don’t feel like killing him over it, why would I care?”

“I’m not complaining,” Kurapika says, turning back around and bending down, the top of his thong peeking out as the jean shorts are pulled lower. It’s a hell of a view. “The man has an extensive collection of tools, and I now have a free pass to borrow any of them whenever I like.”

Even after nearly a year of sharing their apartment, it’s still so oddly exciting to Leorio that Kurapika is somehow handy with just about everything that you find in a hardware store. There’s something thrilling in knowing he put all the shelves lining their apartment walls up himself, drilled them into the studs or anchored them with lag bolts or something else Leorio has only heard Zepile and Kurapika mention when they’re talking shop. It’s practically the same as magic to Leorio, and he’s content to keep it that way. Like so much about living with Kurapika, he’s not going to look too deep into a good thing, especially when so many things are so good.

Lost as Leorio is in his reverie, he’s totally unprepared as the saw starts up again, howling its way through another hunk of lumber, which clatters to the floor. “Jeez! A little warning next time?”

Kurapika looks back over his shoulder, still holding the end of the two-by-four that’s propped against his leg. “I literally said, 'I’m just going to cut this last one, and then we can eat.’ How did you not hear…” He stops short, eyes crinkling in amusement. “You zoned out staring at my ass, didn’t you?”

“For your information, I did not! I zoned out because–” Leorio’s jaw snaps shut just in time, thankfully. Swallowing, he nods maybe a little too readily. “Okay, yeah, I was staring at your ass.”

“Really? Are you sure you don’t want to tell me the real reason?” His fiancé has that knowing look on his face as he saunters all two steps over to the kitchen counter and lifts the lid off the crock pot, sending a cloud of steaming, perfectly-seasoned heaven into the air. “I’m not above making you fix your own dinner if you’re not going to tell me the truth. I think we have one of those frozen personal pizzas.”

“Okay, okay! I was zoning out because…” It takes a moment for Leorio to find the words, and even when he does, they’re hard to force out. “I was thinking about how lucky I am that you’re with me,” he mumbles, and only barely manages to make eye contact.

For a moment, Kurapika just stares at him, mouth slightly open and eyes sparkling with a fragile sort of wonder, as though somehow he might think he’s the luckier of them when it’s so obviously Leorio. The look is quickly subdued, though, and replaced with his signature know-it-all smirk. With a grace that is somehow only accentuated by those scandalously short shorts, Kurapika steps through the mess of construction materials on their kitchen floor, slings his arms around Leorio’s neck, and pulls him down for a kiss. “Much better. Isn’t it nice to tell your fiancé everything?” With that, he prances back to the counter, where he removes the lid from the rice cooker, snags a spoon from the drawer, and doles out portions into the bowls he had set up.

Two bowls; he’d known Leorio would cave before he even asked.

Given their severe lack of space and therefore lack of a table, dinner is always eaten on their bed, a pair of trays with cushioned bottoms standing in for a more traditional format. Still, it works for them. One day, when Leorio’s med school loans are all paid off and he can get Kurapika onto some good health insurance, they’ll be able to start chasing some of those things older generations see as necessities. For now, though, they sit cross-legged, Leorio having hung up his suit and tie, eating from bowls perched on the tiny tables in their laps as Kurapika’s laptop plays another episode of the latest series they’ve been watching together.

It’s not a life of luxury, objectively speaking, but it’s everything they need.

When dinner is done and Kurapika takes the dishes off to the kitchen, Leorio commandeers the laptop as he has the past few days, opening up an old favorite RPG that’s perfect for unwinding. Caught up wandering the fantasy world with his scrappy dwarf and an unlikely band of companions, he barely manages to avoid throwing the laptop in the air when a whole new hellish noise comes squealing from the kitchen, then grinds to a halt in a swift series of knocks, then starts over.

“The fuck are you doing in there?” Leorio says, barely shy of shouting. For a moment he considers setting the laptop aside, but a blond head pops around the corner just as he shifts his load and sits up.

“I have to screw the frame together,” Kurapika says, raising a drill to illustrate his point.

Leorio nearly shoots off a snappy comeback about that frame being the only thing Kurapika ends up screwing all week if he keeps giving Leorio heart palpitations like this, but he’s not the same confrontational idiot he was when they met so many years ago. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself that Kurapika is doing something nice for the both of them, and forces a nodding smile of understanding, albeit strained. “Maybe if you could warn me before? Today was… not great.”

Not great. It’s a hell of an inadequate way to describe the feeling of having someone die under his care, second-guessing every little decision he made on a routine case, cursing a workload that means he can’t spend more than a few minutes at a time with each patient, shoving away that persistent notion that if he had just been a little more perceptive, a little more thorough, a little better, someone who trusted him would still be alive.

As the thoughts Leorio has been so adamantly avoiding since he left the hospital begin slithering oily tendrils into his brain once more, he barely registers the presence beside him until Kurapika’s hand is gently brushing against his cheek. Clever fingers run through the close-cropped hair above his ear, sliding down and spreading along the back of his skull in a way that has him leaning toward Kurapika and letting his eyes drift closed. Over all their years together, years of reading each other, constantly predicting each other’s next move in combat and at the grocery store alike, they hardly need words to communicate. Still, they’ve found a few words here and there keep things running more smoothly, which is why Leorio is expecting it when a gentle voice asks, “Talk about it, or distraction?”

The raw ache in Leorio’s gut answers for him. “I need to keep distracting myself for now, I think.”

A nod and another gentle scratch behind his ear, and Kurapika’s hand is falling away. “All right. I’ll wait for you to tell me when. In the meantime, maybe headphones would block out the noise a bit?” Kurapika motions toward the nightstand and his set of over-ear headphones, the ones that he uses when he’s in one of his audiophile moods.

Leorio smiles, exhaustion and relief in equal parts weighing down his arteries until he can barely move. “Yeah, that’s… yeah, good idea.” He starts reaching for the headphones, only to have them placed gently into his hand, and a chaste kiss pressed to his lips. His smile grows just a centimeter.

The headphones help. That’s not to say they block out everything; he can still hear the squealing and banging, just like the act of vanquishing digital minions of darkness doesn’t drive away the dark thoughts lurking in the corners of his mind. Nothing is a perfect fix, but it’s something, and it’s enough to help him get through tonight.

Eventually, the intermittent screeches die down for what seems to be the last time, and Leorio cautiously lowers the volume and shifts one earpiece off to the side. A glance up shows his fiancé carrying a mostly-covered frame nearly as big as himself, angling the whole contraption up and into the windowsill with one knee on the couch. A moment later, Kurapika turns and crouches down out of sight, then rises with an air conditioner in his arms, which he slots into the opening. Some fiddling with cords, a pair of Kurta expletives, and a triumphant press of a button later, there is a resounding beep, and Kurapika braces his hands on his knees and leans into a rapidly-cooling breeze, hair streaming behind him.

After a few seconds to enjoy his hard work, he turns and strides over to Leorio, satisfaction at a job well done clear on his face. Leorio all but shoves the laptop aside to grab him and shower him with kisses, heedless of the sweaty, sticky mess of skin against his lips and dress shirt. He’s tossing these clothes in the laundry anyway.

One day, Leorio is certain, they’ll be at least moderately rich and successful, able to take for granted things that seem like such luxuries at the moment. Still, he hopes the two of them never forget the feeling of their very first air conditioner in their first apartment together. It’s always a temptation to focus on the good or bad times, past or future, but in this strange little moment that is their present, living in a tiny place in the bad part of town, they’re genuinely happy together. The rest can come when it does.

[jarofnotions]

How come you don’t put your fanfiction on here anymore?

I’ve been sitting on this ask and I’m sorry. I just needed to gather my thoughts because I’m actually pretty annoyed.

Imagine for a moment you write fanfiction. You spend hours plotting and planning and writing and editing. You do your research and try your best to not look like a dumbass talking about stuff they’re ignorant on. You agonize over stuff nobody but you will actually notice or care about. Finally you post it across three sites. This process takes about a half hour total. Then you walk away and hope for the best.

Two days pass and you’ve got no reviews on ffn, maybe a few kudos on ao3, and some tumblr users toss you a like or two and you manage a reblog with no tags. This is upsetting because you see your actual traffic is perfectly respectable! Your traffic hasn’t changed in a few years but the feedback is now abysmal. Fandom is in a slump and that’s fine. It happens. You completely understand! People have lives just like you (although your life seems less important because you do get random people asking when you’ll update even though they never review when you do lol).

So you decide to stop posting on tumblr because this site alone takes up half your allotted posting time because formatting is a bitch (and really important to you). Occasionally you DO post on tumblr just to see what happens and it’s more of the same disappointment.

And then you get an ask like this and it really bothers you. It makes you feel like you’re not doing ENOUGH to get ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Want to know why fic writers stop posting everywhere? It’s because we’re tired of you not caring when we actually do. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[professorfangirl]

no excuses writing meme, askbox version

(Nicked from iambickilometer):

drop one of these bad boys in my askbox and i will post, without editing

FIRST — the first two sentences of my current project

LAST — the most recently written two sentences of my current project

NEXT — the next line. meaning i will finish the sentence I’m on and write a new one, which you’ll get.

[insert prompt here] — you post a prompt, and i’ll write three sentences based on that prompt, set in the same time/setting as my current project

THE END — i’ll make up an ending, or post the ending if i’ve written it

BEFORE THE BEGINNING — three sentences (or more) about something that happened before the plot of my current project

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

[fartoomanycrushes]

The Observer Effect

Saitama does not exist in a vacuum– or more accurately, ceases to exist when placed in a vacuum.

AO3 Link

“In physics, the term observer effect refers to changes that the act of observation will make on a phenomenon being observed. This is often the result of instruments that, by necessity, alter the state of what they measure in some manner.”

When Genos closed the door, Saitama ceased to exist.

It did not happen all at once, some drastic transformation easily pinpointed and described; no, the process was subtle, like the sun creeping across the sky so slowly that sunset came as a shock. Saitama simply shifted out of phase with the world, unaware of the change until something brought it to his attention. That one movie said that ghosts didn’t realize they were dead; Saitama could sympathize.

Without Genos around, everything became static, unchanging. Who was to say the cyborg didn’t live alone in the apartment, that Saitama wasn’t merely a squatting spirit? There was hardly any evidence to the contrary.

Keep reading

[fartoomanycrushes]

The Observer Effect

Saitama does not exist in a vacuum-- or more accurately, ceases to exist when placed in a vacuum.

AO3 Link

"In physics, the term observer effect refers to changes that the act of observation will make on a phenomenon being observed. This is often the result of instruments that, by necessity, alter the state of what they measure in some manner."

When Genos closed the door, Saitama ceased to exist.

It did not happen all at once, some drastic transformation easily pinpointed and described; no, the process was subtle, like the sun creeping across the sky so slowly that sunset came as a shock. Saitama simply shifted out of phase with the world, unaware of the change until something brought it to his attention. That one movie said that ghosts didn't realize they were dead; Saitama could sympathize.

Without Genos around, everything became static, unchanging. Who was to say the cyborg didn't live alone in the apartment, that Saitama wasn't merely a squatting spirit? There was hardly any evidence to the contrary.

The S-Class ranking came with certain responsibilities. Genos had meetings to attend, paperwork to do, public appearances and volunteer work and who knew what else to occupy his time. Being the kind-hearted kid that he was, he threw himself into volunteering for as many worthwhile projects as he could, claiming that it made the administrative nightmare a little more bearable.

As much as Saitama despised paperwork, he would have been content filling out forms all day. At least there would be documentation, a finished product that meant he had accomplished something, that he existed as something more than a figment of his disciple's imagination.

And yet, when Genos offered to bring him along, even just for the volunteering, Saitama always shook his head and mumbled a maybe next time or something of the sort. That world was for Genos; the kid had earned it, and Saitama didn't belong there, probably never would, no matter how many monsters he punched.

Being a hero was about inspiring people, representing something that they should try to be. That was why everyone loved Mumen Rider; he was the spitting image of tenacity itself, just as Genos was the ultimate example of passion. Maybe that was also why everyone hated Saitama: he didn't represent anything they should want to be. The Hero struggles and overcomes; that was the textbook formula. Saitama didn't struggle-- didn't even try anymore, really.

He wasn't a hero, and he had no way of becoming one.

He'd reached a point where the amount of effort he put into something had little to no effect on the outcome. He'd learned a term for that back in school, and forgotten it shortly after: diminishing something. And Saitama was surely diminishing.

Genos left to be a hero, and Saitama the not-hero quietly shifted out of existence somewhere in between pages of a manga he'd read half a dozen times. He preferred the familiar ones; with those, it was easier to convince himself that the hollow feeling where satisfaction had once been came from knowing the story already, and not from something broken inside himself.

Some days, he ate; others, he did not. There was little difference between the two. It was rare that the vaguest tinge of feeling ever reached him with Genos gone, much less something so trivial as hunger. If Genos ever asked him what he had eaten for lunch, his automatic response was rice with egg; he might have eaten it that day, perhaps a week prior, but it was doubtful he'd have made anything different without Genos there. Besides, it wasn't as if he could just tell Genos he didn't remember without leading to a discussion he'd much rather not have... couldn't have, maybe.

If Genos started digging, he might find that it wasn't just hunger that Saitama had stopped feeling.

Once, while making tea, he had missed the teapot and poured boiling water straight from the kettle onto his leg. The curse he had let slip had been born of the shock more than anything else; he had felt no more pain than he did in a dream. He had stood there for some indeterminable amount of time, staring at the puddle turning tepid around his slippers. He knew he should have been surprised, scared, sad, happy, something... but he felt only the shadow of something so vague as to be unidentifiable as a real emotion. That night, sitting in his boxers playing a video game with Genos, he'd almost blurted out what had happened.

He hadn't, of course, and he still wasn't sure whether he was glad about that or not.

The most insidious part of it all, perhaps, was how this state of not-being would ensure it was never discovered, guarantee its own survival. Saitama would spend the day as a ghost, filling the hours with things he only vaguely recalled, only to be thrown into a panic by Genos's customary text that he was on his way back. Super speed made cleaning their tiny apartment a literal breeze; Saitama had to hold back so as not to create too strong a gust, but that was simple enough. In less than a minute, everything a productive, normal person might have done throughout the day was completed, but while Saitama might once have felt some satisfaction at the accomplishment, only a niggling feeling of guilt wormed around in his chest. He was, in some form, lying to Genos, and that realization would never sit well with him.

After that, it was simple-- and welcome-- to fade back out of existence until Genos arrived.

Saitama tried not to make a habit of greeting Genos at the door; it reminded him too much of a dog, made him wonder if man's best friend was so excited to see its master for the same reasons Saitama perked up when Genos returned. Left to its own devices, was its existence as empty as his? No, better to call out from the futon, not betray his relief, and never think about that again.

If Saitama wasn't careful, he might let slip that he was just a shadow, that he needed the light of someone like Genos to even exist. And exist he did, as naturally as that shadow; of course he was there, had been all along. He'd never melted into the nondescript darkness and waited for a chance to be again.

In the presence of his disciple, only the vaguest trace of Saitama's former state remained, and despite how a confession was constantly trying to slip its way up out of him, he kept it too closely guarded to ever escape.

Genos would certainly have ideas for how to help, if he ever found out: to-do lists or reminder texts or something else Saitama hadn't even considered. He was invested in Saitama, actually cared about him for some reason that defied all logic, and he would undoubtedly throw himself into researching the problem with the same singlemindedness that made him fill their bookshelves with journals.

Saitama couldn't let that happen.

It was all but impossible for Saitama to pinpoint why the idea of Genos helping him was so terrifying; it went far beyond the surface excuse of Genos being too busy, but trying to grasp the real reason was painful and difficult, like probing for a shard of glass deep inside his own gut. At times, he thought it was because the student shouldn't have to take care of the teacher. Other times, it was because he was afraid Genos's attitude would change, and Saitama would lose the respect of the one person who had ever been proud of him. Still deeper, there was a part of him whispering that fully acknowledging his brokenness, even to himself, took a kind of strength that Saitama would never have.

He was terrified of Genos discovering this secret; he hoped Genos would discover it soon, if only to end the uncertainty.

Saitama's best analogy, given his fondness for simplicity, was a refrigerator light. Genos left, and the light dimmed and flickered out. Genos returned, and the light was on, as if it had been shining just as brightly the whole time. There was never a reason for Genos to suspect that his teacher hadn't been alive before the door to their little apartment opened.

The facts of it were simple. Genos was gone now. He would return. And so Saitama sat, waiting to exist again.

[smrth]

My inktober theme this year ended up being Kurapika. These are days 9 through 11. I’ll post the rest soon!

[lgab-art-blog]

[lgab-art-blog]

[lgab-art-blog]

[fartoomanycrushes]

Watch Your Language Pt. 2/2 (Leopika, NSFW)

PART 1 (without which this will make very little sense)

AO3 LINK

"Why did you say you love me?"

Kurapika's first instinct upon hearing those words is to pull away, to retreat to a safe distance. Unfortunately, that course of action isn't feasible, considering that he's still inside Leorio, and pulling out quickly is not an option unless he's willing to hurt Leorio. Instead, he freezes, battling with the fight-or-flight instinct buzzing in his limbs. His mouth doesn't seem to work anymore; merely opens and closes with aborted explanations and excuses. Finally, he reaches down to where the two of them are joined and slowly, very slowly, withdraws his member. The action feels every bit as awkward and unpleasant as the silence hanging in the air.

"Pika?" Of course Leorio would fill that silence. Of course Leorio would say his name in that worried tone. Of course Leorio would somehow recognize those particular words in a dead fucking language, because why wouldn't he have studied Kurta without ever telling Kurapika?

Kurapika curses Leorio in his head, then curses himself for having no response. Instead, he climbs off the bed and opens the door, daylight blazing into his eyes, making them water. That's all it's from, this moisture in his eyes-- just an involuntary reaction to the sun. It's certainly not from the realization that Kurapika has singlehandedly shattered the illusion that made their bizarre little not-relationship function.

He feels dirty, filthy in a way surpassing the mess of sweat and worse that clings to his skin. It had felt so good, so right to say those words with the knowledge that Leorio wouldn't understand; somehow, the fact that he had understood had turned this beautiful secret into a testament to Kurapika's unending legacy of failure. He'd failed his clan with his absence, then again by abandoning his vengeance half-wrought. He'd failed the mafia when he abandoned them in their hour of need, just as he'd failed to even visit Gon on what should have been his deathbed. And now he's failed Leorio, first by his lie of omission, then by revealing that lie in a moment of weakness.

No matter what, Kurapika has to salvage something from this, has to at least ensure they remain friends. And so he turns, naked and defenseless and casting a shadow over his friend and the bed they'd shared, and forces himself to say something. "I can explain," he blurts. He can't. But he's going to try anyway.

Maybe if he's clever enough, the lie he invents will be enough to save them, whatever fragment of a them remains to be saved.

"Then start explaining," Leorio begins, rising off the bed. As he takes a step toward Kurapika, the sticky mess on his abdomen follows gravity, spreading itself around into an even bigger disaster, and a look of utter disgust twists his features as he clenches his entire lower body. Swearing under his breath, he shoots a glance over his shoulder, then back to Kurapika. "Bathroom," he grunts, then stabs a finger in the air, pointing directly between Kurapika's eyes. "You! Stay!"

And Kurapika obeys, even as Leorio bolts to the en suite bathroom; it's not as if he can do anything else. At least he can use this reprieve to think of some way to keep Leorio from walking out of his life entirely. There are only two options, really: he can own up to the words and hope for the best, or he can try to explain the confession in a way that softens it enough to be acceptable for their... arrangement. The latter is a gamble, given that he has no idea how familiar Leorio is with the Kurta language, but the former can't possibly end well, and he'd have to be an idiot to try it. Hundred-to-one odds, horrible as they are, still trump million-to-one odds.

When Leorio returns from his quick cleanse, it's with a damp washcloth, which he holds out to Kurapika, studiously avoiding eye contact. The cloth is warm; Leorio is as considerate and caring as always, and it makes the lie even more difficult.

After Kurapika has wiped away the worst of the mess, moisture rapidly cooling on his skin, he chews his lip and lets the washcloth drop to the floor. "You recognized... a particular phrase. However, the meaning may not be as clear-cut as you believe. Love can mean a lot of different things. It's... complicated." The half-truth hangs in the air, and Kurapika holds his breath, silently begging Leorio to accept it, if only outwardly. Any hope they have of maintaining a friendship depends on it.

But Leorio has never been the type to let Kurapika get away with anything.

"Not in Kurta it's not," Leorio shoots back, ticking off three fingers to illustrate. "Familial love, friendly love, romantic love. There's even a special little section in my dictionary to emphasize the concept. Three totally different words, and I know which one I heard."

Blood pounds in Kurapika's ears, drumming his failure into his brain; he exhales, and his next breath is devoid of oxygen. "Well, I suppose there's no way out, then. I fucked up."

"What?"

There's a familiar burning in the back of Kurapika's eyes; if he doesn't control it, his self-hatred will light up the entire room. He falls back on sarcasm to release some of the buildup. "I. Fucked. Up. I tried to keep this a secret, which naturally means I told you right to your face, you understood, and to top it all off, I did it while I was inside you!"

Leorio blinks, cocks his head to the side; couldn't he have chosen to play dumb when it would have done their friendship some good? "So you... you actually meant it?"

"What, you want to force me to admit it again?" Kurapika's attempt at composure fails; his eyes blaze a deep red between crimson and scarlet, reflecting in Leorio's eyes. If this sadist wants to hear the words, so be it; it isn't as though things can get worse, after all. "Yes, I meant it! I meant every word, and you weren't supposed to understand it, and this wasn't supposed to happen, and things were supposed to... to..." He trails off, fighting to keep that horrible knot in his chest from unraveling into sobs; if this is the end for him and Leorio, he'll at least keep the last shreds of his dignity intact.

"Why would you want to hide that, Pika?" The words are slow, heavy, as though weighed down by sadness and a lack of understanding.

A little snort breaks from Kurapika's nostrils, and he wants nothing more than to turn away, but he forces himself to make eye contact. "Because if you knew, you wouldn't... you wouldn't even let me have this much." He takes a shuddering breath, cursing the tremor in his voice that he can't banish. "As long as you never said otherwise, I could pretend there was a chance you felt the same way."

Too late, recognition dawns in those puppy-dog brown eyes. Leorio blinks, stretches out a hand, lets it fall back to his side. "Pika, I--"

"It was wrong and manipulative and I know I shouldn't have done it, but I'd be lying if I said I completely regret it. I'll..." Kurapika swallows hard to dislodge the words caught in his throat. "I'll make hotel arrangements and be gone by--""

"Hold up, why do you think I'd have rejected you because you..." Leorio pauses, of course. He can't bring himself to say that word, much less believe it. Any chance of reciprocation is light-years away. "...have those kinds of feelings for me?"

Kurapika spits out a Kurta expletive that literally means bird shit but serves as a general expression of frustration. "Do I really need to go over your dating history, Leorio? Or more accurately, your refusal to even attempt anything beyond casual sex?" He's leaning closer, too close; he crosses his arms and restores the chasm gaping between them to its original size. It's safer that way, somehow.

"Touché," Leorio mutters, having the decency to blush just a bit. "But that still doesn't mean--"

"It doesn't matter anyway," Kurapika snaps. He can't listen to Leorio's equivocations, his attempts to return them to that limbo of uncertainty. It's best to purge the infection all at once rather than let it fester. "At this point, you know, so we can skip to the part where you try and fail to spare my feelings and I try and fail to keep it from hurting like hell." He allows his eyes to drop to the floor; he's a masochist, as evidenced by his penchant for pursuing unrequited love, but he's not an idiot. This rejection is going to hurt more than enough without seeing the accompanying pity in Leorio's eyes. Taking a deep breath, he braces himself. "You can just say it. It's okay."

As unprepared as Kurapika is for his heart to be broken, he's even more unprepared for the hands that grab him by the shoulders and shake his entire body.

"Dammit, Pika," Leorio roars directly in his face, "For once in your life stop trying to win the argument and just let me talk for a minute!"

Kurapika blinks, blinks again, eyes impossibly wide. He can't summon a single thought in the deafening silence.

"Good." Leorio's hands run to straighten a tie that isn't there; a little frown, and he rubs at his chest instead. "Now. When you said not to overthink things, I figured that meant you didn't want anything serious."

"'Don't overthink things' means precisely that! I didn't want you drawing--" A hand clamps over Kurapika's mouth, muting the rest of his reply.

"What did I just say?" Leorio's voice is a low growl, and something primal in Kurapika yearns to obey that tone even as his rational mind rails against this manhandling. "Right now, I talk, you listen. You can talk again when I'm done, and I will let you know when that is. Got it?"

It's all Kurapika can do just to nod, dumbstruck as he is. Even as Leorio withdraws his hand, he remains stock-still.

Leorio pauses for a moment longer, as if he's waiting to see if he needs to put his hand back. Finally, he resumes. "Okay, so again, I thought you didn't want anything serious. Friends who make out, maybe do more, but no one grows any feelings or the whole thing gets messed up. I was okay with that; it's what I'm used to anyway, and I'm pretty good at managing my expectations. Are you with me so far?" He holds up a finger. "Just nod or shake your head."

With a dangerously arched eyebrow, Kurapika gives a single nod.

"So, now that we've established my state of mind, fast forward to where we're in the middle of my first time getting..." Leorio flushes red, then waves his hand in the air. "Doing a whole lot of stuff. You're speaking Kurta. That's cool, it's a sexy language, everything's great, but again, this whole thing between us is not supposed to get complicated. You wanted to keep it simple, we're keeping it simple. We still on the same page?"

Rolling his eyes, Kurapika nods again.

"Good, cause here's where it all grinds to a catastrophic fucking halt. Imagine my shock when I realize that instead of the standard dirty talk, you're saying you love me over and over again!" Leorio's eye is twitching, and his hands clench and unclench in the air as his tone wobbles almost comedically. "Can you see how that would maybe not be something I was expecting to hear during our casual, no-strings-attached sex between people who are just friends?"

Shame bathes the back of Kurapika's neck in alternating hot-and-cold waves; he opens his mouth to reply, then bites his bottom lip, suddenly grateful that he's only supposed to nod. He doesn't trust his voice not to crack.

"That said," Leorio continues, one hand gently coming to clasp the fist Kurapika has balled at his side, "I hope you understand two things about where we go from here. One, I need time to process this. I've been specifically trying not to let myself feel anything for you, so it's gonna be a while before I can rearrange things and figure out what I feel when I'm actually allowed to feel. Especially after you basically lied to me about something huge because you didn't trust me."

A strangled noise breaks free from Kurapika's throat, and he shakes his head vehemently, but he keeps his mouth closed, praying Leorio will understand.

"Shh, let me finish." He grasps Kurapika's other hand, then threads all their fingers together. "Two, I'm not rejecting you, even after all this. You ran on ahead of me before I knew we were supposed to be running, but... it's pretty likely we're running in the same direction, if you know what I mean. I can't promise anything for sure, but if you're willing to keep going, maybe I'll catch up." With that, he smiles, giving Kurapika's hands a gentle squeeze.

Silence hangs between them, even heavier than before but crackling with newfound potential. Kurapika tentatively returns Leorio's smile, but as the moment drags on, he can't help but raise an eyebrow. "So... can I...?" He trails off with a pointed look.

Leorio drops one of Kurapika's hands to smack himself in the forehead. "Shit! Uh, yeah, I'm totally done talking, by the way, so, um, you can say... stuff. If you want."

Just like that, the tension between them shatters; before he even realizes it, Kurapika has dissolved into a giggling fit, free hand patting helplessly against Leorio's abdomen. Every time he nearly regains his composure, a glance at Leorio's bewildered and slightly offended face sends him back into hysterics, until he finally elects to simply wrap his arms around Leorio and bury his face in that broad chest. "Idiot," he mumbles against olive skin that begs to be kissed; he refrains, just barely.

"Gee, thanks, Killua," Leorio grumbles. The bass vibrates in his chest, warming Kurapika's heart in ways he's never found described in all his years of reading literary romances.

"I love you," Kurapika whispers, and this time he can't resist pressing a kiss to Leorio's skin. "I'm not saying that to hear a response, so don't worry. I just... I love you, and I'm in love with you, and it feels wonderful to say that out loud."

"Not gonna lie; it feels pretty great to hear it too." The shit-eating grin on Leorio's face is audible.

Kurapika pulls away, poking a finger into Leorio's stomach. "You'd better not let your ego get even more over-inflated because of this; remember, I know where you sleep, and I'm perfectly capable of..." He trails off, face twisting in distaste as he pulls back a sticky finger. Without a moment's pause, he reaches up to grab Leorio by the shoulders and turn him around. "You’re still sticky. Shower. Now."

Chuckling, Leorio leans back just enough to thwart Kurapika's attempts to push him in the direction of the bathroom, then shoots a mischievous glance over his shoulder. "Only if you're coming in with me."

A flutter rises in Kurapika's stomach at the implications of Leorio's proposal. It's just a shower, a seemingly trivial thing, but it's also much more-- a first time, an intimately domestic ritual, a chance to wash away their misunderstandings and start anew...

"Stop that," Leorio admonishes, grabbing Kurapika by the wrists and pulling him flush against his back. "You've got your metaphor face on. Stop analyzing things to death and come scrub my back for me."

Kurapika's only response is to wrap his arms around his lover and gently push them both toward a much-needed shower.

[fartoomanycrushes]

Watch Your Language Pt. 1/2 (Leopika, NSFW)

Summary: Linguistic fascination used as a vehicle for a healthy dose of smut, occasionally detouring into sexual logistics hangups, snarky banter, and/or Great Big Stupid Feelings. (Featuring top!Kurapika, because the world needs more of that.)

AO3 LINK

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[fartoomanycrushes]

Watch Your Language Pt. 1/2 (Leopika, NSFW)

Summary: Linguistic fascination used as a vehicle for a healthy dose of smut, occasionally detouring into sexual logistics hangups, snarky banter, and/or Great Big Stupid Feelings. (Featuring top!Kurapika, because the world needs more of that.)

AO3 LINK

The Kurta language is, to an outsider's ear, a bizarre hodgepodge. There are too many consonants, not enough sibilants to soften the staccato rhythm, and the whole mess is further complicated by a series of tones, making for an uncharacteristically discordant singsong. In short, it seems there are only two kinds of people who could possibly find it beautiful-- devoted linguists, and the Kurta people themselves.

Leorio belongs in neither category; that much is obvious to anyone who knows him, and if someone doesn't, he'll gladly volunteer the information. Still, he came by his fascination with the language honestly enough. He's friends with the last living Kurta, after all, and the words pop up at times. Catch enough glimpses of something rare and mysterious, and a man is bound to get curious; it's human nature.

While his initial interest might have been perfectly innocuous, though, the way in which Leorio has gained a deeper appreciation for the language isn't quite so innocent. There are very few times at which Kurapika lapses into his native language; really, there are only two main situations, and the latter is where Leorio finds himself getting into trouble far too often.

First, there are certain terms in Kurta that simply don't translate well, complex and specific emotions or situations summed up by a single word in their language. When Kurapika pauses to search for an equivalent, he'll more than likely mention the term he's looking to convey. If Leorio can spend hours enthralled by his friend's explanations, watching the normally reserved veneer fall away as he discusses a subject so dear to him, that's normal-- healthy, even. It's good for Kurapika to share, and Leorio is all too happy to learn.

The second situation, though, is Leorio's favorite by far. It shouldn't be, but it is. For all the talk of a Kurta's eyes being the best indicator of strong emotions, Leorio has discovered that isn't entirely true. Oh, Kurapika's eyes change, of course; there are varying hues, from the soft pink of happiness, to anger's fiery red, to a bloody self-loathing crimson that Leorio hopes never to see again. The brightness indicates the degree of feeling: in his most passionate moments, Kurapika can illuminate a dark room. Still, despite all of this, the best sign that Kurapika is truly lost in his emotions is not his eyes, but his mouth.

The occasional hissed expletive in Kurta is fairly commonplace; Kurapika is more likely to let fly with another of the languages in his arsenal, but when the situation calls more for catharsis than communication, he falls back on his native tongue. It's rare to get more than a word or two out of him, but there are times when it just flows. For Leorio, there is nothing in the world more enchanting than those moments, though he initially couldn't (or wouldn't) put his finger on why. Whatever the reason, though, he was fascinated from the start, and so he set about coaxing Kurta from his friend as often as he could. If it just so happens that his go-to method for doing so nowadays is to stretch Kurapika's patience to the breaking point, Leorio can't be blamed entirely for that; anger is simple, quick to flare up, relatively easy to quench so long as he keeps the arguments good-natured. He's a doctor, or will be soon enough, and Occam's Razor is ingrained in his psyche.

Having those scarlet eyes directed at him, being the target of Kurapika's tirade-- and more importantly, his passion-- is merely an added bonus, or so Leorio had thought at first. It was during one of those tirades, though, with Kurapika's face scant centimeters from Leorio's, that the good doctor had an epiphany.

As it turns out, he was quite interested in Kurapika's native tongue.

He was absolutely interested in Kurapika's tongue.

And above all, he was interested in exploring Kurapika's tongue with his own.

By the time Leorio's mind caught up to his body and he realized this series of indisputable truths, he was already on the floor, one cheek rapidly reddening with a distinct handprint. An incredulous Kurapika was staring down at at him, eyes flickering between angry red and a hue closer to magenta that Leorio had been unable to identify until that very moment. And when Leorio murmured something along the lines of 'fight later, kiss now,' Kurapika pounced.

As it turned out, the linguistic fascination was mutual.

It's become something of a game now, a test to see how long they can antagonize one another before someone (usually Leorio) succumbs to the temptation and closes the gap between them. Leorio supposes after almost a week of at least one "argument" a day, Kurapika might accept a kiss now without the theatrics beforehand, but he's not going to try until he's one hundred percent certain. Whatever this is between them, it's gone unspoken thus far, Leorio's only attempt to the contrary earning him an elbow in the ribs and a warning not to overthink things. The irony of that statement coming from the person most likely to analyze literally everything still has Leorio a bit miffed, but he's wise enough not to push. Their relationship is changing, hopefully for the better, but too much pressure at the wrong time could ruin everything, possibly even damage their friendship.

No matter what, Leorio won't risk losing Kurapika. He'll push his burgeoning feelings aside, save the thoughts of romance for some other time... if they ever get there. He still doesn't know what Kurapika wants from this, after all.

For now, it's enough to have those magenta eyes boring into his soul as Kurapika looks up, teeth holding his lower lip as he unbuckles Leorio's belt. Nimble fingers undo his slacks-- button, zipper, that pointless second button behind the zipper-- and tug them down to his knees. Everything from above their waists is a trail of clothes strewn from the couch to Leorio's bedroom, where heavy blinds keep the room dark enough to sleep at any hour, and Leorio can't help but feel a touch of nerves. This is the farthest they've ever gone; some part of him is worried he'll disappoint Kurapika somehow, though he'll do his damnedest to prove that thought wrong.

Leorio doesn't know what Kurapika wants from whatever this is between them, but he knows Kurapika wants him, right here and now, and that's enough for the time being.

As Kurapika palms Leorio's hardness through the boxer briefs, that delicate mouth drops open, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. Kurapika's eyes meet Leorio's, wordlessly seeking permission, and he lifts his hips off the bed to answer, letting Kurapika hook his fingers under the elastic and drag his last garment down past neatly-trimmed hair. Leorio isn't one for shaving his body hair completely; he refuses to sacrifice his happy trail, and he despises itchy stubble and razor bumps anywhere, much less somewhere this sensitive. Still, he keeps it all groomed, just long enough to be soft rather than bristly. And since he's freshly out of the shower, it's not the sweaty, swampy mess that develops by the end of the day-- one point in favor of morning sex.

Leorio's member springs free of the elastic, swinging back to thump against his lower abdomen, and he looks at Kurapika, instinctively bracing himself for the reaction. The running myth about tall men and certain correlations doesn't hold true in his case, though he's still above average; he just hopes Kurapika isn't as invested in stereotypes as some of the girls he's known.

The little O formed by Kurapika's lips isn't one of disappointment, though; far from it. Slowly, almost reverently, his fingers reach out to trace along the length of Leorio's cock, applying just enough pressure to tease without tickling. They travel from tip to base, then lift off to start the journey again. On the next pass, those fingers wrap around him, dragging a groan from Leorio's mouth as they pump slowly downward. Kurapika's hand is pale, standing in stark contrast against Leorio's flesh; a little part of him crows in utterly juvenile triumph when he notes that Kurapika's index finger and thumb are barely able to touch as they encircle the shaft. It's no achievement of his own, merely a roll of the genetic dice, but it's still an ego boost.

Kurapika murmurs something in Kurta; Leorio doesn't recognize much of it, but given the direction of his companion's gaze and the tone, he can fill in the blanks. It's all he can do not to sputter out a thanks; he's already in danger of spooking Kurapika even without letting on that he might be privy to things he isn't meant to understand. That train of thought disappears into nothing, though, as Kurapika's tongue paints a swath of warm, wet heaven from the top of Leorio's sack all the way up to the tip of his glans.

As vocal as Leorio is in his daily life, he's always been the strong, silent type in bed, so it comes as a shock to him when a ragged moan flies out of his mouth before he can stop it. His lips clamp together as tight as he can manage without the risk of biting through, and he tilts his head back to hide his blush, not that it's successful. He can't help but sneak a peek downwards, and when he does, he's greeted with magenta eyes and a smirk that's equal parts amused and predatory. When Kurapika repeats the motion, this time a little slower and more pronounced, Leorio tries his level best to keep quiet.

Never in his life has he been this fine with failing so miserably at something.

He doesn't care if Kurapika laughs at him, even, as long as he keeps doing more of that.

On the third lick, Kurapika lets the head pop into his mouth, and Leorio is rapidly redefining his views on the existence of some sort of benevolent deity; rocky past aside, something this mind-blowing makes him ready to believe, if only to ensure he gets something like this for eternity. He's not sure whether it's his feelings for his partner that are making every sensation so extraordinary, or if Kurapika's mouth really is hotter and wetter than Leorio's previous lovers. Either way, the effect is very real, and enough to make Leorio stop analyzing it in favor of savoring the experience.

Leorio's eyes flutter, and he tilts his head back, taking several deep breaths for composure; when he's ready, he looks back down, and is nearly undone anyway. There's no way in hell he could ever be prepared for reality to mirror his most lurid fantasies: Kurapika's lips are wrapped around Leorio's cock, eyes shining bright enough to reflect off of Leorio's abs and illuminate the curve of his arched back. The corners of his eyes crinkle with effort as he bobs his head, taking the length deeper with each pass, until he draws away, letting it slide out of his mouth with an obscene pop. Panting ever so slightly, he fixes Leorio with a teasing smile, letting his tongue trace his lips with relish.

In an instant Leorio has lifted Kurapika from the floor and flung him bodily onto the bed, yanking Kurapika's sweatpants down even as he kicks the remnants of his own clothing to the floor. Impatient as he is, there's no time for the anticipation and nerves as Kurapika's member comes into view: one second it's tenting those pants, and the next it's bobbing in front of Leorio's face, tall and hard and dripping beads of moisture that just beg to be tasted. It's not quite as girthy as Leorio's, and just a bit longer. It's a good thing he's never had much of a gag reflex: he wants to see the look on Kurapika's face as he takes it all, centimeter by centimeter.

"Leorio." The name is harsh in the best of ways, anticipation and desire turning that confident tenor to a rasp. When Leorio turns the tables, copying Kurapika's languid lick, that rasp turns to a whimper. Pale fingers clutch at the sheets, and Kurapika's lower lip disappears between his teeth, a blush dusting his cheeks. He meets Leorio's gaze, just barely; those not-scarlet eyes are half-hidden beneath lids that seem unsure whether to screw themselves shut or go impossibly wide. It's better than his fantasies, even better than his prior view; as near-orgasmic as seeing Kurapika's mouth on Leorio's cock might be, there's something even better about seeing careful, composed Kurapika coming apart so completely in his grasp.

As Leorio slides his mouth over the head of Kurapika's member, careful to wrap his lips over his teeth, he analyzes the taste of precum-- musky, salty, not sweet in the least. He'd be much less enthusiastic about that flavor if it were associated with anything or anyone else, he decides, then sets to coaxing more of it out. There's no way he'll be as skilled with his tongue as Kurapika, in this or any other context, but he has one useless party trick that will finally come in handy for something worthwhile.

He bobs his head once, twice, three times, each time reaching a bit farther down the shaft, then stops when the head touches the back of his throat. Glancing up, Leorio settles down a bit lower, then looks Kurapika dead in the eye as he slowly takes the entire length into his mouth, nose bumping against a smooth-shaven pelvis. The ragged groan and the tremors in Kurapika's thighs as his hips rise involuntarily are reward enough, but when Kurapika lets loose a string of Kurta with the vowels drawn out in ecstasy, Leorio has a new favorite way to get Kurapika to speak his native tongue.

A nonexistent gag reflex truly is a blessing at times like these.

Rising up and freeing his windpipe of the otherwise welcome obstruction, Leorio takes a deep breath and starts in earnest, throwing nearly every dirty, devious little trick he's seen into the mix. This may be his first time giving a blowjob, but he's been on the other end of things often enough to know a thing or two. Now it's just a matter of finding his lover's weak spots and exploiting them. Just as he starts to get a feel for what drives Kurapika wild, though, insistent hands are pushing at his shoulders, lifting him up until Kurapika's member pops out of his mouth, along with a not insignificant stream of drool. Looking up, Leorio lets out the breath he's been holding and greedily sucks in another one. "I do something wrong?"

"The opposite," Kurapika says through gritted teeth, eyes screwed shut as he breathes deeply. After a moment, he opens his eyes and blushes, not quite meeting Leorio's gaze. "I was about to..." He chews his lip, searching for the word. "Embarrass myself. I'm sure there's an expression for that, but I only know it in Kurta. It roughly translates to 'spring the trap early'."

As understanding hits Leorio, so does a swell of pride. "Y'know, I'm totally fine with you springing that trap anytime," he says with a pointed glance at Kurapika's visibly throbbing cock.

"But I'm not," Kurapika says, tugging Leorio up into bed and pulling him into a kiss that makes his head spin. As their hands roam, tracing and gliding and scratching and squeezing, that smoky voice whispers in Leorio's ear, punctuation coming in the form of little nips. "I want to make you feel good too. I want all of you, Leorio."

If Leorio had thought his heart was hammering as hard as it could before, it's about to break out of his ribcage after that statement. "Fuck, Pika, yes," he groans, another pulse of his cock depositing even more precum on his companion's abs. It's happening; after a week of wondering, after years of dancing around each other, they're finally going to go through with this. If this is a dream, Leorio would prefer to die in his sleep rather than wake up from it.

"Wanna fuck you," Kurapika hisses, grabbing hold of Leorio's ass and squeezing. His demeanor has shifted, baser instincts overriding his usual composure, and hell if that dirty, unsophisticated talk coming from someone so eloquent isn't just about the hottest thing Leorio's ever heard. "Wanna fill you up with my cock and make you come all over yourself."

"Yeah." Leorio is so caught up in the feeling, the rightness of this moment, that it's only after Kurapika slides out from under him and reaches into the nightstand that his friend's words sink in. "Wait, you... uh... fuck me? Like, my ass?"

Kurapika twists at the hip to look back, and the sight of him-- lithe, toned body perfectly posed to show off everything, including that sardonic smirk-- makes Leorio itch to capture the moment with a photo. Maybe another time, he'll dust off his old camera and show Kurapika just how beautiful he is.

"Generally speaking, given our particular set of anatomy, that tends to be how that goes," Kurapika observes in a tone drier than a pharmacology textbook, snapping Leorio back to the present. The magenta glow in his eyes has dimmed, but not entirely. "Did you have something else in mind?"

"Uh," he supplies, perpetually elegant. "Well, I guess I was kind of assuming that--"

A dangerous flash of scarlet. "Leorio, if the next words out of your mouth are some sort of macho bullshit about bottoming being inherently feminine or submissive, I swear I will kick you out of the apartment naked and finish myself off with my hand."

"No, no, nothing like that!" Leorio blurts it out as fast as he can, then stops short to consider his next words. "I just figure you probably have more experience than me with it."

"You figure?" The threat in the question is palpable, even without the dangerously arched eyebrow to accompany it.

Leorio shrugs. "Well, yeah. Any experience is more than no experience, right?"

Kurapika's expression softens, and he brings himself around to face Leorio fully, the bottle of lubricant in his hand suddenly daunting rather than enticing. "For the record... I don't have any experience with that either." He lets out a sigh, averting his gaze. "I'm just so tired of all the assumptions based on my appearance that I've always insisted on going against the expectation."

"Now that's the Pika I know," Leorio says with a chuckle. "You chugged my burning-hot coffee that one time just cause I said you didn't strike me as a coffee drinker."

"Not my proudest moment, but I had a point to prove." A rueful grin tugs at Kurapika's mouth for just a moment, then he bites his lip, finally meeting Leorio's eyes. "I'm not saying I'll never let you do that to me in the future, but... this time, if it's okay with you..."

Leorio's answer is a searing, ravenous kiss that cuts off any need for explanation, fueled in part by the fact that they're on the same page again and this is actually happening, and in a larger part by Kurapika's mention of a future for them and the implication that this thing between them can keep going and will keep going. "I want your cock inside me," he whispers, and his own member stirs to life as brown eyes ignite with magenta desire once more.

Kurapika lets out a growl, an animalistic sound that matches the fervor in his eyes, and he pushes Leorio down onto his back, kneeling between his partner's thighs as he rakes his gaze over the flesh he's about to claim so intimately. His expression is intense, even a bit frightening, but after a moment he returns to his senses, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Sorry, I just... don't say that yet. I want to make sure you enjoy this too, but you saying that..." He shudders, then collects himself and begins kissing his way down Leorio's torso. "We'll go slow. Let me know what feels good or doesn't, okay?"

Leorio murmurs some kind of assent, the majority of his nervousness banished by the tenderness and restraint Kurapika is displaying. The click of a cap, a moment's pause, and there's something cold and wet pressing against Leorio, gentle but insistent as it circles his entrance. It's a good thirty seconds or so before a finger ever so gently delves into him, sliding in so easily that he's actually surprised to find it inside him. "You're good at this," he says, just above a whisper. "My fingers never just slip in like that."

The finger goes a bit deeper, wiggling in an odd but not unpleasant fashion, and Kurapika makes a sound of amusement. "I thought you said no experience at all?"

"I may have... tried on myself every now and then, but that doesn't count. It doesn't feel anything like what you--" the last vowel catches and draws out into a shaky ooh as a second finger joins the first, rotating and spreading gently as they both work their way back to the depth the first had reached. "Damn. That feels weird, but good kind of weird."

A thoughtful noise, and suddenly Kurapika's tongue is bathing Leorio's sack, his free hand coming up to stroke that waning erection back to full tumescence. It's in that moment that Leorio understands what guys get out of bottoming; every stroke of his cock, every movement of those fingers inside him, is so much more intense than usual. Maybe it's the angle, maybe it's the fact that it's not his own fingers, maybe it's just that Kurapika is the one whose skillful hands are making him writhe and moan, but whatever the case, this feels incredible.

The addition of a third finger, however well-lubricated, is enough to make Leorio grunt in discomfort, body tensing up. "That's a little much," he manages, grateful to feel Kurapika's hand stilling instantly.

"Let me try something," that husky voice muses, and then Kurapika's mouth has encircled his cock, tongue playing along the underside in ways that make Leorio's legs quiver. A few seconds of this treatment, and all three fingers glide in with only the smallest hint of resistance. When they crook upwards to stroke against something firm that sends sparks radiating out all the way to Leorio's face, his whimper causes Kurapika to halt and pull away from his ministrations. "Bad?" he asks, a tinge of worry in his voice.

"Good," Leorio corrects, semi-delirious. "So good. Wanna feel you in me."

A look crosses Kurapika's face, a raw, lascivious hunger, but it gives way to uncertainty. "It's your first time; I don't know if that was enough preparation. I don't want to hurt--"

"You won't," Leorio babbles, absolutely certain despite his glaring lack of experience. This is Kurapika, and that's all he needs to know to believe it one hundred percent. "Please, Pika."

Kurapika's hips twitch forward of their own volition, and he draws his fingers out of Leorio slowly, gently. Leorio appreciates the consideration; he's made the mistake of pulling his own out too fast before, and it's not a pleasant feeling. "I..." Kurapika stares at him with a semi-dazed look, as though trying to remember something important. A second later, recognition dawns. "Condom? I don't have any here."

"It's okay," Leorio reassures him. "I get tested regularly, and there hasn't been anybody for... way more than long enough for anything to have shown up." A hint of a blush burns at his cheeks; as much as he likes to portray himself as a playboy, he hasn't gone past kissing with anyone in almost a year. It just seems pointless, somehow.

"Same here." Kurapika averts his eyes, an almost apologetic smile on his face. "It's been... embarrassingly long. On a related note, please don't hold it against me if I..." He trails off, blushing.

Leorio grins. "Spring the trap early?" At Kurapika's embarrassed nod, he threads his fingers through silky blond hair and draws his friend down into a tender but insistent kiss. "I don't care how quick you come, Pika, as long as you do it inside me."

The words draw a shuddering gasp from Kurapika, and then he's stroking both of their cocks, bringing them back to full mast once again. "It's usually easier if you're on your knees," he says, releasing Leorio just long enough for him to shift positions. There's the sound of the bottle opening, of slickness being applied to firm, eager flesh, and Kurapika settles in closer.

Ten seconds of fumbling later, there's a sigh. "Or not. Spread your legs wider or lean forward; we need to bring your ass lower." He mutters something else under his breath, and it sounds suspiciously like fucking giant.

"How low do I need to go, short stuff?" Leorio teases, looking back over his shoulder. "Need a couple pillows, or should we go straight for a stepladder?"

"Tell me, Leorio," Kurapika croons, voice dangerously smooth, especially in light of the slightly redder hue to his eyes, "Have you ever tested how far your testicles can stretch from your body before you start screaming? Because they're at just the right height to conduct that little experiment."

Needless to say, Leorio's ass is down in record time. Kurapika, to his credit, wastes no time in renewing his assault on Leorio's sanity, one hand sliding up and down Leorio's length even as the head of his own cock rests at Leorio's entrance. "Tell me what you want." The words are low, almost growled, an undeniable command that Leorio is only too glad to obey.

"Fuck me, Pika," he breathes. "I want you to put your cock in me." And just like that, there's pressure, patient but insistent, and in the wake of a particularly pleasurable stroke to Leorio's member, the head of Kurapika's cock pops in, drawing a joint gasp from them. The rest starts to go in slowly, agonizingly slowly, but it's probably for the best; three fingers was just enough preparation, but Kurapika's girth stretches him even more, riding the edge between odd and outright uncomfortable. As Leorio begins to relax, though, Kurapika sets up a gentle, subtle rhythm: in a few centimeters, out just a bit, in a little farther. It's an awkward intrusion, but somehow relaxing nonetheless. In just a few minutes, Kurapika is well and truly inside him, and that knowledge by itself makes Leorio let out a contented moan. He's glad Kurapika isn't as massive as the guys he's seen in porn; even this feels huge when it's in his ass. "Big," he groans into the bedsheets, "So fucking big."

"Does it... does it feel all right?" Kurapika's voice betrays his strain, the white-knuckled grip on his self-control that keeps him from slamming into Leorio. And right now, Leorio is grateful that their positions aren't reversed; he's not sure he could conjure up that much control with Kurapika writhing under him. "Are you ready for more, Leorio?"

Leorio's eyes go wide, mouth agape as he turns his head. "There's more?"

"I'm about... halfway in," Kurapika admits, a sympathetic blush dusting his cheeks. "If you're not ready for it, it's okay. I can keep this up, just like this. It still feels--"

Whatever Kurapika might have said is lost in a strangled moan as Leorio pushes back, driving the cock deeper. Unfortunately for Leorio, his enthusiasm is rewarded with a painful twinge in a place that had heretofore been unfamiliar with pain. "Okay, ow. Bad idea," he manages between gritted teeth. "Different position?"

With a nod, Kurapika slowly pulls out, lying on his back. "If you're on top, you can do what feels best for you," he says, dribbling more lube in his hand and applying it liberally to his member.

It takes a few tries, but as Leorio sinks down atop Kurapika, the new angle draws a moan of pleasure out of him that radiates all the way to his toes and makes his eyes slide shut. His hands find their way to Kurapika's chest, bracing for balance as he begins to ride his lover, slow and uncertain but no less eager for his inexperience. Deeper and deeper he goes, until his ass finally comes to rest against Kurapika's hips. He's so impossibly full, and it feels incredible. Finally opening his eyes again, he takes in the sight of Kurapika, and is transfixed.

The light from his lover's eyes is between pink and magenta now, and bright enough to bathe the entire room in its glow. Kurapika's abs are tense, fingers fisted in the sheets, his whole body quivering with the effort of not thrusting upwards, even as his mouth hangs open to let out soft little sounds of pleasure. He's trying so hard to control himself, and Leorio's heart melts at the sight.

"You can move if you want," Leorio whispers, almost fearing that if he speaks too loudly this spell between them might break. With that, he reaches to his cock with one hand, the other still on Kurapika's chest, and begins to ride him-- slowly at first, then gaining speed with each few seconds. Despite his tendency to stay largely silent during sex, he finds words tumbling out of his mouth unbidden-- cries to a deity he doesn't believe in, curses of purest pleasure, praise for this amazing, wonderful person who's gently bucking up into him, brushing against spots that make his entire body shudder.

His words seem to ignite something deep in Kurapika; with a growl bordering on feral, he sits upright and pushes Leorio down onto his back even as he grabs hold of Leorio's calves and wraps his legs around his waist, reversing their positions without even pulling out or stopping. In fact, he increases his speed, tilting Leorio's hips until he grazes that sweet spot just right, and again, and as sparks dance all through Leorio's body, Kurapika begins to grunt out Kurta endearments with each thrust. Most, Leorio doesn't recognize, and doesn't need to; the guttural, needy tone says enough, so when he hears you and hot and good, it's enough to draw encouragements from his own lips, albeit in a language that seems far less wondrous than the one on his lover's tongue.

They're getting close; both are growing erratic, almost sloppy as the impending wave of ecstasy rushes toward them. Leorio's hand moves in short, rapid strokes, concentrating his attentions where he's most sensitive. He manages some sort of hasty, vaguely coherent warning before the electric current pools in his pelvis and reduces his vocabulary to two syllables-- Pika spills from him in a myriad of tones, spurts of sound mirroring his release. He strokes himself through his completion, riding it out until his cock grows too sensitive, then turns his attention to Kurapika.

It's the most beautiful sight Leorio has ever seen; Kurapika's eyes still glow with that most glorious shade of pinkish magenta, illuminating a face full of desperation and vulnerability that he can hide no more than the sweat beading on his brow and glistening as it rolls down his chest. He's whispering something in Kurta, a continuous, babbling sentence that seems like the most important message in the world. There's a phrase that Kurapika keeps repeating, different variations of the same statement; part of it catches at Leorio's memory, and he closes his eyes, willing himself to remember.

Recognition slams into Leorio just as Kurapika's litany turns to a strangled cry. Kurapika brings their mouths together, less of a kiss than an attempt to hide the whimpers and growls that accompany his climax. His member pulses inside Leorio, and there's a muted feeling of heat delving even deeper. Under other circumstances, Leorio would likely find it either annoying or even more arousing, but he can't seem to summon his normal thought process.

Kurapika collapses, head hanging beside Leorio's as he draws ragged breaths. One, two, and on the third he brings himself back up, somewhat steadier despite still looking utterly and thoroughly debauched. "Are you feeling okay, Leorio?"

Part of Leorio wants to laugh at the absurdity of that question; another part wants to hit Kurapika as hard as he can for pretending everything should still be all right. As though he hasn't just turned their entire arrangement upside down with a confession he hadn't intended to be understood.

Silence hangs between them for seconds that seem like hours; Kurapika's brow furrows, concern clouding his eyes. "Leorio?"

"Pika," Leorio says, more cautious with his words than he's ever been, "Why did you... why did you say you love me?"

TO BE CONTINUED

[fartoomanycrushes]

Exhumation, Part 4 (Speedal)

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

AO3 LINK

"I can't accept this."

Sonic wiggled the envelope again. "You can, and you will."

"No, absolutely not." Mumen kept his arms crossed. "I refuse to accept payment for doing the right thing. The Association--"

"The Association can suck it, and so can you. This is less than I would have paid anywhere else I could go without ending up in prison. I did the math, just because I knew you'd be uncomfortable if I tried to give you as much as I wanted to." He began ticking off items on his free hand. "Stitches. Lodging. A new set of clothes. Meals; don't try to tell me all that red meat to get my iron levels up wasn't expensive. I didn't even factor in an hourly wage for babysitting my invalid ass, since the pleasure of my sparkling conversation is a reward in itself."

"I'm tempted to take it just for that last crack," Mumen said, eyes twinkling, but he made no move to grab the envelope.

Sonic shrugged. "Sure, whatever convinces you." He poked his burden against Mumen's chest.

"I'm not taking your money." Mumen had that stubborn, idiotic look in his eyes, the look that said he would stand there all day before he compromised.

"Look, I went to the trouble of getting this cash, and it's not like I'm gonna put it back," Sonic said, cocking his hip and leaning even more heavily on his good leg. As of yesterday morning, he'd been in good enough shape to walk-- and hence, to get out of Mumen's apartment-- but that didn't mean his injury was anywhere near healed. "That means you have two options: you let me pay you back right now and spare us both a lot of trouble, or I pay you back in a way that's really inconvenient for both of us."

"Then I guess we'll have to see what option two looks like," Mumen replied, starting to close the door in Sonic's face. As the opening narrowed to a crack, he paused. "How did you get back in my building, anyway?"

For the briefest of moments, Sonic considered telling the truth; in the past couple of weeks, Mumen had grown on him, in some infuriating way he couldn't quite put his finger on. Instinct kicked in, though, and he snorted. "Seriously? I'm a goddamn ninja. I can get into anywhere. And just so you know, you're gonna regret choosing the hard way." With that, he spun on his heel and strode down the hall fuming.

If nothing else, Mumen had to admire Sonic's tenacity.

The first few times the cashier at the supermarket had mysteriously ended up with cash in hand for Mumen's purchases courtesy of a black-haired gust of wind, it had been a shock; now, two weeks later, the staff had taken to simply holding out a hand to the side rather than waiting for Mumen to place his payment on the customary tray. And while most managed to keep a straight face, more than one had already inquired as to why the "money ninja" had taken to stalking the hero.

If they had known just how accurate the moniker was, they might have been significantly more frightened than amused.

It wasn't just the supermarket, either: in restaurants, at ticket windows, even at vending machines, Sonic was there every time Mumen reached for his wallet. (How he figured out which buttons Mumen was planning to press on the machines, he'd never know.) As adamant as the hero was about standing by his principles, it appeared he'd met someone even more stubborn than himself.

On the fifteenth day, Mumen called a truce of sorts with two bowls of ramen at his favorite stand. 

It had taken a solid minute of Mumen gesturing to the seat beside him, but eventually a familiar figure approached, clad in a track jacket and what appeared to be yoga pants. Whatever they were, they left absolutely nothing to the imagination, from either direction. Mumen tried to convince himself he was staring out of abject horror at how tastelessly Sonic was flaunting his... endowments. Still, he couldn't ignore the little voice reminding him that he'd seen said endowments enough times to be inoculated against any horror, and each time it grew harder to deny that he might actually be enjoying the view.

"You ready to stop being stupid?" Of course Sonic would forego a greeting in favor of antagonizing him further.

"Nope," he shot back, "But if you're buying me lunch anyway, you might as well get to enjoy it too."

"And what makes you think I'd enjoy having lunch with you, Boy Scout?" Despite his demeanor, Sonic hopped onto the seat, wiggling just a bit more than could have been necessary to get comfortable.

Mumen raised an eyebrow. "I figure you might be stalking me because you miss my company and want an excuse to keep hanging around."

The snort that came from the ninja was oddly comforting. "Yeah, you got me: I miss your company about as much as you miss mine."

"So then you do miss me a little bit." The words had escaped before they registered fully with Mumen's brain, and in their wake, it was all he could do not to clap a hand over his own mouth. Slowly, painfully, he turned to face Sonic, willing his companion to just ignore the confession.

Sonic, for his part, looked like he'd been smacked in the face with a comically large phallus, or something of the sort. Shock, disbelief, and indignation rippled across his face, until an oddly vulnerable expression settled where they had been. "You're... you're serious, aren't you?"

A hasty denial nearly reached Mumen's lips, but he held it back just in time. He'd been honest with Sonic so far; now wasn't the time to break that habit. "I said a little bit. I... I guess I got used to company, that's all. I'll get over it soon enough." He shifted his gaze downward, eyes catching upon a perfect way to change topics. "How's the leg?"

"Hasn't turned green and fallen off yet," Sonic replied, seemingly as grateful for the segue as Mumen himself was. "Guess the guy who patched it up wasn't a total hack. Just wish he'd take my damn money and let me get back to my usual villain gig already."

Mumen's eyebrows shot up. "I'm holding you back from your life of crime? I'd better keep this up, then. If I start pinching pennies like Saitama does, I bet I can keep you occupied for months."

"You do, and I start stapling the cash to you. In small bills." Sonic's growl might have been humorous if it hadn't been impossible to tell if he was joking or not. Nodding carefully, the hero directed his attention to the bowl of ramen in front of him. Ramen was safe. He couldn't talk with a full mouth, either; that would be rude. If it happened to be a convenient excuse, that was... incidental.

All too soon, though, the ramen, as with all good things, came to an end.

Swallowing hard, Mumen glanced over at the man next to him. "So, uh... how's... things?"

Sonic sputtered, eyes going wide as he gaped at Mumen. "Seriously? You had like ten minutes to come up with another topic, and that's the best you could do?" He rose, dropping a small pile of cash on the counter between them. "I guess I'd better give you a couple days if I wanna have a halfway decent conversation."

"A couple days?" Mumen blurted, painfully aware of how awkward he sounded. He was totally off-balance, mind whirling at the prospect that Sonic was actually planning to spend more time talking with him. What could his motive possibly be?

"Was your broth made of whiskey or something? You suck at talking all of a sudden." Sonic's smile was somewhere between teasing and exasperated. "Whatever. Let me know when you're ready to just take the damn money and save us both the trouble." With that, he sprang off, seeming to disappear into thin air as usual. He wouldn't be far, though.

And for some strange reason, that thought wasn't nearly as frustrating anymore.

Okay, the music had to stop. 

Mumen was patient, sometimes too patient for his own good, but this had been going on for forty minutes since he'd started keeping track, which meant the total was probably close to an hour. Any music at a volume loud enough to pick out the vocals--if this screeching and growling could be called such-- through the ceiling, was beyond excessive. And if it was bothering him, the other residents were bound to be long past fed up with it as well.

Not that they would do anything about it, of course; not when they had the great Mumen Rider to save them.

Granted, being a C-Class superhero gave him certain advantages, especially when it came to convincing people to respect the rules, but his neighbors really were getting into a bad habit by never handling anything themselves. Facing down an S-Class villain was beyond the average person, sure, but how hard could it be to ask a neighbor to turn down their speakers?

Muttering under his breath, Mumen made his way up the stairs, eyes narrowing as the music grew ever louder with his approach. He raised his hand to knock politely, thought better of it, and began hammering the door with the bottom of his fist instead. Maybe Sonic was rubbing off on him a bit, but this way was undeniably more efficient.

After a solid fifteen seconds of pounding, the music came to an abrupt, blessed halt, leaving behind only a painful ringing and the sound of Mumen's hand banging against the door. Just as he stopped, it swung open, and a katana swished to hang centimeters from his forehead. 

"I thought I told you to fuck off," a familiar voice growled. A second passed, the sword wavering in midair, before it dropped to the figure's side. The light from the hallway illuminated pale skin, crisscrossed with even paler scars. "Oh, it's you."

"Sonic?" Mumen's eyes had to be wider than the rims of his glasses. 

"No, it's the other sexy ninja assassin you see all the time." Sonic's words were a bit slurred, his gaze less focused than normal.

Mouth working silently, Mumen fought to make sense of the situation. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here, genius. What's your excuse?"

"Wait, you... what? No." Mumen shook his head. "You don't live here."

One of Sonic's eyebrows rose, and he leaned against the doorframe, hooking one finger into the waistband of the briefs that were his sole garment. Mumen absolutely did not notice how the motion tugged them down to provide a better view of that well-toned V of muscle. "Fun fact about apartment buildings, Boy Scout: they have multiple units, which means that multiple people can live in them. Novel concept, I know, but try to keep up."

"But... I live here."

"No, you live one floor down from here. In fact, I think you might live directly... under..." He trailed off, a wobbly smile sliding onto his features. "You're here to bitch about the noise, aren't you?"

Mumen nodded, mute. He'd already established he was incapable of saying anything intelligent at the moment.

A grin split Sonic's face, that mixture of childish glee and diabolical intent. "Want me to keep it down? Get in here." He brought his hand back up from where Mumen was pointedly refusing to look, and crooked a finger.

"Huh?"

"C'mon, I know the music didn't make you deaf." Sonic took a step back, gesturing to the interior of the apartment with his katana. The casualness of the motion belied the deadliness of the implement in his hand. "I'm inviting you in."

Mumen shook his head, even as part of him protested that there was no harm. "I can't. There's... Association paperwork I have to do." Technically not a lie, though he had a few days left to do it.

"Mmhmm. Sure there is." The ninja's smile turned mischievous. "Well, good luck with that, I guess. I'll just go back to enjoying my music. Maybe I'll crank it up another notch or two."

Crossing his arms, Mumen glared at Sonic. "Why do you insist on doing this?"

"Because I'm booooooored," Sonic drawled, tugging one of Mumen's hands free and leaning back slightly. "Entertain me. I swear I won't even molest you unless you make the first move."

"No, Sonic." Mumen planted his feet. The ninja could hurl him bodily anywhere he wanted; he took it as a good sign that Sonic was leaving the choice up to him. "Not tonight."

Sonic's hand dropped away, and his gaze drifted to the doorjamb. His teasing demeanor had evaporated, leaving behind that same vulnerable young man Mumen had glimpsed at the ramen bar. Those piercing blue eyes shone with the faintest glimmer of hope, overshadowed by a certainty that that hope was going to be shattered. "Look, if you seriously don't want to, I'll stop," he murmured. "No more music, and you can go do whatever you need to do. I just..." He trailed off and shrugged, carefree armor sliding back into place. "I could use some company tonight, that's all."

It was a bad idea-- a horrible idea, really. If anyone in the building noticed Mumen going into Sonic's apartment, he had no excuse. Sonic wasn't even injured anymore. Still, this was the second time Sonic had looked at him with those eyes; this was really, truly important to Sonic, and somehow, that meant it was important to Mumen as well. Swallowing hard and pushing away the implication that followed that line of thought, Mumen nodded. "I guess the paperwork can wait a little while."

The smile Sonic gave him-- equal parts joy and shock-- made Mumen's heart perform a bizarre series of acrobatics.

[ss-bullseye]

🍔🍟 🍔 🍟

[feitxnryodan]

chrollo’s fault, this happened after he took his ability

[xinnamon-roll]

I wonder what happened to Kortopi tho

[fartoomanycrushes]

Kortopi is in the kitchen cloning double doubles.