The moment Dalzollene tells him that Squala can’t go and Kurapika has to replace her, he just knows they’re going to meet again tonight.
Kurapika was surprised to wake up after the last time fate thought bringing them together would be a nice idea. He was at the hospital, having nothing but a big bruise just below the crown of his head and an order to take a week off, because apparently, he almost died of exhaustion and stress. Pretty good for someone who’s been bitching in the face of The Phantom Troupe leader’s.
His boss is presumably dead, his body nowhere to be found, and his only remnant is a viciously amputated hand that was put to lay gracelessly on his table. Going back to Kurapika, Melody found his body in the bathroom, the idea of him collapsing of total sleep-deprivation and hitting his head was too good to consider him somehow involved in the whole Spider business, they didn’t even run an expertise. Extremely clean work, even Kurapika himself started doubting the whole situation and considering hallucinations again.
Which was good, because at some point, all his thoughts after returning home from the hospital were fixed on the fact that he didn’t even have a chance to feel ashamed for his behavior on the night of Neon’s birthday. Stupid, he though, cheeks tinted red with embarrassment, because he did feel ashamed for weeks after that, unwanted memories of Kuroro’s hands on his body, the press of his face against his neck, the sound of his name rolling off the Spider’s tongue haunting him on a daily basis. The kiss he stole after sneaking a glance at his soul.
Kuroro makes him ridiculously frustrated, and Kurapika hates it with every fiber of his being.
He also hates that he knows too damn well it wasn’t a hallucination. He doesn’t even remember going to the bathroom. The scenario is too perfect to be true. Too clean, too considerate. His world doesn’t work like that.
And tonight, there’s no way Kurapika’s not seeing him again. The infamous New York underground auction is a Satan’s party, and Kurapika wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Kuroro’s the kapellmeister.
It’s almost a tradition for their department to attend it, only to ensure that everyone’s safe and no one’s gonna die at some point. Of course, most wanted criminals would make it happen anyways, but it’s an unspoken rule for federals to be present as well. Good thing not everyone knows who they are — but the heads certainly do. The authorities.
Kurapika almost shudders at the memory.
He puts on his black suit, pins a white rose to his lapel along with a number — 404 — and even decides to wear the ruby earring Neon gave him for his 21st birthday. He likes it, although it’s a little too extravagant for him to wear on a daily basis. He tells himself he’s not excited, not the least bit, but his pink cheeks and glimmering eyes as he takes a look at himself in the mirror prove him wrong. Stupid. He better not notice you. And you shouldn’t even think of noticing him. Don’t fuck this up, you have no right to.
It’s still a mystery why he’s fucking alive though. This thought does things to him, things even more concerning then the memories of Kuroro’s scent clouding Kurapika’s head.
Kurapika asks Basho for a cigarette before they enter the auction hall. He smokes it, ignoring everyone’s surprised looks, and then asks for another one. Basho laughs at him but gives it anyway, telling him they’re going to wait for him inside.
A feeling of wrong doesn’t let go of Kurapika, his whole body buzzing with electricity. It began blossoming somewhere around his abdomen in the car, and at first he blamed it on the unwillingness to join a party hosted by world’s most ruthless murderers and thieves, but now it’s more like a warning. An omen. A very bad one, rottenly so.
Kurapika grimaces and takes another drag, struggling to shake off the feeling, dark and sticky, poisoning the cells of his skin, making its surface tingle unpleasantly. He tries to pay attention to his surroundings — dark sky with bruises of purple and pink, cold air, windy and fresh, what feels like thousands of cars pulling in and out. He can’t focus on anything in particular, what has to be a connected flow of the city around him comes in frozen frames to him, a cheap, ragged narration. Poor contact with reality, his mind supplies, as his good friend Leorio told him once. Nothing’s anchoring him, nothing brings him back to earth.
Kurapika almost flinches at the unfamiliar voice, jerking his head. Meeting a pair of blue eyes, he cringes involuntarily, unable to keep his face calm and collected due to an immense level of stress. The ash burns his fingers, the cigarette almost finished.
“No,” he says, shaking his head and closing his eyes. He feels properly sick now, what the fuck.
The man is persistent.
“Why so rude—“
“I said no, goddamnit,” Kurapika snarls, looking him in the face. He’s pretty, but nothing more — blue eyes, blonde hair, tattoos on his neck, peeking out of the white collar of his shirt. Nothing sparks joy in the man’s appearance, especially the way his face starts reddening in anger.
“Boy, do you have any idea—“
“Of what? Who you are?” Kurapika chuckles, absent-minded again, wishing he’d had a chewing gum or a mint. Or another cigarette. “Couldn’t give less shit, man, fuck right off. I’m not interested.”
He turns to leave, but a hand wraps around his wrist, and Kurapika doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. He scowls, fisting both hands, and right when he’s ready to give up on his responsibilities as a head detective, a trace of very familiar cologne fills up his lungs as Kurapika catches a glimpse of a dark silhouette right behind him.
Kurapika will not admit it, even under a gun pressed against his throat, but he’s been waiting to meet him again, too weak to throw off the strings of electricity sending impulses of excitement and greed through the parts of his body despite the nagging feeling of an inevitable disaster. Maybe that is what’s a disaster. Maybe the prosecution is directed at no one else but Kurapika, maybe something terrible he can sense on the tip of his nose is based entirely on his own fate.
“Good evening,” he hears Kuroro’s voice around his right side, and this moment is an advantage he uses to turn and sprain the blond man’s wrist with as much power as he has, which is not a lot, but still something.
“Touch me again and I’ll push your dick so far up your ass you’ll feel it in your fucking throat,” he sputters, staring at him right in the eyes. He knows he’s not looking like a big threat, because he isn’t one, and he surely does not want to think about the way Kuroro’s presence makes him feel safer than he was before, but it still does. And it feels good. Even though he can’t be sure that Kuroro won’t punch him in the face right now because the guy would turn out to be his mafia friend or something.
And of course, due to Kurapika’s poor people-reading skills, Kuroro does nothing like that.
He smiles politely at the guy and nods, hands linked behind his back, shoulders wide and head help up high.
“The bid’s about to begin, Puff,” he says, voice too sweet, and that’s the first wrong thing Kurapika notices about him, straightening up. Kuroro’s voice has never been schmaltzy before, and in his eyes have never held a shadow. Talk about bad omens. “Go find your seat before it’s too late.”
Guy frowns, throwing daggers at both of them, but obeys. Kurapika turns fully to look at Kuroro, but then remembers that he has places to be. Anywhere but here, morbid longing threatening to bottle him up and never let go.
“I, uh, I have to go, too,” he says, making an attempt to retreat, but unsuccessfully. For the first time ever, Kuroro looks angry as he steps forward, blocking Kurapika’s way.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing,” he mutters in his ear, pulling him close, hand snaking around Kurapika’s back, making the motion much more intimate than it should be. “You’re—Jesus, you’re a menace,” and then he starts walking away from the building, dragging Kurapika with him.
“What the fuck,” Kurapika swears, trying to pull away, but Kuroro doesn’t let him. “What—“
“You shouldn’t even have been here, in the first place,” he snarls back, eyes on the street in front of them.
“Well, I have a job to do,” Kurapika hisses, still pushing the man’s body away, but following him nevertheless. “Care to explain what’s going on? Or maybe you could knock me out again, would be easier.”
“I’ve already apologized and also told you it was for your own good—“
“I thought you were going to kill me!”
“Well, I certainly was not,” Kuroro tsks , opening the door of a black Jeep and trying to pull Kurapika in. “Kurapika, please, get into the car.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you—“
“I’ll explain as we go, just get into the car. I’m not joking,” he says seriously, the height difference between them now extremely occurring. “You know you can trust me. We have to leave, immediately.”
Kurapika swallows hard, suddenly extremely aware of who the man in front of him is. But at the same time, he knows too damn well that he literally saved his life twice (and a half), and if he meant any harm, his body would already be cold, lifeless and unmoving in the local morgue. He blinks and sits down, fastening the seatbelt angrily. The thought of calling his team doesn’t even occur to him, they’d be apart the whole evening anyway, positions in the area thoroughly specific.
Kuroro gets in the car a mere seconds later, closing the door loudly and turning the engine on.
“Where are we going?” Kurapika asks once again, not ready to give up yet.
“I’m talking you home,” Kuroro answers, unblocking his phone. “Is there anyone else from your team who shouldn’t had gone but came nonetheless?”
“What? No, everyone else is on the list,” Kurapika says, realizing that his name is probably not. His eyes widen when he understands that they’re actually leaving. “Wait, no, I changed my mind, let me—“
“Paku,” Kuroro barks out, when a woman’s voice answers the phone almost immediately. “Are you still there? Good, I need you to get all the federals out of there, now,” he says, eyes on the road, shiny and dark. “No, I’m in the car. Yes. Perhaps,” he drawls, voice firm. Kurapika studies his face shamelessly, pooling in red and pink transparent lights of cars in front of them. “Thank you. Bye.”
Kurapika looks away, crossing his hands over his chest.
“What’s the point of it all anyway? Why not let me leave with my team?”
“The auction is a trap. All the guests are going to be dead by the end of the night.”
“ What? ” Kurapika yelps, throwing his hands up. “Stop the car, we have to—“
“Your friends are going to be safe, you heard me,” Kuroro’s tone is patient but hissy, his upper lip twitching.
”Do you really think I’ll trust you? You’re a criminal, you don’t—“
”Kurapika, I promise you, your friends are safe, you just did them a huge favour by leaving with me this fast,” Kuroro grimaces contemptuously.
“But the others—“
“Are none of your concern.”
“You sick fuck,” Kurapika spits out, turning away again, hands in fists. He’s almost fidgeting at his seat, body tensed, stiff as he refuses to accept his uselessness.
He hears a raw chuckle escape Kuroro’s lips and throws a glance at his long pale fingers gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. There’s no way Kurapika could do anything but accidentally kill them both. There’s no way Kurapika’s going to admit that he trusts the man completely.
“The fuck you so mad at,” he demands, shaking with blind rage as he realizes he’s in no position to do anything right now.
“You know what I absolutely cannot comprehend? How are you still fucking alive,” the road takes an abrupt turn, and Kurapika lets out a surprised breath. “What in the hell were you thinking, attending an event like that?”
“Well excuse me for not being informed of a massacre you’ve been planning to perform tonight!” Kurapika yells back, desperate. “As I said, I was trying to do my job!”
“Not me, and yet, you could’ve—“
“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, yeah?”
“Correct,” Kuroro’s words cut the air like a knife.
“Let me guess, for my own good?”
“Why do you even care so much, huh? Want to dick me down so bad?”
“Would you be fucking opposed?”
“I sure would not!” Kurapika’s voice a proper scream now, face red and head near boiling.
“You have absolutely zero self-preservation instinct, do you,” Kuroro mutters, the car going nearly as fast as Kurapika’s heartbeat.
“As you successfully pointed out, I’m still not dead,” Kurapika argues, seeing red.
“Good fucking God, Kurapika, you are absolutely,” the car stops abruptly, and it takes him a moment to realize they’re at his parking lot, “fucking insufferable.”
With a swift movement he didn’t expect he’d manage, having already thrown off the seatbelts, Kurapika climbs right into Kuroro’s lap, connecting their lips in a rough kiss, reeking of resentment, anger and desperation.
Before he can thoroughly realize what he’s doing, there are hands on the back of his thighs, spreading them even more apart and making the angle more comfortable to press their bodies closer together. Kurapika shivers at the touch, arching obediently, like a string under a bow, and Kuroro’s fingers press firmer into the soft skin, drawing out a whimper Kurapika’s too turned on to fight.
He bites Kuroro’s bottom lip in return, feeling the man’s chest flinch, and runs his fingers up his shoulders, stopping one hand on the curve of the man’s heated neck as the other one clenches in a fist, handful of soft, thick hair at the nape of the Spider’s head. He tugs ruthlessly, deepening the kiss, drinking up Kuroro’s hot breath, their tongues moving in unison, mirroring each other’s movements like flies above a burning candle, and right when Kurapika’s ready to give up and take a breath, a strong wave of light forces them apart.
Both of their heads jerk towards its source in sync, but only for a second. The next moment they look at each other again, no need for words in heated blurred gazes, and Kuroro opens the door of his car. Kurapika slips out of it, not giving a shit about the impression he’s about to give to his neighbour who’s just pulled in, knees wobbly and body suddenly cold, arousal heavy at the pit of his stomach.
Throat dry, he swallows and reaches out a hand, almost frowning when Kuroro’s palm grabs it a second too late. Without sparing a glance at him, Kurapika starts marching towards his door, cheeks red with overwhelming intensity of his lust, the sound of their quick steps impossibly loud in the silence of the night.
He has no idea how they managed to reach the front door without devouring each other halfway, because the moment after Kurapika steps inside, his back is slammed against the door, and he’s pulled into another a kiss so fierce and feverishly raw that the air slips away from his lungs in no time.
Kurapika throws his hands up to grab the lapels of Kuroro’s suit, curving his spine to connect their bodies. An arm slides under his own jacket to press into the flat of his lower back, the other one gripping his side somehow gently, but Kurapika’s far too hyper, body literally vibrating with need, it sure’s gonna bruise in a few hours, and just thinking about that, thinking of wearing the marks Kuroro’d leave on his body, blooming purples, and blues, and bright pink, makes Kurapika moan, eyes tightly shut. Kuroro doesn’t let the opportunity slip, finally in control of the kiss, licking into Kurapika’s mouth with a swift kind of force, and it must be the lack of air in his head, but with every other heartbeat Kurapika’s connection to the real world seems to get weaker and weaker. It’s dark and loud in this current state of mind, the rush of blood in his ears, its pressure in his cheeks, the thumps of his heart against Kuroro’s rib cage far too overwhelming.
He breaks the kiss with a broken gasp when Kuroro slips his leg between Kurapika’s thighs, tracing his cock faintly, and then hot wet lips are on his chin, on his jaw, on his neck.
“Shit,” Kurapika hisses hoarsely when Kuroro starts nibbling on the skin behind his ear, and the man stops for a second, letting out a sweet breath that burns the spot, wet with saliva.
“Sensitive, aren’t we,” he murmurs, his voice low and croaky, rough around the edges.
“Fuck you,” Kurapika manages, the sound of Kuroro’s voice turning him on ridiculously so, his hands finally pulling off Kuroro’s tux.
“ ‘M trying to, beautiful,” Kuroro mutters, and Kurapika barely has time to answer before Kuroro presses him back against himself, increasing the friction between their groins.
Kurapika’s whine comes out ridiculously high-pitched and choked as he unsuccessfully tries to bite it back, clenching Kuroro’s hair again in his fist. The man’s quick, clever fingers are already untucking his shirt and slipping under it, the touch of his palm against Kurapika’s bare skin making its way straight to his aching cock, while his teeth and lips still abuse the skin of Kurapika’s neck, as he, frustrated and angry, pulls Kuroro’s head back by the hair, finally drawing out a heavy shudder, and forces their lips together again, rubbing up against Kuroro, dick painfully hard.
Although it’s clearly not what he needs, it still feels good as hell, and Kuroro seems to sense it, because he begins grinding his hips against Kurapika’s, still kissing him eagerly. Kurapika loses himself to Kuroro’s profound touches, palms now running up the curve of his spine, his back and shoulder blades, and the press of his body, moving in gradual waves, is too perfect, rhythmical and strong enough to make him drop his head back in pleasure, banging it against the door. Unable to control himself anymore, he lets his whines and moans fill the room, Kuroro’s stupid mouth on his neck again, kissing, and biting, and licking, and with a heavy shudder, Kurapika lets go, eyes tightly shut and mouth agape, Kuroro’s hands caressing his sides. He feels Kuroro straightening up and allows his head fall onto his shoulder, cheeks red with embarrassment, breaths coming out uneven, brokenly so.
Kurapika wonders what kind of force pushed him in this frustratingly pathetic position. He blames it on the lack of sex in his life for the past eighteen months or so.
“God you sound delightful,” Kuroro murmurs in his ear, nose buried in Kurapika’s sweaty hair, and his blush intensifies against his will. Kuroro somehow feels it, because he shifts back and cups his cheek tenderly, forcing his head up. Kurapika refuses to look at him, still coming back to his senses. “There’s no need to feel embarrassed, dear.”
“Easy to say when you’re not the one who just came in their pants like a teenager,” he mumbles, bitter but not really.
Kuroro chuckles softly, and Kurapika finally looks at him, surprised to see hear fondness filling the sound. His heart swells when he sees Kuroro like that, hair disheveled, lips dark and bitten, big eyes shining even in the darkness of the room. How can he say he’s beautiful with a face like that, Kurapika wonders vaguely, scared to blurt out something even more humiliating.
“You’re adorable,” Kuroro says, crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes when he smiles at Kurapika almost lovingly.
“While it sure was a lovely experience,” Kurapika manages weakly, chest too heavy and head clouded with thoughts he doesn’t want to admit especially to himself, “are you actually planning to put your dick in me or what?”
“You still want to?”
“I think we’ve already had this conversation,” Kuroro frowns for a moment, and when realization hits him, Kurapika’s cheeks are already darker than a pomegranate.
“I thought you didn’t remember that night.”
“Sadly, I do.”
“You were drunk, Kurapika. I didn’t think—“
“Oh come on, like fuck you don’t know I want you,” Kurapika rolls his eyes, angry again. “I mean, look at yourself.”
“Wasn’t it the, ah, knowing literature for you?” Kuroro teases, his thumbs stroking Kurapika’s soft love handles.
“You’re so full of shit,” Kurapika informs him, unwillingly melting into the touch, his own hands resting on the man’s forearms. “If you don’t want to, just—“
Kuroro reaches out to take Kurapika’s hand in his and guides it down, face unreadable but eyes glistening with a chain of devils around grey irises, to place on his bulge, noticeably hard. Kurapika’s breath hitches in his throat.
“Yes. Oh. Now, if—“
But Kurapika’s faster that time, connecting their lips and pushing Kuroro back towards the bedroom. This kiss is different, still firm and passionate, yet slow, like a...like a first kiss between two people who finally allow themselves to indulge in it. Kurapika has always had a hard time accepting that he’s wanted, and this time is no different. But he wants to. For certain, it’s the the strongest desire to be wanted back he’s ever felt.
The evidence of Kurapika’s own eagerness is running down his thighs, and although he knows the timing is really bad and the last thing he wants to is stop feeling Kuroro’s mouth on his, but some people might be grossed out at a sight of pants full of come.
“Wait,” Kurapika drawls, voice small. “Wait, my pants are messy, I need to—“
Kuroro rolls his eyes pointedly and kisses him again, throwing Kurapika’s jacket off and beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt. It vanishes quickly too, leaving Kurapika shivering until he’s laid down on the bed, Kuroro’s body covering his much smaller frame. Kurapika cups the man’s warm cheeks with both hands, breathing into his mouth, as his fingers trace bare chest, his ribcage and belly to stop to unzip his pants. The moment they’re gone, Kuroro’s lips on Kurapika’s are too as he straightens back to tug the last articles of Kurapika’s clothing off and stare down at his naked body.
Kurapika feels his cheeks heating up again and he tsks irritatedly, looking at the ceiling.
“Yeah, right, I’m a mess,” he grumbles, crossing his hands on his chest, humiliated.
“You have no idea how hot you look like this, don’t you,” Kuroro’s words make him look back at the man, who’s gaze runs down his body with something in his eyes Kurapika identifies as...admiration. He knows he’s too skinny, too short, his stomach is too hollow, ribs and clavicles too sharp, arms and legs ridiculously thin, and seeing a man like Kuroro look at him like that is...odd. “And all for me,” he murmurs before leaning in to capture Kurapika’s lips into his, seemingly as into kissing as Kurapika is.
His fingers coil around his slim wrists, pulling them apart and pressing against the sheets as the kiss breaks and Kuroro’s mouth begins traveling down Kurapika’s neck, leaving new hickeys right next to the already blooming ones. He doesn’t stop there as Kurapika shudders, dick getting hard again, proceeding to kiss his collarbones, his chest, his nipple, drawing out a pant, and then he lets go of Kurapika’s wrists only to wrap his palms around his upper thighs, signaling him to bend his knees.
Kuroro’s face is now situated comfortably between Kurapika’s legs, and this is probably one of the hottest things Kurapika has ever seen, although he’s received plenty of heads by plenty of pretty faces. The said pretty face winks at him mischievously before kissing the inside of Kurapika’s left thigh. When he sticks his tongue out, eyes not leaving Kurapika’s, and slowly begins to lick his come off the skin, Kurapika’s eyes widen, dick twitching immediately at the sight.
Kuroro laughs, his breath scorching the wet spot and sending a shiver through his whole body.
“Motherfucker,” Kurapika moans, head falling back on the pillows, arching when the tongue proceeds to lick, painfully close to his cock but not touching it the least bit. He feels cold when one of the hands leave his skin but a moment later it’s on his dick, stroking it gradually and spreading precome all over its length. Be bites his lip in order to shut up, fingers clenching the sheets, and the timing is excellent, because the next thing he knows, the hand is gone and is replaced by lips that swallow him down thoroughly.
Kurapika’s breath hitches in his throat, eyes widen, and if it wasn’t for Kuroro’s strong grip, he’d probably choke him with a buckle of his hips.
It feels amazing. Kuroro sure knows what he’s doing when he relaxes his throat before the tip of Kurapika’s cock touches the back of it, and slowly begins fucking his mouth onto it, dark hair cascading down over his tattoo. The sight is so pretty it almost makes Kurapika come when he dares to look down again, and when he thinks of who this man is, he knows he might be sick, because there’s no other explanation for getting more aroused at the thought of having the leader of the most dangerous criminal enterprise of the World between his legs.
Kuroro lets go if his dick, stroking it twice, before swallowing it again, but this time Kurapika feels fingers caressing his crease still covered in come from earlier.
He slams his hand against his mouth when he realizes he’s about to be opened up with his own come as lube.
He tries to relax when he feels Kuroro’s slick fingers at his entrance, bowing his back, but not really succeeding at the first part. His chest is trembling, going up and down too fast, heart almost breaking out through his ribs when Kuroro starts pushing, lips still moving. Kurapika doesn’t even feel the burn of the stretch because of the pleasure of getting sucked off, and when he thinks of himself like that, exposed under knowing lips and fingers, he can’t help but moan into the palm of his hand, eyes tightly shut.
“Won’t you at least let me hear your pretty voice?” Kuroro says, sounding hoarse, lips and cheeks rosy red when Kurapika looks down.
“No,” Kurapika pants, trying to catch his breath, forehead sweaty and vision blurry. “It’s embarrassing when you...when do what you do.”
“I rather like it.”
“You like to embarrass me?”
“I like to hear you moan for me.”
Kurapika sucks in a breath, refusing to let go of himself completely.
“Okay,” Kuroro drawls, voice dangerously mellow. “I see.”
“Wh— ah fuck !”
Kuroro slides the second finger in him, not quite hitting the precious spot, but the sudden pain mixed up with bliss does its job. Following the rhythm of his thrusts, Kuroro proceeds moving his mouth on his dick, and it’s almost too much for Kurapika to bare. He puts his hand back against his lips just to be a little shit, but right after it, Kuroro finds the spot, and Kurapika absolutely loses it, twisting his thighs and curving his back at an intense angle, and lets out a strangled sound so deep and loud it doesn’t even belong to his voice.
“There you go, beautiful,” Kuroro says, voice sore like a wheeze, and Kurapika realized he must’ve hit him in the back of his throat with such a reaction.
“God, ah-are you hurt,” Kurapika asks , almost wishing he didn’t.
“ ‘M fine,” he chuckles, kissing his thigh. “No harm done.”
Kuroro hums, shifting a little before guiding his fingers out and pushing them in again, and this time Kurapika manages to relax a little bit.
Kurapika doesn’t have a chance to bite back, because the tingling wave of pleasure hits him again, and again, and again, until he’s a shivering, panting mess, fingers clutching the sheets, fat tears in the corners of his eyes.
“Fuck, Kuro— oh !” he doesn’t even try stopping himself anymore, has no motivation to. “More, pl— fuck , please!”
“Tell me what you need, Kurapika,” he asks, scissoring his fingers.
“God I hate you so much—“
“I don’t think so,” Kuroro drawls, aiming to miss the spot.
“One more,” he sputters, swallowing a pant.
“One more what?”
“Fuck you, another finger, I need another one of your goddamn fingers!”
And your mouth back on my dick , Kurapika thinks, but doesn’t have time to say as the third finger enters him, painfully slow, and the stretch is so good he closes his eyes, pressing his head against his own shoulder.
“Good?” Kuroro asks, curling them inside him, and Kurapika answers with another sob, tears now running down his heated cheeks.
His dick is already insanely hard, leaking onto his stomach, and when Kuroro takes it into his mouth again, Kurapika knows he’s on the edge. He clenches his teeth and tries to calm down, but with another press against his prostate he loses it, sobbing and whimpering wetly.
“If yuh-you don’t want me tut-to come like this,” he stops to gain at least a little control over his body, at least to finish the sentence he’s started, “you gotta stop right now,” he blurts out, but Kuroro doesn’t stop.
Instead, he continues sucking and pushing, free hand gripping Kurapika’s thigh encouragingly, leading him to his second orgasm, and Kurapika can only envy his stamina, because in a few moments he comes again, harder than the first time, right into Kuroro’s relaxed throat.
He doesn’t see stars, he sees nothing — darkness, black and heavy, empty yet filled up with pleasure, relief and something else he can’t really identify, something greater than all the words he knows, yet knowing of the things he’s felt.
He feels Kuroro let his softened dick out of his lips and remembers that he still exists, that he’s still there, in his bedroom, with a man who screams trouble, who screams no, never, not in a million years.
Kurapika shudders at the feeling of emptiness as the fingers are gone, but manages to pull himself up, head spinning. He shifts, pressing his knees into the mattress and putting his hands on Kuroro’s shoulders as the other man watches him with intense eyes, his chest heavy like Kurapika’s, chin covered in spit and come, and Kurapika leans in to lick it, Kuroro’s rough moan lost in his lips.
Kurapika has never tasted himself like this before, but although it’s kind of odd, it makes things to him he doesn’t really understand. Halfway into another make out session, Kurapika realizes that Kuroro’s still fully dressed. Fingers finally steady, Kurapika begins undressing him, revealing a body to die for as the shirt comes off first, shoulders covered in pale freckles, a tattoo of a spider above his right bicep.
Kurapika traces it with his thumb, pressing their foreheads together, and for a few moments they just stare at each other while he works on Kuroro’s belt and zipper.
“Do you still want it?” the Spider’s breath is hot on Kurapika’s cheek, lips a heartbeat away from his own.
“What makes you think I don’t?”
“Just making sure.”
“And I’ve been told I think too much, tough guy,” Kurapika smiles with his real smile this time, the one he misses every day, the one he used to have many years ago, when he still had things to smile at. He really doesn’t want to make it dramatic, but he does think too much.
“I’m the opposite of tough,” Kuroro smiles back, and this time, Kurapika finally believes that it’s fondness and admiration that light up the man’s every feature.
He thinks he could get used to it.
No, it’s really awful timing. Awful timing, awful choice, awful fucking person. Who looks like a daydream and treats him better that every single guy he’s been with, every single guy without a sea of blood on their hands.
“You are,” he agrees, pressing a kiss against Kuroro’s cross tattoo and guiding him up to peel off his trousers and underwear. It takes him a moment to assess the situation. “Lube, top drawer,” he orders, knees already weak at the size of Kuroro’s cock. “There’s no way that thing’s gonna fit into my ass without it.”
“I could get myself off while you—“
“Tempting, for sure, but maybe next time. Top drawer, please,” Kurapika repeats, straddling Kuroro’s hips, hands on his shoulders. He wants to leave a kiss on each and every freckle, scattered on soft milky skin like stars in the night sky in July. Like specs of black in Kuroro’s eyes. He doesn’t think of the way his heart swells when a small smile crawls to the corners of Kuroro’s lips when he mentioned their next time.
“You know, you turn more and more polite after each orgasm,” he says, handing him the bottle.
“It’s called character development,” Kurapika retorts, coating his fingers with the liquid and reaching out to stroke Kuroro’s dick, slicking it thoroughly. The way Kuroro hisses, his hold on Kurapika’s sides growing stronger, sounds like winning, but Kurapika doesn’t grin. He can’t believe he’s able to get hard again in such little time, he’s not a horny teenager, and yet. Here they are.
He almost throws the bottle away, but Kuroro’s fingers on his wrist stop him.
“No, yourself, too.”
Kurapika arches his eyebrow.
“I don’t want to hurt you, not like that,” the man explains, and everything in his eyes screams control, although any other man in his shoes would’ve been fucking the shit out of Kurapika. Thrice. Never has anyone ever been so considerate with him, and as Kurapika freezes to get used to the realization, Kuroro takes the bottle.
“Yeah, not fragile, I know,” Kuroro sighs, pushing him up so he’s standing on his knees, hovering above Kuroro. “I like it rough too, beautiful, but this is not negotiable. I’m not hurting you like that.”
Kurapika, for the first time in many years, finds himself at a loss for words. He lets Kuroro’s lubricated fingers slide inside him once more, until the man is satisfied with the condition, but his words are still echoing in Kurapika’s head. It’s no big deal, of course, people are different, but for Kurapika, of all men he’s ever fucked, hell, he’s ever felt attracted to, this one is by far the most frustratingly...endearing, for reasons he doesn’t understand. It’s probably because Kuroro’s like that with everyone, so nice and polite, sans the terrorism part, of course, but it’s hard to remember it. Kurapika still gives himself a mental slap, because he knows he should, but not for the first time this evening, his heart aches to do so. He could be starting to develop something, and it can’t be good. For someone who shouldn’t have been even a one-night option, anything else is something Kurapika can’t and won’t afford. He can already feel the sounds of a shattering life, let alone heart, and he can sense such things with immense precision.
But he’s also a well-known fuckup of a person, so instead of kicking Kuroro out right now, he shifts back and takes a hold of his cock, positioning himself right above the tip, his free hand in the center of Kuroro’s chest, his heartbeat echoing against Kurapika’s fingertips.
He lowers himself down in one swift motion, head dropping down onto Kuroro’s shoulder, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes at the sudden pain, whole lower body numb.
Kuroro’s moan is lovely, it’s quiet and raw, like a lot of things about him. He buries his head in the crook of Kurapika’s shoulder, palms gripping his hips, steady and firm, breathing deep and burning, like a glimmer of a dying star. Kurapika grasps his hair in his fingers, eyes closed and stomach trembling, tensed like an orchestra before the play’s final part.
The world freezes. They breathe in unison.
And Kurapika begins to move.
The feeling is nothing he thought it would be like, filling him up to the point of no return and tearing him apart at the same time. With the help of Kuroro’s strong arms, he draws perfect ellipses with the roll of his hips, adjusting to the size inside him and creating his own pace, sweat forming on the top of his temple. To say it hurts like a motherfucker would be quite meaningless, but with the right amount of lube, dripping out of him along with Kuroro’s precome, the slide is smooth, even as he fails to stop clenching around the length. Soon enough he bows his back, tilting his head, and with another thrust the spot he’s been aching to find is hit, making Kurapika sob desperately, nails digging into Kuroro’s skin.
“Kurapika,” his voice is like a magnet, like the moon above the ocean, like pure lust, all for him. For Kurapika’s ears to hear. He almost laughs at the irony.
“Tell me,” he groans instead, rocking higher than he did before and sitting all the way down, gasping. “Tell me how I feel.”
“Divine,” Kuroro chokes, kissing the vein on his neck, palm caressing the skin of his back. “You’re divine, Kurapika,” he repeats, making him move even more eagerly, pain no longer a filter but a catalyst. “You’re taking me so well, princelet.”
“Good fucking God,” he swallows down a whimper, now riding Kuroro all the way, fucking himself on to his dick ruthlessly, tears dry on his neck.
Kuroro takes a hold of his ass, gradual thrusts meeting his thighs halfway, hitting Kurapika’s pleasure point with each motion; their moans, and pants, and wet, dirty sounds filling up the air. The room feels too small for them, the world too overwhelmingly narrow for everything Kurapika feels right now.
“Just how tight you are, fuck,” Kuroro murmurs, voice shaky. “So tight, and good, and hot—all for me,” Kurapika moans at the words, ass clinging greedily as he rocks back and forth, trying to take in every inch, as deep as possible, trying to be good, good as he already is.
His thighs are shaking, as if on fire, and his chest is threateningly empty, as small, shallow breaths he manages to take are not nearly enough. His head begins spinning, fingers trembling in Kuroro’s hair, but he keeps pushing, core rock-solid, lips bitten red and eyes almost black. His own dick is twitching painfully between their bodies, reacting to every thrust, every touch and pull.
When Kurapika cries out again, out of breath completely, Kuroro lunges forward to kiss him, and this gives him a chance to flip him over, wrapping long lean legs around his waist as he settles down between them, nearly pulling out of Kurapika’s swollen rim. He hits again in no time, full-force, drawing out a shocked gasp, nails leaving long red traces on Kuroro’s back curved above the smaller body. The slapping sounds go erratic as Kuroro pounds into Kurapika, and his mantra is nothing but a choked, whiny mess of curses and Kuroro’s name, over and over, like it’s the only thing that matters.
At the sight of the mess he’s made out of the younger man and due to probably the longest intercourse he’s ever had, Kuroro comes first, filling him up and crying out hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop, even as his dick grows soft, clenched in Kurapika’s sweet silky heat. His eyes are shiny with tears, gaze nearly unconscious, he’d come from one touch to his dick, but the greedy, selfish need to feel Kuroro fucking his own come inside him with filthy loud noises just for a little bit longer won’t let him. He doesn’t feel his body anymore, he doesn’t feel the sheets, the pain, or remember his own fucking name due to exhaustion, and when he finally reaches his orgasm, looking right into Kuroro’s eyes millimeters away from his face, he sees an explosion of a supernova, and his last thought before blacking out, is that the explosion was the reflection of his own eyes.